“From the lake,” Jamshid explained, following the direction of her gaze. “Brought up by the marids themselves as tribute.”
“Tribute?”
“If you believe the legends. Daevabad was once theirs.”
“Really?” Nahri asked, surprised. Though she supposed she shouldn’t be. Misty Daevabad—ringed by fog-shrouded mountains and a fathomless magical lake—certainly seemed a place more suited for water beings than those created from fire. “So where did the marids go?”
“No one really knows,” Jamshid replied. “They were said to be allied with your earliest ancestors; they helped Anahid build the city.” He shrugged. “But considering the curse they placed on the lake before they disappeared, they must have had some sort of falling-out.”
Jamshid fell silent as they approached the Grand Temple. Impossibly delicate columns held up a carved stone awning, shading a large pavilion fronting the entrance.
He pointed to the enormous shedu painted on the awning’s surface, its wings outstretched over a setting sun. “Your family’s crest, of course.”
Nahri laughed. “This isn’t the first time you’ve given this tour, is it?”
Jamshid grinned. “It is, believe it or not. But I was a novitiate here. I spent much of my youth training to enter the priesthood.”
“Do priests in our religion typically ride around on elephants, shooting arrows to break up riots?”
“I wasn’t a very good priest,” he acknowledged. “I wanted to be like him, actually.” He nodded toward Dara. “I suspect most Daeva boys do, but I went further, asking the king if I could join the Royal Guard when I was a teenager.” He shook his head. “I’m lucky my father didn’t throw me in the lake.”
That shed some light on his earlier defense of the Qahtanis. “Do you like being part of the Royal Guard?” she asked, trying to remember the little she knew of the Daeva captain. “You’re the prince’s bodyguard, right?”
“The emir’s,” he corrected. “I can’t imagine Prince Alizayd would ever need a bodyguard. Anyone raising a hand to him while he’s wearing his zulfiqar is asking for a quick death.”
Nahri had little argument there—she still remembered the swiftness with which Ali had dispatched the snake in the library. “And what’s the emir like?”
Jamshid’s face brightened. “Muntadhir’s a good man. Very generous, very open—the type of man who invites strangers into his home and gets them drunk on his best wine.” He shook his head, affection in his voice. “He’s one I’d love to give this tour to. He’s always appreciated Daeva culture and patronizes a lot of our artists. I think he’d enjoy seeing the Grand Temple.”
Nahri frowned. “Can’t he? He’s the emir; I’d think he could do whatever he likes.”
Jamshid shook his head. “Only Daevas are allowed to enter the Grand Temple grounds. It’s been that way for centuries.”
Nahri glanced back. Dara was still next to the palanquin with Nisreen and Kaveh, but his gaze was on Nahri and Jamshid. There was something odd, almost subdued, in his face.
She turned back to Jamshid. He’d slipped off his shoes, and she moved to do the same.
“Oh, no,” he said quickly. “You keep yours on. The Nahids are exempt from most restrictions here.” He plunged his hands into a smoldering open brazier as they stepped into the shadow of the temple, sweeping ash up his forearms. He removed his hat, passing an ash-coated hand over his dark hair. “From this, as well. I think it’s assumed you’re always ritually pure.”
Nahri wanted to laugh at that. She certainly didn’t feel “ritually pure.” Even so, she followed him into the temple, gazing about in appreciation. The interior was enormous and rather stark, simple white marble covering the floor and walls. A massive fire altar of finely polished silver dominated the room. The flames in its cupola danced merrily, filling the temple with the warm aroma of burning cedar.
About a dozen people, men and women both, waited below the altar. They were dressed in long crimson robes belted with azure cords. Like Jamshid, all were bareheaded except one, an elderly man whose peaked azure cap stood nearly half his height.
Nahri gave them an apprehensive look, her stomach fluttering with nerves. She’d felt like failure enough in the infirmary with only Nisreen to witness her mistakes. That she was now here, in the temple of her ancestors, greeted as some sort of leader, was terribly intimidating.
Jamshid pointed to the alcoves lining the temple’s inner perimeter. There were dozens, crafted of intricately carved marble, their entrances framed by richly woven curtains. “We keep those shrines for the most lionized figures of our history. Mostly Nahids and Afshins, though every once in a while one of us with less prestigious blood sneaks in.”
Nahri nodded to the first shrine they passed. Inside was an impressive stone statue depicting a thickly muscled man riding a roaring shedu. “Who’s that supposed to be?”
“Zal e-Nahid, Anahid’s youngest grandson.” He pointed to the roaring shedu. “It was he who tamed the shedu. Zal climbed to the highest peaks of the Bami Dunya, the mountainous lands of the peri. There, he found the pack leaders of the shedu and wrestled them into submission. They flew him back to Daevabad and stayed for generations.”
Nahri’s eyes widened. “He wrestled a magical flying lion into submission?”
“Several.”
Nahri glanced at the next shrine. This one featured a woman dressed in plated armor, one hand clutching a spear. Her stone face was fierce—but it was the fact that it was tucked under her own arm that really drew Nahri’s attention.
“Irtemiz e-Nahid,” Jamshid remarked. “One of the bravest of your ancestors. She held off a Qahtani assault on the temple about six hundred years ago.” He pointed to a line of scorch marks Nahri hadn’t noticed high up on the wall. “They tried to burn it down with as many Daevas stuffed inside as possible. Irtemiz used her abilities to quell the flames. Then she put a spear through the eye of the Qahtani prince leading the charge.”
Nahri reeled. “Through his eye?”
Jamshid shrugged, not looking particularly fazed by this bloody bit of information. “We have a complicated history with the djinn. It cost her in the end. They cut off her head and threw her body in the lake.” He shook his head sadly, pressing his fingers together. “May she find peace in the Creator’s shade.”
Nahri gulped. That was enough family history for the day. She moved away from the shrines, but despite her best effort to ignore them, one more caught her eye. Draped in rose garlands and smelling of fresh incense, the shrine was crowned by the figure of an archer on horseback. He stood up tall and proud in his stirrups, facing backward with his bow drawn to aim an arrow at his pursuers.
Nahri frowned. “Is that supposed to be—”
“Me?” Nahri jumped at the sound of Dara’s voice, the Afshin appearing behind them like a ghost. “Apparently so.” He leaned past her shoulder to better examine the shrine, the smoky scent of his hair tickling her nostrils. “Are those sand flies my horse is stomping?” He cackled, his eyes bright with amusement as he studied the cloud of insects around the horse’s hooves. “Oh, that’s clever. I would have liked to meet whoever had the nerve to slip that in.”