Jamshid studied the statue with an air of wistfulness. “I wish I could ride and shoot like that. There’s no place in the city to practice.”
“You should have said something sooner,” Dara replied. “I’ll take you out to the plains just past the Gozan. We used to train there all the time when I was young.”
Jamshid shook his head. “My father doesn’t want me passing the veil.”
“Nonsense.” Dara clapped him on the back. “I’ll convince Kaveh.” He glanced at the priests. “Come, we’ve made them wait long enough.”
The priests were bent in low bows by the time Nahri approached—or truthfully, they might have just been standing that way. All were elderly, not a black hair left in sight.
Dara brought his fingers together. “I present Banu Nahri e-Nahid.” He beamed back at her. “The grand priests of Daevabad, my lady.”
The one in the tall peaked cap stepped forward. He had kind eyes crowned by the longest, wildest gray eyebrows Nahri had ever seen, a charcoal mark splitting his forehead. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahri,” he greeted her warmly. “My name is Kartir e-Mennushur. Welcome to the temple. I pray this is only the first of many visits.”
Nahri cleared her throat. “I pray for that as well,” she replied awkwardly, growing more uncomfortable by the second. Nahri had never gotten on well with clerics. Being a con artist tended to put her at odds with most of them.
At a loss for anything else to say, she nodded to the massive fire altar. “Is that Anahid’s altar?”
“Indeed.” Kartir stepped back. “Would you like to see it?”
“I . . . all right,” she agreed, desperately hoping she wouldn’t be expected to perform any of the rituals associated with it; everything Nisreen had attempted to teach Nahri about their faith seemed to have flown from her head.
Dara followed at her heels, and Nahri fought the temptation to reach for his hand. She could have used a little reassurance.
Anahid’s altar was even more impressive up close. The base alone was big enough for a half-dozen people to bathe in comfortably. Glass oil lamps shaped like boats floated within, bobbing across the simmering water. The silver cupola towered overhead, a veritable bonfire of incense burning behind the gleaming metal. Its heat scalded her face.
“I took my vows in this very spot,” Dara said softly. He touched the tattoo on his temple. “Received my mark and my bow and swore to protect your family no matter the cost.” A mix of astonishment and nostalgia crossed his face. “I didn’t think I’d ever see it again. I certainly didn’t imagine by the time I did, I’d have my own shrine.”
“Banu Manizheh and Baga Rustam have one as well,” Kartir offered, pointing to the other side of the temple. “Should you wish to pay your respects later, I’d be glad to show you.”
Dara gave her a hopeful smile. “Maybe in time you will as well, Nahri.”
Her stomach turned. “Yes. Perhaps even one where my head is still attached to my body.” The words came out far more sarcastic—and loud—than Nahri intended, and she saw several of the priests below stiffen. Dara’s face fell.
Kartir swept between them. “Banu Nahida, would you mind coming with me a moment? There’s something in the sanctuary I’d like to show you . . . alone,” he clarified, when Dara turned to follow.
Nahri raised her shoulders, feeling that she didn’t have much choice. “Lead the way.”
He did, heading for a pair of hammered brass doors set in the wall behind the altar. Nahri followed, jumping when the door clanged shut behind them.
Kartir glanced back. “My apologies. I suspect there aren’t enough working ears among my fellows and me to be bothered by the noise.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly.
The priest led her through a twisting maze of dark corridors and narrow staircases, proving far spryer than she’d initially thought, until they came to a sudden dead end outside another pair of simple brass doors. He pulled one open, motioning her inside.
A little apprehensive, Nahri crossed the threshold, entering a small, circular room barely the size of her wardrobe. She stilled, taken aback by an air of solemnity so thick she could almost feel it upon her shoulders. Open-faced glass shelves lined the rounded walls, small velvet cushions nestled in their depths.
Nahri drew closer, her eyes widening. Each cushion was home to a single small object, mostly rings, but also lamps, bangles, and a few jeweled collars.
And all shared the same feature: a single emerald.
“Slave vessels,” she whispered in shock.
Kartir nodded, joining her at the nearest shelf. “Indeed. All those recovered since Manizheh and Rustam’s deaths.”
He fell silent. In the room’s somber stillness, Nahri could swear she heard the gentle sounds of breath. Her gaze fell on the vessel closest to her, a ring so similar to Dara’s she had to tear her eyes away.
He was just like this once, she realized, his soul trapped for centuries. Sleeping until another brutal master woke him to do their bidding. Nahri took a deep breath, struggling to compose herself. “Why are they here?” she asked. “I mean, without a Nahid to break the curse . . .”
Kartir shrugged. “We didn’t know what to do with them so we settled for bringing them here, where they could rest near the flames of Anahid’s original fire altar.” He pointed to a beaten brass bowl standing upon a plain stool in the center of the room. The metal was dull and scorched, but a fire burned bright among the cedarwood scattered in its center.
Nahri frowned. “But I thought the altar in the temple . . .”
“The altar out there is what came after,” Kartir explained. “When her city was complete, the ifrit subdued, and the other tribes brought to heel. After three centuries of hardship, war, and work.”
He lifted the ancient brass bowl. It was a humble thing, rough and undecorated, small enough to fit in his hands. “This here . . . this is what Anahid and her followers would have used when they were first freed by Suleiman. When they were transformed and dropped in this foreign land of marids with barely any understanding of their powers, of how to provide for and protect themselves.” He gently placed the bowl in her hands and met her gaze, his eyes intent. “Greatness takes time, Banu Nahida. Often the mightiest things have the humblest beginnings.”
Nahri blinked, her eyes suddenly wet. She looked away, embarrassed, and Kartir took the bowl, wordlessly replacing it and leading her back out.
He motioned to a narrow, sunlit archway at the other end of the corridor. “There is a rather lovely view of the garden from there. Why don’t you rest a bit? I’ll see if I can’t get rid of that crowd.”
Gratitude welled up inside her. “Thank you,” Nahri finally managed.
“You needn’t thank me.” Kartir pressed his hands together. “I sincerely hope you won’t be a stranger here, Banu Nahida. Please know that whatever you need, we are at your disposal.” He bowed again and left.
Nahri emerged from the archway into a small pavilion. High on the third level of the ziggurat, it was little more than a nook hidden behind a stone wall and a screen of potted date palms. Kartir was probably right about the view, but Nahri had no desire to peek at the crowd again. She collapsed into one of the low cane chairs, trying to collect herself.