She let her right hand fall to her lap. “Naar,” she whispered, watching as a single flame swirled to life in her palm. She’d taken to conjuring it up more frequently, clinging to the reminder that she was capable of learning something in Daevabad.
“May I join you?” a soft voice asked.
Nahri closed her palm, extinguishing the flame. She turned around. Dara stood at the archway, looking uncharacteristically abashed.
She waved at the other chair. “All yours.”
He took the seat across from her, leaning forward on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I truly thought this was a good idea.”
“I’m sure you did.” Nahri sighed and then removed her veil, pulling off the heavy diadem holding her chador in place. She didn’t miss the way Dara’s gaze drifted to her face, nor did she care. He could deal with some distress—he certainly gave her enough.
He dropped his gaze. “You’ve an admirer in Kartir . . . aye, the tongue-lashing I just received.”
“Thoroughly deserved.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Nahri glanced at him. He seemed nervous, rubbing his palms on his knees.
She frowned. “Are you all right?”
He stilled. “I’m fine.” She saw him swallow. “So, what do you think of Jamshid?”
The question took her aback. “I . . . he’s very nice.” It was the truth, after all. “If his father’s anything like him, it’s hardly surprising he’s risen so high in Ghassan’s court. He seems very diplomatic.”
“They are both that.” Dara hesitated. “The Pramukhs are a respectable family, one with a long record of devotion to your own. I was a bit surprised to see them serving the Qahtanis, and Jamshid seems to have a regrettably sincere affection for Muntadhir, but . . . he’s a good man. Bright, kindhearted. A talented warrior.”
Nahri narrowed her eyes; Dara had never been subtle and he was speaking of Jamshid with far too much feigned indifference. “What are you trying not to say, Dara?”
He blushed. “Only that you seem well matched.”
“Well matched?”
“Yes.” She heard something catch in his throat. “He . . . he would be a good Daeva alternative if Ghassan presses on with his idiotic scheme to marry you to his son. You’re near in age, his family has loyalty to both yours and the Qahtanis—”
Nahri straightened up, indignant with rage. “And Jamshid e-Pramukh is the first name that comes to mind when you think of Daeva husbands for me?”
He had the decency to look ashamed. “Nahri—”
“No,” she cut in, her voice rising in anger. “How dare you? You think to introduce me as some wise Banu Nahida one moment and attempt to trick me into marriage with another man in the next? After what happened that night in the cave?”
He shook his head, a faint flush stealing over his face. “That should never have happened. You were a woman under my protection. I had no right to touch you that way.”
“I remember it as being mutual.” But as the words left her lips, Nahri recalled that she had kissed him first—twice—and the realization twisted her stomach into a knot of insecurity. “I . . . was I wrong?” she asked, mortification rising in her voice. “Did you not feel the same way?”
“No!” Dara fell to his knees before her, closing the space between them. “Please don’t think that.” He reached for one of her hands, holding fast when she tried to jerk away. “Just because I shouldn’t have done it doesn’t mean . . .” He swallowed. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to, Nahri.”
“Then what’s the problem? You’re unmarried, I’m unmarried. We’re both Daeva . . .”
“I’m not alive,” Dara cut in. He dropped her hand with a sigh, rising to his feet. “Nahri, I don’t know who freed my soul from slavery. I don’t know how. But I know that I died: I drowned, just like you saw. By now, my body is likely nothing but ash on the bottom of some ancient well.”
A fierce denial rose in Nahri’s chest, foolish and impractical. “I don’t care,” she insisted. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
He shook his head. “It matters to me.” His tone turned imploring. “Nahri, you know what people are saying here. They think you’re a pureblood, the daughter of one of the greatest healers in history.”
“So?”
She could see the apology in his face before he answered. “So you’ll need children. You deserve children. A whole brood of little Nahids as likely to pick your pocket as heal an injury. And I . . .” His voice broke. “Nahri . . . I don’t bleed. I don’t breathe . . . I can’t imagine that I could ever give you children. It would be reckless and selfish of me to even try. The survival of your family is too important.”
She blinked, thoroughly taken aback by his reasoning. The survival of her family? That’s what this was about?
Of course. That’s what everything here is about. The abilities that had once kept a roof over her head had become a curse, this connection with long-dead relatives she’d never known a plague on her life. Nahri had been kidnapped and chased halfway across the world for being a Nahid. She was all but imprisoned in the palace because of it, Nisreen controlling her days, the king shaping her future, and now the man that she—
That you what? That you love? Are you such a fool?
Nahri abruptly stood, as angry with herself as she was with Dara. She was done showing weakness before this man. “Well, if that’s all that matters, surely Muntadhir will do,” she declared, a savage edge creeping into her voice. “The Qahtanis seem fertile enough, and the dowry will probably make me the richest woman in Daevabad.”
She might as well have struck him. Dara recoiled, and she turned on her heel. “I’m going back to the palace.”
“Nahri . . . Nahri, wait.” He was between her and the exit in a heartbeat; she’d forgotten how fast he could move. “Please. Don’t leave like this. Just let me explain . . .”
“To hell with your explanations,” she snapped. “That’s what you always say. That’s what today was supposed to be, remember? You promising to tell me about your past, not parading me in front of a bunch of priests and trying to convince me to marry another man.” Nahri pushed past him. “Just leave me alone.”
He grabbed her wrist. “You want to know about my past?” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. His fingers scalded her skin and he jerked back, letting her go. “Fine, Nahri, here’s my story: I was banished from Daevabad when I was barely older than your Ali, exiled from my home for following orders your family gave me. That’s why I survived the war. That’s why I wasn’t in Daevabad to save my family from being slaughtered when the djinn broke through the gates.”
His eyes blazed. “I spent the rest of my life—my short life, I assure you—fighting the very family you’re so eager to join, the people who would have seen our entire tribe wiped out. And then the ifrit found me.” He held up his hand, the slave ring sparkling in the sunlight. “I never had anything like this . . . anything like you.” His voice cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I enjoy imagining your life with another?”