The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,107

on his shivering arm, but he didn’t respond. His skin was nearly as cold and pale as it had been after the rukh attack. She turned on the king. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

The men on the platform looked as shocked as the king had when she first arrived. The prince gasped, and the older Daeva man stepped forward, one hand going to his mouth.

“The Creator be praised,” he said in Divasti. He stared at Nahri with wide black eyes, a mixture of something like fear, hope, and ecstasy crossing his face all at once. “You . . . you’re—”

“Not a shafit,” the king interrupted. “As I told you.” He dropped his hand, and the torches flared back to life. Beside her, Dara shuddered.

The Qahtani king hadn’t taken his eyes off her once. “An enchantment,” he finally concluded. “An enchantment to make you appear human. I have never heard of such a thing.” His eyes were bright with wonder. “Who are you?”

Nahri helped Dara back to his feet. The Afshin was still pale and seemed to have trouble catching his breath. “My name is Nahri,” she said, struggling under his weight. “That Manizheh you mentioned, I . . . I think I’m her daughter.”

The king abruptly drew himself up. “Excuse me?”

“She’s a Nahid.” Dara hadn’t recovered entirely, and his voice came out in a low growl that sent a few courtiers skittering farther away.

“A Nahid?” the seated prince repeated over the growing sounds of the shocked crowd. His voice was thick with disbelief. “Are you insane?”

The king raised his hand to dismiss the room. “Out, all of you.”

He did not have to issue the order twice—Nahri didn’t realize so many men could move that fast. She watched in silent fear as the courtiers were replaced by more soldiers. A line of guards—armed with those same strange copper swords—formed behind Dara and Nahri, blocking their escape.

The king’s steely gaze finally left her face to fall upon Dara. “If she’s the daughter of Banu Manizheh, who exactly would that make you?”

Dara tapped the mark on his face. “Her Afshin.”

The king lifted his dark brows. “This should be an interesting story.”

“None of this makes any sense,” the prince declared when Dara and Nahri finally fell silent. “Ifrit conspiracies, rukh assassins, the Gozan rising from its banks to howl at the moon? A captivating tale, to be sure . . . perhaps it will earn you entrance to the actors’ guild.”

The king shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. The best tales always have at least a kernel of truth.”

Dara bristled. “Should you not have your own witnesses to the events at the Gozan? Surely you have scouts there. Otherwise an army could be assembling at your threshold with you none the wiser.”

“I’ll consider that professional advice,” the king replied, his tone light. He’d remained impassive as they spoke. “It is a remarkable story, however. There’s no denying the girl is under some sort of curse—that she should be plainly pureblooded to me while appearing shafit to the rest of you.” He studied her again. “And she does resemble Banu Manizheh,” he admitted, a hint of emotion stealing into his voice. “Strikingly so.”

“And what of it?” the prince countered. “Abba, you can’t really believe Manizheh had a secret daughter? Manizheh? The woman used to give plague sores to men who looked too long upon her face!”

Nahri would not have minded such an ability right now. She’d spent the last day being attacked by various creatures and had little patience for the Qahtani’s doubt. “Do you want proof that I’m a Nahid?” she demanded. She pointed at the curved dagger sheathed at the prince’s waist. “Toss that over, and I’ll heal before your eyes.”

Dara stepped in front of her, and the air smoked. “That would be extremely unwise.”

The young soldier, or prince, or whoever he was—the one with the scruffy beard and hostile expression—immediately edged closer to the prince. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his copper sword.

“Alizayd,” the king warned. “Enough. And calm yourself, Afshin. Believe it or not, Geziri hospitality does not involve stabbing our guests. At least, not before we’ve been properly introduced.” He gave Nahri a sardonic smile and touched his chest. “I am King Ghassan al Qahtani, as surely you know. These are my sons, Emir Muntadhir and Prince Alizayd.” He pointed to the seated prince and the scowling young swordsman before gesturing to the older Daeva man. “And this is my grand wazir, Kaveh e-Pramukh. It was his son