The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,151

don’t roll your eyes. That is hardly inspiring.” Nisreen opened the door. “Come, my lady.”

Nahri peeked out, stealing her first look at Daevabad’s Grand Temple. Nisreen said it was one of the oldest buildings in Daevabad and it looked it, as imposing and massive as the Great Pyramids back in Egypt. It was a ziggurat like the palace, but smaller and steeper, a flat-topped step pyramid of three levels, brickwork covered by marble faience in a dazzling rainbow of colors and trimmed in brass. Behind the temple was a tower about twice its height. Smoke rose from its crenellated top.

A large courtyard stretched between the two buildings. A garden—far more orderly than the feral jungle of the palace—had been designed by a clearly discerning eye, with two long rectangular pools meeting to form a cross, outlined by lush flower beds in a riot of color. On either side of the pools, wide pathways stretched, inviting the visitor to linger, to amble slowly through the fragrant shade, past ancient trees with broad fan-shaped leaves. The entire complex was walled, the massive stones hidden by trellises dripping with roses.

It seemed a peaceful place, designed to encourage reflection and prayer—had a crowd of at least two hundred people not been excitedly swarming a single figure.

Dara.

Her Afshin stood at the heart of the garden, surrounded by a mob of admirers. Daeva children, many with imitations of his marks drawn on their cheeks, had dragged him to his knees and were pushing past each other to show the legendary warrior their skinny muscles and miniature fighting stances. Dara grinned as he replied to whatever it was they were saying. Though Nahri couldn’t hear his words over the buzz of the crowd, she watched as he tugged affectionately on a small girl’s braid, placing his cap on the head of the little boy standing next to her.

The adults looked just as mesmerized, awe on their faces as they pressed closer to the Afshin whose long-ago demise and defeated rebellion, Nahri realized, probably made him a rather romantic figure. And not just awe; as Dara smiled his all-too-charming grin, Nahri heard an audible—and distinctly female—sigh from the assembled crowd.

Dara glanced up, noticing Nahri before his admirers did. His smile grew more dazzling, which in turn sent her heart into an idiotic dance. A few of the other Daevas looked over, then more, their faces brightening at the sight of the palanquin.

Nahri cringed. “You said it would be only a few dozen people,” she whispered to Nisreen, fighting the urge to duck back inside.

Even Nisreen looked taken aback by the size of the crowd headed in their direction. “I suppose some of the priests had friends and family begging to tag along, and then they had friends and family . . .” She made a sweeping gesture at the Grand Temple complex. “You are somewhat important to all this, you know.”

Nahri muttered a curse in Arabic under her breath. Noticing the rest of the women had pulled their veils from their lower faces, she reached for hers.

Nisreen stopped her. “No, you keep yours on. Nahids—both men and women—always veil in the Grand Temple. The rest of us remove them.” She dropped her hand. “That’s the last I’ll touch you, as well. No one is to touch you here, so don’t reach out to your Afshin. In his day, a man would have gotten his hand lopped off for touching a Nahid in the Grand Temple.”

“I’d wish them luck trying to do that to Dara.”

Nisreen gave her a dark look. “He would have been the one doing the lopping, Nahri. He’s an Afshin; his family has served yours in such a manner since Suleiman’s curse.”

Nahri felt the blood leave her face at that. But she stepped out, Nisreen behind her.

Dara greeted her. He appeared to be in some sort of ceremonial dress, a finely stitched felt coat dyed in the shimmering colors of a smoldering fire, loose charcoal pants tucked into tall boots. His uncovered hair fell in glossy black curls to his shoulders, his hat still being passed among his small fans.

“Banu Nahida.” Dara’s tone was solemn and reverent, but he winked before abruptly falling to his knees and pressing his face to the ground as she approached. The rest of the Daevas bowed, bringing their hands together in a gesture of respect.

Nahri stopped before a still-prostrate Dara, a little bewildered.

“Tell him to rise,” Nisreen whispered. “He can’t do so without your permission.”

He can’t? Nahri arched an eyebrow.