The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,167

for the way of life your ancestors created?”

“And rubbing my head in ash and wasting half the day tending a fire altar will make me a better healer?” Nahri pushed off the washbasin with a scowl. Did Nisreen think she didn’t feel badly enough about the sheikh? “My hand slipped, Nisreen. It slipped because I should have practiced that procedure a hundred times before being let anywhere near that man!”

Nahri knew she should stop, but shaken and frustrated, fed up with the impossible expectations dropped on her shoulders the moment she’d entered Daevabad, she pressed on. “You want to know what I think of the Daeva faith? I think it’s a scam. A bunch of overly complicated rituals designed to worship the very people who created it.” She bunched her apron into an angry ball. “No wonder the djinn won the war. The Daevas were probably so busy refilling oil lamps and bowing to a horde of laughing Nahids that they didn’t even realize the Qahtanis invaded until—”

“Enough!” Nisreen snapped. She looked angrier than Nahri had ever seen her. “The Nahids pulled our entire race out of human servitude. They were the only ones brave enough to fight the ifrit. They built this city, this magical city with no rival in the world, to rule an empire that spanned continents.” She drew closer, her eyes blazing. “And when your beloved Qahtanis arrived, when the streets ran black with Daeva blood and the air thick with the screams of dying children and violated women . . . this tribe of fire worshippers survived. We survived it all.” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “And we deserve better than you.”

Nahri gritted her teeth. Nisreen’s words had found their mark, but she refused to concede such a thing.

Instead, she threw her apron at the older woman’s feet. “Good luck finding a replacement.” And then—avoiding the sight of the man she’d just killed—she turned and stormed out.

Nisreen followed. “His wife is coming. You can’t just leave. Nahri!” she shouted as Nahri flung open the door to her bedchamber. “Come back and—”

Nahri slammed the door in Nisreen’s face.

The room was dark—as usual, she’d let the fire altar go out—but Nahri didn’t care. She staggered to her bed, fell face-first on the lush quilt, and for the first time since she arrived in Daevabad, probably for the first time in a decade, she let herself sob.

She couldn’t have said how much time passed. She didn’t sleep. Nisreen knocked on her door at least a half-dozen times, begging softly for her to come back out. Nahri ignored her. She curled into a ball on the bed, staring vacantly at the enormous landscape painted on the wall.

Zariaspa, someone once told her, the mural painted by her uncle, although the familial word felt as false as ever. These people weren’t hers. This city, this faith, her supposed tribe . . . they were alien and strange. She was suddenly tempted to destroy the painting, to knock over the fire altar, to get rid of every reminder of this duty she’d never asked for. The only Daeva she cared for had rejected her; she wanted nothing to do with the rest.

As if on cue, the knocking started again, a lighter tap on the rarely used servants’ door. Nahri ignored it for a few seconds, growing silently more enraged as it continued, steady as a dripping pipe. Finally she flung her blanket away and flew to her feet, stomping over to the door and yanking it open.

“What is it now, Nisreen?” she snapped.

But it wasn’t Nisreen at her door. It was Jamshid e-Pramukh, and he looked terrified.

He staggered in without invitation, bowed under the weight of an enormous sack over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Banu Nahida, but I had no choice. He insisted I bring him straight to you.” He dropped the sack on her bed and snapped his fingers, flames bursting between them to illuminate the room.

It wasn’t a sack he’d dropped on her bed.

It was Alizayd al Qahtani.

Nahri was at Ali’s side in seconds. The prince was unconscious and covered in blood, pale ash coating his skin.

“What happened?” she gasped.

“He was stabbed.” Jamshid held out a long knife, the blade dark with blood. “I found this. Do you think you can heal him?”

A rush of fear swept through her. “Take him to the infirmary. I’ll get Nisreen.”

Jamshid moved to block her. “He said just you.”

Nahri was incredulous. “I don’t care what he said! I’m barely trained; I’m not going to