The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,203

suspected her audience was savvy enough to realize what was going on, but she didn’t care. If Ghassan wanted a performance, he should have thought to ask for one.

Even so, there were tears in her eyes when she finished, and her voice was thick with emotion. Filled with shame, she dropped the scroll and forced herself to look at the crowd.

Nothing. There was no horror, no disbelief among the black-eyed Daevas before her. Indeed, the vast majority looked just as impassive as they had when she first walked in.

No, not impassive.

Defiant.

An old man stepped out from the crowd. Wearing the bright crimson robes of the Grand Temple, he made for a striking sight; an ash mark split his lined face and a tall, azure cap crowned his soot-covered head.

Kartir, Nahri recognized him, remembering the kindness he’d shown her back in the temple. She cringed now as he took another step toward her. Her stomach clenched; she expected some sort of denouncement.

But Kartir did nothing of the sort. Instead, he brought his fingertips together in the traditional Daeva show of respect, dropped his gaze, and bowed.

The priests behind him immediately followed suit, and the motion rippled out across the crowd as the entire audience of Daevas bowed in her direction. No one said a word. Nahri drew in her breath, and then from just behind her, she heard a heart begin to beat faster.

She stilled, certain she was imagining things and then glanced back. Ghassan al Qahtani met her gaze, an unreadable expression in his eyes. The sun brightened in the window behind him, reflecting off the dazzling gems in his throne, and she realized what he sat upon.

A shedu. The throne was carved in the shape of the winged lion that was her family’s symbol.

Ghassan sat upon a Nahid throne.

And he didn’t look pleased. She suspected the impromptu display of Daeva unity was not what he intended. She felt for him—truly. It was frustrating when someone upended your well-laid plans.

It’s why you never stopped plotting alternatives.

His face turned colder, and so Nahri smiled, the first time she’d done so since Dara’s death. It was the smile she’d given the basha, the smile she’d given to hundreds of arrogant men throughout the years just before she swindled them for all they were worth.

Nahri always smiled at her marks.

Epilogue

Kaveh e-Pramukh ran the last ten steps to the infirmary. He shoved open the heavy doors, his entire body shaking.

His son lay inside on a fiery bed of smoking cedar.

The sight stole the air from his lungs. Forbidden care until Kaveh—in the words of the king, “sorted out what was going on with your traitorous tribe of fire-worshipping fanatics”—Jamshid was still in the uniform he’d been wearing when he rushed out of their house that terrible night, his white waist-wrap now entirely black with blood. He lay twisted on his side, his body contorted and held up by pillows to avoid pressure on the arrow wounds in his back. A thin layer of ash covered his skin, dotting his black hair. Though his chest rose and fell in the flickering light of the infirmary’s wall torches, the rest of his body was still. Too still.

But not alone. Slumped in a chair at his bedside was Emir Muntadhir, his black robe rumpled and streaked with ash, his gray eyes heavy with grief. One of Jamshid’s unmoving hands was between his own.

Kaveh approached, and the emir startled. “Grand Wazir . . .” He dropped Jamshid’s hand, though not before Kaveh noticed how closely he’d laced their fingers together. “Forgive me, I—”

“Bizhan e-Oshrusan,” Kaveh breathed.

Muntadhir frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s the name your father wants. Bizhan e-Oshrusan. He was one of the Daeva soldiers on your expedition; it was he who left the supplies on the beach. I have evidence and a witness who will testify to such a thing.” Kaveh’s voice broke. “Now please . . . let me see my son.”

Muntadhir immediately stepped away, relief and guilt lighting his face. “Of course.”

Kaveh was at Jamshid’s side in a second. And then he was numb. Because it was impossible that he should be standing here while his child lay broken before him.

Muntadhir was still there. “He . . .” Kaveh heard Muntadhir’s voice catch. “He didn’t even hesitate. He jumped in front of me the moment the arrows started flying.”

Is that supposed to bring me comfort? Kaveh brushed the ash from his son’s closed eyes, his fingers trembling from rage as much as grief. It should be