The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,41

rub his brow, running his fingers through his black hair.

It was an entirely distracting motion. Nahri’s eyes followed his hand, but she shut her wayward thoughts down, ignoring the flutter in her stomach.

“You do know that if you have Nahid blood, you’re likely going to live a few centuries.” Dara lay back on the carpet to recline on a propped wrist. “You should work on your patience.”

“At this rate, it will take us a few centuries just to finish this conversation.”

That brought a wry smile to his face. “You have their wit, I’ll admit to that.” He snapped his fingers, and another goblet appeared in his hand. “Drink with me.”

Nahri gave the goblet a suspicious sniff. It smelled sweet, but she hesitated. She hadn’t had a drop of wine in her life; such a forbidden luxury was well beyond her means, and she wasn’t sure how she’d react to alcohol. Drunks had always been easy pickings for a thief.

“Rejecting hospitality is a grave offense among my people,” Dara warned.

Mostly to appease him, Nahri took a small sip. The wine was cloyingly sweet, more like a syrup than a liquid. “Is it truly?”

“Not at all. But I’m tired of drinking alone.”

She opened her mouth to protest, irritated that she’d been so easily tricked, but the wine was already working, rolling down her throat and spreading a warm drowsiness throughout her body. She swayed, grabbing for the rug.

Dara steadied her, his fingers hot on her wrist. “Careful.”

Nahri blinked, her vision swimming for another moment. “By the Most High, your people must get nothing done if you drink things like this.”

He shrugged. “A fair assessment of our race. But you wish to know of the ifrit.”

“And why you think they want to kill me,” she clarified. “Mostly that.”

“We’ll get to that bit of bad luck later,” he said lightly. “First, you must understand that the earliest daevas were true creatures of fire, formed and formless all at once. And very, very powerful.”

“More powerful than you are now?”

“Far more. We could possess and imitate any creature, any object we desired, and our lives spanned eras. We were greater than peris, maybe even greater than marid.”

“Marid?”

“Water elementals,” he replied. “No one’s seen one in millennia—they’d be like gods to your kind. But the daevas were at peace with all creatures. We stayed in our deserts while the peri and marids kept to their realms of sky and water. But then, humans were created.”

Dara twirled his goblet in his hand. “My kind can be irrational,” he confessed. “Tempestuous. To see such weak creatures marching across our lands, building their filthy cities of dirt and blood over our sacred sands . . . it was maddening. They became a target . . . a plaything.”

Goose bumps erupted across her skin. “And how exactly did the daevas play?”

A flash of embarrassment swept his bright eyes. “In all sorts of ways,” he muttered, conjuring up a small pillar of white smoke that thickened as she watched. “Kidnapping newlyweds, stirring up sandstorms to confuse a caravan, encouraging . . .” He cleared his throat. “You know . . . worship.”

Her mouth fell open. So the darker stories about djinn really did have their roots in truth. “No, I can’t say that I do know. I’ve never murdered merchants for my own amusement!”

“Ah, yes, my thief. Forgive me for forgetting that you are a paragon of honesty and goodness.”

Nahri scowled. “So what happened next?”

“Supposedly the peri ordered us to stop.” Dara’s smoky pillar undulated in the wind at his side. “Khayzur’s people fly to the edge of Paradise; they hear things—at least they think they do. They warned that humans were to be left alone. Each elemental race was to stick to its own affairs. Meddling with each other—especially with a lesser creature—was absolutely forbidden.”

“And the daevas didn’t listen?”

“Not in the slightest. And so we were cursed.” He scowled. “Or ‘blessed,’ as the djinn see it now.”

“How?”

“A man was called from among the humans to punish us.” A hint of fear crossed Dara’s face. “Suleiman,” he whispered. “May he be merciful.”

“Suleiman?” Nahri repeated in disbelief. “As in the Prophet Suleiman?” When Dara nodded, she gasped. Her only education might have consisted of running from the law, but even she knew who Suleiman was. “But he died thousands of years ago!”

“Three thousand,” Dara corrected. “Give or take a few centuries.”

A horrifying thought took root in her mind. “You . . . you’re not three thousand years—”

“No,” he cut in, his voice terse.