The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,53

the little clearing where Nahri had stomped down the grass before dropping her bags. The horses were grazing in a distant field, eating any bit of greenery down to the roots. Dara knelt and rekindled their fire with a snap of his fingers. The flames jumped, illuminating the dark tattoo on his frowning face.

“Your ancestors would be horrified to see how easily you take to stealing.”

“According to you, my ancestors would be horrified to learn of my very existence.” She pulled out a well-wrapped heel of stale bread. “And it’s the way the world works. By now, people have certainly broken into my home in Cairo and stolen my things.”

He tossed a broken branch on the fire, sending up sparks. “How does that make it better?”

“Someone steals from me, I steal from others, and I’m sure the people I stole from will eventually take something that doesn’t belong to them. It’s a circle,” she added wisely, as she gnawed on the chewy bread.

Dara stared at her for a good few heartbeats before speaking. “There is something very wrong with you.”

“Probably comes from my daeva blood.”

He scowled. “It’s your turn to fetch the horses.”

Nahri groaned; she had little desire to leave the fire. “And what are you going to do?”

But Dara was already retrieving a battered pot from one of their bags. She’d stolen it along the way, hoping to find something to cook that wasn’t manna. And after listening to her complain about their food situation for days, Dara had taken it upon himself to try and figure out how to conjure up something different. But Nahri wasn’t hopeful. All he’d managed thus far was a vaguely warm gray soup that tasted like the ghouls smelled.

Night had fallen by the time Nahri returned with the horses. The darkness in this land fell quick and was thick enough to feel, a heavy, impenetrable blackness that would have made her nervous if she didn’t have their campfire to guide her. Even the thick canopy of stars above did little to alleviate it, their light captured by the white mountains surrounding them. They were covered in snow, Dara explained, a concept she could scarcely imagine. This country was completely foreign to her, and though it was novel and in some ways even beautiful, she found herself longing for Cairo’s busy streets, for the crowded bazaars and squabbling merchants. She missed the golden desert that embraced her city and the wide, brown Nile that twisted through it.

Nahri tied the horses to a skinny tree. The temperature had dropped dramatically with the sun, and her cold fingers fumbled the knot. She wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders and then took a seat as close to the fire as she dared.

Dara wasn’t even wearing his robe. She stared jealously at his bare arms. Must be nice to be made of fire. Whatever daeva blood she had clearly wasn’t enough to keep the chill away.

The pot steamed at his feet; he pushed it over with a triumphant smile. “Eat.”

She took a suspicious sniff. It smelled good, like buttery lentils and onions. Nahri ripped off a strip of bread from her bag and dipped it into the pot. She took a guarded bite and then another. It tasted as good as it smelled, like cream and lentils and some type of leafy green. She quickly reached for more bread.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice rising in hope.

After all the manna, anything edible would have been appetizing, but this was legitimately delicious. “I love it!” She scooped more into her mouth, savoring the warm stew. “How did you finally do it, then?”

Dara looked tremendously pleased with himself. “I tried to concentrate on the dish I knew best. I think the focus helped—a lot of magic has to do with your intentions.” He paused, and his smile faded. “It was something my mother used to make.”

Nahri almost choked; Dara had revealed nothing about his past and even now she could see a guarded look slip across his face. Hoping he wouldn’t change the subject, she quickly replied, “She must be a very good cook.”

“She was.” He drank back the rest of his wine, and the goblet immediately refilled.

“Was?” Nahri ventured.

Dara stared into the fire; his fingers twitched like he longed to touch it. “She’s dead.”

Nahri dropped her bread. “Oh. Dara, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“It is fine,” he interrupted, though the tone of his voice implied it was anything but. “It was a long time ago.”

Nahri