The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,56

coal, collapsed.

“Fourteen hundred years ago?” She studied the daeva, noticing the tense way he held his body and the scowl on his handsome face. Something stirred in her memory. “This . . . this is the war you were discussing with Khayzur, isn’t it?” Her mouth fell open. “Didn’t you say you witnessed it?”

He drank back the rest of his wine. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

Nahri’s head spun from the admission. “But how? You said the djinn only lived for a few centuries!”

“It doesn’t matter.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, but the movement wasn’t as graceful as usual. “My history is just that: mine.”

She was incredulous. “And you don’t think this king is going to want an explanation when we show up in Daevabad?”

“I’m not going to Daevabad.”

“What? But I thought . . . where are we going then?”

Dara looked away. “I’ll take you as far as the city gates. You can make your way to the palace from there. You’ll be received better alone, trust me.”

Nahri drew back, shocked and far more hurt than she should have been. “You’re just going to abandon me?”

“I’m not abandoning you.” Dara exhaled and threw up his hands, gesturing rudely to the pile of weapons behind him. “Nahri, what kind of history do you think I have with these people? I can’t go back.”

Her temper flashed, and she rose to her feet. “You coward,” she accused him. “You misled me back at the river and you know it. I never would have agreed to go to Daevabad with you if I’d known you were so afraid of the djinn that you were planning to—”

“I am not afraid of the djinn.” Dara also rose to his feet, his eyes flaring. “I sold my soul for the Nahids! I’m not going to spend eternity languishing in a dungeon while I listen to the djinn mock them for being hypocrites.”

“But they were hypocrites—look at me! I’m living proof!”

His face darkened. “I am all too aware of that.”

That stung, she couldn’t deny it. “Is that what this is about then? You’re ashamed of me?”

“I . . .” Dara shook his head. Something like regret seemed to briefly flicker in his face before he turned away. “Nahri, you didn’t grow up in my world. You can’t understand.”

“Thank God I didn’t! I probably would have been killed before my first birthday!”

Dara said nothing, his silence more revealing than any denial. Her stomach twisted. She’d been imagining her ancestors as noble healers, but what Dara suggested painted a far darker picture. “Then I’m glad the djinn invaded,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I hope they got vengeance for all the shafit my ancestors murdered!”

“Vengeance?” Dara’s eyes flashed, smoke curling out from under his collar. “Zaydi al Qahtani slaughtered every last Daeva man, woman, and child when he took the city. My family was in that city. My sister wasn’t even half your age!”

Nahri immediately backed down, seeing the grief in his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”

But he’d already turned away. He crossed toward their supplies, moving so fast the grass scorched beneath his feet. “I don’t need to listen to this.” He snatched his bag from the ground, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder before shooting her a hostile look. “You think your ancestors—my leaders—such monsters, the Qahtanis so righteous . . .” He jerked his head toward the encompassing darkness. “Why don’t you try singing for a djinn to save you next?”

And then before Nahri could say anything, before she could really comprehend what was happening, he stalked off, vanishing into the night.

8

Ali

Where is he?

Ali paced outside his father’s office. Muntadhir was supposed to meet him here before court, but it was getting late and there was still no sign of his perpetually tardy brother.

He gave the closed office door an anxious look. People had been passing through all morning, but Ali could not yet bring himself to go in. He felt terribly unprepared for his first day at court and had barely slept the night before, the spacious bed in his extravagant new quarters too soft and covered in an alarming number of beaded pillows. He’d finally settled for sleeping on the floor, only to be assailed by nightmares of being thrown to the karkadann.

Ali sighed. He took one last look down the corridor, but there was no sign of Muntadhir.

A flurry of activity greeted him when he entered the office, scribes and secretaries loaded with scrolls dashing