The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,68

My own magic is lost to me, the ifrit’s curse coursing through my blood, preparing to seize me as soon as I breathe my last.

I’m going to be a slave. The thought rings through my mind as I fumble for the knot. When I next open my eyes, it will be to look upon the human master to whose whims I’ll be entirely beholden. Horror surges through me. No, Creator, no. Please.

The knot won’t budge. My chest is collapsing, my head spinning. One breath, what I would do for just one breath . . .

There was a scream from another world, a faraway world on a snowy plain, shouting a strange name that meant nothing.

The water finally pries past my clenched jaws, pouring down my throat. A bright light blossoms before me, as lush and green as the valleys of my homeland. It beckons, warm and welcoming.

And then Nahri was gone.

“Nahri, wake up! Nahri!”

Dara’s terrified cries tugged at her mind, but Nahri ignored them, warm and comfortable in the thick blackness that surrounded her. She pushed away the hand shaking her shoulder, settling deeper into the hot coals and savoring the tickle of fire licking up her arms.

Fire?

Nahri had no sooner opened her eyes and seen a set of dancing flames than she shrieked and jumped up. She batted her arms and the fiery tendrils shimmied away, dropping to the ground like snakes and melting into the snow.

“It’s okay! It’s okay!”

Dara’s voice barely registered as she frantically swept her body. But instead of scorched flesh and burned clothes, she found only normal skin. Her tunic barely felt warm to the touch. What in the name of all . . . She glanced up, giving the daeva a wild look. “Did you light me on fire?”

“You wouldn’t wake!” he protested. “I thought it might help.” His face was paler than usual, the crossed wing and arrow tattoo on his face standing out like charcoal. And his eyes were brighter, closer to how they’d looked in Cairo. But he was standing up, healthy and whole, and mercifully not translucent.

The rukh . . . she remembered, her head feeling like she’d had too much wine. She rubbed her temples, unsteady on her feet. I healed him and then . . .

She gagged, the memory of water pouring down her throat strong enough to make her sick. But it hadn’t been her throat, hadn’t been her memory. She swallowed, taking in the sight of the anxious daeva again.

“God be merciful,” she whispered. “You’re dead. I saw you die . . . I felt you drown.”

The devastated shadow that overtook his face was confirmation enough. Nahri gasped and instinctively stepped back, bumping into the still warm body of the rukh.

No breath, no heartbeat. Nahri closed her eyes, everything coming together too fast. “I-I don’t understand,” she stammered. “Are you . . . are you some sort of ghost?” The word sounded ridiculous to her ears even as its implication broke her heart. Her eyes were suddenly wet. “Are you even alive?”

“Yes!” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I mean, I-I think so. It’s . . . it’s complicated.”

Nahri threw up her hands. “Whether or not you’re alive shouldn’t be complicated!” She turned away, linking her fingers behind her head and feeling wearier than she had at any point during their exhausting journey. She paced down the length of the rukh’s belly. “I don’t understand why every . . .” And then she stopped, distracted by the sight of something lashed to one of the rukh’s massive talons.

She was at the rukh’s foot in an instant, tearing the bundle from its ties. The black scrap of fabric was filthy and torn but the cheap coins were recognizable. As was the heavy gold ring tied to one end. The basha’s ring. She untied both, holding the ring up in the sunlight.

Dara hurried toward her. “Don’t touch that. Suleiman’s eye, Nahri, not even you could want those. They’re probably from its last victim.”

“They’re mine,” she said softly, quiet horror taking grip of her heart. She rubbed the ring, remembering how it had cut her palm so many weeks ago. “They’re from my home back in Cairo.”

“What?” Dara stepped closer and snatched the headdress from her hands. “You must be mistaken.” He turned the filthy fabric over and pressed it to his face, taking a deep breath.

“I’m not mistaken!” She dropped the ring, suddenly wanting nothing to do with it. “How is that possible?”

Dara lowered the headdress; there