said the words mildly, but then a hint of her old anger returned. “I won’t be called inferior or lesser again. I won’t have my people—any of them—be called that. Let alone by some meddlesome puffed-up pigeons.”
“And do you think the puffed-up pigeons might return to make us regret that?”
You have made an enemy today, the peri had warned. “They didn’t seem happy,” Nahri admitted. “But I’m hoping their own convoluted rules about interfering keep them away until we’re stronger.”
“God willing.” Uncertainty crept into his voice. “Regarding another overly powerful being, I hear we had an escape.”
Nahri’s stomach flipped. “Something like that.”
Ali held her gaze; despite its new appearance, she could see a dozen questions in his eyes. “There are people demanding justice, Nahri. People who want to send soldiers after him.”
“They would be wasting their time, and we all know it. No one’s going to catch Dara if he doesn’t want to be caught. I know people want justice,” she said. “And I know we’re going to be building a new government, a new world. But he’s something that needed to be settled the old way, the Daeva way. Let Dara spend his millennia recovering the souls stolen by the ifrit. It’s more useful than him wasting away in a dungeon.”
Ali looked unconvinced. “He could raise an army and return.”
He won’t. Nahri had seen the resolve in Dara’s good-bye—it had been just that, a farewell from a man who did not expect to see the woman he loved again. “Ali, you say you trust me,” she said softly. “So trust me. He’s gone.”
He stared at her a moment longer but then managed a small nod. It wasn’t much—Nahri knew the Geziris were within their rights to want vengeance. But their vengeance would be the result of prior vengeance. And the problem was, they weren’t the only ones caught in that cycle.
It was indeed why peace was going to take lifetimes. And why, as much as it hurt, Nahri knew Dara had been right to leave. His presence would have been too divisive—too many Daevas protective of him, too many djinn and shafit rightfully furious to see Manizheh’s weapon living freely among them. There might be a day when he could return—perhaps a distant generation would be removed enough from the war to know Dara as a hero first, as the Afshin who dedicated himself to rescuing enslaved souls, rather than the Scourge.
But Nahri feared that day was very far in the future.
Ali had reached up to rub a spot on his shoulder. His collar tugged away enough for Nahri to glimpse a section of scaled hide covering his skin.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Ali dropped his hand, looking embarrassed. “One of Tiamat’s children stung me.”
“Stung you?”
“You don’t want to know the details, believe me. Sobek healed it, but he left a mark.”
“Can I see?” When Ali nodded, Nahri pushed aside his collar and traced the narrow path of the scaly scar, a ribbon of changed flesh. She didn’t miss the quickened pulse of his heart as she touched him—or the effect that running her fingers over him again was having on her—but that was not a thing to delve into right now. “Is it permanent, what they did to you?”
“Yes. Tiamat drained the fire from my blood. She wanted to make sure I couldn’t turn my back on them.” Ali held her gaze, his glowing eyes filled with sorrow. “I don’t think I’ll be helping you conjure any more flames.”
“You came back,” she said fiercely. “That’s all that matters.” Nahri smoothed down his collar and then raised her arm, pulling back her sleeve to reveal the scar Manizheh had burned into her wrist. Despite her magic, it had not healed. “We match.”
That brought a sad smile to his face. “I guess we do.” Ali glanced past her shoulder and frowned. “Are you packing?”
“I am.”
“Does that mean …” His face fell. “Are you leaving the palace too?” He sounded crushed but added, “I mean, not that I expected you to stay. I don’t have any expectations of you. Us.”
Nahri took his arm to stop his stammering. “Walk with me. I could use some fresh air.”
She led him to the infirmary grounds, picking her way along the overgrown path. The garden had been poorly tended, weeds and grass snaring her healing plants, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed. The orange grove was lush as ever, white flowers and bright fruit thick upon the trees.
Her father’s orange grove. The resilience of the