The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,131

repent before that happened.”

Nahri felt the floor shift beneath her feet. She closed her eyes for a minute, willing herself to be calm. “Alizayd. I spent weeks fighting with the priests to allow this visit. If he doesn’t come, they’ll view it as a slight. And if they view it as a slight—if they don’t think I have your family’s support—then how do you think they’re going to react when I announce I want to overturn centuries of tradition to work alongside shafit? I’m staking my reputation on this hospital. If it fails because you can’t keep your mouth shut, hellfire is going to be the least of your problems.”

She’d swear the air sparked as the threat left her lips, and she didn’t miss the speed at which several of the nearest djinn backed away.

Ali swallowed. “I’ll fix it. I swear. Go to the Temple and wait for him.”

NAHRI WAS NOT FEELING OPTIMISTIC.

At her side, Jamshid shifted. “I wish you’d let me go talk to him.”

She shook her head. “This is between me and Muntadhir. And you shouldn’t be solving his problems for him all the time, Jamshid.”

He sighed, readjusting his cap. Like Nahri, he was in his Temple attire, bloody and ash-stained hospital smocks traded for silk chadors and coats. “Did you tell Nisreen the truth about why we were coming here?”

Nahri shifted on her feet. “No,” she confessed. Nisreen had stayed behind to oversee the infirmary, a thing for which Nahri was secretly relieved. She didn’t need another voice arguing against her. “We … we have not been seeing eye to eye on much lately.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy being left in the dark,” Jamshid observed mildly.

Nahri grimaced. She didn’t like the tension that had grown between her and her mentor, but neither did she know how to fix it.

Jamshid glanced at the gate. “Speaking of unhappy elders, I should probably tell you that my father is—”

The clattering of hooves cut him off. Nahri glanced up to see a rider in an ebony robe cantering toward them. Relief flared in her chest.

It lasted only a moment. Because that rider was not her husband.

Ali was at their side in seconds, looking, well, rather damn princely on a magnificent gray stallion. He was dressed in royal colors, the first time she’d ever seen him so, the gold-trimmed black robe smoking around his ankles, the brilliant blue, purple, and gold turban wrapped around his head. He’d shaved his scruffy beard into a semblance of order and was even wearing jewelry—a strand of pearls looping his neck, and a heavy silver ring crowned with one of the famed pink diamonds of Ta Ntry on his left thumb.

Nahri gawked at him. “You’re not Muntadhir.”

“I am not,” he agreed, sliding from the horse. He must have prepared in a hurry; he smelled of freshly burned agarwood, and there were drops of water still clinging to his neck. “My brother remains indisposed.”

Jamshid was looking at Ali with open hostility. “Are those his clothes?”

“He doesn’t seem to need them today.” Ali glanced back, peering in the direction from which he’d come. “Where is she?” he asked, seemingly to himself. “She was right behind me …”

Jamshid stepped between them. “Nahri, you can’t bring him into the Temple,” he warned, switching to Divasti. “People burn him in effigy in the Temple!”

Nahri didn’t get a chance to respond. Another rider had joined them, one even more surprising than Ali.

“Peace be upon you,” Zaynab said in a gallant tone as she dismounted. “A lovely day, isn’t it?’

Nahri’s mouth actually fell open. The Qahtani princess looked even more dazzling than her brother, in billowy gold riding pants beneath a brightly striped indigo tunic. She wore her black shayla lightly, under a headdress of glittering sapphires, her face partially obscured by a silver Geziri mask. Jewels winked from each of her fingers.

Zaynab took her brother’s hand, turning a winning smile toward the Daevas who’d gathered to gawk. There was no denying the royal siblings made for an extraordinary sight, something Zaynab seemed to be relishing.

“What-what are you doing here?” Nahri managed to ask.

Zaynab shrugged. “Ali came running and said you needed Qahtanis to help sway your priests. Now you have some. Even better, you have me.” Her tone was sugar sweet. “If you’re not aware, the two of you”—she motioned between Ali and Nahri—“are rather abrasive.” Her gaze slid past Nahri. “Jamshid!” she said warmly. “How are you? How is your father?”

Some of the anger left Jamshid’s face