The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,133

that he seemed to be leaning on his cane a bit less. Perhaps the session Muntadhir had interrupted had done some good after all.

“These are our shrines,” Jamshid explained, “dedicated to our most honored ancestors.” He glanced back at Ali. “I do believe your people killed a number of them.”

“A favor they returned more than once, as I recall,” Ali replied acidly.

“Maybe we could rehash the war later,” Nahri suggested, walking faster. “The longer I am away from the infirmary, the higher the chance of an emergency occurring.”

But at her side, Ali suddenly went still. She turned to look at him and saw his gaze was locked on the last shrine. It drew the eye, of course; it was the most popular in the Temple, garlanded with flowers and offerings.

Nahri heard his breath catch. “Is that—”

“Darayavahoush’s?” Kaveh’s voice rang out from behind them, and then the grand wazir was striding up, still dressed in his traveling cloak. “It is, indeed.” He brought his hands up in blessing. “Darayavahoush e-Afshin, the last great defender of the Daeva people and guardian to the Nahids. May he rest in the shade of the Creator.”

Nahri saw Jamshid flinch out of the corner of her eye, but he was quiet, obviously loyal to his tribe first in the face of their visitors.

“Grand Wazir,” she greeted diplomatically. “May the fires burn brightly for you.”

“And for you, Banu Nahida,” Kaveh replied. “Princess Zaynab, peace be upon you. An honor and a surprise to see you here.” He turned to Ali, the warmth vanishing from his face. “Prince Alizayd,” he said flatly. “You returned from Am Gezira.”

Ali didn’t seem to notice the rudeness. His gaze hadn’t left Dara’s shrine, and it looked like he was struggling to keep his composure. His eyes flickered to the bow at the back, and then Nahri saw him stiffen. She couldn’t blame him—she’d seen Jamshid react the same way to the replica of the weapon that had nearly taken his life.

And then Ali stepped closer, his gaze falling to the base of Dara’s statue. Nahri’s heart sank. No. Not today.

Ali picked up an object from among the pile of tokens. Charred and blackened though it was, its reptilian features were instantly recognizable.

Zaynab softly gasped, the skeleton perhaps too much even for her. “Is that a crocodile?” she asked, her voice laced with anger.

Nahri held her breath. Ali twitched, and she silently cursed whoever had left it. This was it. He was going to explode, he was going to say something so offensive that the priests would want him tossed out, and her plans for the shafit were going to be over before she’d even proposed them.

“I take it this is meant for me?” Ali asked after a moment of silence.

Kaveh spoke first. “I do believe that was the intent.” At his side, Jamshid looked ashamed.

“Ali …,” Nahri began.

But he was already putting it back. Not on the ground, but at the feet of Dara’s stone horse—its hooves stomping the carved sand flies she had no doubt the sharp-eyed prince noticed.

He brought his fingers together. “Then to Darayavahoush e-Afshin,” he said, only the faintest hint of sarcasm in his exaggerated politeness. “The best and most terrifying warrior this crocodile has ever fought.” He turned back around, flashing an almost frightening smile at Kaveh. “Come, Grand Wazir,” he said, throwing his arm around the other man and pulling him close. “It has been too long since we’ve shared each other’s company, and I know our brilliant Banu Nahida is eager to tell you her plans.”

ACROSS FROM HER, KARTIR WAS WRINGING HIS HANDS, the elderly priest paler than she’d ever seen. They’d met in a windowless inner chamber with high walls, torches throwing light on the icons of her ancestors that ringed the room. It felt as though even they were staring down disapprovingly at her.

“Shafit? You intend to work with shafit?” Kartir finally asked after she finished laying out her plans for the hospital. It sounded as though he were begging her to contradict him.

“I do,” Nahri replied. “I have already partnered with one. A physician with far more training and experience than I. She and her husband are incredible practitioners.”

“They are dirt-bloods,” one of the priestesses all but spat in Divasti. “The un-souled spawn of lecherous djinn and humans.”

Nahri was suddenly grateful neither Ali nor Zaynab shared their older brother’s fluency in the Daeva tongue. “They are as innocent in their creation as you and I.” Heat filled her voice. “You forget I