The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,146

if they want revenge …”

“Then they want revenge.” Nahri glared at him. “Let me go—and don’t ever try to stop me again.”

He dropped her wrist as if it had burned him. “I’m sorry.”

“Good. Come on.”

They entered the camp silently.

Smoking workshops and tents loomed around them; one of the pumps Ali had installed had been smashed and was going wild, spraying water in a wide arc. The muddy road had been churned up by hooves and it sucked at her slippers as she passed smashed furniture and broken pots. And yet, it looked like most of the damage was confined to the main thoroughfare, a small mercy; perhaps the Daevas who attacked had been too frightened to get off their horses or venture into the narrow side lanes. Shafit, shocked and covered in dust and blood, were salvaging what they could from their ruined homes, while others simply sat in stunned disbelief.

A hush descended as more and more people recognized them. Ahead she saw a small group of shafit gathered around a prone form on the ground. A body.

Nahri stumbled. Burned beyond recognition, it looked like it might have been a young man, his gaping mouth trapped in a permanent scream.

“They burned him alive.”

Nahri whirled around to see Subha. The shafit physician was filthy, her clothes and skin coated in ash, a bloody apron tied around her waist. “A boy younger than you,” she spat at Ali. “A boy who could barely string two words together. I would know. I delivered him myself and unwrapped the cord that was around his neck …” She trailed off, looking anguished as she tore her gaze from the murdered youth. “Of course, that was after they set fire to our homes and smashed through our workshops. When they rode down those who would not answer their questions and beat those who didn’t speak quickly enough. And when that boy couldn’t answer, they decided he was their culprit. He did nothing.” Her voice broke as she raised an accusing finger at both of them. “We came here to help you. To build your hospital under your protection.”

“And we failed you.” There were tears in Ali’s eyes, though his voice didn’t shake. “I’m so sorry, Subha, from the depths of my soul.”

The doctor shook her head. “Your words won’t bring him back, Alizayd al Qahtani.”

Nahri couldn’t look away from the murdered boy. “Where are your injured?” she asked softly.

Subha jerked her head toward the remains of a makeshift tent, a tattered tarp all that protected the two dozen or so bloodied people lying in its shade. “Over there. Parimal is bringing more supplies.”

“I don’t need supplies.” Nahri approached the group. A boy lay alone on a dirty blanket closest to her. He seemed to be in shock; his lip was split and his jaw bloodied and bruised. He clutched a second, blood-soaked blanket to his abdomen.

Nahri knelt and pulled it away. He’d been stabbed, very nearly disemboweled. It was a miracle he wasn’t already dead. Purple swelling ballooned the skin, and she could smell torn intestine. Subha couldn’t help him, even with supplies.

But Nahri could. She took a deep breath, aware of the step she was about to take and what it would mean.

And then she laid her hands upon his body.

Heal. The skin immediately twisted beneath her fingertips, the swelling vanishing, the torn muscles and flesh rushing back together. The young man let out a strangled gasp, and she felt his racing heartbeat even out. Nahri opened her eyes, meeting Subha’s stunned expression.

She cleared her throat. “Who’s next?”

BY THE TIME THE CALL TO MAGHRIB PRAYER ECHOED across Daevabad, Nahri had lost track of how many shafit she had healed. The injuries were brutal: broken bones, crushed limbs, and gruesome burns. From what Nahri could gather, the rampage had been short but savagely effective: a mob of riders racing through and throwing conjured balls of fire before seizing and murdering the young man they declared guilty.

Twenty-three were dead, a number that likely would have been twice as high without her intervention, and the fact that a third of the camp had fled into the hospital, taking refuge behind the doors that the Daeva raiders hadn’t dared pass. “Why didn’t everyone do so?” Nahri had asked.

“The men said they rode in the name of the Nahids,” had been Subha’s blunt answer. “We weren’t sure a Nahid hospital was safe.”

Nahri hadn’t inquired further. And by the time she was done—her last patient a six-year-old with a skull fracture