The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,166

half apology and he made an annoyed sound in his throat. “All right, Jamshid has been harassing me to make peace with you, and this seems like a good first step.”

Nahri considered that, her conversation with Nisreen running through her mind. She wasn’t sure how she wanted to proceed with Muntadhir, but visiting the Temple with her husband didn’t mean she had to jump back into bed with him. “All right.”

A whisper of magic fluttered through the throne room, setting the hairs on the back of her neck on end. The air suddenly warmed, movement near the floor drawing her gaze.

Her eyes went wide. The water in the nearest fountain, a pretty stone octagon covered in starlike mirrored tiles, was boiling.

There was a startled cry behind her. She whirled around to see djinn hastily backing away from the trench fountains lining the perimeter walls. Water was boiling in those fountains as well, the enchanted ice floating in their depths steaming away so quickly that a white haze rose from the floor.

It lasted only seconds. There was a whistling, cracking sound as the scorching water let out enormous clouds of steam and then abruptly drained away, vanishing into jagged gashes at the bottom of the fountains.

Muntadhir had drawn closer. “Please tell me that was you,” he whispered.

“No,” she replied, her voice shaking. In fact, the familiar warmth of the palace magic seemed briefly gone. “But the palace does that sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Muntadhir looked uneasy. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Magic is unpredictable, after all.”

Nervous laughter was breaking out across the throne room, the odd moment already dismissed by the majority of the festive crowd. Ghassan was gone, but Nahri spotted Kaveh standing beside the throne. He was staring at the smoking fountain closest to him.

And he was smiling.

It was grim and it was brief, but there was no denying his expression and the cold pleasure in it sent ice snaking around her heart.

Truth serum, she decided. As soon as the holiday was over. She touched Muntadhir’s hand. “I’ll see you at the hospital party tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Ali’s head was pounding as he stumbled into his small room at the hospital. The late afternoon light burned his eyes through the window, so he yanked the curtains shut, exhausted from supervising preparations for tonight’s opening.

A mountain of paperwork greeted him on the desk. He picked up the first piece of parchment. It was an invitation from one of the Sahrayn trade ministers, a suggestion they meet after Navasatem to discuss some thoughts Ali had on restoring the city’s port.

Bitterness swept through him, hard and fast. There would be no “after Navasatem” for Ali.

The words swam before him. Ali was exhausted. He’d pushed himself to the breaking point trying to fix things in Daevabad and now none of it mattered. He was being tossed out either way.

He dropped the letter and then collapsed onto his bed cushion. It does matter, he tried to tell himself. The hospital was complete, wasn’t it? Ali could at least give Nahri and Subha that.

He closed his eyes, stretching out his limbs. It felt heavenly to lie flat and still for a moment, the allure of sleep tempting. Irresistible.

Just let yourself rest. That’s what everyone had been telling him to do anyway. He took a deep breath, settling deeper into the cushion as sleep stole over him, wrapping him in a peace as cool and still as water …

The lake is quiet when he arrives, emerging from the silty current that brought him here. The chill of it is a shock, a sharp departure from the warmer waters he prefers. Though this lake is sacred to his people, the Great Tiamat’s dazzling cloak of shed scales lining the bottom, it is not his home. Home is the vast twining river that cuts through desert and jungle alike, with waterfalls that crash into hidden pools and a spread of delta that blossoms to greet the sea.

He moves with the current, cutting through a school of rainbow-hued fish. Where are the rest of his people? The lake should be thick with marid, scaled hands and tentacled limbs grasping him in welcome, sharing new memories in quiet communion.

He breaks the water’s surface. The air is still, laden with the fog that drifts over the lake like an ever-present storm cloud. Rain-soaked emerald mountains loom in the distance, melting into a pebbly beach.

A crowded beach. His kin have swarmed it, hissing and snapping teeth and beaks and claws.