The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,183

had occurred to him.

Zaynab recovered first. “His heart? The seal is in his heart?”

“Yes.” Muntadhir looked between them, his expression grave. “Do you understand? There’s no taking Suleiman’s seal unless you’re willing to kill our father for it. Is that a price you’d pay?”

Ali struggled to push that shocking information aside. “Suleiman’s seal shouldn’t matter. Not for this. Stripping your citizens of their magic isn’t a power a political leader should have. The seal was meant to help the Nahids heal their people and fight the ifrit. And when it comes time for it to be passed again … the person that ring belongs to isn’t in this room, and you both know it.”

It was Zaynab’s turn to groan. She pinched the bridge of her nose, looking exasperated. “Ali …”

Muntadhir gestured rudely between them. “Now do you believe me?” he asked Zaynab. “I told you he was smitten with her.”

“I’m not smitten with her!”

There was a pounding on the door and then it abruptly opened, revealing Lubayd again.

“Ali, Emir Muntadhir!” he gasped, leaning on his knees and fighting for breath. “You need to come quickly.”

Ali shot to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s been an attack on the Daeva procession.”

Nahri wouldn’t have admitted it to him, but maybe Kartir had a point about the Navasatem procession being fun.

“Anahid!” came another cry from below her. “Anahid the Blessed!”

Nahri smiled bashfully from underneath her chador, making a blessing over the crowd. “May the fires burn brightly for you!” she shouted back.

It was an almost unbelievably lovely morning, with not a cloud in the bright blue sky. Nisreen and a coterie of laughing Daeva women had awoken her hours before dawn with milk-sweets and pepper-scented tea, pulling her from bed despite Nahri’s weary protests and dressing her in a soft, simple gown of undyed linen. Before the sun had risen, they’d joined an excited and growing throng of Daevas at the city’s docks in order to wait for the sunrise. As the first pale rays crossed the sky, they’d lit colorful boat-shaped oil lamps of translucent waxed paper, setting them adrift on the lake—glowing a pale pink in the dawn sun—and transforming the water into an enormous, dazzling altar.

The joy of the crowd had been infectious. Children chased each other, gleefully smearing wet handfuls of the muddy mortar that signified the temple their ancestors had built for Suleiman across arms and faces, while boisterous vendors hawked the sugared barley cakes and rich plum beer traditionally consumed for the holiday.

Chanting and singing, they’d made their way to the chariots that would carry the procession to the palace. They’d been constructed in secret; it was Daeva tradition that the chariots were designed and built by older Daevas and ridden by youth: a literal celebration of the next generation. There were thirty in total, one to signify each century of freedom, and they were utterly spectacular. Because her tribe was not one for half measures, the vehicles were also enormous, resembling moving towers more than anything else, with room for dozens of riders, and wheels twice the height of a man. Each was dedicated to an aspect of Daeva life: one boasted a grove of jeweled cherry trees, golden trunks peeking out from beneath a canopy of carved jade leaves and gleaming ruby fruit, while the one behind hers spun with cavorting brass horses. Their quicksilver eyes flashed, white jasmine blossoms heavy in the rich black tassels of their manes.

Nahri’s chariot was the largest, and embarrassingly so, crafted to look like the boat Anahid might have once sailed across the lake. A blue-and-white silk flag billowed above Nahri’s head, and standing proud at the stern was a magnificent carved wooden shedu. She was currently sitting on it, cajoled and harassed into doing so by the ring of thrilled little girls at her feet. Traditionally one of them would have stood in for Anahid, but Nahri’s attempts to convince them to do the same this time had been met only with disappointed pouts.

But her people’s delight was infectious, so embarrassment aside, Nahri was having a good time, a thing her warm cheeks and silly grin betrayed. She waved to the crowds on the street, bringing her hands together in blessing as she passed by groups of cheering Daevas.

“This is not what I was told to expect,” Aqisa groused from Nahri’s side, picking at one of the many garlands of flowers the little girls had—at first timidly and then with great exuberance when the warrior woman didn’t stop them—draped around