The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,187

mentor again. Heal, she begged. Heal!

A bloody scrape on Nisreen’s cheek instantly did, but from the bullet wound, nothing. The bullet itself stood out like an angry scar against the rest of Nisreen’s body, a cold, alien intrusion.

Jamshid sank down next to her, dropping the bow. “What can I do?” he cried.

I don’t know. Terrified, Nahri searched Nisreen’s face; she needed Nisreen to guide her through this. She needed Nisreen, period. Tears filled her eyes as she took in the blood at the corner of her teacher’s mouth, the black eyes that were filled with nearly as much shock as pain.

The answer came to her in an instant. “I need pliers!” she screamed to the crowd. “A spike, a blade, something!”

“Nahri …” Nisreen’s voice came in a heartbreaking whisper. She coughed, more blood dripping from her mouth. “Nahri … listen …”

Blood was soaking through Nahri’s clothes. Someone, Nahri didn’t even care who, thrust the handle of a knife into her hand. “I’m sorry, Nisreen,” she whispered. “This is probably going to hurt.”

Jamshid had taken Nisreen’s head in his lap. With quiet horror, Nahri realized he was praying softly, giving her last rites.

Nahri refused to accept that. She banished her emotions. She ignored the tears running down her cheeks and the steady, horrible slowing of Nisreen’s heart.

“Nahri,” Nisreen whispered. “Nahri … your—”

Nahri inserted the knife, her hands mercifully steady. “I have it!” With a rush of blood, she pulled free the bullet. But the movement cost her. Nisreen shuddered, her eyes brightening in pain.

And then, even as Nahri spread her fingers across the wound, Nisreen’s heart stopped. Roaring in anger, Nahri let loose the magic she had left, commanding it to restart, for the torn vessels and frayed flesh to connect.

Nothing.

Jamshid burst in tears. “Her heart,” he sobbed.

No. Nahri stared at her mentor in dull disbelief. Nisreen couldn’t be dead. The woman who had taught her how to heal could not be the one person she couldn’t help. The woman who, for all their many, many fights, had been the closest thing to a mother Nahri had ever had.

“Nisreen,” she whispered. “Please.” She tried again, magic rushing from her hands, but it did nothing. Nisreen’s heart was still, blood and muscles slowing as the bright pulses in her head steadily blinked out—Nahri’s abilities telling her clearly what her heart wanted to deny.

Nisreen was gone.

Ali ripped the hospital door open, grabbing the first person he saw. “The Banu Nahida! Where is she?”

A bloodied Parimal started, nearly dropping a tray of supplies. Ali quickly let him go.

Parimal’s expression was grave. “In the main chamber. She’s unharmed, but it’s bad, Prince. Many are dead.”

That Ali knew. He and Muntadhir had rushed to the procession but the streets had been in turmoil, and they’d finally arrived to learn Nahri was already back at the hospital treating victims.

Muntadhir had stayed behind to assist Jamshid in restoring some order while Ali continued to the hospital, passing the ruins of the celebration turned to carnage with growing despair. The dead lay where they’d fallen, their bodies still being shrouded. Ali had counted at least fifty.

One of the dead, Jamshid grimly told them, had already been quietly taken to the Grand Temple, her still form covered in the Banu Nahida’s own chador. Nisreen’s name landed hard in Ali’s heart, the scope of the violence done today unimaginable.

“May I ask …” Parimal was staring at him, looking sick and hesitant. “The attackers … were they identified?”

Ali met his gaze, all too aware of what Parimal was really asking. It had been the same awful prayer in the darkest part of Ali’s heart.

“They were shafit,” he said softly. “All of them.”

Parimal’s shoulders dropped, his expression crumpling. “Oh no,” he whispered. “It’s terrible, but I’d hoped …”

“I know,” Ali cleared his throat. “Where is she?”

Parimal nodded to his left. “The main examination room.”

Ali hurried off, through the halls whose construction he’d personally overseen. He’d looked forward to seeing the hospital operational, but God … not like this.

The chamber was packed, the hundred pallets full and more patients lying on woolen blankets on the floor. The vast majority were Daeva. He caught sight of Nahri bent over a crying young boy being held by his mother. She had a pair of forceps in her hands and seemed to be removing bits of wooden shrapnel from his skin. He watched her set aside the forceps and touch the little boy’s face before pushing slowly to her feet, exhaustion in every line of her body.