Nahri couldn’t judge his grief. She stood frozen at the edge of the boat, her heart breaking as she stared at the still water. Was Ali already dead? Or was he being torn apart right now, his screams silenced by the black water?
More soldiers poured from the ship’s hold, some holding broken oars like batons. The sight stirred her from her grief, and she climbed to her feet, her legs shaking. “Dara . . .”
He glanced up and abruptly raised his left hand. The ship cracked, a wall of splintered wood rising twice her height to separate them from the soldiers.
Muntadhir swung the zulfiqar at Dara again, but the Afshin was ready. He hooked his khanjar in the forked sword’s tip and twisted it from Muntadhir’s hands. The zulfiqar went skittering across the deck, and Dara kicked the emir in the chest, sending him sprawling.
“I’m sparing your life,” he snapped. “Take it, you fool.” He turned around and walked away, heading in her direction.
“That’s right . . . run, you coward!” Muntadhir shot back. “That’s what you do best, isn’t it? Run away and let the rest of your tribe pay for your actions!”
Dara slowed.
Nahri watched Muntadhir’s grief-stricken eyes trail the deck, taking in Jamshid’s arrow-riddled body and the spot where his brother had been shot. A look of pure anguish, of spite—ragged and unthinking—filled his face.
He stood up. “Ali told me, you know, what happened to your kin when Daevabad fell. What happened when the Tukharistanis broke into the Daeva Quarter looking for you, looking for vengeance, and found only your family.” Muntadhir’s face twisted in hate. “Where were you, Afshin, when they screamed for you? Where were you when they carved the names of the Qui-zi dead into your sister’s body? She was only a child, wasn’t she? Long names, those Tukharistanis,” he added savagely. “I bet they were only able to fit a few before—”
Dara screamed. He was on Muntadhir in less than a second, striking the emir so hard across the face that a bloody tooth flew from his mouth. The khanjar smoked in his other hand, and as he raised it, it transformed, the blade turning dull and splitting into a dozen or so leather strands studded with iron.
A whip.
“You want me to be the Scourge?” Dara shrieked as he lashed Muntadhir. The emir cried out and raised his arms to protect his face. “Will that please your filthy people? To make me into a monster yet again?”
Nahri’s mouth fell open in horror. Do you know why people call him the Scourge? she heard the dead prince ask.
Dara brought the whip down again, ripping a strip of flesh from Muntadhir’s forearms. Nahri wanted to flee. This was not the Dara she knew, the one who taught her to ride a horse and slept by her side.
But she didn’t flee. Instead, acting on a crazy impulse, she jumped to her feet and grabbed his wrist as he raised the whip again. He whirled around, his face wild with grief.
Her heart thudded. “Stop, Dara. Enough.”
He swallowed, his hand trembling under her own. “It’s not enough. It won’t ever be. They destroy everything. They murdered my family, my leaders. They eviscerated my tribe.” His voice broke. “And after everything, after they take Daevabad, after they turn me into a monster, they want you.” His voice choked on the last word, and he raised the whip. “I will flay him until he’s bloody dust.”
She tightened her grip on his arm and stepped between him and Muntadhir. “They haven’t taken me. I’m right here.”
His shoulders dropped, and he bowed his head. “They have. You won’t forgive me the boy.”
“I . . .” Nahri hesitated, glancing at the spot where Ali had gone over. Her stomach turned, but she pressed her mouth in a firm line. “It doesn’t matter right now,” she said, hating the words as she spoke them. She nodded at the approaching ships. “Can you make it to shore before they get here?”
“I won’t leave you.”
She pressed the hand holding the whip. “I’m not asking you to.” Dara glanced down, his bright eyes meeting her own. She took the whip from him. “But you need to let this go. Let it be enough.”
He took a deep breath, and Muntadhir let out a groan as he curled in on himself. The hate returned to Dara’s face.
“No.” Nahri took his face in her hands and forced him to look in her eyes. “Come with me. We’ll leave, travel the world.” It was obvious there was no going back to what they’d had before. But she’d have said anything to get him to stop.
Dara nodded, his bright eyes wet. She tossed the whip in the lake and took his hand. She had just started to lead him away when Muntadhir stammered behind them, a strange mix of hope and alarm in his voice.
“Z-Zaydi?”
Nahri spun around. She gasped, and Dara threw a protective arm in front of her as the flicker of relief died in her chest.
Because the thing that was climbing up onto the boat was definitely not Alizayd al Qahtani.
The young prince stepped into the firelight and swayed like one not accustomed to land. He blinked, a slow reptilian movement, and she saw that his eyes had gone completely black, even the whites vanished under an oily dark cover. His face was gray, and his blue lips moved in a silent whisper.
Ali stepped forward and mechanically scanned the ship. His clothes were shredded, and water streamed from his body like a sieve, pouring from his eyes, ears, and mouth. It bubbled up from under his skin and dripped from his fingertips. He took another jerky step toward them, and in the improved light, Nahri could see his body, encrusted with all manner of lake debris. The arrows and iron shackles were gone; instead, waterweeds and disembodied tentacles tightly wrapped his limbs. Shells, shimmering scales, and razor-sharp teeth were embedded in his skin.
Muntadhir slowly stood up. The blood drained from his face. “Oh, my God. Alizayd . . .” He took a step closer.
“I wouldn’t do that, sand fly.” Dara was pale as well. He pushed Nahri behind him and reached for his bow.
Ali jerked to attention at the sound of Dara’s voice. He sniffed the air and then turned on them. Water puddled at his feet. He’d been whispering since he climbed aboard, but as he drew nearer, she suddenly understood the words, muttered in a language unlike anything she’d ever heard. A flowing language that rushed and slithered and swam over his lips.
Kill the daeva.
Except of course it wasn’t “daeva” he used, but rather a sound Nahri knew she could never reproduce, the syllables full of hate and pure . . . opposition. As if this other thing, this daeva, had no right to exist, no right to sully the waters of the world with smoke and flames and fiery death.
From behind his wet robe, Ali drew an enormous scimitar. The blade was green and mottled with rust, looking like something the lake had swallowed centuries ago. In the firelight, she saw a bloody symbol roughly carved high upon his left cheek.