Dara’s ashes. The sight nearly undid her. She choked back a sob. “I can’t do this. Not without him.”
Nisreen clucked her tongue. “Now where is the girl who killed ifrit with her blood and offered up fiery, blasphemous lectures on her ancestors?” She knelt and wiped Nahri’s dirty face with a damp cloth. “You’re going to survive this, Banu Nahri. You must. You are all we have left.”
Nahri swallowed back the lump in her throat, a thought occurring to her. “But his ring . . . maybe if we found it . . .”
“It’s gone.” A bitter edge crept into Nisreen’s voice as she rubbed a nub of soap into a lather. “There’s nothing left; the king had the boat burned and sunk.” She massaged the soap into Nahri’s long hair. “I’ve never seen Ghassan like this.”
Nahri tensed. “What do you mean?”
Nisreen lowered her voice. “Darayavahoush had help, Nahri. The king’s men found supplies on the beach. Not much—it might have been only one man, but . . .” She sighed. “Between that and the demonstrations . . . it’s chaos.” She poured a bucket of clean water over Nahri’s head.
“The demonstrations? What demonstrations?”
“There have been Daevas gathering at the wall every day, demanding justice for Darayavahoush’s death.” Nisreen handed her a towel. “To kill a slave is a great crime in our world, and the Afshin . . . well, I suspect you saw for yourself in the temple how people felt about him.”
Nahri flinched, remembering the sight of Dara playing with the Daeva children in the garden, the awed faces of the adults clustering around him.
But Nahri also remembered all too well who was to blame for the carnage on that boat—and the one death she didn’t imagine the king would ever forgive. “Nisreen . . . ,” she started as the other woman began to comb her hair. “Dara killed Ali. The only justice Ghassan’s going to—”
Nisreen drew back in surprise. “Dara didn’t kill Alizayd.” Her face darkened. “I should know; I was forced to treat him.”
“Treat him . . . Ali’s alive?” Nahri asked, incredulous. The prince had been shot, drowned, and then seemingly possessed by the marid; she hadn’t even considered the possibility that he still lived. “Is he okay?”
“‘Is he okay?’” Nisreen repeated, looking aghast at the question. “He murdered your Afshin!”
Nahri shook her head. “It wasn’t him.” There had been nothing of Ali in the oil-eyed wraith who climbed aboard the boat chanting in a language like the rush of the sea. “It was the marid. They probably forced him—”
“He probably volunteered,” Nisreen cut in coldly. “Not that we’ll ever know. Ghassan’s already had him smuggled back to Am Gezira—and warned me that if I spoke of what happened, he’d cut your throat.”
Nahri recoiled. But not just at the threat. At her own sudden memory of Ali’s rushed apology on the boat. He had said nothing, letting them rush into the trap he knew awaited.
Nisreen seemed to read her mind. “My lady, forget the Qahtanis. Worry about your people for once. Daevas are being killed—hung from the palace walls—simply for demanding justice, for a mere inquiry, into the death of one of our own. Daeva men are being dragged from their homes, interrogated and tortured. We’ve been stripped of royal protection, our quarter left undefended—half our shops in the Grand Bazaar have already been looted.” Her voice broke. “Just this morning, I heard word a Daeva girl was snatched from her palanquin and raped by a mob of shafit men while the Royal Guard stood by.”
The blood left Nahri’s face. “I . . . I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Nisreen sat on the bench opposite her. “Then listen to me. Nahri, the Qahtanis are not your friends. This is how it always happens with them. One of us steps out of line—one of us thinks about stepping out of line—and hundreds pay the price.”
The door to the hammam swung open. A Geziri soldier barged in.
Nisreen jumped to her feet, blocking Nahri from sight. “Have you no decency?”
He rested his hand on his zulfiqar. “Not for the Scourge’s whore.”
The Scourge’s whore? His words sent a rush of fear through Nahri. Her hands were shaking so badly that Nisreen had to help her dress, pulling a loose linen gown over Nahri’s head and tying her shalvar pants.
Nisreen draped her own black chador over Nahri’s wet hair. “Please,” she begged in Divasti. “You’re the only one left. Forget your grief. Forget our words here. Tell the king whatever he needs to hear to grant you mercy.”
The impatient soldier seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door. Nisreen followed. “Please, Banu Nahri! You must know he loved you; he wouldn’t want you to throw away—”
The soldier shut the door in Nisreen’s face.
He dragged Nahri along the garden path. It was an ugly day; gray clouds bruised the sky, and an icy wind brought a smattering of rain against her face. She pulled the chador tight around her and shivered, wishing she could disappear into it.
They crossed the rain-slick pavilion toward a small wooden gazebo nestled between a wild herb garden and an ancient, sprawling neem tree. The king was alone and looked as composed as ever, his black robes and brilliant turban not the slightest bit damp.
Despite Nisreen’s warning, Nahri didn’t bow. She squared her shoulders, looking him dead in the eye.
He dismissed the soldier. “Banu Nahida,” he greeted her. His expression was calm. He motioned to the opposite bench. “Why don’t you sit?”
She sat, ignoring the urge to slide to the side of the bench farthest from him. His eyes hadn’t left her face.
“You look better than when I saw you last,” he commented lightly.
Nahri flinched. She only vaguely recalled the king’s arrival on the boat. The way Suleiman’s seal had crashed down a second time while soldiers dragged her, thrashing and screaming, from Dara’s ashes.
She wanted to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible—to get away from him as quickly as possible. “I know nothing,” she said, rushing. “I don’t know who helped him, I don’t know what—”
“I believe you,” Ghassan interrupted. Nahri gave him a surprised look, and he continued. “I mean, I don’t particularly care, but for what it’s worth, I do believe you.”
Nahri fidgeted with the hem of her chador. “Then what do you want?”
“To know where you stand now.” Ghassan spread his hands. “Twenty-one men are dead and my streets aflame. All because that damnable Afshin decided—in what I imagine was a hotheaded moment of the deepest stupidity—to kidnap you and my son and flee Daevabad. I’ve heard strikingly different accounts of how this happened,” he continued. “And I’ve decided on one.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve decided on one?”