It took effort to get the clothes to fit; the tunic hung comically large around her waist and ended past her knees. She rolled the sleeves up as best she could and then turned her attention to the pants. After ripping a strip from her abaya to use as a belt and rolling up the hems, they stayed on reasonably well, but she could only imagine how ridiculous she looked.
With a sharp rock, she cut a longer section of her abaya for a headscarf. Her hair had dried in a wild mess of black curls that she attempted to braid before tying the makeshift scarf around her head. She drank her fill from the waterskin—it seemed to refill on its own—but the water did little to help the hunger gnawing at her stomach.
The palm trees were thick with swollen gold dates, and overripe ones, covered in ants, littered the ground. She tried everything she could think of to get at the ones in the trees: shaking the trunks, throwing rocks, even a particularly ill-fated attempt at climbing, but nothing worked.
Did daevas eat? If so, he must have some food, probably hidden in that robe of his. Nahri made her way back to the small grove. The sun had risen, hot and searing, and she hissed as she crossed a patch of scorched sand. God only knew what had happened to her sandals.
The daeva was still asleep; his gray cap was tipped over his eyes, his chest slowly rising and falling in the fading light. Nahri crept closer, studying him in a way she’d been too wary to do before. His robe rippled in the breeze, undulating like smoke, and hazy heat drifted from his body as though he was a hot stone oven. Fascinated, she moved even closer. She wondered if daeva bodies were like those of humans: full of blood and humors, a beating heart and swelling lungs. Or perhaps they were smoke through and through, their appearance only an illusion.
Closing her eyes, she stretched her fingers toward him and tried to concentrate. It would have been better to touch him, but she didn’t dare. He struck her as the type to wake in a foul mood.
After a few minutes, she stopped, growing disturbed. There was nothing. No beating heart, no surging blood and bile. She could sense no organs, nothing of the sparks and gurgles of the hundreds of natural processes that kept her and every other person she’d ever met alive. Even his breathing was wrong, the movement of his chest false. It was as though someone had created an image of a person, a man out of clay, but forgotten to give it a final spark of life. He was . . . unfinished.
Not an ill-formed piece of clay, though . . . Nahri’s gaze lingered on his body, and then she stilled, catching sight of a green flash on the daeva’s left hand.
“God be praised,” she whispered. An enormous emerald ring—large enough for a sultan—rested on the daeva’s middle finger. The base looked to be badly battered iron, but she could tell from a single glance that the jewel was priceless. Dusty but perfectly cut, with not a single blemish. Something like that had to be worth a fortune.
As Nahri contemplated the ring, a shadow passed overhead. Idly, she glanced up. Then, with a yelp, she dove into the thick brush to hide.
Nahri peeked through a screen of leaves as the creature flew across the oasis, enormous against the spindly trees, and then landed next to the sleeping daeva. It was something only a deviant mind could dream up, an unholy cross between an old man, a green parrot, and a mosquito. All bird from the chest down, it bobbed like a chicken as it moved forward on a pair of thick, feathered legs ending in sharp talons. The rest of its skin—if it could be called skin—was covered in silvery gray scales that flashed as it moved, reflecting the light of the setting sun.
It paused to stretch a pair of feathered arms. Its wings were extraordinary, the brilliant, lime-colored feathers nearly as long as she was tall. Nahri started to rise, wondering whether to warn the daeva. The creature was focused on him and seemingly oblivious to her, a situation she preferred. Yet if it killed him, there’d be no one to get her out of the desert.
The birdman let out a chirp that made every hair on her body rise, and the sound roused the daeva, solving her problem. He blinked his emerald eyes slowly, shading his face to see who stood before him. “Khayzur . . .” He exhaled. “By the Creator, am I glad to see you.”
The creature extended a delicate hand and pulled the daeva into a brotherly embrace. Nahri’s eyes widened. Was this the person the daeva had been waiting for?
They settled themselves back on the rug. “I came as soon as I got your signal,” the creature squawked. Whatever language they were speaking it wasn’t Divasti; it was full of staccato bursts and low whoops like birdsong. “What’s wrong, Dara?”
The daeva’s expression soured. “It’s better seen than explained.” He glanced about the oasis, and his eyes locked on Nahri’s hiding spot. “Come on out, girl.”
Nahri bristled, annoyed to be found so easily and then ordered about like a dog. But she emerged anyway, shoving the leaves aside and coming forward to join them.
She stifled a gasp when the birdman turned to her—the gray tone of his skin reminded her far too much of the ghouls. It was at odds with his small, almost pretty pink mouth and the neat green brows that met in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were colorless, and he had just the barest wisps of a gray beard.
He gaped, looking equally surprised at the sight of her. “You . . . you’ve a companion,” he said to the daeva. “Not that I’m displeased, but I must say, Dara . . . I did not take humans as your type.”
“She’s not my companion.” The daeva scowled. “And she’s not entirely human. She’s shafit. She . . .” He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly strained. “She would appear to have some Nahid blood.”
The creature whirled around. “Why do you think that?”
The daeva’s mouth twisted in distaste. “She healed before my eyes. Twice. And she has their gift with languages.”
“The Maker be praised.” Khayzur lurched closer, and Nahri skittered back. His colorless eyes swept her face. “I thought the Nahids were wiped out years ago.”
“As did I,” the daeva said. He sounded unnerved. “And to heal the way she did . . . she can’t merely be a distant descendant. But she looks entirely human—I plucked her from some human city even farther west than we are now.” The daeva shook his head. “Something’s wrong, Khayzur. She claims she knew nothing of our world until last night, but she somehow dragged me halfway across the—”
“She can speak for herself,” Nahri said acidly. “And I didn’t mean to drag you anywhere! I’d have been happier never to have met you.”
He snorted. “You’d have been murdered by that ifrit if I hadn’t shown up.”
Khayzur abruptly raised his hands to silence them. “The ifrit know about her?” he asked sharply.
“More than I do,” the daeva admitted. “One showed up just before I did and wasn’t at all surprised to see her. That’s why I called you.” He waved his hand. “You peris always know more than the rest of us.”