“Just make it to the river,” she whispered to herself. She picked up her bag and started climbing the stairs that led out of the theater.
The bag was pathetically light, a physical reminder of how dire her circumstances were. I’m going to be nothing. People will laugh when I say I can heal. Yaqub’s willingness to partner with her was rare, and that was after she’d already established a reputation as a healer, a reputation that had taken years of careful cultivation.
But she wouldn’t have to worry if she had that ring. She could sell it, rent a place so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the street. Buy medicines to use in her work, materials with which to make amulets. She slowed, not even halfway up the steps. I’m a good thief. I’ve stolen far more challenging things. And Dara slept like the dead; he hadn’t even awakened when Khayzur nearly landed on him.
“I’m a fool,” she whispered, but she was already turning around, running lightly down the steps and past the blazing carpet. She crept back into the temple, winding her way around the collapsed columns and smashed statues.
Dara was still fast asleep. Nahri carefully put down her bag and freed the waterskin. She sprinkled a few drops on his finger, her heart racing as she watched for any reaction. Nothing. Moving cautiously, she gently pinched the ring between her thumb and index finger. She pulled.
The ring pulsed and grew hot. A sudden pain blossomed in her head. She panicked and tried to let go, but her fingers wouldn’t budge. It was as if someone had seized control of her mind. The temple vanished, and her vision blurred, replaced by a series of smoky shapes that quickly solidified into something entirely new. A parched plain under a blinding white sun . . .
I study the dead land with a practiced eye. This place had once been grassy and green, rich with irrigated fields and orchards, but my master’s army trampled all signs of fertility, leaving nothing but mud and dust. The orchards are stripped and burned, the river poisoned a week ago, in hopes that it would drive the city to surrender.
Unseen by the humans around me, I rise in the air like smoke to better survey our forces. My master has a formidable army: thousands of men in chain and leather, dozens of elephants, and hundreds of horses. His archers are the best in the human world, honed by my careful instruction. But the walled city remains insurmountable.
I stare at the ancient blocks, wondering at how thick they are, how many other armies they have repulsed. No battering ram will bring them down. I sniff carefully; the stench of famine scents the wind.
I turn to my master. He is one of the largest humans I’ve ever encountered; the top of my head barely comes to his shoulders. Unable to deal with the heat of the plains, he is constantly pink and wet and utterly disagreeable. Even his ruddy beard is damp with sweat, and his ornately filigreed tunic stinks. I wrinkle my nose; such a garment is frivolous in a time of war.
I settle to the ground next to his horse and look up at him. “Another two to three days,” I say, tripping over the sounds. Although I’ve belonged to him for a year, his language is still strange to me, full of harsh consonants and snarls. “They cannot hold out much longer.”
He scowls and caresses the hilt of his sword. “That is too long. You said they’d be ready to surrender last week.”
I pause, the impatience in his voice causing a small knot of dread to grow in my stomach. I do not want to sack this city. Not because I care about the thousands who will die—centuries of slavery have cultivated a deep hatred for humans in my soul—but because I do not wish to see the sack of any city. I do not want to see the violence, to imagine how my beloved Daevabad suffered a similar fate at the hands of the Qahtanis.
“It is taking longer because they are courageous, my lord. Such a thing should be admired.” My master doesn’t seem to hear me, so I continue, “You’ll earn a more lasting peace by negotiating.”
My master takes a deep breath. “Was I not clear?” he snaps, leaning down in his saddle to glare at me. His face is scarred from the pox. “I didn’t buy you for advice, slave. I wish for you to give me victory. I wish for this city. I wish to see my cousin on his knees before me.”
Admonished, I lower my head. His wishes settle heavily on my shoulders, wrapping around my limbs. Energy surges through my fingers.
There is no fighting it; I learned this long ago. “Yes, master.” I raise my hands and focus my attention on the wall.
The ground begins to tremble. His horse shies away, and a few men cry out in alarm. In the distance, the wall groans, the ancient stones protesting my magic. Tiny figures race along the top, fleeing their posts.
I close my hands into fists, and the wall collapses as though made of sand. A roar runs through my master’s army. Humans, their very blood dances at the prospect of brutalizing their own kind . . .
No! Nahri gasped, a tiny voice crying out in her mind. This isn’t me! This isn’t real! But the voice was drowned out by the screams of the next vision.
We are inside the city. I fly alongside my master’s horse through bloody streets thick with corpses. His soldiers torch the shops and narrow homes, cutting through any inhabitants foolish enough to cross them. A burning man crashes to the ground beside me, thrown from a balcony, and a young girl shrieks as two soldiers pull her from an overturned cart.
Bonded by the wish, I can’t leave my master’s side. I wade through gore with a sword in each hand, killing any who approach. As we grow closer to the castle, the attackers are too numerous for my blades. I toss the weapons away, and the slave curse sweeps through me as I burn an entire group with a single glance. Their screams rise through the air, horrendous, animal-like groans.
Before I know it, we are in the castle and then in a bedchamber. The room is opulent and smells strongly of cedarwood, the scent bringing tears to my eyes. It was what my Daeva tribe burned to honor the Creator and His blessed Nahids . . . but I cannot honor anyone in my defiled condition. Instead, I tear through the guards. Their blood spatters the silk wall coverings.
A balding man cowers in one corner; I can smell his released bowels. A fierce-eyed woman throws herself in front of him, a knife in her hand. I break her neck as I toss her aside and then grab the sobbing man, forcing him to his knees before my master.
“Your cousin, my lord.”
My master smiles, and the weight of the wish lifts from my shoulders. Exhausted by magic and nauseated by the smell of so much human blood, I fall to my own knees. My ring blazes, illuminating the black slave record branded into my skin. I fix my gaze on my master, surrounded by the carnage he ordered, watching as he mocks his cousin’s hysterics. Hate surges in my heart.