The landscape began to change, hills and scrubby, frail trees replacing the bare dirt. The wind picked up, blue clouds rolling in from the east to darken the sky.
When they finally stopped, Dara slid off the saddle and pulled away the filthy cloth that covered his face. “Praise be to the Creator.”
She took his hand as he helped her down. No matter how many times she dismounted, it always took a few minutes for her knees to remember how to work. “Are we there?”
“We’ve reached the Gozan River,” he replied, sounding relieved. “Daevabad’s threshold is just across the water, and none but our kind can pass through it. Not ifrit, not ghouls, not even peris.”
The land came to an abrupt end in a cliff that overlooked the river. In the gloomy light, the wide, muddy river was an unappealing brownish-gray, and the other side didn’t look promising. All Nahri could see was more flat dirt. “I think you may have overstated Daevabad’s charms.”
“Do you really think we’d leave a vast magical city open to the eyes of any curious human onlooker? It’s hidden.”
“How are we going to cross?” Even from up here, she could see whitecaps cresting on the rushing water.
Dara peered over the edge of the limestone cliff. “I could try to enchant one of the blankets,” he suggested, not sounding optimistic. “But let’s wait until tomorrow.” He nodded at the sky. “It looks like it’s about to storm, and I don’t want to risk crossing in bad weather. I remember these cliffs being pocked with caves. We’ll shelter in one for the night.” He started to lead the horse down a twisting, narrow path.
Nahri followed. “Any chance I could make a trip to the riverbank?”
“Why?”
“I smell like something died in my clothes, and I have enough dirt caked on my skin to make a double of myself.”
He nodded. “Just be careful. The way down is steep.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Nahri trekked down the sharp hill, zigzagging past rocky boulders and stunted trees. Dara hadn’t lied. She tripped twice and cut her palms on the sharp rocks, but the chance to bathe was worth it. She stayed close to the riverbank as she quickly scrubbed her skin, ready to jump back if the current grew too strong.
The sky grew darker by the minute; an unhealthy tinge of green lined the clouds. Nahri climbed out of the water, wrung out her hair, and shivered. The air was humid and smelled of lightning. Dara was right about the storm.
She was shoving her wet feet into her boots when she felt it. The touch of the wind, so firm it was like a hand upon her shoulder. She immediately straightened up and spun around, ready to hurl her boot at whatever it was.
There was no one. Nahri scanned the rocky shore, but it was empty and still save for the dead leaves blowing in the breeze. She sniffed and caught the oddly strong scent of peppercorns and mace. Maybe Dara was attempting to conjure up a new dish.
She followed the small trail of smoke drifting in the sky behind her until she found Dara sitting at the mouth of a dark cave. A pot of stew bubbled over the flames.
He glanced up and smiled. “Finally. I was starting to fear you drowned.”
The wind whipped through her wet hair, and she trembled. “Never,” she declared, cozying up to the fire. “I swim like a fish.”
He shook his head. “All your swimming reminds me of the Ayaanle. I ought to check your neck for crocodile scales.”
“Crocodile scales?” She snatched up his goblet in hopes the wine would warm her. “Truly?”
“Ay, it’s just something we say about them.” He pushed the pot in her direction. “Crocodiles are one of the preferred forms of the marid. Supposedly the ancient Ayaanle used to worship them. Their descendants don’t like talking about it, but I’ve heard bizarre stories about their old rituals.” He took the goblet back from her; the goblet refilled with wine the instant his fingers touched the stem.
Nahri shook her head. “What is it tonight?” she asked, looking at the stew with a knowing smile. The question had turned into a game: try as he might, Dara had never been able to conjure up anything other than his mother’s lentil dish.
He grinned. “Pigeons stuffed with fried onions and saffron.”
“How forbidden.” She helped herself to the food. “The Ayaanle live near Egypt, yes?”
“Far to the south; your land is too fat with humans for the tastes of our people.”
The rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Dara made a face as he wiped water from his brow. “Tonight is not a night for stories,” he declared. “Come.” He picked up the pot, indifferent to the hot metal. “We should get out of the rain and get some sleep.” He fixed his gaze on the hidden city beyond the river, and his expression turned unreadable. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
Nahri slept fitfully, her dreams bizarre and full of thunder. It was still dark when she woke, their fire reduced to glowing embers. Rain battered the mouth of the cave, and she could hear the wind howling past the cliffs.
Dara was stretched out beside her on one of the blankets, but they’d grown familiar enough that she could tell from the cadence of his breathing that he was also awake. She rolled over to face him, realizing that he’d spread his robe over her as she slept. He lay flat on his back, his hands crossed over his stomach like a corpse.
“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.
He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the rocky ceiling. “Something like that.”
A flash of lightning lit up the cave, followed shortly by a rumble of thunder. She studied his profile in the dim light. Her gaze trailed his long-lashed eyes down his neck and across his bare arms. Her stomach fluttered; she was suddenly aware of how little space separated them.
Not that it mattered—Dara’s mind was clearly worlds away. “I wish it were not raining,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically wistful. “I would have liked to look upon the stars in case . . .”
“In case?” she prompted when he trailed off.
He glanced at her, looking almost embarrassed. “In case it’s my last night as a free man.”
Nahri flinched. Too busy searching the sky for more rukh and trying to survive the last leg of their grueling journey, Nahri had barely given further thought to their reception in Daevabad. “Do you really think you’re going to be arrested?”
“It’s likely.”
There was a hint of fear in his voice, but having learned how prone to exaggeration Dara could be—especially when it came to the djinn—Nahri tried to reassure him. “You’re probably just ancient history to them, Dara. Not everyone is capable of holding a grudge for fourteen centuries.” He scowled and looked away, and she laughed. “Oh, come now, I’m just teasing you.” She pushed up on one elbow, and without thinking much of it, reached for his cheek to turn him back to face her.
Dara startled at her touch, his eyes bright with surprise. No, not at her touch, Nahri realized with some embarrassment, rather at the position she’d inadvertently put them in, her body half-draped over his chest.
She flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”