Every head in the massive audience hall turned to stare at her. In the metal-toned eyes of the djinn—dark steel and copper, gold and tin—she saw a mix of confusion and amusement, as if she were the target of a joke yet to be revealed to her. A few tittering laughs rose from among the crowd. The king took a step away from his throne, and the noise abruptly stopped.
“You’re alive,” he whispered. The chamber was now so still she could hear him take a deep breath. The few remaining courtiers between her and the throne quickly backed away.
The man she assumed was a prince gave the king a bewildered look and then glanced back at Nahri, squinting to study her like she was some strange sort of insect. “That girl’s not Manizheh, Abba. She looks so human she shouldn’t have even passed the veil.”
“Human?” The king stepped to the lower platform, and as he drew closer, a beam of sunlight from the screened windows caught his face. Like Dara, he was marked on one temple with a black tattoo; in his case, an eight-pointed star. The tattoo’s edge had a smoky glow that seemed to wink at her.
Something in his face crumpled. “No . . . she is not Manizheh.” He stared at her another moment and frowned. “But why would you think she’s human? Her appearance is that of a Daeva pureblood.”
It is? Nahri clearly wasn’t the only one confused by the king’s conviction. The whispers started back up, and the young soldier with the crimson turban crossed the platform to join the king.
He laid a hand on the king’s shoulder, visibly concerned. “Abba . . .” The rest of his words followed in a hiss of incomprehensible Geziriyya, taking Nahri aback.
Abba? Could the soldier be another son?
“I see her ears!” The king shot back in annoyed Djinnistani. “How can you possibly think she’s shafit?”
Nahri hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. Were you allowed to just start talking to the king? Maybe she had to bow or . . .
The king suddenly made an impatient noise. He raised his hand, and the sigil on his temple flared to life.
It was as if someone had sucked the air from the room. The torches on the wall went out, the fountains ceased their gentle gurgle, and the black flags hanging behind the king stopped fluttering. A wave of weakness and nausea passed over Nahri, and pain flared in the various parts of her body she’d battered in the past day.
Beside her, Dara let out a strangled cry. He fell to his knees, ash beading off his skin.
Nahri dropped to his side. “Dara!” She laid a hand on his shivering arm, but he didn’t respond. His skin was nearly as cold and pale as it had been after the rukh attack. She turned on the king. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”
The men on the platform looked as shocked as the king had when she first arrived. The prince gasped, and the older Daeva man stepped forward, one hand going to his mouth.
“The Creator be praised,” he said in Divasti. He stared at Nahri with wide black eyes, a mixture of something like fear, hope, and ecstasy crossing his face all at once. “You . . . you’re—”
“Not a shafit,” the king interrupted. “As I told you.” He dropped his hand, and the torches flared back to life. Beside her, Dara shuddered.
The Qahtani king hadn’t taken his eyes off her once. “An enchantment,” he finally concluded. “An enchantment to make you appear human. I have never heard of such a thing.” His eyes were bright with wonder. “Who are you?”
Nahri helped Dara back to his feet. The Afshin was still pale and seemed to have trouble catching his breath. “My name is Nahri,” she said, struggling under his weight. “That Manizheh you mentioned, I . . . I think I’m her daughter.”
The king abruptly drew himself up. “Excuse me?”
“She’s a Nahid.” Dara hadn’t recovered entirely, and his voice came out in a low growl that sent a few courtiers skittering farther away.
“A Nahid?” the seated prince repeated over the growing sounds of the shocked crowd. His voice was thick with disbelief. “Are you insane?”
The king raised his hand to dismiss the room. “Out, all of you.”
He did not have to issue the order twice—Nahri didn’t realize so many men could move that fast. She watched in silent fear as the courtiers were replaced by more soldiers. A line of guards—armed with those same strange copper swords—formed behind Dara and Nahri, blocking their escape.
The king’s steely gaze finally left her face to fall upon Dara. “If she’s the daughter of Banu Manizheh, who exactly would that make you?”
Dara tapped the mark on his face. “Her Afshin.”
The king lifted his dark brows. “This should be an interesting story.”
“None of this makes any sense,” the prince declared when Dara and Nahri finally fell silent. “Ifrit conspiracies, rukh assassins, the Gozan rising from its banks to howl at the moon? A captivating tale, to be sure . . . perhaps it will earn you entrance to the actors’ guild.”
The king shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. The best tales always have at least a kernel of truth.”
Dara bristled. “Should you not have your own witnesses to the events at the Gozan? Surely you have scouts there. Otherwise an army could be assembling at your threshold with you none the wiser.”
“I’ll consider that professional advice,” the king replied, his tone light. He’d remained impassive as they spoke. “It is a remarkable story, however. There’s no denying the girl is under some sort of curse—that she should be plainly pureblooded to me while appearing shafit to the rest of you.” He studied her again. “And she does resemble Banu Manizheh,” he admitted, a hint of emotion stealing into his voice. “Strikingly so.”
“And what of it?” the prince countered. “Abba, you can’t really believe Manizheh had a secret daughter? Manizheh? The woman used to give plague sores to men who looked too long upon her face!”
Nahri would not have minded such an ability right now. She’d spent the last day being attacked by various creatures and had little patience for the Qahtani’s doubt. “Do you want proof that I’m a Nahid?” she demanded. She pointed at the curved dagger sheathed at the prince’s waist. “Toss that over, and I’ll heal before your eyes.”
Dara stepped in front of her, and the air smoked. “That would be extremely unwise.”
The young soldier, or prince, or whoever he was—the one with the scruffy beard and hostile expression—immediately edged closer to the prince. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his copper sword.