“No.” Nahri had been avoiding the darker rumors of Dara’s past. “I’d like to hear it from you.”
He nodded. “All right,” he said, soft resignation in his voice. “Kaveh is trying to arrange a reception for you at the Grand Temple. Ghassan is being resistant . . .” His tone made it clear he didn’t think much of the king’s opinion. “But it would be a good place to talk without interruption. The rebellion . . . what happened before the war, it . . . it’s a long story.” Dara swallowed, visibly nervous. “You’ll have questions, and I want to have time to explain, to make you understand why I did the things I did.”
The birdman let out another screech, and Dara made a face. “But not today. You should check on him before he flies away. And I need to go. Nisreen is right about us being alone together. The sand fly knows you are here with me, and I would not wish to harm your reputation.”
“Don’t worry about my reputation,” she said lightly. “I do enough damage on my own.”
A wry smile played at the corner of his lips, but he said nothing, simply staring at her as if he was drinking her in. In the infirmary’s soft light, Nahri found it difficult not to do the same, to not memorize the way the sunlight played in his wavy black hair, the jewel-like gleam in his emerald eyes.
“You look beautiful in our clothes,” he said softly, running a finger lightly along the embroidered hem of her sleeve. “It’s hard to believe you’re the same ragged girl I pulled from a ghoul’s jaws, the one who left a trail of stolen belongings from Cairo to Constantinople.” He shook his head. “And to learn you’re actually the daughter of one of our greatest healers.” A note of reverence crept into his voice. “I should be burning cedar oil in your honor.”
“I’m sure enough has already been wasted over me.”
He smiled, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes. He dropped his hand from hers, something like regret seeming to pass across his face. “Nahri, there is something we should . . .” He suddenly frowned, his head snapping up as if he’d heard a suspicious noise. He glanced at the door, appearing to listen for another second. Anger swept the confusion off his face. He abruptly rose to his feet, marching to the door and all but ripping it off its hinges.
Alizayd al Qahtani stood on the other side.
The prince didn’t look even the slightest bit ashamed to have been caught. Indeed, as Nahri watched, he tapped his foot against the floor and crossed his arms, his steely eyes focused on Dara alone. “I thought you might need help finding your way out.”
Smoke curled around Dara’s collar. He cracked his knuckles, and Nahri tensed. But he went no further. Instead—still glaring at Ali—Dara directed his words to her, continuing to speak in the Divasti that Nahri was immediately relieved the prince couldn’t understand. “I can’t talk to you with this half-tribe brat lurking around.” He all but spat the words in Ali’s face. “Stay safe.” He poked Ali hard in the chest to move him out of the doorway and left.
Nahri’s heart sank at the sight of his retreating back. She threw Ali an annoyed look. “Are we spying on each other so openly now?”
For a moment, she expected the mask of friendship to drop. To see Ghassan reflected in Ali’s face, to get a hint of whatever was really driving him to meet with her every day.
Instead she saw what looked like a war of loyalties play across his face before he dropped his gaze. He opened his mouth, then paused as if considering his words. “Please be careful,” he said softly. “He . . . Nahri, you don’t . . .” He abruptly shut his mouth, and stepped back. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Have a good night.”
21
Ali
Ali crept along the dusty shelf, crawling on his belly as he made his way toward the scroll. He stretched out his arm, straining to reach it, but his fingers didn’t even graze the papyrus.
“I would be remiss if I didn’t point out—again—that you have people who could do this for you.” Nahri’s voice drifted from outside the cryptlike shelves Ali was currently lodged between. “At least three library assistants offered to retrieve that scroll.”
Ali grunted. He and Nahri were in the deepest part of the Royal Library’s ancient archives, in a cavelike room hacked out of the city’s bedrock. Only the oldest and most obscure texts were stored here, packed away in narrow stone shelves that Ali was swiftly learning were not intended for people to crawl through. The scroll they were after had rolled to the very back of its shelf, the bone-colored papyrus glowing in the light of their torch.
“I don’t like having people do things of which I’m perfectly capable,” Ali replied as he tried to inch a bit farther back. The rocky ceiling scraped his head and shoulders.
“They said there were scorpions down here, Ali. Big ones.”
“There are far worse things than scorpions in this palace,” he muttered. Ali would know—he suspected one of them was watching him right now. The scroll he was after was cuddled close to another twice its size, made from what looked like the hide of some sort of massive lizard. It had been shivering violently since he entered the shelf.
He’d yet to mention it to Nahri, but as Ali saw a flash of something that might have been teeth, his heart started to race. “Nahri, would . . . would you mind raising the torch a bit?”
The shelf immediately brightened, the dancing flames shadowing his profile. “What’s wrong?” she asked, clearly picking up on the anxiety in his voice.
“Nothing,” Ali lied as the lizard-hide scroll wiggled and flashed its scales. Heedless of scraping his head, Ali shoved himself deeper and snatched for the papyrus.
His fingers had just closed around it when the lizard-hide scroll gave a great bellow. Ali scrambled back, though not in time to avoid the sudden gust of wind that shot him out of the shelf like a cannonball, with enough force to throw him across the room. He landed hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.
Nahri’s worried face hovered over his. “Are you all right?”
Ali touched the back of his head and winced. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I meant to do that.”
“Sure you did.” She glanced nervously at the shelf. “Should we . . .”
From the direction of the shelf, there came the sound of a distinctly papery snore. “We’re fine.” He raised the papyrus scroll. “I don’t think this one’s companion wanted to be disturbed.”
Nahri shook her head. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Ali realized she was trying to stifle a laugh.
“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry.” Her black eyes were bright with amusement. “It’s just . . .” She made a sweeping motion over Ali’s body.
He glanced down and then flushed. A thick layer of ancient dust covered his dishdasha and coated his hands and face. He coughed, sending up a bloom of fine powder.
Nahri held her hand out for the scroll. “Why don’t I take that?”
Embarrassed, Ali handed it over and climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes.