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Bahram, another survivor from the Daeva Brigade, spoke next. “We could split up,” he suggested. “Half of us stay behind to delay the Guard while you take the lady and the rest to the palace.”
A chill went down Dara’s spine at how easily he suggested it. “It would be certain death for the warriors left behind.”
Bahram met his gaze, his eyes glittering. “We are all prepared to make that sacrifice.”
Dara glanced at his group. He didn’t doubt Bahram was right. The faces of his young soldiers were fierce with conviction. It should have filled Dara with pleasure. He’d poured himself into their training; he should be proud to stand at their side.
But by the Creator, he had fought at the side of so many young Daevas whose faces had sparked with equal conviction. He’d collected their bodies afterward, consigning them to the flames as martyrs in what was beginning to feel like a war with no end.
He sighed. This one would have an end, Dara would make sure of it—but he’d also take greater care with his men. “It would only be a delay. They’d slaughter you and be on the rest of us before we got far.”
“What about ghouls?” another man suggested. “The ifrit are our allies now, are they not? One of them was boasting about how he could summon an entire army of ghouls. The skinny one.”
Dara’s face twisted in disgust at the mention of the ifrit, whom he hated in particular, escalating ways. The remark about them being allies and the memory of their ghouls only fueled his revulsion. Not to mention that Vizaresh—the ifrit they were speaking of now—had once threatened Nahri. Threatened “to grind her soul into dust” for blood-poisoning his brother … a threat Dara wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon. “I do not wish to see those foul things in our city,” he said shortly.
Irtemiz grinned. “The ghouls or the ifrit?”
Dara snorted. His soldiers were all like family to him, but he had a particular fondness for Irtemiz, whose innate talent with a bow had come a long way under Dara’s careful hand and who’d managed to keep her good humor even during the hardest of training sessions.
“Both,” he replied. Then he gestured back at the map. “I want you to think about this and discuss solutions with each other while I’m away.” Dara didn’t quite share Manizheh’s confidence that some mysterious meeting with Aeshma and the marid would result in his being able to cross the magical threshold protecting Daevabad, but on the off chance it did, he wanted to be prepared.
“Should we keep practicing with Abu Sayf?”
Dara considered that. He’d managed to convince Abu Sayf to spar with his soldiers … well, no, perhaps convince wasn’t the right term. He’d threatened to scourge the younger, more irritating Geziri scout to death if the older man didn’t comply. They were going to face zulfiqars in their fight to retake Daevabad, and they’d been handed a rare opportunity to learn to fight against them with the two Geziri scouts as their prisoners. Dara had not liked making such a ghastly threat, but there was little he was unwilling to do if it would help prepare his young warriors.
But only under his eye; he didn’t trust the Geziris not to try something in his absence. “No. I do not want either of them unchained for even a moment.” He dismissed the group. “Now go. I will join you for dinner before I leave.”
He raised a hand to sweep the map away as they left, watching the buildings tumble together in a smoky wave. The miniature palace collapsed, the Citadel’s tower dissolving over the wall.
Dara stilled. He snapped his fingers, conjuring and then crushing the tower again, letting it topple. It was tall enough that the upper half could crash through the wall, ripping a hole into the heart of the Citadel itself—and creating an entrance into the city.
That is magic beyond me. Manizheh might think him invincible, but Dara was learning that the fantastic tales told about the powers of their mighty ancestors in the time before Suleiman were best taken with a little salt. He was willing to break himself to reclaim Daevabad, but he couldn’t afford to exhaust his magic at the very beginning of the invasion.
He tucked the idea away, crossing to the large carpet rolled in one corner. Dara hadn’t flown one in years, not since journeying to Daevabad with Nahri. He ran a hand down its woolen length.
I will find a way to get back to you. I promise.
But first Dara had a meeting with the devil himself.
HE AND MANIZHEH FLEW EAST, TRAVELING ACROSS A stunning landscape that spread before them like crumpled silk, emerald hills and dusty plains blending into each other, marked by deep blue lines of twisting rivers and streams. The sight brought Dara a rare peace. Khayzur, the peri who’d once nursed him back to health, had tried to teach Dara to appreciate such moments, to let the solace and beauty of the natural world sweep him away. It had been a difficult lesson to internalize. The first time he’d been brought back, Dara had awakened to the news that his world had died fourteen centuries earlier and that he was nothing but a blood-soaked memory to his people.
Not to everyone. It was impossible to sit on this rug as it cut through the sky and not think of the first days he’d spent with Nahri—days that had driven him to drink. He’d found her very existence a scandal, physical proof one of his blessed Nahids had broken their most sacred code and lain with a human. That she’d been a cunning thief who lied as easily as she breathed seemed proof of every negative stereotype Dara had heard about the shafit.
But then … she became so much more. He had felt shockingly free with her—free to be a normal man and not the celebrated Afshin or the despised Scourge, free to exchange flirtatious barbs with a quick-witted, beautiful woman, and delight in the unexpected stirring her magnetic, mocking grin caused in his shuttered heart. All because Nahri hadn’t known their history. She was the first person Dara had spoken to in centuries who knew nothing about his past—and so he’d been able to leave it behind.
He’d known theirs was foolish affection, had known it couldn’t last, and yet Dara had been desperate to keep the worst from her—a decision he still regretted. Had he been honest with Nahri and confessed it all … given her a chance to make her own choice … he could not help but wonder if she would have chosen to escape Daevabad at his side without him putting a blade to Alizayd al Qahtani’s throat.
Not that it mattered now. Nahri had seen exactly what Dara was on the boat that night.
“Are you all right?” Startled, Dara glanced up to find Manizheh watching him, a knowing expression on her face. “You look to be contemplating something weighty.”
Dara forced a smile. “You remind me of your ancestors,” he said, evading the question. “When I was a child, I used to think they could read minds.”
Manizheh laughed, a rare sound. “Nothing so fantastical. But when you spend two centuries attuned to every heartbeat, skin flush, and inhalation that surrounds you, you learn to read people.” She gave him a pointed look. “The question remains.”
Dara flinched. At first glance, there wasn’t much resemblance between Manizheh and her daughter. Manizheh was shorter and more compact, reminding him in no small way of his own mother, a woman who could cook up a meal for fifty, then break a spoon over her knee to stab a man. Manizheh’s eyes, though, the sharp black eyes that tugged down slightly at the outer edge—those were Nahri’s. And when they lit with challenge, they cut through Dara rather effectively.
“I am fine.” He swept his hand toward the distant ground. “Appreciating the scenery.”
“It is beautiful,” she agreed. “It reminds me of Zariaspa. Rustam and I used to spend summers with the Pramukhs when we were young.” Her voice turned wistful. “They were the happiest days of my life. We were always dashing about, climbing mountains, racing simurgh,