“Yes, you do,” Ghassan said flatly. “And truthfully had that put an end to the rebellion, prevented the far greater number of deaths and atrocities in the war to come . . . I’d have put a whip in his hand too. But it didn’t. Your ancestors were ill-tempered fools. Forget the slain innocents, they destroyed half of Tukharistan’s economy. A commercial grievance wrapped in moral outrage?” The king tutted. “By year’s end, every remaining Tukharistani clan had sworn loyalty to Zaydi al Qahtani.” He touched his turban again. “Fourteen hundred years later, their finest spinners send me a new one every year to mark the anniversary.”
He’s lying, she tried to tell herself. But she could not help but recall the perpetually haunted Afshin. How many times had she heard the dark references to his past, seen the regret in his eyes? Dara admitted to once believing that the shafit were little more than soulless deceptions, that blood-mixing would lead to another of Suleiman’s curses. He said he’d been banished from Daevabad when he was Ali’s age . . . punished for carrying out the orders of her Nahid ancestors.
He did it, she realized, and something shattered inside her, a piece of her heart that would never repair. She forced herself to look at Ghassan, struggling to stay expressionless. She would not show him how deep a wound he’d just struck.
She cleared her throat. “And the point of this tale?”
The king crossed his arms. “Your people have a history of making foolish decisions based on absolutes instead of reality. They’re still doing it today, rioting in the streets and rushing to their deaths for a demand no sensible person would expect me to grant.” Ghassan leaned forward, his face intent. “But in you, I see a pragmatist. A shrewd-eyed woman who would negotiate her own bride price. Who manipulated the son I sent to spy on her to the point where he sacrificed himself to protect her.” He spread his hands. “What happened was an accident. There is no need to derail the plans we had both set in place, no reason we cannot repair what was broken between us.” He eyed her. “So tell me your price.”
A price. She would have laughed. There it was. That’s all anything really came down to: a price. Looking out for herself and no one else. Love, tribal pride . . . they were worthless in her world. No, not just worthless, they were dangerous. They’d destroyed Dara.
But there was something else in what Ghassan had just said. The son who sacrificed himself . . . “Where’s Ali?” she demanded. “I want to know what the mar—”
“If the word ‘marid’ comes out of your mouth again, I will have every Daeva child in the city thrown into the lake before your eyes,” Ghassan warned, his voice cold. “And as for my son, he is gone. He will not be here to defend you again.”
Nahri drew back in horror, and he let out an irritated sigh. “I’m growing impatient, Banu Nahri. If my slandering one of the most murderous men in history bothers your conscience, let’s devise another tale.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s talk about you.” He tilted his face, studying her like she was a chessboard. “I can easily reveal you as shafit; there are a number of ways—none particularly pleasant—in which to do so. That alone would turn most of your tribesmen against you, but we might as well go further, give the masses something to gossip about.”
He tapped his chin. “Your disregard for your people’s fire cult is almost too easy, as are your failures in the infirmary. We’d need a scandal . . .” He paused, a calculating expression crossing his hawkish face. “Perhaps I spoke wrongly about what happened in the infirmary. Maybe it was Darayavahoush who found you in the arms of another man. A young man whose name makes Daeva blood boil . . .”
Nahri recoiled. “You would never.” It was obvious they were speaking plainly, so she didn’t pretend not to know of whom he spoke. “You think people are howling for Ali’s blood now? If they thought he—”
“Thought he what?” Ghassan gave her a condescending smile. “In what world do men and women pay the same price for passion? You’ll be the one blamed. Indeed, people will assume you particularly . . . talented to have seduced such a religious man.”
Nahri shot to her feet. Ghassan seized her wrist.
The seal flashed on his cheek, and her powers vanished. He tightened his grip, and she gasped, unaccustomed to how sharp the feeling of pain was without her healing abilities.
“I welcomed you,” he said coldly, all jest gone. “I invited you into my family, and now my city is aflame and I will never look upon my youngest again. I am in no mood to suffer a foolish little girl. You will work with me to fix this, or I will make sure every Daeva man, woman, and child holds you responsible for Darayavahoush’s death. I will paint you as a whore and a traitor to your tribe.” He released her wrist. “And then I will give you over to that mob at my walls.”
She clutched her wrist. She had no doubt Ghassan spoke truthfully. Dara was dead, and Ali gone. There was no Afshin to fight for her, no prince to speak for her. Nahri was alone.
She dropped her gaze, for the first time finding it difficult to meet his eyes. “What do you want?”
They dressed her in the ceremonial garments of her family: a sky blue gown heavy with gold embroidery, white silk veiling her face. She was glad for the veil—she hoped it hid the shame burning in her cheeks.
Nahri barely looked at the contract as she signed it, the paper that bound her to the emir as soon as she reached her first quarter century. In another life, she might have eagerly devoured the detailed inventory, the dowry that made her one of the wealthiest women in the city, but today she didn’t care. Muntadhir’s signature below hers was an indecipherable scrawl—the king had literally forced his hand just before her future husband spat at her feet and stormed off.
They went to the massive audience hall next, the place in which she’d first laid eyes on the Qahtanis. Nahri could sense the size of the crowd before she entered, the anxious breathing and quickened heartbeats of thousands of pureblood djinn. She stared at her feet as she followed the king onto the green marble platform, stopping at the level just below him. Then she swallowed and lifted her gaze to a sea of stony faces.
Daeva faces. Ghassan had ordered a representative of every noble family, every trading company and craft guild, every priest and scholar—anyone of elite standing in the Daeva tribe—to come hear Nahri’s testimony. Despite dozens of arrests and public executions, her tribesmen continued to protest at the palace walls, demanding justice for Dara’s murder.
She was here to end that.
Nahri unfurled the scroll she’d been given. Her hands shook as she read out the charges she’d been ordered to say. She did not deviate from the script once nor did she allow herself to dwell on the words condemning the man she loved in the most vulgar of terms, the words destroying the reputation of the Afshin who’d sacrificed everything for his people. Her voice stayed flat. Nahri suspected her audience was savvy enough to realize what was going on, but she didn’t care. If Ghassan wanted a performance, he should have thought to ask for one.
Even so, there were tears in her eyes when she finished, and her voice was thick with emotion. Filled with shame, she dropped the scroll and forced herself to look at the crowd.
Nothing. There was no horror, no disbelief among the black-eyed Daevas before her. Indeed, the vast majority looked just as impassive as they had when she first walked in.
No, not impassive.