have kept me in the dark about its existence?”
Kartir stared at his hands. “It’s not because of its existence, Banu Nahida. It’s because of what happened to it during the war.”
When he fell silent again, an idea struck Nahri. “If you can’t give me a better explanation that that, you’ll force me to find a way back. One of the freed djinn was a historian, and I’m sure he knows.”
“Absolutely not,” Nisreen cut in quickly, but then she sighed, sounding resigned. “The hospital was the first place to fall when Zaydi al Qahtani took Daevabad. The Nahids inside didn’t even have a chance to flee back to the palace. The shafit revolted the moment Zaydi’s army breached the city walls. They stormed the hospital and murdered every Nahid inside. Every single one, Banu Nahri. From elderly pharmacists to apprentices barely out of childhood.”
Kartir spoke up, his voice grave as the blood left Nahri’s face. “It was said to have been quite brutal. The Geziris had their zulfiqars, of course, but the shafit fought with Rumi fire.”
“Rumi fire?” Nahri asked. The term sounded slightly familiar.
“It’s a human invention,” Nisreen explained. “A substance that sticks like tar and burns even Daeva skin. ‘Fire for the fire worshippers,’ the shafit were said to have shouted.” She dropped her gaze, looking sick. “Some still use it. It’s how the djinn thieves who murdered my parents set our family’s temple ablaze.”
Guilt swept through Nahri, hard and fast. “Oh, Nisreen, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” Nisreen replied. “In truth, I suspect what happened at the Nahid hospital was far worse. I didn’t read the accounts Banu Manizheh did, but she barely spoke for weeks after finding them.”
“There were some indications that it was an act of revenge,” Kartir added carefully. “The violence … it seemed purposeful.”
Nisreen scoffed. “The djinn do not need a reason to be violent. It is their nature.”
The priest shook his head. “Let’s not pretend our tribe doesn’t have blood on its hands, Lady Nisreen. That is not the lesson I would impart to a young Nahid.” A shadow passed across his face. “Banu Manizheh used to speak like that. It was not good for her soul.”
Nisreen’s eyes narrowed. “She had reason to speak as she did, and you know it.”
There was a knock on the door. Nisreen instantly fell silent. They might be in the Temple, but one still needed to be wary of speaking ill of the Qahtanis in Daevabad.
But the man who poked his head in was anything but a spy. “Banu Nahida?” Jamshid tented his fingers together in respect. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the palace sent a litter for you.”
Nahri scowled. “Because Creator forbid I spend one unauthorized moment in my own temple.” She stood up, glancing at Nisreen. “Are you coming?”
Nisreen shook her head. “I have some matters to finish here.” She gave Nahri a stern look. “Please resist the urge to take another side trip, I beg you.”
Nahri rolled her eyes. “I bet my own mother would have been less controlling than you.”
Nisreen touched her wrist as she passed, an act technically forbidden in the Temple. Her eyes were soft. “But she’s not here, child, so it’s up to us to protect you.”
The genuine worry in her face cut through some of Nahri’s annoyance. For their many arguments, Nisreen was the closest thing Nahri had to family in Daevabad, and she knew her mentor cared dearly for her. “Fine,” she grumbled, bringing her hands together in blessing. “May the fires burn brightly for you both.”
“And for you, Banu Nahida,” they replied.
“SIDE TRIP?” JAMSHID ASKED ONCE THE DOOR WAS closed. “You have the look of someone freshly scolded.”
“A new, rather grisly lesson in Daevabad’s history.” Nahri made a face. “Just once, I’d like to learn of an event that was nothing but our ancestors conjuring rainbows and dancing in the street together.”
“It’s a bit more difficult to hold a grudge over the good days.”
Nahri wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s true.” She set aside thoughts of the hospital, turning to face him. In the dim light of the corridor, the shadows under Jamshid’s eyes were well-pronounced and the planes of his cheekbones and nose stood out sharply. Five years after Dara’s attack had nearly killed him, Jamshid was still recovering—at a gruelingly slow pace no one could understand. He was a shadow of the healthy archer Nahri had first seen deftly shooting arrows from upon the back of a charging elephant. “How are you feeling?”
“As though you ask me that question every day, and the answer is always the same?”
“I’m your Banu Nahida,” she said as they emerged into the Temple’s main prayer hall. It was a vast space, designed to fit thousands of worshippers with rows of decorated columns holding up the distant ceiling and shrines dedicated to the most lionized figures in their tribe’s long history lining the walls. “It’s my duty.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her, pausing to look at the bustling temple. “It’s crowded here today.”
Nahri followed his gaze. The temple was indeed packed, and it seemed like many were travelers: ascetics in worn robes and wide-eyed pilgrim families jostling for space with the usual Daevabadi sophisticates.
“Your father wasn’t joking when he said people would start arriving months before Navasatem.”
Jamshid nodded. “It’s our most important holiday. Another century of freedom from Suleiman’s imprisonment … a month of celebrating life and honoring our ancestors.”
“It’s an excuse to shop and drink.”
“It’s an excuse to shop and drink,” Jamshid agreed. “But it’s supposed to be an extraordinary spectacle. Competitions and parties of every kind, merchants bringing all the newest and most exciting wares from across the world. Parades, fireworks …”
Nahri groaned. “The infirmary is going to be so busy.” The djinn took merrymaking seriously and the risks of overindulgence far less. “Do you think your father will be back by then?” Kaveh had left recently to visit the Pramukhs’ ancestral estate in Zariaspa, ranting about a union dispute among his herb growers and a particularly pernicious plague of ravenous frogs that had besieged their silver-mint plants.
“Most certainly,” Jamshid replied. “He’ll be back to help the king with the final preparations.”
They kept walking, passing the enormous fire altar. It was beautiful, and Nahri always paused for a moment to admire it, even when she wasn’t conducting ceremonies. Central to the Daeva faith, the striking altars had persisted through the centuries and consisted of a basin of purified water with a brazierlike structure rising in its middle. Inside burned a fire of cedarwood, extinguished only upon a devotee’s death. The brazier was carefully swept of ash at dawn each day, marking the sun’s return, and the glass oil lamps that bobbed in the basin were relit to keep the water at a constant simmer.
A long line of worshippers
