Magic? Nahri raised her hands. “I didn’t do any magic!”
Baseema moved in the blink of an eye. She shoved Nahri against the nearest tomb wall, pressing an elbow hard against her throat. “Who did you sing for?”
“I . . .” Nahri gasped, shocked by the strength in the girl’s thin arms. “A . . . warrior, I think. But it was nothing. Just an old zar song.”
Baseema stepped back as a hot breeze tore down the alley, smelling of fire. “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“Who’s dead?” Nahri had to shout over the wind. “Wait, Baseema!” she cried as the young girl fled down the opposite alley. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t have long to wonder. A crack snapped the air, louder than a cannon. All was silent, too silent, and then Nahri was thrown off her feet, blasted against one of the tombs.
She hit the stone hard as a bright flash of light blinded her. She crumpled to the ground, too dazed to protect her face from the rain of scorching sand.
The world went quiet, returning with the steady beat of her heart, the blood rushing to her head. Black dots blossomed across her eyes. She flexed her fingers and twitched her toes, relieved they were still attached. The thud of her heart was slowly replaced by ringing in her ears. She tentatively touched the throbbing bulge on the back of her skull, stifling a cry at the sharp pain.
She tried to twist free of the sand that half-buried her, still blinded by the flash. No, not from the flash, she realized. The white bright light was still in the alley, just condensing, growing smaller to reveal fire-scorched tombs as it collapsed in on itself. As it collapsed in on something.
Baseema was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, Nahri began to work her legs loose. She had just managed to uncover them when she heard the voice, clear as a bell and angry as a tiger, in the language she’d been listening for all her life.
“Suleiman’s eye!” it roared. “I will kill whoever called me here!”
There’s no magic, no djinn, no spirits waiting to eat us up. Nahri’s own decisive words to Yaqub came back to her, mocking her as she peeked over the headstone she’d dashed behind when she first heard his voice. The air still smelled of ash, but the light filling the alley dimmed, almost like it had been sucked in by the figure at its center. It looked like a man, swathed in a dark robe that swirled around his feet like smoke.
He stepped forward as the remaining light vanished into his body and immediately lost his balance, grabbing for a desiccated tree trunk. As he steadied himself, the bark burst into flames beneath his hand. Instead of pulling back, he leaned against the burning tree with a sigh, the flames licking harmlessly at his robe.
Too stunned to form a coherent thought, let alone flee, Nahri rolled back against the headstone as the man called out again.
“Khayzur . . . if this is your idea of a jest, I swear on my ancestors to pluck you apart feather by feather!”
His bizarre threat rang in her mind, the words meaningless, but the language so familiar it felt tangible.
Why is some lunatic fire creature speaking my language?
Unable to fight her curiosity, she turned back, peering past the headstone.
The creature dug through the sand, muttering to himself and swearing. As Nahri watched, he pulled free a curved scimitar and secured it to his waist. It was quickly joined by two daggers, an enormous mace, an ax, a long quiver of arrows, and a gleaming silver bow.
The bow in hand, he finally staggered up and glanced down the alley, obviously searching for whoever had—what had he said?—“called” him. Though he didn’t look much taller than her, the vast array of weapons—enough to fight a whole troop of French soldiers—was terrifying and slightly ridiculous. Like what a little boy might don when playing at being some ancient warrior.
A warrior. Oh, by the Most High . . .
He was looking for her. Nahri was the one who had called him.
“Where are you?” he bellowed, striding forward with his bow raised. He was getting dangerously close to Nahri’s headstone. “I will tear you into fours!” He spoke her language with a cultured accent, his poetic tone at odds with the terrifying threat.
Nahri had no desire to learn what being “torn into fours” meant. She slipped off her sandals. Once he was past her headstone, she quickly rose and silently fled down the opposite lane.
Unfortunately, she had forgotten about her basket. As she moved, the coins rang out in the silent night.
The man roared, “Stop!”
She sped up, her bare feet pounding the ground. She turned down one twisting lane and then another, hoping to confuse him.
Spotting a darkened doorway, she ducked inside. The cemetery was silent, free of the sounds of pursuing feet or angry threats. Could she have lost him?
She leaned against the cool stone, trying to catch her breath and wishing desperately for her dagger—not that her puny blade would offer much protection against the excessively armed man hunting her.
I can’t stay here. But Nahri could see nothing but tombs in front of her and had no idea how to get back to the streets. She gritted her teeth, trying to muster up some courage.
Please, God . . . or whoever is listening, she prayed. Just get me out of this, and I swear I’ll ask Yaqub for a bridegroom tomorrow. And I’ll never do another zar. She took a hesitant step.
An arrow whistled through the air.
Nahri shrieked as it sliced across her temple. She staggered forward and reached for her head, her fingers immediately sticky with blood.
The cold voice spoke. “Stop where you are or the next one goes through your throat.”
She froze, her hand still pressed against her wound. The blood was already clotting, but she didn’t want to give the creature an excuse to put another hole in her.
“Turn around.”
She swallowed back her fear and turned, keeping her hands still and her eyes on the ground. “Pl-please don’t kill me,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”
The man—or whatever he was—sucked in his breath, a noise like an extinguished coal. “You . . . you’re human,” he whispered. “How do you know Divasti? How can you even hear me?”
“I . . .” Nahri paused, startled to finally learn the name of the language she’d known since childhood. Divasti.
“Look at me.” He moved closer, the air between them growing warm with the smell of burnt citrus.
Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her ears. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
His face was covered like a desert traveler, but even if it had been visible, she doubted she would have seen anything but his eyes. Greener than emeralds, they were almost too bright to look into directly.
His eyes narrowed. He pushed back her headscarf, and Nahri flinched as he touched her right ear. His fingertips were so hot that even his brief press was enough to scald her skin.
“Shafit,” he said softly, but unlike his other words, the term remained incomprehensible in her mind. “Move your hand, girl. Let me see your face.”
He pushed her hand away before she could comply. By now, the blood had clotted. Exposed to the air, her wound itched; she knew the skin was stitching back together before his eyes.
He leaped back, nearly crashing into the opposite wall. “Suleiman’s eye!” He looked her up and down again, sniffing the air like a dog. “How . . . how did you do that?” he demanded. His bright eyes flashed. “Is this some sort of trick? A trap?”