The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  And so they did, plunging into the djinn’s memories.

  It didn’t take long. Not when the first vision of Sobek was the river lord charging out of the Nile to protect two mortals who should have meant nothing. Not when the notoriously cold crocodile so determinedly coached one of the mortals through seizing a current and then warned him to flee, genuine alarm in his ancient, brutal visage.

  “Oh, cousin,” the monsoon marid murmured as they bit down on the djinn’s lip, tasting his blood. “What have you done?”

  30

  NAHRI

  Nahri berated herself as she made her way back to her room.

  You naive little fool. Did you really think that because you call him “brother” now, all differences between you would be erased? Jamshid was a Daeva noble who’d spent a decade in the Temple and believed up until a few months ago that simply speaking with a shafit was forbidden. He was Kaveh’s son—God only knew what kind of things he’d grown up hearing.

  What he still quietly believed.

  If you continue lying to him, he’s not going to be inclined to think well of you or the shafit either. Nahri stomped up the stairs. She was so very tired of secrets.

  The corridor was dark when she emerged from the stairwell, rain lashing the open balustrade and the sky thick with purpling clouds. A pair of women were chatting excitedly in Ntaran by the windows, looking out at the storm, but they fell abruptly silent when they spotted Nahri and hurried away.

  Loneliness sliced through her. I want to go home. But both of her homes were very far away, neither offering a safe or easy return.

  Her room was dark when she entered, cold and unguarded—Nahri was not expected back yet, and the lamps hadn’t been lit. The only light came from the makeshift fire altar she and Jamshid had cobbled together in one corner, glowing steadily against the wild storm outside … as well as the storm inside. The balcony door had blown open, and half the room was drenched, with more waves of rain batting through.

  “Didn’t have to deal with monsoons in Cairo,” Nahri muttered, crossing to assess the damage. She unpinned the cowrie shell clip holding her shayla in place, tossing the silk scarf to a dry spot on the bed and shaking out her hair. The delicate scarf was a recent gift from Hatset, probably a reminder of what else Nahri could get if she agreed to marry Ali and set up a kingdom in Ta Ntry. But if Hatset thought Nahri too principled to take fancy gifts without following through on the attached strings, well, that was her mistake.

  Nahri froze at the foot of her bed. She wasn’t alone.

  “Ali?” she asked, shocked to see Ali standing on her balcony in the pouring rain. He had his back to her and was soaked to the bone, his hands spread on the railing like he was surveying some sort of kingdom of the drowned. “What are you doing here? What are you doing there?”

  He didn’t turn around. “I wanted to see you and got caught in the rain. I figured that I might as well enjoy it.”

  “You’re going to drown standing up.”

  Ali’s eyes were still closed, but he turned just enough that Nahri could see the side of his mouth curve in a grin. “Always so worried about me.”

  “Someone has to be. You court death with far too much persistence.”

  “Considering how you’ve been avoiding me, I’m surprised to hear you mind such courtship.”

  Nahri flinched. The remark was more acerbic than usual, but also deserved—she had been avoiding him.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “It’s complicated.” She looked at Ali again, still standing in the rain. “But it’s good to see you,” she admitted, some of her loneliness lifting. “Don’t let it go to your head, but, Creator forgive me, I think I’ve actually missed your company.”

  “Then join me.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve had enough of water for several lifetimes.”

  Ali lifted his hands as if to embrace the storm, tilting his face to the sky. “Come on, Banu Nahida,” he teased. “Live a little.” His eyes were still shut, and the rain had soaked through his white dishdasha, making it cling to the broad line of his shoulders and the planes of his back. Ali’s head and feet were bare, water streaming over his closely shaved hair and glistening as it coursed down the nape of his neck.

  He looked beautiful, standing there against the storm-churned sky. He was beautiful—that was something she’d thought even from the first day they’d met and she’d wanted to shove him in the canal. But it had been a distant fact, the same way she might admire a lovely sunset.

  Nahri wasn’t thinking about Ali like a sunset right now. She had a very sudden desire to touch him, to trace the path of the rain running down his body and see what he did in response.

  He’s smitten with you. Damn Hatset and her poisonous, lingering words. But linger they had, going to a part of herself Nahri had buried when she signed her betrothal contract long ago, binding her life to a fiancé who’d spat at her feet.

  What might it be like to be with a person who was smitten with her?

  For Muntadhir certainly hadn’t been, even if his hatred had faded by the time they were finally married. They’d slept together, and Nahri had enjoyed it—she would challenge anyone upon whom her husband turned his well-practiced talents to remain indifferent—but it had been transactional. There was nothing of the sweet fumblings about which she’d overheard blushing new brides whisper, or the laughing, scandalous advice of older married women. Muntadhir had been in Nahri’s bed because his family had defeated hers, and his father wanted a Nahid grandchild.

  And that had been enough to smother any inklings she’d had of desire or affection. But now Ghassan was dead, and Nahri was no longer a prisoner in Daevabad. And in the dark hush of the room—with only Ali and the storm for company—she suddenly wondered how it might feel to let it all crash down. To take the initiative she’d been both too proud and too vulnerable to seize with the husband she’d always known didn’t really want her. To explore and to touch and to shake with mirrored longing.

  Stop. Nahri was still a prisoner after all, married to Muntadhir, under Hatset’s thumb, and surrounded by enemies. She had only one person who she trusted, and she could not conceive of a more spectacular way to blow that up than to indulge in her current line of thinking.

  Even so, she walked over to the balcony, stopping at the doors and sticking a hand out just far enough to catch a couple of drops. “There. I’ve joined you.”

  Ali didn’t seem to notice her sarcasm. “These rains travel so far,” he mused. “Over the mountains and plains, the islands, and the great ocean of Tiamat. Can you imagine taking that journey year after year, for millennia? Eons? All the things you would see. My, you might even fly to Daevabad’s lake on those clouds.”

  “I can’t say I can put myself in the mind of a traveling raindrop, no.”

  Ali swished a hand over the wet railing, sending a spray of water to the garden below. “Imagine it being disrupted, then. A routine you’d kept since the dawn of time suddenly denied the sweet embrace that once ended it.”

  The sweet embrace? “Ali, forgive the question, but have you been drinking?”

  The sound of his laughter mingled with the rain lashing against the castle walls. “Maybe I’m trying to loosen up.”

  Without warning, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her to his side. Nahri yelped in outrage, instantly soaked to her skin. The balcony had flooded, water rushing over her slippers.

  “This is supposed to be enjoyable?” she yelled over the sound of the pouring rain, blinking madly. “I can barely see!”

  “So close your eyes.”

  The wind whipped through her wet hair, and Nahri gave the ground an uneasy look. Rain rushed by in gushing torrents of red-brown mud. It wasn’t that far a drop, but a fall would hurt, and the balcony’s railing was low.

  “I don’t want to close my eyes. We’re high up, and it’s slippery. I don’t need to trip and go flying—”

  “I won’t let you trip.” Ali’s hands circled her waist, pulling
her close. “Trust that I want you here.”

  Every inappropriate thought Nahri had had in the bedroom came surging back. She could feel the heat of his hands through her soaked dress, her heart hammering against her chest. Startled, she glanced up, looking to see some sort of explanation in his face.

  Nothing. Ali’s eyes were still closed, the same oddly playful—and deeply out of character—smile on his rain-dotted lips. He looked more at ease than Nahri had ever seen him.

  He looked inviting.

  He’s not the only one who’s ever looked inviting. Six years ago, Nahri had kissed a handsome warrior just beyond the pouring rain on a whim, giving in to a wave of desire. And what resulted between them had nearly destroyed her.

  “We should go back inside,” Nahri blurted out. “And then leave. My bedroom, I mean. We should leave my bedroom. People will talk.”

  A pout twisted his face, and now Nahri really did wonder if someone had spiked his drink—Alizayd al Qahtani did not pout.

  “I do not wish to leave.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “I am very content here with you.”

  Alarm sparked through her. As undeniably pleasant as the unspooling of heat was in her belly, there was something clearly wrong with her friend. “I don’t think we should …” Nahri tried to disentangle herself.

  Ali’s grip tightened.

  If something seemed wrong before, the fact that he didn’t let her go sent warning bells ringing in her mind. This was not the man she knew. “Ali, let me go.”

  He laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound now. “No, I do not think I will.” He dropped his head and then finally opened his eyes.

  They were a churning mirror of the storm-dark monsoon sky.

  Nahri instantly tried to jerk away. “Marid,” she whispered.

  Ali let out a giggle that was almost childish. “Oh, but I had you!” He held Nahri out, his wild eyes taking her in. “My, you are lovely. Sobek’s exact type. Whatever agreement he had with your kin must have been very strong for him not to have snapped you right up,” he said, clicking his teeth.

  “Let me go,” she demanded, trying to wrench free. “What have you done to Ali?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Your Ali is fine. Well, no, he is not. He is screaming and begging me not to hurt you.” Ali—whatever was in Ali—suddenly paused, cocking his head as if listening to a hidden voice. “What an unnecessarily vicious threat, mortal.” He shoved a hand in Nahri’s hair, yanking her close again. “He really is besotted with you, you know. He has wanted this for so long, aching to touch you, to taste you—” He pushed her away. “The irony is rich enough for one of the stories your people like to spin.”

  Nahri fell hard to the floor, splashing against the flooded stone. “Let him go.”

  Ali grinned, but it wasn’t his smile. It was malevolent and twisted, and it shattered her to see it on his face. “Give me your name, daughter of Anahid, and I’ll be gone from him in the next breath. Take me to your Daevabad, let me sink its filthy streets below the water, and I’ll return you both to Cairo, wipe your memories of magic, and let you live as happy little mortals in your apothecary. It’s what you really want, isn’t it?” His voice rose in a high-pitched copy of hers. “We could have a life here together, Ali. A good one.”

  More fury than shame boiled in her. Nahri shoved herself back to her feet. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Indigo-colored swells blossomed and faded in his eyes, reflecting the roiling clouds. “I am the marid of the monsoon,” he explained, touching his fingers in a mocking attempt at the Daeva blessing. “An early monsoon this season, for I am also the most loyal servant of Tiamat, and she has sent me to discover just who has been causing our people so many problems.”

  It was raining so hard that Nahri must have missed the sound of the door opening, but suddenly she heard Jamshid’s muffled voice, calling from the bedroom.

  “Nahri? Nahri, listen, I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but—”

  Ali was at her side in a flash. He seized her arm, pressed a knife—one of Fiza’s—to her throat, and then stepped with her into the bedroom.

  Her brother froze.

  “Shut your mouth,” the marid said coldly. “Close the door and come in, or I’ll cut her throat.”

  Jamshid kicked the door shut and then stalked over, his gaze burning. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Nahri tried to object. “It’s not—”

  The marid clapped a hand over her mouth. “You’ll forgive your sister,” he said. “Poor girl’s had such a difficult past few months.”

  Jamshid glared. “What do you want, al Qahtani?”

  The knife pressed closer to her throat. “I want you to kill yourself.”

  Jamshid’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”

  “Kill yourself. Take a running dive off the balcony, and I’ll let her go. You were willing to die for my brother. Certainly you’d make the same sacrifice for your sister.”

  Jamshid shook his head, looking more horrified now than angry. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “No, I’ve lost my home and seen my kin enslaved.” The marid abruptly released her, raising Ali’s arms as if to admire them. “And an old cousin has done something very foolish in a halfhearted attempt at mercy.”

  Nahri scrambled away. “There’s a marid possessing him.”

  Jamshid grabbed her. “A marid?”

  Ali clucked his tongue. “She’s been keeping a lot of secrets from you.” His alien gaze turned to her. “Shall we tell him the other one?”

  No. “Please,” she begged.

  His expression grew vicious. “We begged too, once, but your ancestors did not care.” He tilted his head. “Well, some of your ancestors. The human ones had nothing to do with it—they were likely living their simple lives along your Nile, worshipping Sobek.”

  “Who the hell is Sobek?” Jamshid sounded utterly baffled. “And what human ones? What are you talking about?”

  Ali grinned at Nahri as though they were in on some great joke together. “I suppose you were the one to get your mother’s cleverness.” He turned back to Jamshid, slowing his speech like he might have been talking to a child. “Your sister is a … what is the word your people use? ‘Dirt-blood’ sounds so cruel.”

  Jamshid’s gaze darted to hers. “Wait … you’re shafit?” And then Nahri saw it, her brother connecting the dots—the regret, the pity Nahri had never wanted to watch fill his eyes. “Oh, Nahri …”

  The marid was cackling. “Surprise!”

  But if the marid had thought to divide them with that revelation, he’d clearly picked the wrong brother. Jamshid pushed her firmly behind him in the direction of the door. “Nahri, run. I’ll handle this.”

  “Run?” The marid sounded disappointed. “I was really hoping for far more of a fight. Anahid would have ripped me from this body by now and sent me fleeing into the clouds. A shame you broke her magic.”

  The goading in his voice was the last straw. “Surely you didn’t disrupt your ten-thousand-year-old voyage across the ocean just to toy with a bunch of mortals,” Nahri accused. “So why don’t you just tell us what you want?”

  “I want you dead,” the marid replied, and in Ali’s sincere voice, the words cut even deeper. “I want every one of you who carries fire in their veins dead, and I want your city destroyed. Alas, my people cannot seem to accomplish those goals without making it worse for ourselves.”

  “Maybe you’re not as clever as you think.”

  The marid abruptly turned the knife inward, pressing the point against Ali’s throat. Nahri tried to lurch for him, but Jamshid held her back.

  “And maybe I am. Careful, Nahid,” the marid warned. “You forget I see what he has lived through. I know how to hurt you.”

  “Is that the point of this, then? To hurt us?”

  “Oh no. I was sent to investigate the strange happenings in the waters of this land and why it was my cousin Sobek refused o
ur summons.” The marid dragged the knife down Ali’s neck. A thin line of glistening blood traced the blade’s path—it was killing Nahri not to grab it out of his hands. “Torturing two Nahids is mere enjoyment.”

  He smashed the hilt of the knife into Ali’s face. Blood burst from his nose.

  “Help!” the marid bellowed. “Guards!”

  Any hope that the soldiers who constantly shadowed Jamshid had decided to take a coffee break vanished the moment the doors burst inward, two armed men charging in.

  The guards’ eyes went wide, darting between Nahri, standing disheveled with her hair loose near the bed, a bleeding Ali, and a visibly enraged Daeva brother.

  “Prince Alizayd!”

  Ali pointed wildly at Jamshid. “The fire worshipper attacked me. I want him dead!”

  Nahri lunged forward. “That’s not true!”

  “Kill him!” the marid shrieked. “Kill—” And then Ali let out a strangled cry, falling to his knees. A squall-colored mist burst from his skin, and then a hint of familiar gray dashed across his eyes.

  “Nahri,” Ali said, choking out her name. “The river,” he gasped. “The creek. S-Sobek. Get So—” His words turned into a bloodcurdling scream, his back arching as the mist dashed back into his body.

  When Ali looked at her again, it was with the hate-filled gaze of the monsoon marid.

  Thunder crashed in Nahri’s ears, a gust of wind bursting into the room and drenching them all. The rain pelted her, hard enough to hurt. The guards cried out, Jamshid moved to protect her …

  But Nahri wasn’t wasting another minute.

  She ran, knocking aside her brother’s hand and dodging the marid when he lunged for her. Nahri didn’t stop running until she was on the balcony, and then she jumped over the railing and launched herself into the air.

  NAHRI CRASHED TO THE GROUND. THOUGH LEAPING out of mansions was not a new experience, it had been years, and she bumbled the landing, crumpling painfully on one ankle in the slippery mud.