An older Daeva woman was pleading with the soldiers. “Please, my son is only a boy. He wasn’t involved!”
Another soldier exited the smashed and dangling doors of the home. He shouted excitedly in Geziriyya and then tossed a carved wooden chest to the cobblestone street with enough force to break it. Coins and uncut jewels spilled out, glittering on the wet ground.
Nahri leapt from the litter without a second thought. “What in God’s name is going on here?” she demanded.
“Banu Nahida!” Relief lit in the woman’s wet eyes. “They’re accusing my husband and his brother of treason and trying to take my son!” She choked back a sob, switching to Divasti. “It’s a lie! All they did was hold a meeting to discuss the new land tax on Daeva properties. The king heard of it and now’s he’s punishing them for telling the truth!”
Anger surged through Nahri, hot and dangerous. “Where are your orders?” she demanded, turning to the soldiers. “I can’t imagine they gave you permission to loot this home.”
The officers looked unimpressed by her attempt at authority. “New rules,” one replied brusquely. “The Guard now gets a fifth of whatever is confiscated from unbelievers—and that would be you Daevas.” His expression darkened. “Strange how everyone in this city is suffering save the fire worshippers.”
The Daeva woman dropped to her knees in front of Nahri. “Banu Nahida, please! I told them they could have whatever money and jewelry they want, but don’t let them take my family! I’ll never see them again once they’re in that dungeon.”
Jamshid came to their side. “Your family isn’t going anywhere,” he assured her. He turned to the soldiers, his voice steely. “Send one of your men to the emir. I don’t want another hand laid on these people until he’s here.”
The djinn officer snorted. “I take my orders from the king. Not from the emir and certainly not from some useless Afshin pretender.” Cruelty edged his voice as he nodded at Jamshid’s cane. “Your new bow isn’t quite as intimidating as your old one, Pramukh.”
Jamshid jerked back like he’d been slapped, and Nahri stepped forward, enraged on his behalf. “How dare you speak so disrespectfully? He is the grand wazir’s son!”
In the blink of an eye, the soldier had his zulfiqar drawn. “His father is not here and neither is your bloody Scourge.” He gave Nahri a cold look. “Do not try me, Nahid. The king made his orders clear, and believe me when I say I have little patience for the fire worshipper who loosed her Afshin on my fellows.” He raised his zulfiqar, bringing it dangerously close to Jamshid’s throat. “So, unless you’d like me to start executing Daeva men, I suggest you return to your palanquin.”
Nahri froze at the threat—and the implication that accompanied its open hostility. Ghassan had an iron grip on Daevabad: if his soldiers felt comfortable intimidating two of the most powerful Daevas in the city, it was because they weren’t worried about being punished.
Jamshid stepped back first, reaching for Nahri’s hand. His was cold. “Let’s go,” he said softly in Divasti. “The sooner we’re gone, the sooner I can get word of this to Muntadhir.”
Heartsick, Nahri could barely look at the woman. In that moment, though she hated the memory of the warrior Dara, she couldn’t help but wish he was here, bringing shedu statues to life and drawing his bow against those who would hurt their people. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, cursing her inability to do anything more. “We’ll talk to the emir, I promise.”
The woman was weeping. “Why bother?” she asked, bitter despair lacing into her voice. The words she spoke next cut Nahri to the core. “If you can’t protect yourself, how can you possibly protect the rest of us?”
4
Dara
In the deep quiet of a snowy night, Dara made his way through a black forest.
He did so in complete silence, moving stealthily alongside the five young Daeva men mirroring his every action. They had bound their boots in cloth to muffle their steps and smeared their woolen coats with ash and dirt to mimic the pattern of the skeletal trees and rocky ground. There were magical ways—better ways—to conceal oneself, but what they were doing tonight was as much test as it was mission, and Dara wanted to challenge his young recruits.
He stopped at the next tree, raising a hand to signal his men to do the same. He narrowed his eyes and studied their targets, his breath steaming against the cloth that covered the lower part of his face.
Two Geziri scouts from the Royal Guard, exactly as rumored. Gossip in this desolate part of northern Daevastana had been buzzing with news of them. They had apparently been sent to survey the northern border; his sources had told him it was normal, a routine visit completed every half-century or so to harass the locals about their taxes and remind them of King Ghassan’s reach. But Dara had been suspicious of the timing and thus quietly relieved when Banu Manizheh ordered him to bring them to her.
“Would it not be easier to kill them?” had been his only protest. Contrary to the rumors he knew surrounded him, Dara did not relish killing. But neither did he like the prospect of two Geziris learning of his and Manizheh’s existence. “This is a dangerous land. I can make it look as though they were attacked by beasts.”
Manizheh had shaken her head. “I need them alive.” Her expression had grown stern, his Banu Nahida perhaps coming to know him a bit too well in the few years he’d served her. “Alive, Darayavahoush. That’s nonnegotiable.”
Which is why they were here now. It had taken them two weeks to find the scouts, and two days to quietly drive them off course, his men shifting the boundary stones in waves to send the Geziris off the established path to the village of Sugdam and deep into the thick forest that belted the nearby mountains.
The scouts looked miserable, wrapped in furs and felt blankets and huddled together under a hastily erected tarp. Their fire was a weak one, slowly losing the battle against the steady snowfall. The older scout was smoking a pipe, the sweet smell of smoldering qat scenting the air.
But it wasn’t pipes Dara was concerned with, nor the khanjar daggers tucked in their belts. After a moment of scanning the camp, he spotted the zulfiqars he’d been looking for on a bed of raised stones just behind the scouts. Their leather scabbards had been wrapped in a layer of felt to protect the blades from the snow, but Dara could see a hilt poking free.
He silently cursed. Skilled zulfiqaris were treasured, and he’d been holding out hope that the king hadn’t bothered sending such valuable warriors on what should have been a rather dull mission. Invented during the war against the Nahid Council—or stolen from the angels who guarded Paradise, as the more fanciful stories went—the zulfiqar at first appeared to be a normal scimitar, its copper construction and two-pronged end a bit unusual but otherwise unremarkable.
But well-trained Geziris—and only Geziris—could learn to conjure poisoned flames from the zulfiqar’s deadly edge. A single nick of the skin meant death; there was no healing from the wounds, not even by the hand of a Nahid. It was the weapon that had turned the war and ended the rule of his blessed and beloved Nahid Council, killing an untold number of Daevas in the process.
Dara glanced at the warrior nearest him. Mardoniye, one of his youngest. He’d been a member of the Daeva Brigade, the small contingent of Daeva soldiers once allowed to serve in the Royal Guard. They’d been run out of the Citadel after Dara’s death on the boat, ordered from their barracks by djinn officers they considered comrades and sent into the Grand Bazaar with only the clothes on their backs. There, they’d been met by a shafit mob. Unarmed and outnumbered, they’d been brutally assaulted, several men killed. Mardoniye still bore Rumi fire burns on his face and arms, remnants of the attack.
Dara swallowed against the worry rising in his chest. He’d made it clear to his men that he would not aid them in capturing the Geziris. He considered it a rare opportunity for them to test their training. But fighting zulfiqaris wasn’t the same as fighting regular soldiers.
And yet . . . they needed to learn.
They would face zulfiqaris one day, Creator willing. They’d fight Daevabad’s fiercest, in a battle that would need to be decisively won.
The thought sent more smoldering heat into Dara’s hands. He fought it back with a tremble, this new, raw power he’d yet to entirely master. It simmered beneath his skin, the fire aching to escape. He struggled with it more when he was emotional . . . and the prospect of the young Daevas he’d mentored for years being cut down by the blade of a sand fly certainly made him so.
You’ve spent a lifetime training warriors. You know they need this. Dara pushed aside his misgivings.
He let out a low hoot, the approximation of an owl. One of the djinn glanced up but only briefly. His men fanned out, their dark eyes darting back to him as they moved. Dara watched as his archers nocked their arrows.
He clicked his tongue, his final signal.
The archers’ pitch-soaked arrows burst into conjured flames. The djinn had less than a second to spot them before they shot past, striking the tarp. In the blink of an eye, the entire thing was blazing. The larger Geziri—an older man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard—whirled around to grab the zulfiqars.
Mardoniye was already there. He kicked away the blades and then threw himself on the Geziri. They rolled into the snow, scrabbling at each other.
“Abu Sayf!” The younger scout lunged for his companion—an unwise move that left his back exposed when the rest of Dara’s men emerged. They threw a weighted net over his head, dragging him back and ensnaring his arms. In seconds, his khanjar had been ripped away and iron cuffs—meant to dampen his magic—clasped around his wrists.
Mardoniye was still struggling. The Geziri man—Abu Sayf—struck him hard across the face and then lunged to grab a zulfiqar. It burst into flames. He whirled back on Mardoniye.
Dara’s bow was off his shoulder, an arrow nocked before he even realized what he was doing. Let him fight! the Afshin in him demanded. He could all but hear his father’s voice, his uncles’ voices, his own. There was no room for mercy in the heat of the battle.
But by the Creator, he did not have it in him to watch another Daeva die. Dara drew back his bow, his index finger on the twitching feather fletch, the string a whispered brush against his cheek.
Mardoniye threw himself at the Geziri’s knees with a howl, knocking him into the snow. Another of Dara’s archers ran forward, swinging his bow like a club at the Geziri man’s hand. Abu Sayf dropped the zulfiqar, and the flames were gone before it hit the ground. The archer struck the djinn hard across the face, and he collapsed.
It was over.
The scouts were secured by the time Dara stomped out their campfire. He quickly checked the unconscious one for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he confirmed, silently relieved. He nodded at the small camp. “Check their supplies. Burn any documents you find.”
The conscious djinn was indignant, straining against his binds. “I don’t know what you fire worshippers think you’re doing, but we’re Royal Guard. This is treason! When my garrison commander learns you interfered with our mission, he’ll have you executed!”
Mardoniye kicked at a large sack, and it let out a jingle. “All the coins they’ve been stealing from our people, I suspect.”
“Taxes,” the Geziri cut in savagely. “I know you’re all half feral out here, but surely you have some basic concept of governance.”
Mardoniye scoffed. “Our people were ruling empires while yours were scavenging through human trash, sand fly.”
“That’s enough.” Dara glanced at Mardoniye. “Leave the coins. Leave everything but their weapons and retreat. Take them at least twenty paces away.”
The Geziri soldier struggled, trying to twist free as they hauled him to his feet. Dara began unwrapping his headcloth, not wanting it to burn when he shifted. It briefly caught on the slave ring he was still too nervous to remove.
“You’re going to hang for this!” the djinn repeated. “You filthy, sister-fucking, fire-worshipping—”
Dara’s hand shot out as Mardoniye’s eyes flashed again. He knew all too well how quickly tensions built between their peoples. He grabbed the djinn by the throat. “It is a long walk back to our camp,” he said flatly. “If you can’t be polite, I am going to remove your ability to speak.”
The djinn’s eyes traveled over Dara’s now uncovered face, landing on his left cheekbone. That was all it took for the color to leach from his skin.
“No,” he whispered. “You’re dead. You’re dead!”
“I was,” Dara agreed coldly. “Now I’m not.” He could not keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice. Annoyed, he shoved the Geziri back at his men. “Your camp is about to be attacked by a rukh. Best step away.”
The djinn let out a gasp, looking up at the sky. “We’re about to be what?”
Dara had already turned his back. He waited until the sounds of his men faded away. The distance wasn’t only for their protection.
Dara didn’t like anyone to see him when he shifted.
He pulled off his coat, setting it aside. Heat rose in hazy waves from his tattooed arms, the snow melting in the air around him before the flakes came close to brushing his skin. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he steeled himself. He hated this part.
Fire burst from his skin, flushed light sweeping down his limbs, washing away the normal brown. His entire body shook violently, and he fell to his knees, his limbs seizing. It had taken him two years to learn how to shift between his original form—that of a typical man of his tribe, albeit an emerald-eyed one—and that of a true daeva, as Manizheh insisted on calling him, the form their people had taken before Suleiman changed them. The form the ifrit still held.
Dara’s vision sharpened, the taste of blood filling his mouth as his teeth lengthened into fangs. He always forgot to prepare for that part.
His clawed hands clenched at the icy ground as his raw jittery power settled completely. It only ever happened in this form, a peace he obtained by becoming something he hated. He exhaled, burning embers leaving his mouth, and then he straightened back up.
He raised his hands, smoke swirling up from around them. With a quick snap of his claws across his wrist, a shimmer of golden blood dripped down to merge with the smoke, growing and twisting in the air as he shaped it. Wings and talons, a beak and glittering eyes. He fought for breath, the magic draining him.
“Ajanadivak,” he whispered, the command still foreign on his tongue. The original language of the daevas, a language only a handful of ifrit still remembered. They were Manizheh’s “allies,” pressed into teaching a reluctant Afshin the ancient daeva magic that Suleiman had stripped away.
Fire burst from the rukh, and it let out a screech. It rose in the air, still under Dara’s command, destroying the camp in a matter of minutes. He took care to let it crash through the canopy and rake its talons over the tree trunks. To anyone with the misfortune of coming across this place—any members of the Royal Guard looking for their two lost fellows, though Dara doubted they’d ever make it out here—it would appear as though the scouts had been eaten, the fortune in taxes left untouched.
He released the rukh, and it disintegrated, cinders raining over the ground as its hazy form dissipated. With a final burst of magic, Dara shifted back, stifling a gasp of pain. It always hurt, like shoving his body into a tight, barbed cage.
Mardoniye was at his side in moments, reliably loyal. “Your coat, Afshin,” he said, offering it out.
Dara took it gratefully. “Thank you,” he said, his teeth chattering.
The younger man hesitated. “Are you all right? If you need a hand—”
“I am fine,” Dara insisted. It was a lie; he could already feel the black pitch churning in his stomach, a side effect of returning to his mortal body while his new magic still swirled in his veins. But he refused to show such weakness before his men; he would not risk it getting back to Manizheh. If the Banu Nahida had her way, Dara would stay forever in the form he hated. “Go. I’ll be along
shortly.”
He watched, waiting until they were out of view. Then he dropped to his knees again, his stomach heaving, his limbs shaking, as the snow fell silently around him.
The sight of their camp never failed to ease Dara’s mind, the familiar plumes of smoke promising a hot meal, the gray felt tents that blended into the horizon a warm bed. These were appreciated luxuries for any warrior who’d just spent three days trying hard not to rip the tongue out of a particularly irritating djinn’s mouth. Daevas bustled about, hard at work cooking, training, cleaning, and forging weapons. There were about eighty of them, lost souls Manizheh had come upon in her years of wandering: the sole survivors of zahhak attacks and unwanted children, exiles she’d rescued from death and the remnants of the Daeva Brigade. They swore allegiance to her, offering loyalty in an oath that would rot their tongues and hands should they attempt to break it.
He’d shaped about forty of them into warriors, including a handful of young women. Dara had at first balked at that, finding it unorthodox and improper. Then Banu Manizheh had bluntly pointed out that if he could fight for a woman, he could fight beside one, and he had to admit she’d been right. One of the women, Irtemiz, was by far his most talented archer.
But his good mood vanished the second he caught sight of their corral. A new horse was there: a golden mare whose finely tooled saddle hung over the fence.
Dara’s heart dropped. He recognized that mare.
Kaveh e-Pramukh had arrived early.
A gasp from behind stole his attention. “This is your camp?” It was Abu Sayf, the zulfiqari who’d nearly killed Mardoniye and yet had oddly proven far less maddening on their return trek than his younger tribesman. He asked the question in fluent Divasti; he’d told Dara that he’d been married to a Daeva woman for decades. His gray eyes scanned the neat row of tents and wagons. “You move,” he noted. “Yes, I suppose you would. Easier to stay hidden that way.”
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