Muntadhir raised a hand, looking slightly ill. “I don’t need to hear the details.” He glanced at his crimson wine, a little revulsion passing across his face, and then set it down. “So what of it?”
“What of it?” Nahri exclaimed. “That speaks to extraordinary talent! That physician might have even trained in the human world. I convinced the man in the garden to give me a name and the street where he works.”
“But why would you want such information?” Muntadhir asked, looking perplexed.
“Because I want to find him! For one . . . I am the Banu Nahida. I should ensure he’s a real doctor and not some . . . con artist taking advantage of desperate shafit.” Nahri cleared her throat. “But I’d also just love to meet him. He could be a valuable asset; after all, I still find much of what Yaqub taught me relevant.”
Muntadhir seemed even more confused. “Yaqub?”
Her stomach tightened. Nahri wasn’t used to talking about her passions, the ones closest to her heart, and Muntadhir’s bewilderment wasn’t making it easier. “The pharmacist I worked with back in Cairo, Muntadhir. The old man. My friend. I know I’ve mentioned him to you before.”
Muntadhir frowned. “So, you want to find some shafit doctor because you once had a pharmacist friend in the human world?”
Nahri took a deep breath, seeing her opening. Maybe it wasn’t the best time, but Muntadhir had said he wanted her to talk to him more freely, and right now, her heart was bursting. “Because I want to see if there’s a way we can work together . . . Muntadhir, it’s so hard being the only healer here,” she confessed. “It’s lonely. The responsibility is crushing. There are times I barely sleep, I barely eat . . .” She checked the emotion growing in her voice. “I thought . . . the old Nahid hospital . . .” She stumbled over her words, trying to explain the dreams that had been spinning in her head since her visit to those ruins. “I wonder if maybe we could rebuild it. Bring in a shafit physician to share the patient load and . . .”
Muntadhir’s eyes went wide. “You want to rebuild that place?”
Nahri tried not to shrink back at the horrified disbelief in his expression. “You . . . you told me that I could come to you, talk to you—”
“Yes—but about plausible things. If you want to bring another Daeva to court or take part in the preparations for Navasatem. What you’re suggesting . . .” He sounded shocked. “Zaynab said the building was in a shambles. Do you have any idea of the effort and expense it would take to restore?”
“I know, but I thought—”
Muntadhir stood, pacing in agitation. “And to work alongside shafit?” He said the word with thinly veiled disdain. “Absolutely not. My father would never allow it. You shouldn’t even be looking for this doctor. You must realize that what he’s doing is illegal.”
“Illegal? How is helping people illegal?”
“The shafit . . .” Muntadhir rubbed the back of his neck, shame creeping across his face. “I mean . . . they’re not—we’re not—supposed to act in a manner that . . . encourages their population to increase.”
Nahri was silent for a moment, shock freezing her tongue. “Tell me you don’t really believe that,” she said, praying he’d misspoken, that she’d imagined the distaste in his voice. “You’re a Qahtani. Your ancestors overthrew mine—slaughtered mine—to protect the shafit.”
“That was a long time ago.” Muntadhir looked beseechingly at her. “And the shafit are not the innocents you might imagine. They hate the Daevas, they hate you.”
She bristled. “Why should they hate me? I was raised in the human world!”
“And then you came back here at the side of a man famous for using a scourge to determine the color of someone’s blood,” Muntadhir pointed out. “You have a reputation with them, Nahri, like it or not.”
Nahri flinched, but let the charges slide past her. This conversation had taken enough of a horrifying turn without bringing her broken Afshin and his bloody crimes into it. “I had nothing to do with Qui-zi,” she said, defending herself. “None of us alive today did.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Muntadhir’s eyes filled with warning. “Nahri, there’s too much history between the Daevas and the shafit. Between most of the purebloods and the shafit. You don’t understand the hatred they feel for us.”
“And you do? You’ve probably never spoken to a shafit in your life!”
“No, but I’ve seen the human weapons they’ve smuggled here in hopes of sparking unrest. I’ve listened to their preachers spout poisonous lies and aim threats toward your people just before being executed.” A look she couldn’t decipher crossed his face. “And believe me when I say I know all too well how clever they are in recruiting others to their cause.”
Nahri said nothing. She felt sick—and not because of the reminder that she and the Daevas were in danger.
It was because she suddenly realized her husband—the Qahtani she’d assumed cared little about blood purity—might share the worst prejudices of her tribe. Nahri still didn’t know what about her appearance made Ghassan so certain she was both Nahid and shafit, but he’d made it clear it was the possession of Suleiman’s seal that brought him such insight.
And one day Muntadhir would have it. Would take it and see truly the woman he’d married.
Her heart stuttered. “None of what you’re suggesting sounds politically stable, Muntadhir,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “If things have gotten so bad, wouldn’t it be better to try and work with the shafit? You and I were married to foster peace between the Geziris and the Daevas. Why can’t we attempt the same with the mixed-bloods?”
Muntadhir shook his head. “Not like this. I feel bad for the shafit, I do. But theirs is a problem generations in the making, and what you’re suggesting is too risky.”
Nahri dropped her gaze. She caught sight of the beaded collar of her pretty new dress, and she pulled her robe more tightly over it, suddenly feeling very foolish.
He is never going to be the ally I need. The blunt truth resounded through her: Muntadhir’s refusal to address the shafits’ persecution and Jamshid’s accusations churned in her mind. Oddly enough, Nahri couldn’t hate him for it. She too had been beaten down by Ghassan, and she wasn’t even his son. There was no denying Muntadhir’s anguish over Jamshid and the genuine regret when he’d mentioned—and then promptly dismissed—the shafits’ plight.
But Ghassan hadn’t worn her down, not yet, not entirely. And she didn’t want to bend any further than she already had, even if it meant standing alone.
Muntadhir must have registered the change in her expression. “It’s not a no forever,” he said quickly. “But it’s not the right time to propose something so drastic.”
Nahri gritted her teeth. “Because of Navasatem?” If one more thing got blamed on that damned holiday, she was going to burn something.
He shook his head. “No, not because of Navasatem. Because of the reason my father wanted to see me today.” His jaw clenched, and his gaze fixed on the distant lake, the black water reflecting the scattered stars overhead. “Because my brother is coming back to Daevabad.”
7
Dara
Dara studied the smoky map of Daevabad he’d conjured, using his fingers to spin it this way and that as he thought. “On the chance we do find a way to pass the threshold and cross Daevabad’s lake, getting into the city itself poses the next problem.” He glanced up at his band of warriors. He’d chosen the group carefully: his ten cleverest, the ones he was grooming for leadership. “What would you suggest?”
Irtemiz paced the map, almost stalking it. “Is there a way we could scale the walls?”
Dara shook his head. “The walls cannot be scaled, nor can they be tunneled under or flown over—Anahid herself raised them, may she be blessed.”
Mardoniye spoke up, nodding at the city gates. “The gates are poorly defended. The Royal Guard keeps an eye out for boats crossing the lake—not for warriors arriving directly upon the beach from the
water itself. We could force our way through.”
“And enter directly in the middle of the Grand Bazaar,” Dara pointed out.
Mardoniye’s eyes flashed with hatred. “Is that a bad thing?” He ran a hand over his scarred face, the skin mottled where it had come into contact with Rumi fire. “I would not mind getting some vengeance for what the shafit did to us.”
“Vengeance is not our mission,” Dara chided. “And right now we are merely discussing strategy—I want you to think. The Grand Bazaar is only blocks from the Citadel.” He nodded at the Citadel’s tower, looming over the Grand Bazaar from its perch beside the brass wall. “We would have hundreds—thousands—of Royal Guard down on us in minutes. We’d be annihilated before we even reached the palace.”
Bahram, another survivor from the Daeva Brigade, spoke next. “We could split up,” he suggested. “Half of us stay behind to delay the Guard while you take the lady and the rest to the palace.”
A chill went down Dara’s spine at how easily he suggested it. “It would be certain death for the warriors left behind.”
Bahram met his gaze, his eyes glittering. “We are all prepared to make that sacrifice.”
Dara glanced at his group. He didn’t doubt Bahram was right. The faces of his young soldiers were fierce with conviction. It should have filled Dara with pleasure. He’d poured himself into their training; he should be proud to stand at their side.
But by the Creator, he had fought at the side of so many young Daevas whose faces had sparked with equal conviction. He’d collected their bodies afterward, consigning them to the flames as martyrs in what was beginning to feel like a war with no end.
He sighed. This one would have an end, Dara would make sure of it—but he’d also take greater care with his men. “It would only be a delay. They’d slaughter you and be on the rest of us before we got far.”
“What about ghouls?” another man suggested. “The ifrit are our allies now, are they not? One of them was boasting about how he could summon an entire army of ghouls. The skinny one.”
Dara’s face twisted in disgust at the mention of the ifrit, whom he hated in particular, escalating ways. The remark about them being allies and the memory of their ghouls only fueled his revulsion. Not to mention that Vizaresh—the ifrit they were speaking of now—had once threatened Nahri. Threatened “to grind her soul into dust” for blood-poisoning his brother . . . a threat Dara wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon. “I do not wish to see those foul things in our city,” he said shortly.
Irtemiz grinned. “The ghouls or the ifrit?”
Dara snorted. His soldiers were all like family to him, but he had a particular fondness for Irtemiz, whose innate talent with a bow had come a long way under Dara’s careful hand and who’d managed to keep her good humor even during the hardest of training sessions.
“Both,” he replied. Then he gestured back at the map. “I want you to think about this and discuss solutions with each other while I’m away.” Dara didn’t quite share Manizheh’s confidence that some mysterious meeting with Aeshma and the marid would result in his being able to cross the magical threshold protecting Daevabad, but on the off chance it did, he wanted to be prepared.
“Should we keep practicing with Abu Sayf?”
Dara considered that. He’d managed to convince Abu Sayf to spar with his soldiers . . . well, no, perhaps convince wasn’t the right term. He’d threatened to scourge the younger, more irritating Geziri scout to death if the older man didn’t comply. They were going to face zulfiqars in their fight to retake Daevabad, and they’d been handed a rare opportunity to learn to fight against them with the two Geziri scouts as their prisoners. Dara had not liked making such a ghastly threat, but there was little he was unwilling to do if it would help prepare his young warriors.
But only under his eye; he didn’t trust the Geziris not to try something in his absence. “No. I do not want either of them unchained for even a moment.” He dismissed the group. “Now go. I will join you for dinner before I leave.”
He raised a hand to sweep the map away as they left, watching the buildings tumble together in a smoky wave. The miniature palace collapsed, the Citadel’s tower dissolving over the wall.
Dara stilled. He snapped his fingers, conjuring and then crushing the tower again, letting it topple. It was tall enough that the upper half could crash through the wall, ripping a hole into the heart of the Citadel itself—and creating an entrance into the city.
That is magic beyond me. Manizheh might think him invincible, but Dara was learning that the fantastic tales told about the powers of their mighty ancestors in the time before Suleiman were best taken with a little salt. He was willing to break himself to reclaim Daevabad, but he couldn’t afford to exhaust his magic at the very beginning of the invasion.
He tucked the idea away, crossing to the large carpet rolled in one corner. Dara hadn’t flown one in years, not since journeying to Daevabad with Nahri. He ran a hand down its woolen length.
I will find a way to get back to you. I promise.
But first Dara had a meeting with the devil himself.
He and Manizheh flew east, traveling across a stunning landscape that spread before them like crumpled silk, emerald hills and dusty plains blending into each other, marked by deep blue lines of twisting rivers and streams. The sight brought Dara a rare peace. Khayzur, the peri who’d once nursed him back to health, had tried to teach Dara to appreciate such moments, to let the solace and beauty of the natural world sweep him away. It had been a difficult lesson to internalize. The first time he’d been brought back, Dara had awakened to the news that his world had died fourteen centuries earlier and that he was nothing but a blood-soaked memory to his people.
Not to everyone. It was impossible to sit on this rug as it cut through the sky and not think of the first days he’d spent with Nahri—days that had driven him to drink. He’d found her very existence a scandal, physical proof one of his blessed Nahids had broken their most sacred code and lain with a human. That she’d been a cunning thief who lied as easily as she breathed seemed proof of every negative stereotype Dara had heard about the shafit.
But then . . . she became so much more. He had felt shockingly free with her—free to be a normal man and not the celebrated Afshin or the despised Scourge, free to exchange flirtatious barbs with a quick-witted, beautiful woman, and delight in the unexpected stirring her magnetic, mocking grin caused in his shuttered heart. All because Nahri hadn’t known their history. She was the first person Dara had spoken to in centuries who knew nothing about his past—and so he’d been able to leave it behind.
He’d known theirs was foolish affection, had known it couldn’t last, and yet Dara had been desperate to keep the worst from her—a decision he still regretted. Had he been honest with Nahri and confessed it all . . . given her a chance to make her own choice . . . he could not help but wonder if she would have chosen to escape Daevabad at his side without him putting a blade to Alizayd al Qahtani’s throat.
Not that it mattered now. Nahri had seen exactly what Dara was on the boat that night.
“Are you all right?” Startled, Dara glanced up to find Manizheh watching him, a knowing expression on her face. “You look to be contemplating something weighty.”
Dara forced a smile. “You remind me of your ancestors,” he said, evading the question. “When I was a child, I used to think they could read minds.”
Manizheh laughed, a rare sound. “Nothing so fantastical. But when you spend two centuries attuned to every heartbeat, skin flush, and inhalation that surrounds you, you learn to read people.” She gave him a pointed look. “The question remains.”
Dara flinched. At first glance, there wasn’t much resemblance between Manizheh and her daughter. Manizheh was shorter and more compact, reminding him in no small way of his own mother, a woman who could cook up a meal for fifty, then break a spoon over her knee to stab a man. Manizheh’s eyes, though, the sharp black eyes that tugged down slig
htly at the outer edge—those were Nahri’s. And when they lit with challenge, they cut through Dara rather effectively.
“I am fine.” He swept his hand toward the distant ground. “Appreciating the scenery.”
“It is beautiful,” she agreed. “It reminds me of Zariaspa. Rustam and I used to spend summers with the Pramukhs when we were young.” Her voice turned wistful. “They were the happiest days of my life. We were always dashing about, climbing mountains, racing simurgh, experimenting with whatever forbidden plants and herbs we could.” A sad smile crossed her face. “The closest thing to freedom we experienced.”
Dara cocked his head. “Perhaps you are fortunate you did not have an Afshin. That all sounds terribly risky. We never would have permitted it.”
Manizheh laughed again. “No, there weren’t any legendary guardians around to ruin our fun, and the Pramukhs were fairly indulgent as long as we brought Kaveh along. They seemed not to realize he was equally irresponsible.” She saw Dara’s skeptical expression and shook her head. “Do not let his stern grand wazir face fool you. He was a mud-splattered country boy when I met him, more accomplished at sneaking out to hunt for fire salamanders than reining in two restless Nahids.” She stared into the distance, her eyes dimming. “We weren’t permitted to go to Zariaspa as frequently when we were older, and I always missed him.”
“I suspect he felt the same,” Dara said carefully. He had seen the way Kaveh looked at Manizheh, and no one at camp had missed the fact that their visitor had yet to sleep in the tent they’d prepared for him. That had thrown Dara; clearly the prim grand wazir did have a hidden side. “I am surprised you didn’t bring him with us.”
“Absolutely not,” she said at once. “I don’t want the ifrit to know anything more than necessary about him.”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 13