The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  In three days, you will once again have the blood of thousands on your hands.

  He closed his eyes, trying to shut away the thought. Dara had never pictured feeling such despair on the eve of a conquest he’d desired for centuries. Certainly not back when he was the Scourge of Qui-zi, the cunning Afshin who’d bedeviled Zaydi al Qahtani for years. That man had been a dashing rebel, a passionate leader who’d picked up the shattered pieces of his tribe and knit his people back together with promises of a better future. Of a day when they would sweep into Daevabad as victors and seat a Nahid on the shedu throne. Back then, he’d had quieter dreams for himself as well. Fleeting fantasies of reclaiming his family’s house, taking a wife and raising children of his own.

  None of those dreams would ever be now, and for what Dara had done—for what he was about to do—he had no right to them. But Nahri and Jamshid would have such dreams. His soldiers would. Their children would be the first Daevas in centuries to grow up without a foreigner’s foot pressed down on their necks.

  He had to believe it.

  The sun blinked crimson behind the mountains, and a deep, rhythmic drumming came from the firelit camp, a welcome distraction from his grim thoughts. Their group was gathering while Manizheh prepared for sunset ceremonies at a makeshift fire altar. It was little more than a brass bowl set atop a circle of rocks, and Dara could not help but think wistfully of the magnificent gleaming altar back in Daevabad’s Grand Temple.

  He joined the line of weary soldiers, plunging his hands into the fiery ash in the brazier and sweeping it over his arms. There was a subdued air to the gathering, but that didn’t surprise him. Mardoniye’s death had been the first time most of his warriors had witnessed what a zulfiqar could truly do. Add the whispers he was trying to quash surrounding the vapor that had killed the Geziri scouts, and it made for a tense, grim atmosphere within the camp.

  Manizheh caught his eye, beckoning him closer. “Did you find the marid?” she asked.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Decomposing on the rocks on the opposite shore and no less self-righteous. But they are ready to assist us. I made clear the consequences should they betray us.”

  “Yes, I have no doubt you made yourself quite clear.” Manizheh’s black eyes twinkled. She had returned to treating Dara with her typical warm affection the very morning after they fought. And why not? She had won, after all, putting him firmly back in his place with a few swift words. “And are you ready?”

  His response was automatic. “I am always ready to serve the Daevas.”

  Manizheh touched his hand. Dara caught his breath at the burst of magic, a sweep of calm similar to a drunken ease surging through him. “Your loyalty will be rewarded, my friend,” she replied softly. “I know we’ve had our disagreements, and I see you standing on the edge of bleakness. But our people will know what you’ve done for them. All of them.” Her voice was intent. “We are indebted to you, and for that I promise you, Dara . . . I will see you find some happiness.”

  Dara blinked, the feelings he’d tried to suppress on his walk back rising and churning within him. “I do not deserve happiness,” he whispered.

  “That’s not true.” She touched his cheek. “Have faith, Darayavahoush e-Afshin. You are a blessing, our people’s salvation.”

  Emotions warred in his heart. By the Creator, did he want to seize her words. To throw himself back into that belief wholeheartedly, the faith that had once come so easily and now seemed impossible to grasp.

  Then force yourself to. Dara stared at Manizheh. Her worn chador and the battered brass bowl before her might have been a far cry from the splendid ceremonial garb and dazzling silver altar found in the Grand Temple, but she was still the Banu Nahida—Suleiman’s chosen, the Creator’s chosen.

  He managed some conviction. “I shall try,” he promised. “Actually . . . I would like to do something for you all after the ceremony. A gift, to brighten your spirits.”

  “That sounds delightful.” She nodded to the rest of their group, seated on the grass. “Join your fellows. I would speak to you all.”

  Dara took a seat next to Irtemiz. Manizheh raised a hand in blessing, and he bowed his head in unison with the rest, bringing together his hands. The emerald on his ring caught the dying light, gleaming past the soot coating his fingers. He watched as Manizheh went through the sacred motions, pouring fresh oil in the glass lamps bobbing along the simmering water and lighting them with a stick of burning cedar. She pressed it to her brow, marking her forehead with its sacred ash. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in silent prayer.

  And then she stepped forward.

  “You all look terrible,” she said flatly. The shoulders of a few of the surrounding Daevas slumped at her words. But then her mouth quirked in a rare true smile. “That’s all right,” she added gently. “You’re entitled to feel terrible. You’ve followed me on what must seem a fool’s dream and you’ve done so with an obedience that will earn you admittance into the Creator’s eternal gardens. You’ve held your tongues when you must have so many questions.” She gazed at them, letting her eyes fall on each man and woman in turn. “And for that you have my promise, my children . . . whether in this world or the next, you and yours will be provided for. Our people will speak of your names in stories and light tribute to your icons in the Grand Temple.

  “But not yet.” She moved past the altar. “I suspect some of you worry we are rushing this. That we are resorting to dark and cruel methods. That to attack when people are celebrating a cherished holiday is wrong.

  “My answer is: we are out of time. With each passing day, Ghassan’s persecution of our people worsens. His soldiers have taken to rampaging through our lands and looting our homes. To speak against him is to invite death. And were that not enough, Kaveh tells me that his half-tribe son, the radical who dares call himself ‘Afshin-slayer,’ has returned to Daevabad to further rile up his dirt-blooded supporters.”

  Dara tensed. That was not what Kaveh had said, and though Dara was not blind to what she was trying to do, the ease with which she spun the lie reminded him far too much of the current occupant of Daevabad’s throne.

  Manizheh continued. “Another time, this news might please me. Indeed, little would delight me more than to see the Qahtanis ripped apart by their own bloody fanaticism. But that is not how sand flies operate. They mob and they swarm and they devour. Their violence will spread. It has spread. It will envelop our city in chaos.” Her voice was low and intense. “And the Daevas will pay the price. We always do. The icons of too many martyrs already line the Grand Temple, and those of you in the Daeva Brigade witnessed firsthand the savagery of the shafit when you were thrown out of the Citadel.”

  Manizheh gestured to the last rays of the vanished sun and then knelt, gathering a handful of sand. “This is our land. From the Sea of Pearls to the dust of the plains and the mountains of Daevabad, Suleiman granted it to our tribe, to those who served him most faithfully. Our ancestors spun a city out of magic—pure Daeva magic—to create a wonder unlike the world had ever seen. We pulled an island out of the depths of a marid-haunted lake and filled it with libraries and pleasure gardens. Winged lions flew over its skies and in its streets, our women and children walked in absolute safety.

  “You’ve heard the Afshin’s stories. The glory Daevabad once was. The marvel. We invited the other tribes to partake, we tried to teach them, to guide them, and yet they turned on us.” Her eyes flashed, and she released the dust. “They betrayed us in the worst of ways: they stole our city. And then, not content with breaking Suleiman’s law in their land, they let their shafit spawn defile ours. To this day, they keep these pitiful creatures around to wait on them hand and foot. Or worse! They pass them off as djinn children, irrevocably polluting their bloodlines and risking us all.”

  She shook her head, sadness sweeping her face. “And yet for so long, I saw no way out. The city would call to me, call to my brother, Rustam, with a strength that made our hearts ache. But it se
emed dangerous to even dream of a better future. For the safety of us all, I bowed my head as Ghassan al Qahtani lounged on the throne of my ancestors. And then . . .” She paused. “Then the Creator granted me a sign impossible to ignore.”

  Manizheh beckoned for Dara to rise. He did so, coming to her side.

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Darayavahoush e-Afshin. Our greatest warrior, the man who made Zaydi al Qahtani himself tremble. Returned to us, freed of Suleiman’s curse, as mighty as our legendary forbearers. My people, if you are looking for proof of the Creator’s favor, it is here in Dara. We have difficult days ahead. We may be forced to acts in ways that seem brutal. But I assure you . . . it is all necessary.”

  Manizheh fell momentarily silent, perhaps gauging the impact of her words. Dara saw some of the faces before him shining with wonder, but not all. Many looked uncertain, anxious.

  He could help her with that.

  He took a deep breath. The pragmatic thing would have been to leave his favored form, but the thought of doing so before their entire camp shamed him, and so instead he raised his hands, letting the heat dance from them in smoky golden waves.

  They touched the fire altar first and the jumbled rocks melted together into a shining marble base, the battered bowl shifting into a proper silver vessel, glimmering as it formed from the dying sunlight. The smoke swirled around Manizheh, turning her plain garments into the delicate blue-and-white silks of ceremonial dress before cresting over the rest of their followers.

  Dara closed his eyes. In the blackness of his mind, he dreamed of his lost city. Sharing meals and laughter with his Afshin cousins between training sessions. Holidays spent with his sister, sneaking tastes of their favorite dishes while his mother and aunts cooked. Racing his horse across the plains outside the Gozan River with his closest companions, the wind whistling past them. Not a single person in those memories had survived the sack of Daevabad. He gave magic to the yearning in his heart, to the ache he expected would always be there.

  There were gasps. Dara opened his eyes, fighting a swoon as the magic drained him.

  The Daevas were now seated upon the finest of carpets, spun from green wool the color of spring grass, tiny living flowers woven into the shimmering threads. The men wore matching uniforms, the patterned gray-and-black coats and striped leggings the same ones his Afshin cousins had donned. A feast was spread on white linen behind them, and Dara could tell from a single sniff of the air that the dishes were his family’s recipes. The plain felt tents had been replaced by a ring of silk structures that billowed in the air like smoke, and in a marble-screened corral, dozens of ebony horses with flashing golden eyes pranced and snorted.

  No, not just pranced. Dara’s gaze locked on the horses. They had wings—four undulating wings each, darker than night and moving like shadows. The Afshin in him saw the immediate benefit in the marvelous creatures: they would speed his soldiers more swiftly to the palace. But in his heart, oh, the traitorous part of his heart . . . how he suddenly wished to steal one and flee this madness.

  Manizheh gripped his shoulder, seizing upon her followers’ visible awe. “Look,” she urged, her voice carrying on the still air. “Look at this wonder, this sign of the Creator’s blessing! We are going to Daevabad. We are taking it back.” Her voice rang out, echoing against the growing dark. “We will rip the Citadel from its moorings and the Qahtanis from their beds. I will not rest until those who have hurt us, those who threaten our women and children in the city that is ours—by the Creator’s decree!—have been thrown in the lake, their bodies swallowed by its waters.” Smoke was curling from her collar. “We will greet the next generation as leaders of all djinn, as Suleiman intended!”

  A youth near the front stepped forward, throwing himself into prostration before Manizheh.

  “For the Nahids!” he cried. “For the Lady!”

  Those nearest followed suit, falling in a wave before Manizheh. Dara tried to picture Nahri and Jamshid at her side, the young Nahids not only safe but wrapped in the glorious heritage they’d been too long denied.

  But the sick burning was already sweeping through him. He choked it down as Manizheh’s gaze lit on him, expectation—and a slight challenge—in her eyes.

  He fell to his knees in obedience. “For the Nahids,” he murmured.

  Satisfied triumph filled her voice. “Come, my people. We will take our blessings and then enjoy the feast our Afshin has conjured. Be merry! Celebrate what we are about to do!”

  Dara stepped back, fighting to keep from stumbling and struggling for a lie that would allow him to escape before his weakness was noticed. “The horses . . . ,” he blurted out, aware that it was a thin excuse. “If you don’t mind . . .”

  He staggered away. Fortunately, the rest of the Daevas were busy swarming Manizheh and Dara spotted enough jugs of wine as he passed the feast that he suspected no one would miss him for some time. He slipped between the tents, letting the encroaching dusk swallow him. But he barely made it four more steps before he fell to his hands and knees, retching.

  His vision blurred. He closed his eyes, the drums beating painfully in his head as he clutched at the dirt.

  Transform, you fool. Dara could not recover from the magic he’d just done in his mortal form. He tried to shift, desperate to pull the fire that pulsed in his heart over his shivering limbs.

  Nothing happened. Stars were blossoming before his eyes, a metallic ringing in his ears. Panicking, he tried again.

  The heat came . . . but it wasn’t fire that wrapped his limbs. It was an airy whisper of nothingness.

  And then Dara was gone. Weightless. Formless, and yet more alive than he’d ever been. He could taste the buzz of an approaching storm on the air and savor the comforting heat from the campfires. The murmur of creatures unseen seemed to call to him, the world glimmering and moving with shadows and shapes and an utter wild freedom that urged him to fly . . .

  He slammed back into his body, flames flickering over his skin. He lay there, his hands over his face.

  “Suleiman’s eye,” he whispered, stunned. “What was that?” Dara knew he should have been terrified, but the brief sensation had been intoxicating.

  His people’s legends flooded his mind. Stories of shapeshifting, of traveling across the desert as nothing more than a hot wind. Is that what he had just done? Had just been?

  He sat up. Dara wasn’t exhausted or sick now; he felt almost giddy. Raw, as though he’d touched a spark of energy, and it was still coursing through him. He wanted to try it again, to see what it might feel like to fly along the cold wind and race over the snow-dusted peaks.

  Laughter and music from the feast caught his ear, a reminder of his people, as insistent as a leash.

  But for perhaps the first time in his life, Dara didn’t think about his responsibilities to his people. Bewitched and seduced, he grabbed for the magic again.

  He was gone even faster this time, the weight of his body vanishing. He spun, laughing to himself as soil and leaves swirled and danced around him. He felt vast and yet remarkably light, the breeze carrying him away the moment he allowed it. In seconds, the lake was nothing but a gleaming mirror of moonlight far below.

  And by the Creator . . . the glory spread before him. The forbidding mountains now looked inviting, their sharp peaks and ominous shadows a maze to dash through, to explore. He could sense the very heat seeping through the ground’s thick crust, the sea of molten rock flowing beneath the earth, sizzling where it met water and wind. It all pulsed with activity, with life, with an untamed energy and freedom that he suddenly desired more than anything else.

  He wasn’t alone. There were other beings like him, in this state of formlessness. Dara could sense them, could hear whispered invitations and teasing laughter. It would be nothing to take the ghost of a hand, to race off and travel realms he hadn’t known existed.

  Dara hesitated, longing tearing through him. But what if he couldn’t return? What if he couldn’t find his way b
ack when his people needed him most?

  Manizheh’s resolve—her threat—closed around him. He could see her unleashing the poison and failing to take the city. He could see an enraged Ghassan ripping away his copper relic before it killed him and then seizing Nahri by her hair. Dragging her before her mother and plunging a zulfiqar through her heart.

  Fear, thick and choking, snared him, and with it, a panicked wish to return. This Dara did with far less grace, shifting back into his mortal form while still airborne. He slammed into the ground so hard it knocked the air from his lungs.

  Gasping and wracked with pain, Dara wasn’t sure how long he lay there, blinking at the thick cluster of stars above, before a chuckle drew his attention.

  “Well . . . ,” a familiar voice drawled. “I suppose it took you long enough to learn that.” Vizaresh stepped forward, peering over his body. “Need some help?” he offered lightly, extending a clawed hand. “I suggest next time you land before shifting.”

  Dara was so stunned he actually let the ifrit help him into a seated position, leaning heavily against the trunk of a dead tree. “What was that?” he whispered.

  “What we once were.” Yearning filled Vizaresh’s voice. “What we were once capable of.”

  “But . . .” Dara fought for words. No speech seemed worthy of the magic he’d just experienced. “But it was so . . . peaceful. So beautiful.”

  The ifrit narrowed his yellow eyes. “Why should that surprise you?”

  “Because that’s not what our stories say,” Dara replied. “The original daevas were troublemakers. Tricksters who deceived and hunted humans for their own—”

  “Oh, forget the damn humans for once.” Exasperation creased Vizaresh’s fiery visage. “Your people are obsessed. For all your laws about staying clear of humanity, your kind are just like them now, with your petty politics and constant wars. This—” He gripped Dara’s hand, and with a surge of magic, it turned to flame. “This is how you were made. You were created to burn, to exist between worlds—not to form yourself into armies and pledge your lives to leaders who would toss them away.”