The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  He’d lost his hold on the conjured blood beasts. Suleiman’s eye, there’d been half a dozen. Karkadann and zahhak and rukh. They were mindless, destructive things when they escaped his control, a lesson he’d learned early in his training with the ifrit. And now they were wild at the side of his warriors and Manizheh.

  Swearing under his breath, Dara tried to wrench free but only succeeded in shaking the debris nearest him and making his body ache worse.

  Embrace what you are, you fool. The brief moments he’d spent in his other form had been an instant balm. Dara needed that power.

  The fire sparked in his blood, flushing through his skin. His senses sharpened, claws and fangs sprouting. He touched the crumbling bricks above his head, and they exploded into dust.

  He climbed out far more slowly than he liked, his body stiff and the pain still present. It was a frightening reminder: Dara was strong but not invincible. He finally hauled himself out of the ruin, coughing on dust and trying to catch his breath.

  An arrow tore through his arm. Dara yelped in surprise, hissing as his hand flew to the wound.

  The arrow jutting out of it was one of his own.

  A second one flitted past his face, and Dara jerked back just before it went through his eye. He flung himself behind a ruined piece of masonry, peering through the rubble.

  Muntadhir al Qahtani was shooting at him with his own bow.

  Dara spat in outrage. How dare that lecherous, dishonorable wretch—

  An arrow flew at his hiding spot.

  Dara ducked, cursing out loud. Had he not struck Muntadhir with the zulfiqar? And since when did some sand fly know how to handle a Daeva bow that way?

  Gritting his teeth, Dara broke the fletch off the arrow in his arm and then yanked it out, biting back a grunt of pain. His fiery skin closed over the wound, leaving a black scar like a line of charcoal. That it healed was a small relief, but Dara tipped his arrows in iron, and he’d just had a very necessary reminder of the limits of his body. He didn’t want to learn what would happen if Muntadhir managed to catch him somewhere more vulnerable than his arm.

  Why don’t you try shooting in the dark, djinn? Dara pressed his hands to the pile of debris, urging the wood to burst into flame. It burned dark, the oily paints and ancient masonry sending up a choking wall of thick, black smoke that Dara directed toward the emir.

  He waited until he heard coughing and then shot to his feet, staying low as he charged. Muntadhir sent another arrow spinning in his direction, but Dara ducked and was wrenching the bow from the other man’s hands before he could shoot a second. He used it to backhand the emir across the face, sending him to the floor.

  Dara was on him the next second. He banished the smoke. The front of Muntadhir’s dishdasha was ripped open and his stomach bloodied, the dark green lines and cracking ash around the wound grisly confirmation that Dara had indeed struck him with the zulfiqar.

  Nahri and Alizayd were nowhere to be seen. “Where are they?” Dara demanded. “Your brother and the Banu Nahida?”

  Muntadhir spat in his face. “Fuck you, Scourge.”

  Dara put a knee against Muntadhir’s wound, and the emir gasped. “WHERE ARE THEY?”

  Tears were rolling down the other man’s face, but Dara had to give him his due—he held his tongue even as his eyes blazed in pain.

  Dara thought fast. Nahri and Alizayd were clever. Where would they go?

  “Suleiman’s seal,” he whispered. Dara immediately drew away his knee, remembering his mission. “Is that where they went? Where is it?”

  “In hell,” Muntadhir choked out. “Why don’t you go look for it? You must be a frequent visitor.”

  It took all of Dara’s self-control not to throttle the other man. He needed Muntadhir’s help. And Qahtani or not, Muntadhir had stayed behind with a painful, fatal wound so his little brother and wife could escape.

  He leaned closer to Muntadhir. “Your people have lost; I will be catching up with your brother either way. Tell me how to retrieve Suleiman’s seal and Alizayd dies quickly. Painlessly. On my honor.”

  Muntadhir laughed. “You have no honor. You brought an ifrit into our city. There are Geziri children who should be lighting fireworks now lying dead in the palace because of you.”

  Dara recoiled, trying to reach for the justifications Manizheh had offered. “And how many Daeva children died when your people invaded? Far more than the Geziri children who will be lost tonight.”

  Muntadhir stared at him in shock. “Do you hear yourself? What sort of man plots that calculus?” Hate filled his gray eyes. “God, I hope it’s her in the end. I hope Nahri puts a goddamned knife through whatever passes for your heart.”

  Dara looked away. Nahri had certainly seemed capable of that, glaring at him from across the corridor with flames whipping around her hands as if he were a monster.

  She was wrong. She doesn’t understand. This mission had to be right, it had to succeed. Everything Dara had done for his people, from Qui-zi through tonight’s attack, could not be for nothing.

  He refocused on Muntadhir. “I know you know what happened to my little sister when Daevabad fell. You took pains to remind me when last we met. Give your little brother an easier death.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Muntadhir whispered, but Dara’s words seemed to have an effect, worry creasing the emir’s face. “You hate him. You’ll hurt him.”

  “I’ll swear on Nahri’s life,” Dara replied swiftly. “Tell me how to retrieve Suleiman’s seal, and I’ll grant Alizayd mercy.”

  Muntadhir didn’t speak, his eyes searching Dara’s face. “All right,” he finally said. “You’ll have to get the ring first.” His breathing was becoming more ragged. “The palace library. Go to the catacombs beneath. There’s a—” He gave a shuddering cough. “A staircase you’ll need to take.”

  “And then?”

  “Follow it. It’s quite deep; it will go for a long time. You should feel it getting warmer.” Muntadhir grimaced, curling in slightly on his stomach.

  “And after?” Dara prompted, growing impatient and a little panicked. He wasn’t going to lose time going after Nahri and Alizayd only to have Muntadhir die before giving him an answer.

  Muntadhir frowned, looking slightly confused. “Is that not the way back to hell? I assumed you wanted to go home.”

  Dara’s hands were at Muntadhir’s throat the next moment. The emir’s eyes shone feverishly, locking on Dara’s in a last moment of defiance.

  Of triumph.

  Dara instantly let go. “You . . . you are trying to trick me into killing you.”

  Muntadhir coughed again, blood flecking his lips. “Astonishing. You must have been quite the brilliant tactician in your—ah!” he screamed as Dara kneed his wound again.

  But Dara’s heart was racing, his emotions a mess. He didn’t have time to waste torturing a dying man for information he was loath to give up.

  He drew back his knee, looking again at the smoking green-black edges of Muntadhir’s wound. This was not the fatal strike that had felled Mardoniye so quickly. It was the zulfiqar’s poison that would take the emir, not the cut itself.

  How fortunate then, that Muntadhir had been delivered to a man who knew intimately how long such a death could take. Dara had nursed more friends than he cared to recall through their last moments, easing their seizing limbs and listening to their suffering last gasps as the poison slowly consumed them.

  He reached out and snatched Muntadhir’s turban, shaking the cloth loose.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Muntadhir panted as Dara began binding the wound. “God, can you not even let me die in peace?”

  “You’re not dying yet.” Dara hauled the emir to his feet, ignoring how he shook with pain. “You might not tell me how to retrieve Suleiman’s seal. But there is another, I suspect, who can make you tell her anything.”

  40

  Nahri

  They ran, Nahri dragging Ali through the dark palace, her only thought
to put as much distance as possible between the two of them and whatever it was that Dara had become. Her ancestors’ magic pulsed through her blood, offering ready assistance in their flight: stairs rising with their strides and narrow passageways bricking up behind them, removing their trail. Another time, Nahri might have marveled at such things.

  But Nahri wasn’t certain she’d ever marvel at anything in Daevabad again.

  At her side, Ali stumbled. “I need to stop,” he gasped, leaning heavily against her. Blood was dripping from his broken nose. “There.” He pointed down the corridor toward an unassuming wooden door.

  Her dagger at the ready, Nahri shoved the door open, and they tumbled into a small sunken courtyard of mirrored fountains and jewel-bright lemon trees. She slammed the door behind them and sank down to catch her breath.

  And then it all caught up with her. Nahri squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still see him. His haunted green eyes above her, the swirl of smoky magic and the defiant set of his features right before she brought the ceiling down on him.

  Dara.

  No, not Dara. Nahri could not think of the Afshin she’d known and the fiery-visaged monster who’d struck down Muntadhir and arrived in Daevabad on a wave of death as the same man.

  And Muntadhir . . . Nahri pressed a fist to her mouth, choking back a sob.

  You can’t do this right now. Her husband had put himself before the deadly Afshin to buy his wife and brother time. Nahri would honor that sacrifice. She had to.

  At her side, Ali had fallen to his knees. A glimmer of copper caught her eye.

  “Oh my God, Ali, give me that.” Nahri lunged for the relic in his ear, pulling it out and flinging it at the trees. She shuddered, horrified to realize he’d had it in the entire time they were running. Had they come upon the vapor . . .

  Pull yourself together. Neither she nor Ali could afford another mistake.

  She laid her hands lightly on his brow and left shoulder. “I’m going to heal you.”

  Ali didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking at her. His expression was dazed and vacant, his entire body shivering.

  Nahri shut her eyes. Her magic felt closer than usual, and the veil between them, the odd cloak of salty darkness that the marid possession had drawn over him, immediately dropped. Underneath, he was a mess: his nose shattered, a shoulder sprained and badly punctured, and two ribs broken between the innumerable gashes and bites. Nahri commanded them to heal, and Ali caught his breath, grunting as his nose cracked into place. Her power, the healing ability that had denied her twice today, swept out bright and alive.

  She let go of him, fighting a wave of exhaustion. “Nice to know I can still do that.”

  Ali finally stirred. “Thank you,” he whispered. He turned to her, tears glistening in his lashes. “My brother . . .”

  Nahri violently shook her head. “No. Ali, we don’t have time for this . . . we don’t have time for this,” she repeated when he turned away to bury his face in his hands. “Daevabad is under attack. Your people are under attack. You need to pull yourself together and fight.” She touched his cheek, turning him back to face her. “Please,” she begged. “I can’t do this alone.”

  He took one shuddering breath, and then another, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them again, there was a touch more resolve in their depths. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Kaveh unleashed some sort of poisonous vapor similar to what nearly killed you at the feast. It’s spreading fast and targets Geziri relics.” She lowered her voice. “It’s what killed your father.”

  Ali flinched. “And it’s spreading?”

  “Fast. We came upon at least three dozen dead so far.”

  At that, Ali jerked upright. “Zaynab—”

  “She’s fine,” Nahri assured him. “She and Aqisa both. They left to warn the Geziri Quarter and alert the Citadel.”

  “The Citadel . . .” Ali leaned against the wall. “Nahri, the Citadel is gone.”

  “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

  “We were attacked first. The lake . . . it rose up like some sort of beast—like what you said happened to you at the Gozan when you first came to Daevabad. It pulled down the Citadel’s tower and ripped through the complex. The majority of the Guard is dead.” He shivered, silvery drops of liquid beading on his brow. “I woke up in the lake.”

  “The lake?” Nahri repeated. “Do you think the marid are involved?”

  “I think the marid are gone. Their . . . presence . . . feels absent,” he clarified, tapping his head. “And the lake’s curse was broken. Not that it mattered. The few of us who didn’t drown were set upon by ghouls and archers. We were taking the beach when that ifrit grabbed me, but there were fewer than two dozen of us left.” Grief swept his face, tears again brimming in his eyes. “The ifrit killed Lubayd.”

  Nahri swayed. Two dozen survivors. There had to have been hundreds—thousands of soldiers in the Citadel. Scores of Geziris in the palace. All dead in a matter of moments.

  It’s true what they say about you, isn’t it? About Qui-zi? About the war? Nahri closed her eyes.

  But it wasn’t heartbreak coursing through her right now. It was determination. Clearly, the man Nahri knew as Dara was gone—if he’d ever truly existed in the first place. This Dara was the Afshin first, the Scourge. He’d brought a war to Daevabad’s doorstep and declared himself a weapon of the Nahids.

  But he had no idea what kind of Nahid he’d just set himself against.

  Nahri rose to her feet. “We need to retrieve Suleiman’s seal,” she declared. “It’s our only hope of defeating them.” She glanced down at Ali, reaching out her hand. “Are you with me?”

  Ali took a deep breath but then clasped her hand and climbed to his feet. “Until the end.”

  “Good. We’ll need to find your father’s body first,” she said, trying not to think about what they’d need to do after that. “Last I saw him, we were on the platform where you took me stargazing.”

  “We’re not far, then. We can take a shortcut through the library.” He ran a hand anxiously over his beard and then recoiled, dropping his hand to pull the emerald ring off his thumb.

  “Ali, wait!” But Ali had yanked it off and tossed it away before Nahri could finish her protest. She braced herself as it clattered on the tiled floor, half expecting Ali to turn to ash. But he stayed solid, staring at her in surprise.

  “What?” he asked.

  “What?” She threw up her hands and then crossed to retrieve the ring. “What if part of the slave curse is still lingering between you and this, you idiot?”

  “It’s not,” Ali insisted. “They’d barely gotten it on my thumb when you arrived. I think they were arguing about it.”

  Arguing about it? God, she almost hoped so. She never could have imagined Dara giving another djinn to the ifrit that way. Not even his worst enemy.

  “I’d still like to keep it close,” she said, slipping the ring into her pocket. She pulled free the zulfiqar she’d awkwardly laced into her belt. “You should probably take this.”

  Ali looked ill at the sight of the zulfiqar that had struck down his brother. “I’ll fight with another weapon.”

  She leaned forward and pressed it into his hands. “You’ll fight with this. It’s what you’re best at.” She met his eyes. “Don’t let Muntadhir’s death be for nothing, Ali.”

  Ali’s hand closed over the hilt, and then they were moving, him leading her through a door that opened into a long, narrow passageway. It sloped downward, the air growing colder as they descended. Floating balls of conjured fire hissed overhead, setting Nahri’s nerves on edge.

  Neither of them spoke, but they hadn’t been walking long when a boom sounded and the ground shook slightly.

  Ali held out a hand to stop her, putting a finger to his lips. There was the unmistakable noise of a heavy object dragging along the dusty stone somewhere behind them.

  Nahri tensed. That wasn’t all she heard: from beyond the libra
ry’s silver door at the end of the passageway, a shriek sounded.

  “Maybe we should find another way,” she whispered, her mouth dry as dust.

  The door burst open.

  “Zahhak!” A Sahrayn scholar ran at them, his eyes wild, his robes flaming. “Zahhak!”

  Nahri broke apart from Ali, each of them flattening against the wall as the scholar raced by. The heat from his burning robes seared her face. Nahri turned back, opening her mouth to shout for him to stop . . .

  Just in time to see a smoky snake, its body nearly as wide as the corridor, come around the bend. The scholar didn’t even have a chance to scream. The snake swallowed him whole, revealing glittering obsidian fangs longer than Nahri’s arm.

  “Run!” she shrieked, pushing Ali toward the library.

  They ran full bore, diving through the door. Ali slammed it shut behind them, shoving himself against the metal as the massive snake crashed against it, rattling the frame.

  “Tell your palace to do something about this!” he shouted.

  Nahri quickly pressed her hands against the door’s decorative metal studs, hard enough to break her skin. She had yet to succeed in completely mastering the palace’s magic; it seemed to have its own mind, responding to her emotions with its own distinctive quirk.

  “Protect me,” she pleaded in Divasti.

  Nothing happened.

  “Nahri!” Ali cried, his feet slipping as the snake rammed the door again.

  “PROTECT ME!” she shouted in Arabic, adding a few choice curses that Yaqub would have lectured her for using. “I command you, damn it!”

  Her hands began smoking, and then the silver melted, spooling out to meld the door into the wall. She turned and fell back against the frame, breathing hard.

  Her eyes shot open. A creature the size of the Sphinx was careening through the air toward them.

  This had to be a nightmare. Not even in enchanted Daevabad did smoky beasts capable of devouring a village fly free. The creature soared on four billowing wings, crimson fire flashing beneath glimmering scales. It had a fanged mouth large enough to swallow a horse and six limbs ending in sharp claws. As Nahri watched, it shrieked, sounding lost as it dived for a fleeing scholar. It caught him in its claws and then flung him hard into the opposite wall as a surge of flames burst from its mouth.