The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “Banu Manizheh says it’ll take time, but at least I’m alive. Thanks to you,” she added, emotion thickening her voice. “I owe you more than I can ever repay, Afshin. I can’t imagine the Geziris had a pleasant fate in mind for me if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Dara insisted. He looked at them all, the warriors he’d trained in the frozen forests of northern Daevastana when he wasn’t certain they’d ever get to Daevabad. As terribly wrong as the invasion had gone, it had eased the division between his first crop of soldiers and himself. There was a trust, the camaraderie of having bonded and grieved together. “You are my brothers and sisters, understand? This is what we do for each other.”

  Irtemiz smiled and raised her cup. “To the Nahids.”

  Dara raised his bottle. “To the Daevas,” he corrected, feeling rebellious. He drank down the rest of the wine, his head finally starting to swim.

  “May we join you?”

  He glanced up. A pair of dancers had separated from the main troupe to approach his knot of drunken warriors, gliding forward on a wave of perfume and tinkling bells.

  “Suleiman’s eye,” Gushtap whispered, his black eyes going wide. Dara couldn’t blame him: the dancers were quite the sight—so stunning that it was hard to believe they weren’t using magic to enhance their full-lipped smiles and thick inky-black braids. Enough gold to provision a dozen brides draped their necks and wrists, sapphires winking from their ears.

  Unlike Gushtap, a farmer’s son barely past his first quarter century, Dara had enough familiarity with Daevabadi dancers to know the women would likely be disappointed by his band’s paltry offerings. However, he greeted them politely.

  “May the fires burn brightly for you, my ladies. You are welcome to our company and our wine, but I fear we cannot match the financial appreciation of the men out there.”

  Gushtap gave him a look that bordered on treason.

  But Dara’s words didn’t seem to deter the dancers. The first woman, wearing a dazzling collar of ruby roses, stepped forward.

  “I have danced for gold aplenty,” she replied, her gaze locking on his. “But never for the saviors of my tribe.”

  A little drunk, Dara spoke perhaps too honestly. “Is that what we are?”

  “It’s what you’re calling yourselves, no?”

  Charmed by the challenge in her eyes—as well as the pleading in Gushtap’s—Dara inclined his head, gesturing toward the long-necked lute the other woman carried. “Then we would be honored.”

  Dara had seen enough dancing in his life to know the woman was exquisitely skilled the moment she started spinning. She moved with such precision and elegance that it was impossible to look away, and though he’d said yes more as a favor to his men, Dara found himself spellbound and slightly emotional as she sang, her bejeweled fingers tracing whirling patterns in the air that seemed to illuminate the gentle curve of a lover’s cheek and the fall of tears. Her voice was lovely, the lyrics what they always were: love and loss and crushing heartbreak.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely when she finished. “That was beautiful. It must take a lifetime to learn to perform like that.”

  “No less time than I assume it takes to master archery,” she replied with a teasing smile. “Though the effect is more pleasant.”

  “Not when the songs are always so sad. Should love not be happier?”

  She laughed, a pleasant, tinkling laugh that, combined with the wine, stirred a bit of heat in Dara.

  “Poets don’t write songs about that kind of love. Tragedy makes for a better tale.” She held his gaze, boldness entering her expression. “Though were you to take me on a tour of the palace, I might sing you a sweeter one.”

  There was no mere stirring now. A bolt raced down his spine, the kind of ache he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Dara might have been brought back to life twice, but both times had been in new forms, bodies that never quite felt his. His urges had been infrequent—and the awful suspicion that he’d likely been used and abused by human masters in such a way for centuries left him with little desire.

  You desired Nahri. Badly, if he was to be honest. After being alone for so many years, the sudden presence of a beautiful woman with flashing black eyes and an acerbic tongue—who obviously hadn’t given a damn what Dara thought about her bathing in rivers and sleeping beside him—had shocked him out of his routine, and he’d wanted her, weaving fantasies at night that left him occasionally embarrassed to meet her eye the next morning.

  But now he and Nahri were on opposite sides, having both made their choice.

  And Dara wasn’t wallowing in his guilt tonight. He gazed at the beautiful dancer, and a moment of drunken recklessness consumed him. He embraced it, relishing the chance to briefly feel mortal again.

  He grabbed her outstretched hand. “I would be delighted.”

  If Dara had any doubts about the dancer’s true intentions, they were gone the moment the two of them slipped into the corridor. It was empty, the only sounds the distant feast and their labored breathing. She dragged him to her, her mouth and hands moving with professional speed, making him dizzy with lust. He didn’t have time to be nervous, his body falling back into the familiar rhythm.

  “Your room?” she gasped as he kissed her throat.

  “Too far.” Dara pulled her into the shadows and then took her against the wall, shoving her skirts past her hips. The transgression sent a thrill through him. Had an Afshin soldier been caught with a dancing girl in the hallowed halls of the Nahid palace in his day, they would have been whipped. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself even a hint of pleasure, let alone something so heedless and impulsive, and Dara moved faster as she cried out, tightening her legs around his waist.

  She sighed when they were done, pressing her brow against his. “Sweeter, yes?”

  Dara drew a shaky breath, his body still trembling. “Yes.” He eased her back to the ground. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me?” She laughed. “Whatever for, you beautiful, tragic man? I’m the envy of half of Daevabad right now.”

  “For letting me feel normal,” he murmured. “However briefly.”

  She smiled, brushing down her skirts. “Then you’re welcome. I look forward to scandalizing my granddaughters one day with tales of the night I made the great Darayavahoush feel normal.”

  He leaned back against the wall, adjusting his own clothes, a bit scandalized himself at how carried away he’d just gotten. In mere moments, she looked untouched and he marveled at the skill. “What’s it like working for Muntadhir?” Dara asked knowingly.

  She hesitated only a moment and then winked. “Never dull, that’s for certain.”

  “I am honored he sent such a talented acquaintance my way. And glad the promised sweetness was not an iron blade between my ribs.”

  The dancer turned over a few of the floral gems he’d upset around her neck. “He has the same flaw as many men in his class, however.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The tendency to underestimate women. Especially common ones.” She met his eyes again, a new fierceness in her gaze. “A failure to recognize we can be patriots, no matter the coins in our hands.”

  “If this is a warning, you chose a very interesting way to pass it along.”

  “I figured I might as well enjoy the process. But no, I do not have a warning, Darayavahoush. I wish I did. All I can tell you is that he’s a dangerous man. A very dangerous one. He is handsome and charming and loves so openly and generously that people miss it. But he is every bit his father’s son, and if the emir wins through convincing what Ghassan won by fear, trust me when I say the consequences will be just as deadly.”

  Any lingering ardor vanished. “Muntadhir seems to care about Daevabad. Surely he would not ruin what little stability we are building.”

  She stepped forward, cradling his face. “I pray you are right.” She ran a thumb over Dara’s bottom lip, sorrow creasing her expression. �
��They will sing a thousand songs about you.”

  “Sad ones?”

  “They are the best.” She turned away. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Darayavahoush e-Afshin.”

  Trying to shake off the gloom already reclaiming him, Dara called out, “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She glanced back. “We common women are wise enough to enjoy a taste of heat without staying to be burned.”

  She walked away without another word and Dara watched her go, suddenly certain he’d never see her again. He ran his fingers through his hair. Well, that was not quite how he imagined this evening going.

  He turned over her words regarding Muntadhir. That the calculating emir couldn’t be trusted was not new information, but Dara did believe he had Daevabad’s best interests at heart, and none of them wanted an intracity civil war between the tribes. Still, perhaps now that he’d made his introductions to the Daeva nobles, it was time to cut Muntadhir out.

  Dara’s head swam. Creator, this was not what he wanted to think about now. The wine buzzing in his veins, his body still tingling … Dara didn’t feel like already reassuming the mantle of the brooding Afshin, the Scourge responsible for ending and protecting so many lives. He was tempted to rejoin his men but knew they’d have a better time if their commander was not among them. And yet he wasn’t ready to retire to the small, sad room he’d claimed near the stables.

  He pushed away from the wall. The pale stone of the empty corridor winding away in the distance, patterned with moonlight from the marble screens, looked inviting, and Dara suddenly had the desire to walk. He snapped his fingers, conjuring a cup of familiar date wine, and took a sip, savoring its sweetness. To hell with Muntadhir’s snobbery. This was far better than that expensive grape swill the emir favored.

  Dara walked and drank, trying not to stagger too much. His steps rang out on the floor as he trailed his fingers over faded frescoes and ruined plaster. Ahead a shadowed entryway beckoned, and he stopped, struck by the odd location—half tucked away and surrounded by far grander doors. He touched the cool marble of the arch.

  This must have had magic before everything went to hell. A simple conjurement would conceal this entry quite well or give it the appearance of a dull, boring door—the kind that became harder to see the longer you looked.

  Intrigued and having nothing better to do, Dara stepped through.

  DARA WALKED FOR WHAT FELT LIKE AT LEAST AN HOUR, conjuring a handful of flames to lead him through a maze of abandoned corridors and crumbling stone steps. The pathways were long neglected, the dust thick enough that had someone come through, their footsteps would have remained. He swatted aside dozens of cobwebs, the movement sending rats skittering.

  When the air turned foul, the stone mossy and slick, Dara began to question his judgment. He’d stopped drinking, figuring if he got lost down here, date wine was not going to help him. But his people were feasting and celebrating above him, he might still be able to track down that very accommodating dancer, and instead he was choosing to follow a hunch through moldy basement passages in a haunted palace? Those were not the actions of a sane man.

  The corridor ended in a pair of low, grimy doors, the lintel barely coming to his shoulders. Lifting his handful of flames, Dara knelt to examine the doors. There were no knobs or pulls, but he could make out the glimmer of a round copper panel about the size of his hand.

  A blood seal. The Geziris were fond of them. Perhaps it hadn’t been Nahids who’d built this mysterious place, but rather Qahtanis.

  He kicked the doors in. The diminutive entrance was deceptive, for Dara could tell the moment he entered that the chamber was immense, swallowing his handful of flames in gloom. An unpleasant tang hung in the air, and Dara wrinkled his nose as he sent his flames spinning out in dozens of fiery balls. They danced along the ceiling, illumination spreading in uneven waves.

  His eyes went wide. “Creator have mercy,” he whispered.

  The cavern was full of the dead.

  Elaborate stone sarcophagi and crude wooden boxes. Coffins that could have fit four and tiny ones meant for children. Some looked well preserved while others were crumbling into dust, revealing blackened shards of bone.

  Dara’s stomach churned. All djinn and Daeva burned their dead within days of their passing, the one tradition they all still held from their earliest ancestors. They were creatures of fire, meant to return to the flames which birthed them. What reason could the Qahtanis possibly have had for building some secret crypt? Was this a sign of forbidden magic, the kind of blood enchantments the ifrit practiced?

  Leave. Leave this place now and seal it up. Dara was suddenly, terribly certain that whatever was here, it was meant to stay buried.

  But part of him was still the Afshin first, unable to walk away from a secret his enemies had clearly tried to hide.

  His dread growing, Dara approached a low desk beside a rack of lead-sealed scrolls. The scrolls themselves got him nowhere—Dara couldn’t read his own language, let alone Geziriyya. Tossing a scroll aside, he knelt to examine the desk, discovering a row of small drawers. He jiggled one free, snapping the soft wooden runner.

  Inside was a single item: a smooth copper box. Dara picked it up with a frown, noticing the faint etchings of another blood seal, broken now as all djinn magic was.

  Dara held the box for a long moment, his heart racing. And then he opened it.

  It took a moment for his mind and his eyes to meet. For the battered brass amulet—the kind his tribe wore to preserve its relics—to register as personally familiar. For Dara to remember the dent in one side was from a dagger strike, the scratches from a simurgh’s talons.

  To remember ripping this very same amulet from his neck fourteen hundred years ago when he realized he was not going to escape the ifrit who’d come for him on a moon-lit, blood-drenched battlefield.

  Dara dropped the box. It fell softly upon the dank earth, and every conjured flame flickered out.

  MUNTADHIR STUMBLED, FALLING TO HIS KNEES BEFORE Dara hauled him back up by his collar. Manizheh and Kaveh followed at their heels, tense and silent. They’d exchanged few words since Dara had reappeared in the throne room as the party wound down, covered in dust and striding for Muntadhir as if there was no one else in the world. They hadn’t needed to say much.

  The way Muntadhir’s face drained of color upon hearing the word “crypt” was enough.

  The emir hadn’t spoken either, breathing too fast and too loud as Dara dragged him through the musty passageway. They’d reached the end now, and Dara shoved him through the doors, flinging fire into the torches lining the walls.

  “Explain,” he demanded.

  Manizheh entered, Kaveh at her side.

  The grand wazir gasped, recoiling from the nearest tomb. “Are these bodies?”

  “Ask the emir.” Dara threw one of the scrolls at Muntadhir’s feet. “These records are in Geziriyya. And while we’re at it”—he lifted his relic in the air, tempted to smash it into the other man’s skull—“I’d like to know how my relic ended up in Zaydi al Qahtani’s possession.”

  “What?” Manizheh strode across the room. She snatched the amulet from Dara’s hand.

  A thousand emotions seemed to pass over her face, her expression settling on anguish. “They had it,” she whispered. “All this time, all those years …”

  “Talk, al Qahtani,” Dara demanded. “What do you know of this?”

  Muntadhir was trembling. “No more than you.” When Dara snarled, he dropped to his knees again. “I swear to God! Look around; this place is older than my father. Than his father. We had nothing to do with it. I don’t know how my ancestors got your relic!”

  “I can imagine how.” Dara clenched his fists, trying to contain the fire aching to break free. “Qandisha knew where I was. She knew my name. Zaydi must have brokered a deal with them. The coward knew he couldn’t defeat me on the battlefield, so he sold me out to the ifrit.”

  The emi
r was still staring at him, despair and doom written into his face as if Muntadhir knew all too well how this was going to end for him. And still a hint of defiance blazed in his broken voice. “I’m glad he did.”

  Kaveh rushed between them, putting himself in front of Muntadhir before Dara could charge. “No,” he warned. “Calm yourself, Afshin.”

  “Calm myself? They sold me into slavery!”

  “You don’t know that.” Kaveh put a hand on his shoulder. “Look around. He’s not lying about the age of this place. And even if Zaydi did …” His voice lowered. “It wasn’t Muntadhir. He’s proving useful—you yourself said so.”

  Manizheh hadn’t spoken again, instead walking into the forest of coffins and sarcophagi. She ran her fingers over a dusty stone slab. “These are Nahids, aren’t they?”

  Dara froze, shocked at the suggestion, but Muntadhir’s expression was already crumbling.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  She stroked the tomb, as though touching the arm of a loved one. “All of us?”

  Shame swept over Muntadhir’s face. “From what my father knew—yes. Since the war.”

  “I see.” Grief edged her voice. “Where is my brother?”

  “He’s not here. My father had Rustam and you—whoever he thought was you—cremated at the Grand Temple. He said when he first became king, he wanted to have all the bodies burned and blessed, but …”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did. So my parents, my grandmother …” Manizheh glanced up, catching the pair of small coffins. “Children. We were defeated. You kept us locked in the infirmary like useful pets. You killed the ones who were too defiant, disappeared the pretty ones who caught a royal eye. And after all that, not even in death could we be granted peace.” She motioned to the scrolls. “Are these records, or did no one bother to note their names?”

  “They’re records,” Muntadhir stammered. “They’re in Geziriyya, but I can’t read them.”

  “We’ll find someone who can.”

  Dara gazed upon the hundreds of dead. His Blessed Nahids, reduced to rotting in their shrouds.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why did your people do this?”