The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Wajed spoke up. “We … intervened,” he said delicately. “The king didn’t tell us how he knew the truth of Jamshid’s parentage, but it was clear Kaveh didn’t realize he’d been found out.”

  “And Jamshid was an innocent. A child,” Hatset said. “One who apparently had no healing abilities, but who knew what the future might hold? Manizheh’s blood—his mother’s blood—was strong, and the rest of the Nahids were dead. We could bring this one into the fold and make him loyal. Valuable.”

  Valuable. Ali’s stomach dropped at the word. “Jamshid,” he breathed. “You’re saying that Jamshid is Manizheh’s son?” He spun on Nahri, expecting to see her looking equally shocked. “But that would make him …”

  “My brother,” Nahri finished. “And I thank you, my queen, for that illuminating story. Tell me, at the point when the pair of you had to counsel Ghassan against slaughtering innocent children, did you ever stop to contemplate the consequences of serving such a tyrant? Or was violence in Daevabad acceptable until it affected your people?”

  Wajed went red. “If you think to justify the slaughter of thousands of Geziris—”

  “Enough.” Ali swayed on his feet, but when he spoke, he made sure the command was clear. “You will take us to Jamshid. Now.”

  23

  ALI

  The corridor that led to Jamshid’s cell was clean and simple: lime-washed walls with high narrow windows. It didn’t look like the blood-soaked torture chamber that Daevabad’s dungeon was rumored to be, but it was still a prison, and Nahri’s anger—white-hot since the majlis—howled inside her like an animal. Had she her magic, Nahri thought she might be capable of the things Manizheh had done, breaking bones from across the room and seizing control of people’s limbs. There had to be an outlet for rage like this, a release so it wouldn’t devour her from within.

  You naive little girl. Her mother’s words on the palace roof came back in a rush, mingling with the suspicion in Musa’s eyes, the open hate in Wajed’s, and Hatset’s awful story. Nahri couldn’t condone what Manizheh had done to the Geziris, but she suddenly feared that putting herself in the hands of the djinn had been a terrible mistake.

  At her side, Ali moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers. “You knew,” he said, speaking softly in Arabic so they wouldn’t be overheard. “You knew about Jamshid.”

  Her reply was curt. “Yes.”

  He sighed. “I wish you had told me. There weren’t supposed to be any more secrets between us, and I feel like we just fell into a trap.”

  “And that’s my fault? I came here to make peace, not get set upon by your mother and Wajed. Did you not hear what they said about Jamshid? My brother’s entire life is a lie because of your father!”

  “I know, Nahri. I know, all right?” And indeed, she saw only frustrated sympathy in Ali’s gray eyes. “But that’s why you and I need to be united—against the rest of them if necessary.” He touched her hand. “I meant everything I said to you in Cairo and back on the beach. I am your partner in this, your friend. I’m not going to betray you.”

  “And if you’re not enough?” The question burst from her, giving voice to her fear. “They’ve already locked up one Daeva. What if we can’t convince them that this fight is against Manizheh, not my entire tribe?”

  Ali’s expression grew fierce. “Jamshid is getting out of that cell today. They either let him out, or you and I break him out, we join Fiza’s crew, and the three of us try our hand at piracy.”

  His words didn’t vanquish her anger, but Nahri felt a little fear ebb away at the promise of a backup plan, even a ridiculous one. “Fine,” she muttered, giving his hand a squeeze before letting it go.

  They kept walking, following Wajed down a twisting staircase that ended in a hall of earth-packed walls. A single window let in a dusty ray of light, illuminating a row of wooden doors. All were open save one, which sported a new, human-looking metal lock and a heavy beam barring the entrance. Two soldiers sat on mats just outside, playing some sort of card game.

  They shot to their feet when Ali entered, their eyes going wider as they took in Nahri at his side.

  “Your Highness,” one stammered, falling into an awkward bow. “Forgive us,” he added, kicking the cards into the corner. “We didn’t realize—”

  “There is nothing to forgive. Is this where Jamshid e-Pramukh is being kept?” Ali asked, nodding at the locked door.

  “Yes, my prince,” the other djinn said nervously. His gaze darted to Nahri. “But he’s made a mess of the place. I can prepare a different cell for her if—”

  “No,” Ali cut in, silencing the other man as if he felt Nahri’s temper spiking again. “We won’t be locking up any more Daevas as of today.” He held out his palm. “The key, please.”

  Wajed had clearly been checking his tongue since their fight in the majlis, but he spoke up now. “My prince, I’m not certain that’s wise. Pramukh has already tried to escape twice.”

  “And once he’s free, he won’t have to attempt a third. The key. Now.”

  The Ayaanle soldier obeyed, pulling a key from his pocket and handing it to Ali, who promptly gave it to Nahri.

  “Thank you,” Ali said politely. “Your assistance is appreciated. Qaid, would you and these men please go speak to my mother about finding rooms for our Daeva guests?”

  Wajed looked like he would rather have shoved Nahri into a cell, but she knew enough about royal protocol to know he wouldn’t question a Qahtani in front of his men. “Of course, my prince,” he said, his voice cool.

  Nahri waited until they left and then quickly fit the key into the lock.

  Ali helped her with the crossbeam. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

  I don’t know. Now that she was facing the prospect of speaking to the man she knew was her brother, Nahri felt uncertain. She and Jamshid were friends, yes, but it wasn’t a relationship that time and their respective positions had let deepen. She had been his Banu Nahida first.

  And he had belonged to Muntadhir. How was Nahri, never the most empathetic of people if she was honest, going to find the words to shatter his world? It didn’t sound like Hatset or Wajed had bothered to keep Jamshid in the loop. Was she supposed to just walk in and announce he was a Nahid and that his parents had been behind the invasion that murdered the man he loved?

  She shivered. “No, not yet.” She didn’t imagine Ali would be helpful—Jamshid didn’t seem to like him—but she could use the support. She opened the door.

  It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloomy light. Like the corridor, Jamshid’s cell had a small window, barred and no bigger than a man’s head. A single oil lamp burned in one corner, the eastern corner, her heart aching as she realized the cup of water and a half-burnt twig beside it were an attempt at a fire altar. A messy floor desk was piled with paper and books, half-stacked in toppled piles.

  Jamshid himself was curled upon a sleeping pallet, facing the wall. He hadn’t stirred when they opened the door, and for a moment, Nahri panicked, fearing she was too late before she spotted the rise of his chest.

  “Jamshid?” she called.

  A single tremor raced down his body, and he rolled over.

  Dazed black eyes locked on hers. “Nahri?” Jamshid sat up, swaying like he was drunk. Then he lurched forward. “Nahri!”

  She rushed to catch him, pulling him into a hug. “Thought you could use some company.”

  Jamshid clutched her tight. “Oh, thank the Creator. I was so worried about you.” He released her. “Are you okay? How did you get here? They said everyone in the palace was killed!”

  “I’m okay,” she managed. Her brother, on the other hand, looked awful, his face thin and pale, his beard overgrown, and his black hair hanging in tangled waves. “Are you all right? Have they been mistreating you?”

  Jamshid scowled. “They flap their mouths but haven’t laid hands on me. They’re too afraid of—” He abruptly stopped talking, his attention shifting behind her. “Alizayd?”r />
  Ali awkwardly cleared his throat. “Hello.”

  Wild optimism lit Jamshid’s gaze. “If you’re alive, does that mean … is Muntadhir here as well?” he asked frantically. “Did he make it out with you?”

  Nahri’s heart dropped. “No. I’m sorry, Jamshid. Muntadhir … he didn’t make it out.”

  She could see the hope literally vanish from her brother’s eyes. Jamshid swallowed loudly, looking like he was trying to pull on his courtier’s facade. “I see.” He turned back to Ali. “Then why are you here?”

  Ali hadn’t moved from the doorway. “What?” he whispered.

  “I asked why are you here, al Qahtani? Because protecting Muntadhir was your job, your entire life’s duty, and if you’re standing here, I can only assume you failed or betrayed him. So which is it?”

  Ali rocked back on his heels, the accusation richoceting around the cell. Weeks of healing seemed to unwind from his face in the blink of an eye. “I didn’t betray him. I would never.”

  “Then you’re a coward.”

  “Jamshid.” Nahri stepped between them. “He’s not a coward. And it’s not his fault. Muntadhir chose to protect his family and his kingdom the best way he knew. It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen, and I won’t hear anyone dishonor it.”

  But her words didn’t seem to reach her brother. Jamshid was starting to shake, fresh grief ripping across his face. “He shouldn’t have had to make that choice. He wasn’t the one trained to.”

  Ali stepped closer, looking like he was aching to make this right. “Jamshid, I’m sorry. I truly am. I know how close—”

  “Oh, do you know how close?” Jamshid let out a hysterical laugh. “Because I distinctly remember having to hide how close we were because of men like you.”

  Nahri tried to intervene again. “Jamshid—”

  “No,” he cut in, his voice breaking. “I have spent my life shutting my mouth while the djinn crush my people. While they crush me, my father, my neighbors—you. Their lies and their politics have made a cage of my life, and now I want you to see who this man really is. This prince I tried to befriend only to have him turn around and order me to throw another man in the lake.” He glared at Ali. “I loved your brother, understand? He was the love of my life.”

  Ali opened his mouth. He didn’t look angry—he looked astonished, as though still trying to connect the dots.

  And then it fell into place.

  “But that’s not possible,” Ali stammered. “Muntadhir wasn’t … I mean, there were so many women—”

  Jamshid bellowed in outrage, lunging for a slipper on the floor and hurling it at Ali’s head. The prince ducked, and Nahri moved between them again, deciding today’s effort at uniting her allies was over.

  “Ali, go. I’ve got this.”

  He made a strangled sound of assent, his eyes still wide as he reached for the door, backing out of the cell as if he’d stumbled upon a cobra.

  The moment Ali was gone, the rage left Jamshid’s face, and he collapsed, falling into a crouch on the dirt floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that in front of you. But when you both walked in, I thought …” He sucked for air. “I thought maybe there was a chance.” He fell forward into his hands, his shoulders trembling as he sobbed. “Creator, Muntadhir, how could you? How could you?”

  Nahri watched him, frozen in shock. This grieving man who looked like he hadn’t bothered even combing his fingers through his overgrown hair in days wasn’t the Jamshid she knew, the quietly dutiful nobleman whose words and behavior had always been so precise. He suddenly felt like a stranger—like someone who’d just hurt her actual friend—and for a moment Nahri was terribly uncertain.

  He’s not a stranger. He’s your brother. But “brother” was a foreign term to Nahri—she didn’t know what that kind of relationship was supposed to look like. The siblings she’d spent the most time with were the Qahtanis—and if she’d occasionally envied the protective closeness between Zaynab and her brothers, the rest of the royal family’s explosive drama had made her feel better about supposedly being an orphan.

  Try, just try. Nahri knelt at his side, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Jamshid. Just breathe.”

  “I can’t.” He wiped his eyes. “Muntadhir … he used to tell me how terrified he was as a kid of Manizheh. Darayavahoush despised him. What kind of end was that for him?”

  “A brave one. He made me give him Dara’s bow so he could shoot him with it.” Nahri hesitated, searching for anything that might give Jamshid some comfort. “A quick one. He took a mortal blow during the battle. He knew he wasn’t going to survive and feared he would only slow us down.” That was a half-truth, but now decidedly did not seem the time for the details of Muntadhir’s death.

  Jamshid took a ragged breath and then straightened up. Nahri had to fight not to flinch. This close, his resemblance to Manizheh was unmistakable, the ghost of their mother’s face in her brother’s elegant winged brows and long-lashed eyes.

  The shame that engulfed his expression, however, was all Jamshid. “What I said to Alizayd about Muntadhir and me … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that in front of you. We never—I mean, after you married …”

  Nahri took his hand. “Again, you don’t have to apologize. I already knew, and things were never going to be like that between him and me. But you should know—before we escaped, Muntadhir asked me to tell you that he loved you. And that he was sorry he hadn’t stood up for you sooner.”

  Jamshid squeezed his eyes shut. “I used to tell him he was selfish. Creator, I wish he’d stayed that way in the end and gotten himself out. But Daevabad always came first,” he said bitterly.

  A mantra you might be adopting soon, Baga Nahid. Nahri hugged her knees. “What have Hatset and Wajed told you?”

  “I know the city fell and magic vanished. Scouts caught up with us while we were still in Am Gezira, fleeing on stolen horses like demons were after them. They said Banu Manizheh and the Afshin were back from the dead, and that my father helped them kill the king and all the Geziris in the palace.”

  Nahri’s heart beat fast. “So they didn’t say anything about … you?”

  “About me? No. I mean, they’ve been threatening me and making pretty damn clear what they think about Daevas, but otherwise they seem content to let me go mad alone down here.” Jamshid drew back, narrowing his eyes. “Why? You look worried. Is there something else?”

  You might say that. “Jamshid,” Nahri began, “after the Navasatem attack, you wanted to speak to me. Your wounds were gone, you spoke to Razu in an extinct dialect of Tukharistani …”

  He rubbed his head. “That seems like a thousand years ago,” he confessed. “I don’t know, maybe the Nahid magic you summoned to stop the Rumi fire finally healed me.”

  “It wasn’t just me summoning Nahid magic.” When Jamshid only gave her a more confused look, Nahri continued. “You’ve told me before that you know very little about your mother except that she was supposedly a servant, someone scandalous from a lower class. That she died when you were a baby, and your father never spoke about her.” She met his eyes. “Jamshid, your mother wasn’t from a lower class. She was from … as high as they go in our tribe. And she’s not dead.”

  Jamshid stared at her. There was another moment or two of bewilderment in his expression and then shock—denial—coursed across his face. “You can’t be saying …”

  “I’m saying it. Manizheh is your mother. Ghassan confronted your father when we were arrested, and Kaveh confirmed it. You’re a Nahid, Banu Manizheh’s son.”

  “I’m not.” Jamshid jumped up, pacing away. “I can’t be,” he insisted, pressing his hands to his temples. “I—I’m normal! I don’t have any healing abilities. By the Creator, I dropped out of the priesthood. I’m definitely not one of Suleiman’s chosen!”

  “To be fair,” she tried, “I do believe the priests are meant
to honor us, not the other way around.”

  Jamshid’s eyes only went wider.

  Nahri rose as well. “Jamshid, trust that I know how hard this is to hear—you’re talking to a woman who didn’t believe in anything magical only six years ago. But I wouldn’t be telling you this if it wasn’t true. Ghassan implied Manizheh must have done something to mask your abilities, but he knew the moment he saw you as a child.” She touched her cheek. “We have Suleiman’s seal marked on our faces. Only the ring-bearer can see it, but it’s there. Ghassan knew all this time. Hatset and Wajed as well.”

  Jamshid jerked back. “Does Alizayd know?”

  “They just told him.”

  “Of course.” He looked devastated. “So, Ghassan and Hatset. Wajed and Ali.” He clenched his hands into fists. “Do you think Muntadhir—”

  “No.” Nahri had no proof, but everything in her heart denied it. “I don’t think he knew.”

  “I don’t understand this.” Jamshid tugged at his beard, looking very close to pulling it out. “My father spoke of the Nahids with reverence, with grief. He gave not a damn hint away. They were like legends until I met …” His wide eyes met hers. “You,” he whispered. “Oh.”

  Nahri flushed, feel oddly exposed. “Yes, I guess this makes us siblings. But it’s fine if that’s not the kind of relationship you want to have.”

  Jamshid stepped closer, reaching for her hand. “Of course that’s the kind of relationship I want to have. You being my sister would be the best thing that’s happened to me in years.”

  The sincerity in his voice only made her blush more. “It would be nice not to be the only non-murdering Nahid.” It was as close as Nahri could get to acknowledging her emotions.

  Jamshid paled. “Yes, I suppose we’ll have to talk about that. About her.” He glanced up. “Is my father …?”