The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Jamshid glanced up. “Tell Muntadhir I’m coming to him next to check the bandage on his eye, and if he’s fussed with it, I’m going to stick him in the eastern ward with the other children until he learns to follow directions.”

  “Will do.” The Qahtani princess swept past Dara like he was a speck of dirt.

  Aqisa, however, did stop. “Still hope to gut you one day,” she said with a pleasant smile before following Zaynab.

  Dara grunted in response, and Razu laid a hand on his shoulder. She and Elashia had planted themselves on either side of him, and Dara got the strong impression that if he made any sudden movements, he was going to find out just what kind of magic the women held.

  But all other thoughts fled when Nahri stirred, mumbling in her sleep. Dara’s heart lurched, and Razu tightened her grip on his shoulder.

  Subha knelt at Nahri’s side. “Banu Nahida?” she called softly. “Can you hear me?”

  Nahri blinked slowly, clearly fighting the last vestiges of sleep. The sight made Dara ache, reminding him of the mornings on their journey so long ago. “Subha?” she croaked. “Is it really you?”

  The doctor smiled. “Welcome back, my friend.”

  Nahri looked weary and more than a little confused. “I’m sorry about your headache. And one of you …” Her dazed black gaze traveled the room. “One of you is so nauseated I can’t focus.”

  The shafit girl Dara hadn’t been introduced to—the extremely disreputable-looking one who’d been waving a gun at Alizayd’s side when they burst onto the roof after Nahri had passed out—flushed. “Sorry. I made some poor choices when celebrating our victory.”

  Faint surprise lit Nahri’s face. “Did we win, then?” she asked, her voice strained.

  “We won.” Jamshid moved closer, bringing a cup to her lips. “Drink. You sound like a drunk frog.”

  Nahri scowled. “I didn’t give you magic back so you could mock me.” She took a sip of the water. “Speaking of water, the marid …”

  “Are satisfied,” Alizayd said. “Very satisfied. They’re celebrating in the lake as we speak—or at least I think they’re celebrating. They’re a very weird lot.” His voice softened. “You did it, Nahri. You saved the city.”

  Dara watched their gazes meet, the prince’s strange eyes glowing. An expression Dara couldn’t read flickered on Nahri’s face, gone the next minute, replaced by a small, sad smile. “And you came back,” she said.

  There was something so fragile and raw in her voice that Dara stepped forward, uncaring about the many hostile glances immediately aimed his way.

  “You should be resting,” he announced. “All this talking, it will tax you.” Suddenly aware he’d made himself known only to tell Nahri what to do yet again, Dara flushed. “I mean, if you want to rest. It is, of course, your choice,” he added quickly, bringing his fingertips together in respect.

  Ah, well, now everyone was simply staring at him like he was a fool.

  But then the corner of Nahri’s mouth lifted, quirking in what might have been a sarcastic smile and sending his heart tumbling end over end. “I am glad for your change in disposition,” she said drily. She sat up, wincing and then glancing askance at her cup as the water in it abruptly boiled. “It’s going to take some time to get used to this magic.”

  “It suits you,” Dara said softly. “The magic. The seal. All of it.”

  Nahri met his gaze again, this time looking more uncertain. “Thanks.”

  Better uncertain than recoiling. But now that she was awake, the awful things he’d said to her came back. “You do not need to thank me. I should be at your feet for what happened on the roof. For the lies and shooting you—”

  Alizayd whirled on him, and the temperature in the room dropped, a clammy chill sweeping the air. “You shot her?”

  “Wasn’t more than a scratch,” Nahri lied, putting her hand on the prince’s wrist. “I heal quickly. And it worked, Dara. That’s all that matters.”

  But the damage had been done, the room so tense Dara felt even more violently out of place. He realized the others were already settling in—Fiza and Elashia adjusting Nahri’s cushions, Subha taking her pulse, and Jamshid holding her simmering cup. Against the crush of blankets, Nahri was still holding Alizayd’s wrist.

  She belongs to them. And they to her. Dara bowed his head, feeling the weight of his choices and his centuries settle heavily over his shoulders. “I will not burden you further. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  He stepped toward the door.

  “Dara?”

  He glanced back.

  Nahri still looked guarded, but her voice was firm when she spoke. “I was glad to have saved your life. I’m glad that you chose to stay in this world.”

  He brought his hands up in blessing again, taking refuge in protocol as he bowed low. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahida.”

  Razu left with him, pulling the door closed behind them. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “I do not need a guide,” Dara grumbled, fighting heartache. “I know this city better than all of you.”

  “Glad to see your spirit has remained intact, but think of this more as ‘let’s make sure he actually leaves.’ Come.”

  He scowled but followed her down the darkened corridor. “Will she be okay here?”

  “Of course.” Razu sounded surprised by the question. “This is her hospital; people loved her here before she rescued the city from Manizheh and restored their magic.”

  The image of the packed room came to his mind again. “I did not realize the roots she’d put down in Daevabad. The family she created.” It was the best word he knew to describe the crush of bickering, worried people who’d been hovering over Nahri. Daevas and djinn and shafit. From all the tribes. From different faiths.

  Dara hadn’t realized something like that was possible.

  “Well, she is charming.” Razu sounded wistful. “God, in another life, she and I could’ve cleaned out half the gambling halls in old Arshi.”

  “And in what century did Arshi fall?”

  “The Creator only knows.” Razu shrugged. “I try not to think about the passage of time. I’d go mad if I thought about my old life too often.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dara muttered. “Still, you have a place here. A purpose. A life you have made and enjoy.”

  “Do you not think you can do the same?”

  “I have not missed that you are taking me the long way out the back.”

  Razu’s expression dimmed. “I thought it best we avoid running into, well, anyone. I believe you were under Manizheh’s control when you attacked the quarters, but many don’t. They believe it too convenient. They’re angry and grieving and want to see someone punished.”

  Of course they do. It had been fourteen centuries since Qui-zi, and still he’d been known as the Scourge. How many centuries would this newest horror take to atone for?

  “I should not have come to the hospital,” Dara said, the realization making him ill. “I am sorry. You should not have to be guiding me about like this—I don’t wish the hatred people have for me to hang on you.”

  “Oh, believe me, Afshin, I can handle myself.”

  They kept walking, emerging from a back door that led into the street. It was still early in the morning, and there weren’t yet many people out.

  Which meant not much blocked Dara’s view of the devastated neighborhoods stretching from the hospital to the broken midan. The bodies had been removed, but dark stains, torn clothing, and abandoned shoes marked where they’d been killed, surrounded by the contents of smashed buildings—broken pots, filthy quilts, and shattered toys. The products of a lifetime, homes that had housed generations, destroyed in moments.

  By him. In one corner, he’d started to conjure tents for shelters earlier before literally getting chased out. His victims didn’t want his help.

  And Dara didn’t blame them. “I should have stood up to Manizheh sooner,” he said bitterly. “C
reator, a day earlier. An hour. So many people would still be alive.”

  “Afshin, if you’re looking for absolution, you won’t find it from me,” Razu replied. “But I don’t think any of us realized how far she’d fallen. Not in a thousand years would I have believed her capable of murdering other Daevas for blood magic, let alone enslaving her own Afshin.”

  That’s not all she was capable of. In his bones, Dara knew the nobles weren’t the only Daevas she’d killed: Manizheh had murdered her brother as well. The story she’d told of Rustam wanting to sacrifice his newborn niece—Dara would put money on those roles being reversed.

  “I cannot even imagine how we fix all this,” he confessed.

  “Bit by bit. I find even the most impossible tasks seem less daunting from the inside. And we all have our own strengths, our roles to play.”

  Dara grimaced. “I suppose.”

  “Afshin, can I ask you something?” When he nodded, Razu ventured forth. “Do you love her? Truly love her?”

  “I did not say you could ask me that.” If Dara had doubted his feelings for Nahri would survive all their betrayals and battles, he’d known the moment she’d smiled at him from her hospital bed that he was besotted as ever.

  “Yes,” he answered after a time. “I love her. More than my life. I do not imagine I will ever love another in such a manner.”

  Razu gave him a sad smile. “Then make sure you follow your own words back there. She is young and brilliant, and despite everything, seems to have pulled through with soul intact.” Her smile faded. “Make sure you are not her burden.”

  KARTIR SAT BACK ON THE CUSHIONED BENCH, DESPAIR in his face as he gestured to the scattered relics across the floor. “They’re gone. Every single vessel we’d been keeping safe.”

  Dara knelt on the ground, picking up one of the relics. “How many?”

  “Thirty-seven.” Kartir’s voice was hollow. “And that’s only from our records. I strongly suspect Manizheh gave the ifrit some of the ‘traitors’ she had arrested as well. She threatened us with that during interrogation. I would never have wanted to imagine such a thing, but men went missing, and …” He trailed off, looking very old. “Vizaresh travels on lightning. He could have scattered them across the world by now, and there’s no way to trace them.”

  Dara kept picking up the relics. It didn’t seem right for them to be on the floor. And yet the djinn and Daevas they belonged to were already possibly in a far worse state of affairs, waking to new human masters after the somber peace of the Temple. His memories of Manizheh’s awful, gripping control came back to him, the way he’d been reduced to wailing in his head as his lips commanded destruction and his hand cut through innocents.

  He swayed on his knees and reached out to steady himself on the bench. No one should have to go through that. “If they can’t be traced, how were the vessels found in the first place?”

  Kartir sighed. “Luck. On occasion, the ifrit would return one themselves, usually a victim who’d been particularly traumatized, to terrorize us further. But mostly it’s luck. A djinn traveler hears a rumor of an oddly powerful human or an event with possibly magical roots. It’s like looking for a particular grain of sand on the beach.”

  Creator have mercy. That went beyond luck—it sounded like an impossible task.

  Dara set the collected relics aside and joined Kartir on the bench. “I still cannot believe she gave them to Vizaresh.”

  “She slaughtered scores of innocents for blood magic and had you destroy a fifth of the city. I’d think it would be easy to believe her capable of doing worse to victims who couldn’t protest.” Kartir rubbed his brow, his head uncharacteristically bare. “I keep wondering if I could have changed things. I’d known Manizheh since she was born, watched her grow up. Watched her be crushed,” he said more softly. “I failed her. I should have counseled her better.”

  “She didn’t need your counsel, my friend. She needed a different world.” For no matter what Manizheh had done, part of Dara would always mourn her in a way he suspected no one else would, not even Jamshid. Dara had been in Manizheh’s place—had seen his loved ones killed and his people crushed—and had believed, truly believed, that their cause was worth any amount of bloodshed.

  He hadn’t lied to her on the roof, even as he’d twisted his words to seize his freedom. Dara had understood Manizheh. He’d wanted peace for her.

  He hoped wherever she was now, she found it.

  “A different world,” Kartir repeated faintly. “I pray we can create it. I do have faith, at least, that Banu Nahri and Baga Jamshid will be better.”

  “Do you think Nahri will take the throne with Muntadhir?”

  The priest laughed. “They are already divorced. When I visited the Banu Nahida at the hospital this morning, I found them taking tea over the burning remains of their marriage contract, and it was the happiest I’ve ever seen them together. When I asked her about the throne, she told me she’d rather deal with vomiting patients than ‘sit in a fancy chair I would just as soon pawn while listening to useless petitions.’”

  “That sounds like her.”

  “I can’t say I blame her. She’s got enough work at the hospital and at least seems to enjoy that. She also told me that she and Alizayd have been in talks with the other tribes and the shafit about power sharing. Committees and reparations and all these other modern things.”

  Power sharing. Despite everything, Dara still bristled at the thought. Nahri had flown to Daevabad on a shedu and harnessed magic like Anahid herself to save the city, appearing like a goddess as she healed him with a snap of her hand. Dara could see her so easily upon the magnificent shedu throne, adorned in ceremonial finery. It was what she deserved, the only fate that seemed worthy of her glory.

  But it is not what she wants. And that is what she deserves.

  “I cannot imagine how it works,” he said.

  “A new government? Me neither. But give it time.”

  Dara had to force a smile. He might look the younger man, but he had a millennium on the priest and knew all too well the “time” that kind of change took. “Of course.”

  “Though speaking of time …” Kartir rose to his feet with a struggle, leaning heavily on his cane—it was clear imprisonment had taken a toll. “Our Baga Nahid awaits.”

  JAMSHID HAD WANTED HIS MOTHER’S LAST RITES CARRIED out privately, and so Dara had built her pyre himself, letting Kartir lead the prayers. He’d stayed silent when Jamshid lit the shroud with fire conjured from his hands, watching as Kartir bowed a final time to Banu Manizheh and then quietly left.

  “Do you want me to leave as well?” Dara had asked.

  Jamshid hadn’t looked away from the burning pyre, the flames reflected in his expressionless gaze. “No. She should have someone who knew her here.”

  So Dara had stayed at the side of a young man whose life he’d turned upside down, mourning a woman he wished so desperately he could have saved from herself.

  After some time, Jamshid spoke again. “Was there any good in her?”

  “Yes,” Dara said honestly. “She was an incredible healer and cared deeply for her original followers. She loved your father. I genuinely believe she wanted better for her people and her city. She just got very, very lost.” Dara glanced at Jamshid. “And she loved you.”

  “She didn’t know me.”

  “You were her son. She loved you.”

  Jamshid’s gaze hadn’t wavered. “I wish I’d had more time with her. I had so much I wanted to say. To her, to my father. A hundred accusations and questions. I’m so angry, and yet I’m heartbroken. And now—because I don’t want to burden the people I love by mourning the murderers who ruined their lives—I have no one to talk to except you.”

  Slightly stung, Dara offered what he hoped was a reassuring pat on Jamshid’s shoulder. “It is all right. I do owe you. For all the arrows in the back.”

  “It was enormously satisfying to shoot you.”

  “I am glad to ke
ep finding new ways to serve the Nahids,” Dara said mildly. “You still have your talent with the bow.”

  Jamshid shuddered. “I don’t ever want to pick up a bow again. Not after the blood my parents spilled. I don’t even know that I want to be called ‘Baga Nahid.’ That kind of responsibility …” Fear crept into his voice. “What if I fail?”

  He is going to be a good leader. He and Nahri both. Overwhelmed by everything, Jamshid couldn’t see it yet, but Dara could.

  An odd sensation settled over him, and it took Dara a moment to realize it was peace. Considering the deeply traumatized state of the city, perhaps he shouldn’t have felt such ease, but he did. His people were in good hands. Capable, compassionate hands. Ironic that after fighting to recover their throne for centuries, the pair of Nahids most worthy of it had the wisdom not to want it.

  “What about you?” Jamshid asked, glancing at Dara for the first time. “I will not lie; I did not conceive of a way we took Daevabad back with you still alive.”

  “Thank you for your honesty,” Dara replied, biting back his sarcasm. Everyone was making very clear how they felt about his not being on a funeral pyre. He sighed. “I do not know what I will do next.”

  Jamshid was still looking at him. “I heard you and Nahri talking when she saved your life. Have you … have you truly seen what’s after?”

  Tamima’s teasing smile and a quiet grove of cedars with a rug his mother had woven. He wasn’t sure that was a place meant to be seen and shared with this world.

  Dara hesitated and then spoke. “If what I have seen is true, it means there is peace for the worst of us. Rest for those who do not deserve it. It was beautiful. And it spoke to a mercy this world does not deserve.”

  Jamshid trembled. “I wonder if one day my parents may still see it.” He glanced at the smoldering pyre and then at Dara again. “Were you not tempted?”

  “Terribly so.”

  “So why didn’t you go?”

  Because I had not earned it.

  The words popped into his head with almost startling clarity, taking Dara aback. Racked with pain, Manizheh dead at his hand—when Nahri appeared before him, fiery bright with Suleiman’s seal blazing on her temple, she might have been an envoy from the Paradise whose judgment he feared. And when she asked what Dara wanted, the death he had craved and begged for …