Dara sat on his cushion. He patted the pillow next to him, and Kaveh fell into it, still looking half reluctant. “Does Banu Manizheh know?”
“No,” Kaveh said quickly. “I would not trouble her with this.” He rubbed his silvering temples. “I can keep Jamshid away during the invasion and for those first few days—I’ll lock him up if need be. But when he finds out about Muntadhir—about what happens after Manizheh gets what she needs . . .” He shook his head, his eyes dimming. “He’ll never forgive me for that.”
“Then blame me,” Dara offered, his stomach twisting even as he said it. “Tell him Muntadhir was to be kept alive as a hostage, and I killed him in anger.” He looked away. “It is what everyone expects from me anyway.” Dara might as well use it to quietly ease the grief between the Pramukhs. He’d already hurt them enough.
Kaveh stared at his hands, twisting the gold ring on his thumb. “I don’t know that it matters,” he said finally. “I’m about to become one of the most infamous traitors in our history. I don’t think Jamshid will ever look at me the same way again, regardless of what happens to Muntadhir. I don’t think anyone will.”
“I wish I could tell you that it becomes easier.” Dara’s gaze swept over his tent, the accumulated weapons that were his only possessions. His only identity in this world. “I suppose our reputations are small prices to pay if it means our people will be safe.”
“Small consolation if our loved ones never speak to us again.” He glanced at Dara. “Do you think she’ll forgive you?”
Dara knew who Kaveh meant, and he knew all too well the answer, deep in his heart. “No,” he said honestly. “I do not think Nahri will ever forgive me. But she’ll be safe with the rest of our people and reunited with her mother. That is all that matters.”
For the first time since he’d seen Kaveh again, there was a hint of sympathy in the other man’s voice. “I think they’ll get along well,” he said softly. “Nahri has always reminded me of her mother. So much so that it hurts at times. As a girl, Manizheh delighted in her cleverness exactly the way Nahri does. She was sharp, she was charming, she had a smile like a weapon.” Tears came to his eyes. “When Nahri claimed to be her daughter, it felt like someone stole my breath.”
“I can imagine,” Dara said. “You thought she was dead after all.”
Kaveh shook his head, his expression turning grim. “I knew Manizheh was alive.”
“But . . .” Dara thought back to what Kaveh had told him. “You said you were the one who found her body . . . you were so upset . . .”
“Because that part was true,” Kaveh replied. “All of it. I was the one who found Manizheh and Rustam’s traveling party after they vanished. The fire-scorched plain, the torn remains of their companions. Manizheh—or the woman I thought was Manizheh—and Rustam with their heads . . .” He trailed off, his voice shaking. “I brought their bodies back to Daevabad. It was the first time I saw the city, the first time I met Ghassan . . .” Kaveh wiped his eyes. “I remember almost nothing of it. Had it not been for Jamshid, I would have thrown myself on her funeral pyre.”
Dara was stunned. “I don’t understand.”
“She planned for me to find them.” Kaveh’s expression was vacant. “She knew I was the only one Ghassan would believe and hoped my obvious grief would protect her from his pursuit. Those are the lengths that demon pushed her to.”
Dara stared at him, completely lost for words. He could not imagine coming upon the body of the woman he loved in such a way; he probably would have thrown himself on the funeral pyre, though knowing his cursed fate, someone would have found a way to drag him back. And the fact that Manizheh had done such a thing to Kaveh—a man she clearly loved—spoke to a dark ruthlessness he hadn’t thought she possessed.
Then another thought struck him. “Kaveh, if Manizheh was able to feign her own death in such a manner, you do not think Rustam . . .”
Kaveh shook his head. “It was the first thing I asked her when we met again. All she would tell me was that he attempted a magic he should not have. She does not speak of him otherwise.” He paused, old grief crossing his face. “They were very close, Dara. Sometimes it seemed like Rustam was the only one who could keep her feet on the ground.”
Dara thought of his own sister. Tamima’s bright smile and constant mischief. The brutal way she’d been killed—punished in Dara’s stead.
And now he was about to introduce more brutality, more bloodshed into their world. Guilt wrapped his heart, constricting his throat. “You should try to do what you can to pull Jamshid and Nahri away from the Qahtanis, Kaveh. From all of them,” he clarified, having little doubt Alizayd was already trying to worm his way back into Nahri’s good graces. “It will make what is to come easier.”
Silence fell between them again until Kaveh finally asked, “Can you do it, Afshin? Can you truly take the city? Because this . . . we cannot go through all of this again.”
“Yes,” Dara said quietly. He had no choice. “But if I may ask something of you?”
“What?”
“I am not certain of my fate after the conquest. I am not certain . . .” He paused, struggling for the right words. “I know what I am to people in this generation. What I did to Jamshid, to Nahri . . . There may come a day that Manizheh will find it easier to rule if the ‘Scourge of Qui-zi’ is not at her side. But you will be there.”
“What are you asking, Afshin?”
That Kaveh did not protest such a future spoke volumes, but Dara pushed aside the sickness rising within him. “Do not let her become like them,” he rushed on. “Manizheh trusts you. She’ll listen to your guidance. Do not let her become like Ghassan.” Silently, in his heart, he added the words he could not yet speak. Do not let her become like her ancestors, the ones who made me into a Scourge.
Kaveh stiffened, a little of his usual hostility returning. “She won’t be another Ghassan. She never could be.” His voice was shaky; this was the man who loved Manizheh and spent his nights at her side, not the cautious grand wazir. “But frankly, I would not blame her if she wanted some vengeance.” He rose to his feet, not seeming to realize his words had just sent Dara’s heart to the floor. “I should go.”
Dara could barely speak. He nodded instead, and Kaveh swept out, the tent flap blowing in the cold wind.
This war is never going to end. Dara stared at his weapons again, and then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the snow-scented air.
Why do you make those? The memory of Khayzur came to him. After finding Dara, the peri had taken him to the desolate icy mountains he called home. Dara had been a wreck in those early years after slavery, his soul shattered, his memory a blood-colored mosaic of violence and death. Before he could even recall his own name, he had taken to making weapons out of everything he found. Fallen branches became spears, rocks were chipped into blades. It was an instinct Dara hadn’t understood, and he hadn’t been able to answer Khayzur’s gentle quizzing. None of the peri’s questions made sense. Who are you? What did you like? What makes you happy?
Confused, Dara had simply stared at him. I am an Afshin, he’d reply each time—as though that answered everything. It took years for him to remember the better parts of his life. Afternoons with his family and galloping on horseback across the plains surrounding the Gozan. The dreams he’d harbored before his name became a curse, and the way Daevabad had hummed with magic during feast days.
By then, Khayzur’s questions had changed. Would you like to go back? The peri had suggested a dozen different ways. They could attempt to remove his Afshin mark and Dara could settle in a distant Daeva village under a new name. He’d never lose the emerald in his eyes, but his people treaded lightly around former ifrit slaves. He might have made a life for himself.
And yet—he had never wanted to. He remembered too much of the war. Too much of what his duty had cost him. Dara had to be dragged back to his people, and that was a truth he hadn’t even told Nahri.
And now here he was
again, with his weapons and his cause.
It will end, he tried to tell himself, pushing away memories of Khayzur.
Dara would make sure.
17
Nahri
It should have been a lovely morning. They’d gathered at a pavilion high upon the palace wall, the same place Ali and Nahri had once stargazed. The sun was warm, and there was not a cloud in the sky, the lake stretching like a cool glass mirror below them.
A plush embroidered rug deeper than Nahri’s hand and large enough to sit fifty had been laid out under painted silk awnings and spread with a sumptuous feast. Every fruit one might imagine lay spread before them, from slivers of golden mango and bright persimmon to gleaming silver cherries that made a distinctly metallic crunch when chewed and trembling crimson custard apples whose similarity to a beating heart made Nahri shudder. Delicate pastries of creamed honey, sweetened cheese, and roasted nuts shared space between bowls of yoghurt strained and shaped into herb-brushed balls and platters of spiced semolina porridge.
And even better, a dish of fried fava beans with onions, eggs, and country bread, an unexpected delight indicating that the quiet old Egyptian cook who served in the palace kitchens had a hand in the morning’s meal. In the earliest and darkest months after Dara’s death, Nahri had noticed a number of dishes from her old home making their way into her meals. Nothing fancy, but rather, the comfort fare and street food she most loved. During a bout of homesickness, Nahri had once tried to find the cook, a meeting that hadn’t gone well. The man had burst into tears when she smilingly introduced herself, his fellows in the kitchen later telling her that he rarely spoke and was considered slightly touched in the head. Nahri had dared not intrude upon him again, but he’d kept quietly preparing food for her, often slipping small tokens next to her dishes: a garland of jasmine, a reed folded to resemble a felucca, a carved wooden bangle. The gifts charmed her as much as they saddened her: reminders of the way Daevabad walled her off from a former countryman.
“Did Muntadhir tell you we found a troupe of conjurers, Abba?” Zaynab asked, pulling Nahri from her thoughts. The princess had been valiantly trying to make small talk with them all since they sat down, a task Nahri didn’t envy. Muntadhir was sitting across from her, so stiff he might have been embalmed, and Hatset was slapping Ali’s hand every time he reached for a dish without letting her try it first, because “your father’s tasters are clearly useless.” “They’re excellent,” Zaynab continued. “They summoned up a whole menagerie of birds that sang the loveliest of melodies. They’ll be perfect for Navasatem.”
“I hope they’ve signed a contract, then,” Ghassan said lightly. Oddly enough, the djinn king seemed contentedly amused by this barbed family breakfast. “The last few Eids, I’ve found the entertainers I’ve hired suddenly lured away to Ta Ntry by promises of fees that are mysteriously always twice the amount we’d agreed to.”
Hatset smiled, passing another loaded plate to Ali. “Alu-baba, enough with all those scrolls,” she chided, gesturing at the pile of papers next to Ali. “What work could you possibly already have?”
“I suspect those scrolls have to do with his reason for arranging all this,” Ghassan said knowingly, taking a sip of his coffee.
Muntadhir straightened up even further. “You didn’t tell me Alizayd arranged this.”
“I didn’t want you finding a reason not to attend.” Ghassan shrugged. “And waking before noon for once will not harm you.” He turned back to his youngest. “How are you feeling?”
“Fully recovered,” Ali said smoothly, touching his heart with a nod in Nahri’s direction. “A thing I owe entirely to the Banu Nahida.”
Ghassan’s attention turned to her. “And has the Banu Nahida made any progress in discovering more about the poison used?”
Nahri forced herself to meet his gaze. Ghassan was her captor, and she never forgot it—but right now, she needed him on her side. “Regretfully, no. Nisreen thinks it might have been something in his tamarind juice designed to react to the sugar in the sweets. The prince is known to favor the drink in place of wine.”
Muntadhir snorted. “I suppose that’s what you get for being so obnoxious about your beliefs.”
Ali’s eyes flashed. “And how very interesting, akhi, that it was always you who was loudest about mocking me for them.”
Hatset cut in. “Have you learned anything more about the poison?” she demanded, staring at Ghassan. “You told me you were having the kitchen staff questioned.”
“And I am,” Ghassan replied tersely. “Wajed is overseeing the investigation himself.”
The queen held her husband’s eye another moment, looking unimpressed, but then glanced at her son. “Why don’t you tell us why you’ve brought us here?”
Ali cleared his throat. “It’s not actually me alone. While I’ve been recovering, the Banu Nahida and I have been discussing working together on a very promising project. Her infirmary . . . it’s very crowded.”
He stopped as if this explained everything, and seeing confusion on their faces, Nahri swept in, silently cursing her partner. “I want to build a hospital,” she said plainly.
“We,” Ali muttered, tapping on his mountain of scrolls. “What?” he asked defensively when she gave him an annoyed look. “I didn’t fiddle with numbers all week just so you can cut me out.”
Muntadhir set his cup down so hard that the dark plum liquid inside sloshed out. It did not look like juice. “Of course you went to him. I try to talk sense into you, and your response is to race to your blockhead of a tutor the minute he comes riding back—”
“Should it make a difference,” Ghassan interrupted, with a look that silenced them all, “I would like to hear them out.” He turned to Nahri. “You want to build a hospital?”
Nahri nodded, trying to ignore the daggers Muntadhir was shooting at her from his eyes. “Well, not so much build a new one as restore an old one. I hear the complex my ancestors once used remains near the Citadel.”
Ghassan’s gaze was so calmly appraising it made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “And where, dear daughter, did you hear such a thing?”
Her heart skipped a beat; she had to tread carefully or some poor Daeva would suffer for it, of that she had no doubt. “A book,” she lied, trying to keep the strain from her voice. “And some rumors.”
Zaynab was blinking at her with barely concealed alarm, Muntadhir studying the rug as though it were the most fascinating one he’d ever seen. Nahri prayed they’d stay silent.
“A book,” Ghassan repeated. “And some rumors.”
“Indeed,” Nahri replied, rushing on as if she hadn’t noticed the suspicion in his voice. “The descriptions of the hospital in its heyday are extraordinary.” She casually picked up her teacup. “I’ve also heard a trio of djinn freed from ifrit slavery are living in the remains.”
“That’s quite a lot of information to glean from some rumors.”
Help came from a very unexpected direction. “Oh, stop menacing the poor girl, Ghassan,” Hatset interrupted. “She’s not wrong. I know about those former slaves as well.”
Nahri stared at her. “You do?”
Hatset nodded. “One of them is a kinsman of mine.” Nahri didn’t miss the quick dart of her eyes to Ali. “A brilliant scholar—but a deeply eccentric man. He refuses to return to Ta Ntry, so I keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t starve himself. I’ve met the two women there as well. The eldest, Razu, can spin some rather exciting tales of the hospital’s past. Their magic is quite formidable, and I suspect she and her partner would be happy to help restore the place.”
Nahri swallowed as the queen looked at her; there was far too much knowing in her eyes. But Nahri also suspected Hatset wouldn’t betray her—not with Ali at her side. “That’s my hope as well.”
Ghassan was studying his family with open suspicion, but he let it go, returning his attention to Nahri. “That sounds like an admirable fantasy, Banu Nahida, but even if you had a buil
ding, you’re barely able to keep up with your patients now. How could you possibly treat an entire hospital’s worth?”
Nahri was prepared for the question. Her mind had been turning since she’d left the Sens. Subha’s father had arrived alone in Daevabad with two centuries of medical knowledge and used it to train others. Surely, Nahri could do the same. “I’ll have help,” she explained. “I want to start teaching students.”
Genuine surprise lit the king’s face. “Students? I was under the impression most of the healing you do couldn’t be accomplished by someone without your blood.”
“A lot can’t,” Nahri admitted. “But many of the basics can. With proper training, I could shift some of my workload to others. We could see more people, and I could let them stay on to properly recover instead of booting them out of the infirmary as quickly as possible.”
Ghassan took a sip of his coffee. “And earn some acclaim from your tribe, no doubt, for recovering an institution once so important to the Daevas.”
“This isn’t about tribal politics or pride,” Nahri argued. “And I don’t intend to only teach Daevas; I’ll take students from any background if they’re bright and willing.”
“And between your duties in the infirmary now and teaching students, when exactly are you going to have time to oversee the rebuilding of a ruined, ancient hospital? Not to mention the cost . . . ah.” His eyes narrowed on Ali. “The ‘we.’ A preposterously expensive public works project. Little wonder you have involved yourself.”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 27
