“I do not care what you meant.” Her gaze leveled on him. “You may be dear to me, Darayavahoush, but I am not as ignorant of our history as my daughter. You obey my commands. But if it helps . . .” She brushed past him. “I don’t plan to leave these men alive.”
Kaveh returned. “Here you are, my lady,” he said, handing her a small glass bottle stoppered with red wax.
Dara’s men returned the next moment, dragging the second Geziri scout as he struggled and swore. He went still the moment he saw Abu Sayf, their gray gazes locking. A look of understanding passed between them.
Of course, you fool. They’ve probably been plotting this, laughing behind your back at your weaknesses. Again, he cursed himself for underestimating them. His younger self wouldn’t have. His younger self would have killed them in the forest.
Manizheh handed the relic to one of his men. “Put it back in his ear. Then tie them . . . here and here,” she said, indicating a pair of trees about ten paces apart.
The younger scout was losing his fight against panic. He thrashed out as they shoved the relic back into his ear, his eyes wild.
“Hamza,” Abu Sayf spoke softly. “Do not give them that.”
A tear ran down the other man’s cheek, but he stopped fighting.
Mardoniye, Dara reminded himself. He turned from the frightened Geziri to Manizheh. “What is that?” he asked, looking at the bottle.
“The other part of our plan. A potion I’ve been working on for decades. A way to kill a man who might be well-guarded. A way too swift to stop.”
Dara drew up. “A way to kill Ghassan?”
Manizheh’s gaze seemed distant. “Among others.” She removed the top from the flask.
A wispy copper vapor rose out, dancing and darting in the air like a thing alive. It seemed to hesitate, to search.
And then, without warning, it dove for Abu Sayf.
The older scout jerked back as the vapor rushed past his face, swarming his copper relic. It dissolved in the blink of an eye, the liquid metal shimmering in a coppery haze that vanished into his ear.
There was a moment of startled, horrified shock on his face, and then he howled, clutching his head.
“Abu Sayf!” the younger djinn cried out.
The other man didn’t respond. Blood was streaming from his eyes, ears, and nose, mixed with the coppery vapors.
Kaveh gasped, covering his mouth. “Is that . . . is that what my Jamshid . . .”
“I suspect Jamshid found an earlier version of my notes,” Manizheh replied. “This is far more advanced.” She fell briefly silent as Abu Sayf grew still, his unseeing eyes fixed on the sky, and then she swallowed loud enough for Dara to hear. “It’s attracted to Geziri relics and grows upon consuming them, pressing upon the brain until it kills its bearer.”
Dara couldn’t take his eyes off Abu Sayf. His bloody body was twisted, his face frozen in a mask of anguish. Manizheh’s explanation sent a chill through him, extinguishing the flames swirling over his limbs.
He tried to recover some semblance of his wits. “But it is magic. If you tried this on Ghassan, he would just use the seal.”
“It works as well without magic.” She pulled free her scalpel. “If you remove the magic as Nahid blood does, as Suleiman’s seal does . . .” She cut her thumb, squeezing out a drop of black blood. It landed on a tendril of vapor rising from Abu Sayf’s corpse, and a jagged shard of copper fell instantly to the bloody snow. “. . . that’s what you get in your skull.”
The other scout was still trying to twist free of his binds as he yelled in Geziriyya. And then he started to scream.
The vapor was creeping toward his feet.
“No!” he cried as it wrapped around his body, winding toward his ear. “No—”
His scream cut off, and this time Dara did glance away, fixing his gaze on Mardoniye’s body until the second scout fell silent.
“Well,” Manizheh said grimly. There was no triumph in her voice. “I suppose it works.”
At his side, Kaveh swayed. Dara steadied him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You want me to give this to Ghassan?” the wazir said hoarsely.
Manizheh nodded. “Vizaresh has designed one of his old rings so that a false jewel may be filled with the vapor. You need merely break it in Ghassan’s presence. It will kill every Geziri in the room.”
It will kill every Geziri in the room. Kaveh looked like he was about to be sick, and Dara didn’t blame him.
Even so, he spoke up. “I can do it. The grand wazir need not risk himself.”
“He does,” Manizheh countered, though the quiet worry was audible in her voice. “We don’t know if Ghassan will be able to use Suleiman’s seal on you, Dara. We can’t risk finding out. He needs to be dead before you step into the palace, and Kaveh’s position ensures him easy and relatively unguarded access.”
“But—”
“I will do it.” Kaveh’s voice was no less frightened, but it was determined. “For what he did to Jamshid, I will do it.”
Dara’s stomach tightened. He stared at the dead scouts, the cool earth steaming as their copper-flecked blood spread. So this was what Manizheh had been working on so diligently the past few months.
Did you think this wouldn’t be vicious? Dara knew war. He knew—more than anyone alive—just what the Nahids could be capable of.
But by the Creator, did he hate seeing this violence claim her.
It claimed Mardoniye as well, he reminded himself. It claimed Nahri and Jamshid. Ghassan had been terrorizing and killing Daevas for years. If victory for his people meant the king and a few of his guards died painfully, that was not a cost Dara would protest. He would end this war and ensure Manizheh never had to resort to anything like this again.
He cleared his throat. “It sounds as if you should pack, Kaveh. Now, if you will both excuse me . . .” He headed for Mardoniye’s body. “I have a warrior to put to rest.”
Dara built Mardoniye’s funeral pyre with his own hands and stayed at its side until it was reduced to ash, the smoldering remains throwing a weak light into the dark night. Dara was alone by then; Manizheh had overseen rites and then left to see Kaveh off, while Dara ordered the rest of his soldiers to continue with their duties. He could tell they were shaken—for all their devotion and training, few had witnessed the kind of fighting that led to a man bleeding out on the snow, and he could see the unspoken question in their eyes. Would they too end up this way in Daevabad?
Dara hated that he couldn’t tell them no.
A touch upon his shoulder startled him. He glanced back. “Irtemiz?”
The young archer stepped closer. “We thought one of us should check on you,” she said softly. Her gaze fell on the smoking pyre. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Her voice trembled. “I should have had my bow on hand all the time, like you say . . .”
“It is not your fault,” Dara said firmly. “The sand fly was likely waiting for such an opportunity.” He pressed her shoulder. “Besides, he blocked my arrows, and surely, you are not suggesting you’re better than your teacher?” He feigned offense.
That drew a small, sad smile from her lips. “Give me another decade.” Her smile faded. “There . . . there was something else we thought you should see.”
Dara frowned at her tone. “Show me.”
She led him through the dark trees, their boots crunching on the ground. “Bahram first noticed it when he took the horses out. He said it stretched as far as he could see.”
They emerged from the tree line, the valley spreading flat before them. The river was a gleaming ribbon of moonlight that would have normally outshone the surrounding plain.
But the spring grass was not dark. It was glowing with a warm copper hue that exactly matched Manizheh’s vapor, a low fog of death clinging to the earth.
“Bahram . . . he rode out far, Afshin. He said it’s everywhere.” She swallowed. “We haven’t told the Banu Nahida yet. We weren’t certain it was our place, but surely
. . . surely, this does not mean . . .” She trailed off, unable to voice the same awful fear snaring Dara’s heart.
“There must be some explanation,” he finally replied. “I will talk to her.”
He went straight to Manizheh’s tent, ignoring the stares of his warriors and the chuckles of the ifrit at their roaring fire. Despite the late hour, she was clearly awake; the light of oil lamps shone through the felt and he could smell the tang of freshly brewed tea.
“Banu Manizheh?” he called. “May I speak to you?”
She appeared a moment later, her familiar chador replaced by a thick woolen shawl. She was clearly readying herself for bed; her silvering black braids had been undone and she looked surprised to see him.
“Afshin,” she greeted him, her eyes concerned as they swept his face. “What’s wrong?”
Dara flushed, ashamed to have come upon her in such a manner. “Forgive my intrusion. But this is a matter best discussed privately.”
“Then come in.” She held open the tent flap. “Take some tea with me. And sit. This has been a terrible day.”
The affection in her voice set him at ease, stilling some of the dread rising in his heart. He slipped off his boots and hung his cloak before taking a seat on one of the cushions. On the other side of the tent, the curtain partitioning off the small area where she slept was drawn back.
One of Kaveh’s caps was still there. Dara looked away from it, feeling like he’d seen something not meant for his eyes. “The grand wazir departed safely?”
“Right after the funeral,” she replied, pouring the tea. “He wanted to get some distance covered before the sun set.”
Dara took the cup she handed him. “Kaveh is a quicker flier than I would have imagined,” he said. “There must be some truth to those stories you tell of racing horses around Zariaspa.”
Manizheh took a seat across from him. “He is eager to get back to Daevabad. He’s been worried about Jamshid since we received Nisreen’s letter.” Manizheh took a sip of her drink. “But something tells me Kaveh is not the reason you are here.”
“No. Not quite.” Dara set down his tea. “My lady, my riders brought something to my attention I think you should know about. The copper vapor that killed the scouts . . . it appears to have spread. It looks fainter to my eye, but it’s everywhere, hovering just above the ground as far as the river valley.”
Manizheh’s expression didn’t waver. “And?”
The clipped response set his heart racing. “You said that it is attracted to Geziri relics, that it grows upon consuming them . . .” His voice caught. “Banu Nahida . . . when does it stop?”
She met his gaze. “I don’t know. That’s what I’ve been working on all these months: I’ve been trying to find a way to contain its spread and the length of time that it’s potent.” Her eyes dimmed. “But I haven’t had much success, and we are out of time.”
“You’re going to let Kaveh release that in the palace,” Dara whispered. He fought for control as the implication swept through him. “Banu Manizheh . . . there must be hundreds of Geziris in the palace. The scholars in the library, secretaries and attendants. The women and children in the harem. Ghassan’s daughter. They all wear relics. If he lets this loose in the middle of the night . . . it could kill every Geziri there.”
Manizheh quietly set her cup of tea down, and her silence sent him reeling.
No. Creator, no. “Not just the palace.” A gasp left his lips. “You think this could kill every Geziri in Daevabad.”
There was no mistaking the soft edge of despair in her voice when she replied, “I think that more likely than not.” But then her black eyes hardened. “And what of it? How many Daevas died when Zaydi al Qahtani took Daevabad? How many of your friends and relatives, Afshin?” Scorn filled her voice. “The sand flies are not complete fools. At least a few will figure out what is happening and take out their relics. Which is why the timing must be perfect.”
A voice was screaming inside his head, but Dara felt no heat, no magic aching to escape his skin. He was colder than he had ever been. “Do not do this,” he said, his entire body shaking. “Do not start your reign with this much blood on your hands.”
“I have no choice.” When Dara looked away, Manizheh pressed on, her voice growing firmer. “This is how we win. And we must win. If Ghassan lives, if our victory is anything less than completely decisive, he will annihilate us. He will not rest until every trace of our people is destroyed. You are mourning Mardoniye? You must realize how many more of your warriors will survive if there are no soldiers left to fight by the time we reach the palace.”
“You will make us monsters.” The ice around his heart shattered, and Dara began to lose the fight with his emotions. “That is what we are if you let this happen . . . and Banu Nahida, that’s not a reputation you’ll ever lose.” He looked at her, beseeching. “I beg you, my lady. These are innocents. Children. Travelers coming to celebrate Navasatem . . .” His memories were stealing over him. This was all too familiar.
Merchants. Traders. Weavers whose finely embroidered silk ran with blood just a touch too crimson. Children who didn’t realize the human brown in their eyes sealed their fate. The calm commands and coldly reasoned explanations of another generation of Nahids.
The fabled city of Qui-zi reduced to smoking ruins. The screams and smell of earthy blood that would never leave his memories.
“Then we will be monsters,” Manizheh declared. “I will pay that price to end this war.”
“It won’t end it,” Dara argued, desperate. “We will have every Geziri capable of picking up a blade at the banks of the Gozan when they learn we slaughtered their kinsmen without provocation. They will fight us until the Day of Judge—”
“Then I will release this poison into their homeland.” Dara jerked back, and Manizheh continued. “Let the djinn tribes know the price for defiance. I do not want this death on my hands, but if it will stifle the rebellions of the Sahrayn and the cunning of the Ayaanle, I will take it. Let the fate of the Geziris weigh on the minds of the Tukharistanis who still curse your name and the Agnivanshis who think their wide rivers protect them.”
“You sound like Ghassan,” Dara accused her.
Her eyes flashed in anger. “Then maybe he was right to rule so,” she said bitterly. “But at least this time, it won’t be my family and tribe living in fear.”
“Until the next war,” he said, unable to check the savage resentment rising in him. “Which I assume I’ll be dragged back for, should I happen to die here.” He rose to his feet. “You were to be better than this. Better than the Qahtanis. Better than your ancestors!”
He crossed the tent, reaching for his cloak.
“Where are you going?” Manizheh demanded sharply.
Dara shoved on his boots. “To stop Kaveh.”
“Absolutely not. You are under my command, Darayavahoush.”
“I said I’d help you retake Daevabad—not commit another Qui-zi.” He reached for the tent flap.
It burst into flames and a searing pain shot down his arm. Dara cried out, more in shock than hurt as he whirled back around.
Manizheh snapped her fingers, and the pain vanished. “We are not done with our conversation,” she seethed. “I have risked and lost too much to see my plans fail now because a warrior with more blood on his hands than I can even imagine momentarily grew a conscience.” Her expression was cold. “If you have ever called yourself an Afshin, you will sit back down right now.”
Dara stared at her in disbelief. “This is not you, Banu Manizheh.”
“You do not know me, Darayavahoush. You do not know what you’ve already cost me.”
“What I’ve cost you?” The charge was almost laughable. Dara beat a fist against his chest. “Do you think I want to be here?” Anger swirled into his heart, and then it was breaking free—the line he’d sworn he’d never cross, the resentment that festered in the darkest part of his soul. “I do not want any of this! Your family dest
royed my life—my honor, my reputation! You had me carry out one of the worst crimes in our history, and when it blew up in your faces, you blamed me!”
She glared. “I wasn’t the one who put a scourge in your hand.”
“No, you are just the one who brought me back. Twice.” Tears blurred his eyes. “I was with my sister. I was at peace.”
Her eyes were blazing now. “You don’t get to pine for peace with your family after what you did to mine.”
“Your daughter would never agree to any of this.”
“I’m not talking about my daughter.” Manizheh’s gaze pinned him. He’d swear he could feel her magic, the ghost of fingers around his throat, a barbed tightness in his chest. “I’m talking about my son.”
Confusion coursed through him. “Your son?” But before the word fully left his mouth, Dara’s gaze fell upon Kaveh’s cap beside her bedroll. He recalled her fierce words about keeping those she loved hidden . . .
He thought, very suddenly, of the kindhearted young man he’d left riddled with arrows.
“No,” Dara whispered. “He . . . he has no abilities.” Dara couldn’t even say his name; it would make the horrified suspicion racing through his mind all too real. “He said his mother was a servant. That she died when he was born . . .”
“He was misinformed,” Manizheh said brusquely. “He has no mother because if the Qahtanis ever learned of such a thing, he would have been forced into the same cage I was trapped in. He has no abilities because when he was less than a week old, I had to brand my infant child with a tattoo that would inhibit them. In order to give him a life, a peaceful future in the Zariaspa that I loved, I had no choice but to to cut him off from his very birthright.” Manizheh’s voice was trembling. “Jamshid e-Pramukh is my son.”
Dara inhaled, fighting for breath, for words. “That cannot be.”
“He’s my son,” Manizheh repeated. “Your Baga Nahid, should such a thing mean anything to you.” She sounded more hurt than angry now. “And because of your heedlessness when it came to my daughter, you nearly killed him. You stole from him the only future he ever wanted and left him wracked with such physical pain Kaveh says there are days he can’t leave his bed.” Her expression twisted. “What is the punishment for that, Afshin? For sending arrows into a man you should have greeted with your face in the dust?”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 31
