The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  The words struck too close to the misgivings Dara tried to keep buried. “Banu Manizheh is not tossing our lives away,” he defended her sharply. “We have a duty to save our people.”

  Vizaresh chuckled. “Ah, Darayavahoush, there are always people to save. And always cunning men and women around who find a way to take advantage of that duty and harness it into power. If you were wise—if you were a true daeva—you would have laughed in the face of your Manizheh the moment she brought you back and vanished on the next wind. You would be enjoying this, enjoying the possibility of all the lovely new things you could learn.”

  Dara caught his breath against the sharp tug of longing in his chest. “A purposeless, lonely existence,” he said, forcing disdain he did not entirely feel into his voice.

  “A life of wandering, of wonderment,” Vizaresh corrected, hunger in his eyes. “Do you think I don’t know what you just experienced? There are worlds you can’t see as a mortal, beings and realms and kingdoms beyond your comprehension. We took mates when we desired companionship, parted amicably when it was time to travel the winds again. There were entire centuries my feet didn’t touch the ground.” His voice grew nostalgic, a smile curving his lips. “Though admittedly when they did, it was typically because of the lure of human entertainment.”

  “Such entertainment brought the wrath of one of the Creator’s prophets upon you,” Dara pointed out. “It cost you this existence you paint so lovingly.”

  Vizaresh shook his head. “Dallying with the occasional human was not why Suleiman punished us. Not the entire reason anyway.”

  “Then what was the reason?”

  The ifrit gave him a wicked smile. “Are you asking questions now? I thought all you did was obey.”

  Dara checked his temper. He might despise the ifrit, but in a small way, he was beginning to understand them—or at least, to understand how it felt to be the last of your kind.

  And he was truly curious as to what Vizaresh had to say. “And I thought you wanted me to learn new things,” he said archly. “Unless this is all bluster and you know nothing.”

  Vizaresh’s eyes danced. “What will you give me for telling you?”

  Dara grinned. “I won’t smash you against a mountain.”

  “Always so violent, Darayavahoush.” Vizaresh regarded him, pulling and twisting at a length of flame between his hands as if it were a toy. Abruptly, he dropped to sit across from Dara. “Fine, I will tell you why Suleiman cursed us. It was not for playing with humans—it was because we warred with the marid over those humans.”

  Dara frowned. This was not a story he’d ever heard before. “We went to war with the marid over humans?”

  “We did,” Vizaresh replied. “Think, Darayavahoush. How did Aeshma summon the marid of this lake?”

  “He had me kill one of its acolytes,” Dara said slowly. “A human acolyte. He said the marid would be obliged to respond.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Precisely what?”

  Vizaresh leaned in close, as though confiding a secret. “Bargains, Darayavahoush. Debts. A human summons me to poison a rival and later I take their corpse as a ghoul. A village with dying crops offers the blood of one of its screaming members to the river, and the marid promptly flood it, filling their fields with rich silt.”

  Dara drew back. “You speak of evil things.”

  “I’d not thought you so sensitive, Scourge.” When Dara glared, he shrugged. “Believe it or not, I once agreed with you. I was content with my own innate magic, but not all daevas felt similarly. They enjoyed the thrall of human devotion and encouraged it where they could. And the marid did not like that.”

  “Why not?”

  Vizaresh toyed with the battered bronze chain he wore around his neck. “The marid are ancient creatures, older even than daevas. The human practices that fed them were established before humans even began raising cities. And when some of those humans began to prefer us?” He clucked his tongue. “The marid have an appetite for vengeance that rivals that of your Nahids and Qahtanis. If a human turned from them to beg intercession from a daeva, they’d drown its entire village. In retaliation, our people started doing the same.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Flood and burn down a few too many cities and suddenly you’re getting dragged before some ranting human prophet in possession of a magic ring.”

  Dara tried to take that all in. “If that’s true, it sounds like the punishment was rather deserved. But I do not understand . . . if the marid were also responsible, why were they not disciplined?”

  Vizaresh flashed him a mocking grin, his lips pulling back over his curved fangs. “Who says they weren’t?” He seemed delighted at Dara’s confusion. “You would make for a better companion if you were clever. I would laugh to see the chaos a true daeva would wreak in your position.”

  I would cause no chaos. I would leave. Dara shoved the thought away as soon as it came. “I’m not like you.” His gaze caught on the chain Vizaresh was still fingering, and his irritation sparked. “And were you clever, you would not wear that in my presence.”

  “This?” The ifrit pulled the chain free from his bronze chest plate. Three iron rings hung from its length, crowned with emeralds that winked with unnatural malice. “Trust me, Darayavahoush, I am not fool enough to touch one of your followers even if they should beg it of me.” He caressed the rings. “These are empty now, but they have saved me during bleaker centuries.”

  “Enslaving the souls of fellow daeva saved you?”

  True anger flashed in the ifrit’s eyes for the first time. “They were not my fellows,” he snapped. “They were weak, mewling things who threw their allegiance to the family of so-called healers, the Nahid blood poisoners who hunted my true fellows.” He sniffed. “They should have been glad for the power I gave them; it was a taste of what we once were.”

  Dara’s skin crawled at Vizaresh’s words, but he was thankful for it. What was he doing letting Vizaresh fill his mind with dreams and likely lies that would pull him away from Manizheh? Was Dara so foolish as to forget how deceptive the ifrit could be?

  He rose to his feet. “I may not remember much of my time in slavery, but I assure you I was not glad to be forced to wield magic—no matter how powerful—in the service of violent human whims. It was despicable.”

  He walked away, not waiting for Vizaresh’s response. Ahead, Dara could hear laughter and music from the feast beyond the tents. Night had fallen, a thin sliver of moon and thick cluster of stars making the pale tents and bone-white beach glow with reflected celestial light. The scent of spiced rice with sour cherries and sweet pistachio porridge—his family’s recipes—sent a newly sharp ache into his heart. Suleiman’s eye, how was it possible to still miss them so much?

  A closer—rather drunken—giggle caught his ear.

  “—what will you do for it?” It was Irtemiz, teasingly holding a bottle of wine behind her back. Bahram’s arms were around her waist as they staggered into view, but the young man went pale when he noticed Dara.

  “Afshin!” He stepped away from Irtemiz so fast he half stumbled. “I, er, we didn’t mean to intrude upon you. Your brooding.” His eyes went bright with embarrassment. “Not brooding! That’s not what I meant. Not that there’s anything wrong with—”

  Dara waved him off, admittedly a little chastened. “It is fine.” He eyed them, noting that Irtemiz’s coat was already open and Bahram’s belt missing. “Are the two of you not enjoying the feast?”

  Irtemiz offered a weak smile, color rising in her cheeks. “Just taking a walk?” she offered. “You know, to better . . . er, prepare ourselves for such heavy food.”

  Dara snorted. Another time, he might have tried to put an end to such trysts—he didn’t need lovers’ spats among his soldiers. But considering the deadly mission that loomed in just a few days, he decided there was no harm in it. “Choose another direction to walk. Vizaresh is lurking back that way.” Though he was slightly disgruntled, he could not help but add,
“There is a lovely cove if you follow the eastern beach.”

  Bahram looked mortified, but Irtemiz grinned, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth. She grabbed the young man’s hand. “You heard our Afshin.” Laughing, she dragged Bahram off.

  Dara watched them go. A quiet sadness stole into his soul as he stood alone. His fellows suddenly seemed so young, so different.

  This is not my world. It was clearer to him than it ever had been before. He cared for these people, loved them, but the world he was from had vanished. And it wasn’t coming back. He would always be slightly apart.

  Like the ifrit. Dara hated the comparison but knew it was an apt one. The ifrit were monsters, no doubt, but it could not have been easy to watch their world destroyed and remade, to spend millennia trying to recapture it while steadily, one by one, they perished.

  Dara was not ready to perish. He closed his eyes, remembering the giddy sensation of being weightless and the way the dark mountains seemed to beckon. This time he couldn’t tamp down the longing in his heart, so he let it remain, laced under a new veneer of determination. Forget the games of the ifrit and the marid’s long-lost secrets—they belonged to a past he wouldn’t let claim him again.

  Dara would end this war for his people and see them safe.

  Then perhaps, it would be time to discover what else the world offered.

  25

  Ali

  Ali gazed upon the room that was to be Nahri’s office with quiet approval. The completed window seat had been placed in the cozy alcove overlooking the street this morning, and he sank down upon the cushioned bench, pleased at how comfortable it was. Shelves within easy reach lined the alcove—this place would be perfect for reading.

  I hope she likes it. Ali gazed beyond the room, past the balcony that overlooked the hospital’s inner courtyard. The sounds of construction—the final stages—came to his ears. I hope this hospital is worth the price we paid for it.

  He sighed, turning to peer through the wooden screen that looked out at the street below. It was as close as Ali could get to the slowly recovering shafit workcamp—his father had made clear he would personally double the death toll from the attack if Ali so much as opened his mouth about it.

  There was a knock and then Lubayd called out from beyond the archway. “Can I come in? Or do you need a minute?”

  Ali rolled his eyes. “Come in.” He turned away from the window. “Aye, not with your pipe,” he scolded. He chased the other man back through the archway, waving the offensive fumes away. “You’ll stink the place up!”

  Lubayd’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Well, aren’t you protective of your little Nahid’s sanctuary?”

  “I’m protective over everything here,” Ali shot back, unable to check the defensive heat in his voice. Knowing Lubayd to be merciless in his teasing when he spotted weakness, Ali quickly changed the subject. “You shouldn’t be smoking in the hospital anyway. Doctor Sen said she’d toss you out the next time she caught you.”

  Lubayd inhaled. “What is life without risk?” He tilted his head toward the stairs. “Come. Aqisa is back from the palace and waiting for you.”

  Ali followed him out, returning the various salaams and nods of workers as they passed through the hospital complex. His home and prison for the past two months, the hospital was now all but complete. Attendants were preparing for tomorrow’s opening ceremony, rolling out embroidered silk carpets and conjuring delicate floating lanterns. A few musicians had arrived to practice, and the steady beat of a goblet drum echoed through the courtyard.

  He caught sight of Razu and Elashia sitting in a swing deep in the shade of a lime tree. Ali touched his brow in greeting as he passed, but neither woman appeared to notice him. Razu was tucking one of the tree’s silky white flowers behind Elashia’s ear, the ever-silent Sahrayn woman giving her a small smile.

  It must be nice to have such a close friendship, he thought reflectively. Ali had Lubayd and Aqisa, of course, and they were truer and more loyal friends than he deserved. But even they had to be kept at an arm’s length; his many secrets were too dangerous to reveal entirely.

  Aqisa was waiting in the shadow of the large foyer, dressed in plain robes, her braids tied up and bundled under a turban. “You look dreadful,” she greeted him bluntly.

  “It’s the eyes,” Lubayd agreed. “And the shambling walk. Were he a bit bonier, he’d make a convincing ghoul.”

  Ali glowered at them. Between his nightmares and the race to finish the hospital, he was barely sleeping, and he was not unaware his appearance reflected such a thing. “It’s good to see you too, Aqisa. How are things at the palace?”

  “Fine.” Aqisa crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. “Your sister sends her greetings.”

  His heart twisted. The last time Ali had seen Zaynab was when he’d been forced to break the news of their mother’s imminent banishment. Though Hatset had remained grimly calm, telling them both to be strong—and that she’d be back, no matter Ghassan’s orders—Zaynab had broken down in front of him for the first time in his life. “Why couldn’t you have just listened to him?” she’d wept as Ali was forcibly escorted back out. “Why couldn’t you have held your tongue for once?”

  Ali swallowed the lump in his throat. “Is she okay?”

  “No,” Aqisa said flatly. “But she’s surviving and is stronger than you give her credit for.”

  He winced at the rebuke, hoping she was right. “And you’ve had no issues getting in and out of the harem? I worry you’re risking yourself.”

  Aqisa actually laughed. “Not in the slightest. You may forget it at times, but I am a woman. The harem exists to keep out strange, dangerous men; the guards barely pay me any mind.” She caressed the hilt of her khanjar. “If I do not point it out often enough, your gender can be remarkably stupid.” The humor left her face. “No luck with the infirmary, however.”

  “Still guarded?” Ali asked.

  “Day and night, by two dozen of your father’s most loyal men.”

  Two dozen men? A wave of sick fear—his constant companion since the attack—rolled through him. He was even more worried for Nahri than he was for himself; despite their strained relationship, Ali suspected his father was still unwilling to directly execute his own son. But Nahri wasn’t his blood, and Ali had never seen anyone publicly challenge Ghassan the way she had in the ruins of the shafit camp. He could still remember her—small in comparison to his father, exhausted and covered in ash, but thoroughly defiant, heat rippling through the air when she spoke, the stone street shivering with magic.

  It was one of the bravest acts he’d ever witnessed. And it petrified him, for Ali knew all too well how his father handled threats.

  Ali turned on his heel, pacing. It was driving him mad to be locked up here, trapped on the other side of the city from his sister and Nahri. A sheen of dampness erupted down his back, and he shivered. Between the day’s rain and his roiling emotions, Ali was struggling to check his water abilities.

  Automatically, his gaze went to the corridor that led to Issa’s room. At Hatset’s request, the Ayaanle scholar had stayed behind to continue looking into Ali’s “problem.” But Ali wasn’t optimistic. He didn’t have his mother’s touch with the erratic old man, and the last time he’d tried to check on Issa’s progress, he’d found the scholar surrounded by a massive circle of parchment forming a family tree of what must have been every person even tangentially related to Ali. He’d rather impatiently asked what in God’s name his ancestry had to do with getting the marid out of his head, and Issa had in turn hurled a globe at his head, rudely suggesting that as an alternative.

  A shadow fell across them, the shape of a large man stepping into the shaft of sunlight coming from the garden. “Prince Alizayd,” a deep voice rumbled. “I believe your father made his orders clear.”

  Ali scowled, turning to glare at Abu Nuwas, the senior Geziri officer sent to “watch over” him. “I’m not trying to escape,” he said acidly. “Surely, s
tanding near the entrance is permitted?”

  Abu Nuwas gave him a surly look. “A woman is looking for you in the eastern wing.”

  “Did she give you a name? This place is crawling with people.”

  “I am not your secretary.” Abu Nuwas sniffed. “Some grandmotherly-looking shafit.” He turned away without another word.

  “Oh, don’t be rude,” Lubayd said when Ali rolled his eyes. “He’s only following your father’s orders.” He blew out a ring of smoke. “And I rather like that one. We got drunk together a few weeks ago. He’s an excellent poet.”

  Ali gaped. “Abu Nuwas is a poet?”

  “Oh, yes. Wonderfully scandalous stuff. You’d hate it.”

  Aqisa shook her head. “Is there anyone in this city you haven’t befriended? Last time we were at the Citadel, there were grown warriors fighting to take you out for lunch.”

  “The emir’s fancy crowd won’t have me,” Lubayd replied. “They think I’m a barbarian. But regular Geziri folk, soldiers . . .” He grinned. “Everyone likes a storyteller.”

  Ali rubbed his temples. Most of Lubayd’s “stories” were tales meant to bolster Ali’s reputation. He hated it, but his friend only doubled his efforts when Ali asked him to stop. “Let me go see about this woman.”

  The eastern wing was fairly quiet when Ali arrived, with only a pair of tile workers finishing a last stretch of wall and a small, older woman in a faded floral headscarf standing near the railing overlooking the garden, leaning heavily on a cane. Assuming she was the woman Abu Nuwas had meant, Ali crossed to her. Maybe she was someone’s grandmother; it would not be the first time an older relative had come here searching for work for a ne’er-do-well youth.

  “Peace be upon you,” Ali called out as he approached. “How may I—”

  She turned to face him, and Ali abruptly stopped talking.

  “Brother Alizayd . . .” Sister Fatumai, once the proud leader of the Tanzeem, stared back at him, her familiar brown eyes sharp as knives and simmering with anger. “It’s been a long time.”