The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Nahri wasn’t sure what she remembered. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” She knew she shouldn’t be confessing anything to the woman who claimed to be in command of the forces attacking the palace, but the fact that she claimed to be a Nahid wasn’t doing much for Nahri’s wits. “Who are you?”

  The same broken smile, the look of someone who’d been through far too much. “My name is Manizheh.”

  The name, both unbelievable and obvious, punched through her. Manizheh.

  Ali gasped. “Manizheh?” he repeated. “Your mother?”

  “Yes,” Manizheh said in Djinnistani. She only now seemed to realize Ali was there, her gaze leaving Nahri’s for the first time. Her dark eyes scanned him, lingering on his zulfiqar. She blinked, looking taken aback. “Is this Hatset’s son?” she asked Nahri, returning to Divasti. “The prince they call Alizayd?” She frowned. “You were to be in the infirmary with Nisreen. What are you doing with him?”

  Nahri opened her mouth, still reeling. Manizheh. My mother. It seemed even more impossible than Dara rising from the dead.

  She fought for words. “He . . . he’s my friend.” It was a ridiculous answer and yet it was the first that came to her. It also seemed wiser than admitting they were here stealing Suleiman’s seal. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, feeling a little of her sharpness return. “I was told you were dead. Kaveh told me he found your murdered body decades ago!”

  Manizheh’s expression turned solemn. “A necessary deception and one I pray you can eventually forgive. You were taken from me as a child by the marid, and I feared I’d lost you forever. When I learned you’d fallen into Ghassan’s hands . . . the things I’m sure he has subjected you to . . . I am so sorry, Nahri.” She stepped forward as if she wanted to take Nahri’s hand and then stopped as Nahri cringed. “But I promise you—you’re safe now.”

  Safe. The word echoed inside her head. My mother. My brother. Dara. In the space of a few hours, Nahri had gone from being the only living Nahid to having a whole family of relatives to form a council again, with a damned Afshin to boot.

  Her eyes were wet, the constant loneliness she carried in her chest expanding to the point where it was difficult to breathe. This couldn’t be possible.

  But the brutal evidence was before her. Who else but a Nahid would be capable of creating the poison dealing death to the Geziri tribe? Who else but the Banu Nahida rumored to be the most powerful in centuries would be able to bring Dara back from the dead, to make him obey completely?

  Suleiman’s seal ring burned in her pocket. It was the only ace Nahri had. Because no matter what this woman said, Nahri did not feel like they were on the same side. She had meant what she said to Muntadhir: she wasn’t on the side of anyone who’d arranged for the deaths of so many innocents.

  Manizheh raised her hands. “I mean you no harm,” she said carefully. She switched to Djinnistani, her voice cooling as she addressed Ali. “Put down your weapons. Surrender yourself to my men, and you won’t be hurt.”

  That had the predicted response, Ali’s eyes flashing as he raised his zulfiqar. “I won’t surrender to the person who orchestrated the slaughter of my people.”

  “Then you will die,” Manizheh said simply. “You have lost, al Qahtani. Do what you can to save those Geziris left.” Her voice turned persuasive. “You have a sister in the palace, and a mother I once knew in Ta Ntry, do you not? Believe me when I say I would rather not inform another woman of her children’s deaths.”

  Ali scoffed. “You mean to make us into pawns.” He raised his chin defiantly. “I would rather die.”

  Nahri had absolutely no doubt that was true; she also had no doubt most of the surviving Geziris would feel similarly. Which meant they needed to get off this damned wall and away from Manizheh.

  Take the ring, you fool. She could thrust her hand into her pocket and claim Suleiman’s seal for herself in the same time it would take Manizheh to lunge for it.

  And then? What if she couldn’t call upon it correctly? Nahri was guessing the prophetically granted abilities of a magical ring likely had a learning curve. She and Ali would still be stuck on this pavilion with a vengeful Banu Nahida and a swarm of warriors below.

  She stepped between Ali and Manizheh. “And that’s what you’re after?” she demanded. “If we surrendered . . . could you contain the poison?”

  Manizheh spread her hands, stepping closer. “But of course.” Her gaze returned to Nahri. “But I’m not after your surrender, daughter. Why would I be?” She took another step toward them, but stilled as she spotted Ghassan’s body.

  Her entire expression changed as her eyes swept his face. “Suleiman’s mark is gone from his brow.”

  Nahri glanced down. Manizheh spoke the truth; the black tattoo that had once marked Ghassan’s face had vanished.

  “Did you take the seal?” Manizheh demanded. Her voice had shifted, barely concealed desire evident beneath her words. “Where is it?” When neither one of them responded, she pursed her mouth in a thin line, looking like she was growing exasperated with their defiance. The expression was almost maternal. “Please do not make me ask again.”

  “You’re not getting it,” Ali burst out. “I don’t care who you claim to be. You’re a monster. You brought ghouls and ifrit into our city; you have the blood of thousands on your—”

  Manizheh snapped her fingers.

  There was an audible pop, and then Ali cried out, collapsing as he clutched his left knee.

  “Ali!” Nahri spun, reaching for him.

  “If you try to heal him, I’ll break his neck next.” The cold threat sliced the air, and Nahri instantly dropped her hand, startled. “Forgive me,” Manizheh said, seeming sincere. “This is not at all how I wanted our first meeting to go, but I will not have you interfere. I have planned too many decades for this.” She glanced again at Ali. “Do not make me torture you before her eyes. The ring. Now.”

  “He doesn’t have it!” Nahri shoved her hand in her pocket, her fingers running over the two rings there before plucking one out. She thrust her fist over the parapet, letting the ring dangle precariously from her finger. “And unless you’re willing to spend the next century searching the lake for this, I’d leave him alone.”

  Manizheh drew back, studying Nahri. “You won’t do it.”

  Nahri raised a brow. “You don’t know me.”

  “But I do.” Manizheh’s tone was imploring. “Nahri, you’re my daughter . . . do you imagine I’ve not sought stories of you from every Daevabadi I’ve met? Dara himself can hardly stop speaking of you. Your bravery, your cleverness . . . In truth a more devoted man I’ve rarely met. A dangerous thing in our world,” she added delicately. “To make plain your affections. A truth Ghassan was always too willing to make cruelly clear to me.”

  Nahri didn’t know what to say. Manizheh’s words about Dara felt like salt on a wound, and she could feel the other woman reading her, evaluating her every flinch. Ali was still clutching his knee, breathing heavily against the pain.

  Her mother came nearer. “Ghassan’s done that to you as well, hasn’t he? It’s the only way he had to control women like us. I know you, Nahri. I know what it’s like to have ambitions, to be the cleverest in the room—and have those ambitions crushed. To have men who are less than you bully and threaten you into a place you know you don’t belong. I’ve heard of the extraordinary strides you’ve made in just a few years. The things I could teach you; you’d be a goddess. You’d never have to lower your head again.”

  Their gazes met, and Nahri could not deny the surge of longing in her heart. She thought of the countless times she’d bowed to Ghassan while he sat on her ancestors’ throne. The way Muntadhir had dismissed her dreams for the hospital and Kaveh had condescended to her in the Temple.

  The smoky binds Dara had dared conjure to hold her. The magic that had raged through her blood in response.

  Nahri took a deep breath. This is my home.

  “Why don’t we compro
mise?” she suggested. “You want the Nahids in charge again? Fine. I’m a Nahid. I’ll take Suleiman’s seal. Surely, I can negotiate a peace more effectively than a woman who abandoned her tribe and returned only to plot the slaughter of another.”

  Manizheh stiffened. “No,” she said. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?” Nahri asked archly. “This is about what’s best for the Daevas, isn’t it?”

  “You misunderstand me, daughter,” Manizheh replied, and Nahri inwardly swore because try as she could to read it, there was nothing in this woman’s face that gave her thoughts away. “You cannot take the seal yourself because you are not—entirely—daeva. You’re shafit, Nahri. You have human blood.”

  Nahri stared at her in silence. Because with those words—those utterly confident words—Nahri knew the woman before her was not lying about being her mother. It was a secret only Ghassan had known, the truth he said Suleiman’s seal made clear.

  “What do you mean, she’s shafit?” Ali gasped from the ground.

  Nahri didn’t respond; she didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s all right,” Manizheh assured her gently as she approached them. “It’s not a thing anyone else need ever know. But you cannot take that seal. Possessing it will kill you. You simply aren’t strong enough.”

  Nahri jerked back. “I’m strong enough to use Nahid magic.”

  “But enough to wield Suleiman’s seal?” Manizheh pressed. “To be the bearer of the object that reshaped our world?” She shook her head. “It will tear you apart, my daughter.”

  Nahri fell silent. She’s lying. She has to be. But by the Most High, if Manizheh hadn’t struck doubt into her soul.

  “Nahri.” It was Ali. “Nahri, look at me.” She did, feeling dazed. This was all too much. “She’s lying. Suleiman himself had human blood.”

  “Suleiman was a prophet,” Manizheh cut in, echoing with brutal effectiveness the insecurity that Nahri herself had expressed. “And no one asked you to involve yourself in a Nahid matter, djinn. I have spent longer than you’ve been alive reading every text that ever mentioned that seal ring. And all of them are clear on this point.”

  “And that’s rather convenient, I’d say,” he shot back. He stared up at Nahri, beseeching. “Don’t listen to her. Take the—ah!” He yelped in pain, his hands wrenching from his shattered knee.

  Manizheh snapped her fingers again, and Ali’s hands jerked to the khanjar at his waist.

  “What-what are you doing to me?” he cried as his fingers cracked around the dagger’s hilt. Beneath his tattered sleeves, the muscles in his wrists were seizing, the khanjar coming free in shuddering, spasming movements.

  My God . . . Manizheh was doing that? Without even touching him? Instinctively Nahri sought to pull on the magic of the palace.

  She didn’t so much as make a stone shiver before her connection was abruptly severed. The loss was like a blow, a coldness seeping over her.

  “Don’t, child,” Manizheh warned. “I have far more experience than you.” She brought her hands together. “I do not wish this. But if you don’t hand the ring over right now, I will kill him.”

  The khanjar was nearing Ali’s throat. He wriggled against it, a line of blood appearing below his jaw. His eyes were bright with pain, sweat running down his face.

  Nahri was frozen in horror. She could feel Manizheh’s magic wrapping around her, teasing at the muscles in her own hand. Nahri was not capable of anything like that—she didn’t know how to fight someone capable of anything like that.

  But she knew damned well she couldn’t give her Suleiman’s seal.

  Manizheh spoke again. “They have already lost. We have won—you have won. Nahri, hand over the ring. No one else will ever learn you’re shafit. Take your place as my daughter, with your brother at your side. Greet the new generation as one of the rightful rulers of this city. With a man who loves you.”

  Nahri wracked her mind. She didn’t know who to believe. But if Manizheh was right, if Nahri took the seal and it killed her, Ali would swiftly follow. And then there’d be no one to stop the woman who’d just slaughtered thousands from gaining control of the most powerful object in their world.

  Nahri couldn’t risk that. She also knew that, shafit or not, she had her own skills when it came to dealing with people. In going after Nahri the way she had, Manizheh had made clear what she believed her daughter’s weaknesses to be.

  Nahri could work with that. She took a shaky breath. “You promise you’ll let the prince live?” she whispered, her fingers trembling on the ring. “And that no one will ever know I’m a shafit?”

  “On our family’s honor. I swear.”

  Nahri bit her lip. “Not even Dara?”

  Manizheh’s face softened slightly, with both sadness and a little relief. “I’ll do my best, child. I have no desire to cause you further pain. Either of you,” she added, looking as genuinely moved as Nahri had yet seen her. “Indeed, nothing would please me more than to see you find some happiness together.”

  Nahri let the words slide past her. That would never happen. “Then take it,” she said, tossing the ring at her mother’s feet.

  Manizheh was as good as her word. The ring had no sooner left Nahri’s hand than the khanjar dropped from Ali’s throat. Nahri fell to his side as he gasped for breath.

  “Why did you do that?” he wheezed.

  “Because she was going to kill you.” As Manizheh bent to retrieve the ring, Nahri swiftly moved as though to embrace him, taking the opportunity to shove his weapons back in his belt. “Are you sure the curse is off the lake?” she whispered in his ear.

  Ali stiffened in her arms. “I . . . yes?”

  She pulled him to his feet, keeping her hand on his arm. “Then forgive me, my friend.”

  Manizheh was straightening up with the ring in her hand. She frowned, studying the emerald. “This is the seal ring?”

  “Of course it is,” Nahri said airily, pulling the second ring—Suleiman’s ring—from her pocket. “Who would lie to their mother?” She shoved the ring onto one of Ali’s fingers.

  Ali tried to jerk free, but Nahri was fast. Her heart gave a single lurch of regret, and then—just as Manizheh glanced up—she felt the ancient band vanish beneath her fingers.

  Shocked betrayal blossomed in her mother’s eyes—ah, so Manizheh had emotions after all. But Nahri was not waiting for a response. She grabbed Ali’s hand and jumped off the wall.

  She heard Manizheh cry her name, but it was too late. The cold night air lashed at her face as they fell, the dark water looking a lot farther away than she remembered. She tried to steel herself, all too aware that she was in for a great deal of pain and some temporarily broken bones.

  Indeed, she hit hard, the crash of the water against her body a cold, painful thrust like a thousand sharp knives. Her arms flew out, tangling in Ali’s as she submerged.

  She shuddered with pain, with shock, as the memory Manizheh had triggered came briefly again. The smell of burning papyrus, the screams of a young girl.

  The sight of a pair of warm brown eyes just before muddy water closed over her head.

  Nahri never broke the surface. Darkness whirled around her, the smell of silt and the sensation of being seized.

  There was a single whisper of magic and then everything went black.

  41

  Dara

  Dara was not going to last another minute with Muntadhir al Qahtani.

  For an actively dying man, the emir was running his mouth at remarkable speed, gasping out an unending stream of barbs obviously calculated to goad Dara into killing him.

  “And our wedding night,” Muntadhir continued. “Well . . . nights. I mean, they all started to blend together after—”

  Dara abruptly pressed his knife to the other man’s throat. It was the tenth time he’d done so. “If you do not stop talking,” he hissed. “I’m going to start cutting pieces off of you.”

  Muntadhir blinked, his eyes a dark shadow again
st his wan face. He’d paled to the color of parchment, ash crumbling on his skin, and the green-black lines of the zulfiqar poisoning—creeping, curling marks—had spread to his throat. He opened his mouth and then winced, falling back against the carpet Dara had enchanted to speed them to Manizheh, a flash of pain in his eyes perhaps stealing whatever obnoxious response he had planned.

  No matter—Dara’s attention had been captured by a far stranger sight: water was gushing through the corridor they flew down, the unnatural stream growing deeper and wilder the closer they came to the library. He’d raced to the infirmary only to be told that a panicked, rambling Kaveh e-Pramukh had intercepted Manizheh and sent her here.

  They soared through the doors, and Dara blinked in alarm. Water was pouring through a jagged hole near the ceiling, crashing against the now flooded library floor. Broken furniture and smoldering books—not to mention the bodies of at least a dozen djinn—lay scattered. Manizheh was nowhere to be seen, but he spotted across the room a knot of the warriors who’d been accompanying her.

  Dara was there in seconds, landing the rug as gently as possible on an island of debris and splashing into the water. “Where is the Banu—”

  He didn’t get to finish the question.

  A tremor tore through the palace, the ground beneath him shaking so violently he stumbled. The entire library shuddered, piles of debris collapsing and several of the massive shelves breaking free of the walls.

  “Watch out!” Dara cried as a cascade of books and scrolls rained down upon them. Another tremor followed, and a crack ripped across the opposite wall with such force that the floor split.

  The quake was over in seconds, an eerie hush hanging over them. The water drained away, surging toward the rent in the floor like an animal fleeing. And then . . . as though someone had blown out a lamp he couldn’t see, Dara felt a shift in the air.

  With a bone-jarring popping sound, the globes of conjured fire that floated near the ceiling abruptly went out, crashing to the ground. The fluttering black al Qahtani banners grew still, and the door ahead of him flew open. All the doors did, whatever locking enchantments had been set seemingly broken.