“We’ll attack the second night of Navasatem,” Dara said as they gazed at the map he’d conjured: a section of Daevabad’s narrow beach, the city walls and looming Citadel tower just behind it. “It is a new moon then and will be lightless. The Royal Guard will not see us coming until their tower is crashing through the lake.”
“That’s the night after the parade, correct?” Mardoniye asked. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Kaveh nodded. “I may not have witnessed a Navasatem in Daevabad, but I’ve heard plenty about the first day of celebrations. The drinking starts at dawn and doesn’t stop until after the competitions in the arena. By midnight, half the city will be passed out in their beds. We’ll take the djinn unaware and the majority of the Daevas will be at home.”
“And Nahri will be in the infirmary, yes?” Dara asked. “You are certain Nisreen can keep her safe?”
“For the twentieth time, yes, Afshin,” Kaveh sighed. “She will bar the infirmary doors at the first sight of your rather … creative sign.”
Dara wasn’t convinced. “Nahri is not the type to be confined against her will.”
Kaveh gave him an even stare. “Nisreen has spent years at her side. I’m certain she can handle this.”
And I’m certain she has no idea the Nahid under her charge once made a living getting in and out of locked places undetected. Uneasy, Dara glanced at Mardoniye. “Would you go see if Banu Manizheh is ready to join us?” he asked. She had barely left her tent in the past few days, working at a feverish pace on her experiments.
The young soldier nodded, rising to his feet and heading off across the camp. The sky was a pale pink through the dark trees. The snows had finally melted and the dew-damp earth glistened under the sun’s first rays. His archers had already left to go practice with their horses in the valley below, and another pair of warriors was leading a yawning Abu Sayf out to their sparring ring. Dara quickly checked to make sure the zulfiqars were still sheathed on the other side of the ring. He had made it clear to his soldiers they were only to practice with Abu Sayf in his presence.
Aeshma snorted, drawing Dara’s attention. “I still cannot believe they celebrate what Suleiman did to us,” he said to Vizaresh.
Dara’s mood instantly darkened. The ifrit had returned to their camp yesterday, and each hour in their presence was more trying. “We celebrate freedom from his bondage,” he shot back. “You remember … the part where our ancestors obeyed and thus didn’t have their magic permanently taken away. And surely you must have once celebrated some sort of festivities.”
Aeshma looked wistful. “The humans in my land would occasionally sacrifice virgins in my name. They screamed terribly, but the music was enjoyable.”
Dara briefly closed his eyes. “Forget the question. But speaking of the attack … are the two of you prepared? The ghouls will be handled?”
Vizaresh inclined his head. “I’m well-accomplished at such a thing.”
“Accomplished enough to keep them from attacking my warriors?”
He nodded. “I will be at the beach with them myself.”
That didn’t make Dara feel much better. He hated the idea of separating his small militia and leaving a group of his untested warriors on the opposite side of the city. But he had no choice.
Aeshma grinned. “If you’re worried, Afshin, I’m sure Qandisha would be happy to join us. She misses you terribly.”
The campfire snapped loudly in response.
Kaveh glanced at him. “Who is Qandisha?”
Dara focused on his breath, staring at the flames as he tried to steady the magic surging through his limbs. “The ifrit who enslaved me.”
Vizaresh clucked his tongue. “I was very jealous,” he confessed. “I never managed to enslave someone so powerful.”
Dara cracked his knuckles loudly. “Yes, what a pity.”
Kaveh frowned. “This Qandisha is not working with Banu Manizheh?”
“She was, but then he wouldn’t allow it,” Aeshma mocked, tilting his head toward Dara. “He fell to his knees and begged his Nahid to send Qandisha away. Said it was his only condition. Though I can’t imagine why.” Aeshma licked his teeth. “After all, she’s the only one who remembers what you did as a slave. And you must be curious. Fourteen centuries’ worth of memories …” He leaned in. “Think of all the delightful desires you must have fulfilled.”
Dara’s hand dropped to his knife. “Give me a reason, Aeshma,” he seethed.
Aeshma’s eyes danced. “Only a joke, dear Afshin.”
He didn’t get a chance to respond. There was a startled cry from behind him, a thud, and the unmistakable sound of two bodies colliding.
And then the terrible hiss of a zulfiqar flaring to life.
Dara was whirling around, a conjured bow in his hands before he had taken another breath. The scene came to him in pieces. An exhausted Manizheh emerging from her tent. Abu Sayf’s two guards on the ground, the fiery zulfiqar in the Geziri man’s hands as he lunged toward her …
Dara’s arrow flew, but Abu Sayf was prepared, raising a plank of wood with a speed and skill that took Dara by surprise. This was not the man who’d been sparring with his soldiers. He shot again, a cry rising from his throat as Abu Sayf rushed forward.
Mardoniye flung himself between the Geziri scout and Manizheh, parrying the zulfiqar’s strike with his sword, the iron hissing against the conjured flames. He pushed Abu Sayf back, barely meeting the next blow as he inadvertently stepped between Dara and a clean shot.
But it was clear who was the better swordsman … and Mardoniye wasn’t able to block Abu Sayf’s next thrust.
The zulfiqar went straight through his stomach.
Dara was running for them the next moment, his magic surging, ice and snow melting beneath his feet. Abu Sayf pulled the zulfiqar out of Mardoniye and the Daeva man collapsed. He raised it over Manizheh …
She snapped her fingers.
Dara heard the bones in Abu Sayf’s hand shatter from ten paces away. Abu Sayf cried out in pain, dropping the zulfiqar as Manizheh stared down at him, cold hatred in her dark eyes. By the time Dara reached them, his soldiers had pinned the Geziri. His hand was horrifically broken, the fingers splayed and pointing in different directions.
Dara dropped to Mardoniye’s side. A sheen had swept the young man’s eyes, his face already pale. His wound was a ghastly, gaping hole, black blood spreading in a pool beneath him. Though a few tendrils of the zulfiqar’s telltale greenish-black poison were snaking across his skin, Dara knew that wouldn’t be what took him.
Manizheh had gone right to work, ripping open the young warrior’s coat. She pressed her hands against his stomach and closed her eyes.
Nothing happened. Nothing would happen, Dara knew. No one—not even a Nahid—healed from a zulfiqar blow.
Manizheh gasped, a choked sound of angry disbelief in her throat as she pressed harder.
Dara touched her hand. “My lady …” Her eyes darted to his, wilder than Dara had ever seen them, and he shook his head.
Mardoniye cried out in pain, clutching Dara’s hand. “It hurts,” he whispered, tears trickling down his cheeks. “Oh, Creator, please.”
Dara took him gently into his arms. “Close your eyes,” he soothed. “The pain will be gone soon, my friend. You fought well.” His throat constricted. The words came automatically to him; he’d done this awful duty so many times.
Blood was trickling from Mardoniye’s mouth. “My mother …”
“Your mother will be brought to live at my palace, her every need seen to.” Manizheh reached out to bless Mardoniye’s brow. “I will take her myself to visit your shrine at the temple. You saved my life, child, and for that your eyes will next open in Paradise.”
Dara brought his lips to Mardoniye’s ear. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “There’s a garden, a peaceful grove of cedars where you’ll wait with your loved ones …” His voice finally cracked, tears brimming in his eyes as Mardoniye jerked and then grew still, hot blood slowly soaking Dara’s clothes.
“He’s gone,” Manizheh said softly.
Dara closed Mardoniye’s eyes, gently laying him back on the bloody snow. Forgive me, my friend.
He rose to his feet, pulling free the knife he wore at his waist. Flames were licking down his arms and flickering in his eyes before he even approached Abu Sayf. The Geziri man was bloody, his nose broken, held fast by four of Dara’s warriors.
Rage tore through him. The knife in his hand transformed, smoking away to reveal a scourge.
“Tell me why I should not flay you piece by piece right now,” Dara hissed. “Why I should not do the same to your companion and make you listen as he screams for death?”
Abu Sayf met his eyes, a mix of defeat and grim determination in his expression. “Because you would have done the same thing in my place. Do you think we don’t know who you are? What your Nahid is doing with our blood and our relics? Do you think we don’t know what you have planned for Daevabad?”
“It is not your city,” Dara snapped. “I treated you with kindness and this is how you repay me?”
Incredulity crossed Abu Sayf’s face. “You cannot be that naive, Afshin. You threatened to torture the young warrior in my care if I didn’t train yours to murder my kinsmen. Do you think a few shared meals and conversations erase that?”
“I think you are a liar from a tribe of liars.” When Dara rushed on, he knew it was not just Abu Sayf he was angry at. “A horde of sand flies who lie and manipulate and feign friendship to gain trust.” He raised his scourge. “I think it should be your tongue I take first.”
“No.” Manizheh’s voice cut through the air.
Dara whirled around. “He killed Mardoniye! He would have killed you!” He was nearly as furious with himself as he was with Abu Sayf. Dara should never have allowed this. He knew how dangerous the Geziris were and yet he’d let them remain at camp, let himself be lulled into complacency by Abu Sayf’s fluent Divasti and the comfort of swapping stories with a fellow warrior. And now Mardoniye was dead.
“I am killing him, Banu Nahida,” Dara said flatly, the defiance easy for once. “This is a matter of war you do not understand.”
Manizheh’s eyes flashed. “Do not dare condescend to me, Darayavahoush. Lower your weapon. I will not ask again.” She turned to Kaveh without waiting for a response. “Retrieve the serum and the relic from my tent. And I want the other Geziri brought out.”
Dara was instantly chastened. “Banu Nahida, I merely meant—”
“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 destroyed 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?”
Dara was suddenly sitting, though he had little recollection of doing so. His knees felt weak, his head heavy.
Manizheh clearly wasn’t done. “I wasn’t going to tell you, you know. Not until after we’d won. Until he was safe and I’d burned that damned mark from his back. I thought you’d suffered enough. I feared the guilt might break you.”
He could see the truth of that in her eyes, and that did break him—that, and the realization that Manizheh had spent these years Jamshid needed her most at the side of the man who’d injured him. “I am sorry,” he whispered.
“I don’t want your apology,” Manizheh snapped. “I want my children. I want my city. I want the throne, and the seal Zaydi al Qahtani stole from my ancestors. I want my generation of Daevas to stop suffering because of the actions of yours. And quite frankly, Afshin, I do not give a damn if you approve of my methods.”
Dara ran his hands through his hair. “There has to be a better way.” He could hear the plea in his voice.
“There isn’t. Your warriors swore oaths to me. If you go after Kaveh, we will be gone when you return. I will take them to Daevabad, release the poison myself, and hope it kills Ghassan before he realizes what’s happening and has Nahri, Jamshid, and every Daeva he can get his hands on slaughtered.” She stared at him. “Or you can help me.”
Dara’s hands curled into fists. He felt more trapped than he had in years, as though a net he’d unknowingly stepped into had snapped up around him. And, Creator forgive him, he could not see a way to escape that wouldn’t kill more people he loved.
He dropped his gaze, briefly closing his eyes. Forgive me, Tamima, he prayed softly. Manizheh might be right. This brutal act might be enough to force the other tribes into a more permanent submission.
But for standing at her side while she committed it, Dara did not imagine he would ever again see the garden where his sister waited for him.
He opened his eyes. His soul was heavy as iron. “My soldiers are asking questions,” he said slowly. “And I do not want this guilt on their consciences.” He fixed his gaze on his Nahid and bowed his head once again. “What would you have me tell them?”