Dara sat in shocked silence in Manizheh’s tent, attempting to process what Kaveh had just read aloud from the scroll. “Your son poisoned Alizayd al Qahtani?” he repeated. “Your son? Jamshid?”
Kaveh glared at him. “Yes.”
Dara blinked. The words in the letter Kaveh held did not match Dara’s memory of the merry, kindhearted young archer with a regrettably sincere attachment to his Qahtani oppressors. “But he is so loyal to them.”
“He’s loyal to one of them,” Kaveh corrected. “Creator curse that bloody emir. Muntadhir’s probably been in a drunken, paranoid spiral since his brother returned. Jamshid would do something foolish to help him.” He threw an annoyed look at Dara. “You might remember whose life Jamshid took six arrows to save.”
“Saving a life and taking one are very different matters.” A concern Dara didn’t like was shaping up in his mind. “And how would he even know how to poison someone?”
Kaveh raked a hand through his hair. “The Temple libraries, I suspect. He’s always been quite taken with Nahid lore. He used to get in trouble when he was a novitiate for sneaking into their archives.” His eyes darted to Manizheh. “Nisreen said this looked somewhat similar to …”
“To one of my experiments?” Manizheh finished. “It is, though I doubt anyone but she would recognize that. Jamshid must have stumbled upon some of my old notes.” She crossed her arms, her expression grave. “Does she think anyone else suspects him?”
Kaveh shook his head. “No. They believe it was his cupbearer, and the boy was killed in the melee, though she warned they were still interrogating the kitchen staff. She also said that if … that if Jamshid fell under suspicion, she was prepared to take the blame.”
Dara was stunned. “What? Forgive me, but why should she? It is your son who is at fault, and foolishly so. What if his ingredients are followed back to the infirmary? Nahri might be blamed!”
Manizheh took a deep breath. “You are certain this letter was not traced in any way?”
Kaveh spread his hands. “We took all the precautions you taught us. She was only to contact me in an emergency. And respectfully, Banu Nahida—we are running low on time.” He nodded at her worktable. “Your experiments … have you had luck figuring out how to limit—”
“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” Manizheh exhaled. “Tell me our plans once again,” she commanded.
“We cross into the city and take the Royal Guard with the assistance of the marid and the ifrit,” Dara answered automatically. “A contingent of my men stay behind with Vizaresh and his ghouls”—he had to fight to keep the distaste from his voice—“while we continue on to the palace.” He glanced between them. “You told me you have a plan for taking care of the king?”
“Yes,” Manizheh said briskly.
Dara paused. Manizheh had been cagey about this for months, and while he didn’t want to step out of bounds, he felt now would be a good time to understand the full scope of their plans. “My lady, I am your Afshin; it might be helpful if you would tell me more.” His voice rose in warning. “We don’t know how my magic might react to Suleiman’s seal. If the king is able to cripple me—”
“Ghassan al Qahtani will be dead before either of us sets foot in the palace. It’s being arranged, and I will be in a position to tell you more in a few days. But speaking of Suleiman’s seal …” Her gaze flickered from Dara to Kaveh. “Have you learned anything more about the ring?”
The grand wazir’s face fell. “No, my lady. I have bribed and cajoled everyone I know, from concubines to scholars. Nothing. There is no one ring he wears consistently, and there are no records of how it’s passed to a new owner. A historian was executed last year simply for attempting to research the seal’s origins.”
Manizheh grimaced. “I fared no better, and I spent decades scouring the Temple archives. There are no texts, no records.”
“Nothing?” Dara repeated. “How is that possible?” The success of their plan hinged on Manizheh taking possession of Suleiman’s seal ring. Without it …
“Zaydi al Qahtani probably had all the records burned when he took the throne,” Manizheh said bitterly. “But I remember Ghassan going into seclusion for a few days after his father’s funeral. When he reappeared, he looked as though he’d been ill—and the seal mark was on his face.” She paused, considering this. “He never left the city again. He used to enjoy hunting in the lands beyond the Gozan when he was young. But after he became king, he never strayed farther than the mountains inside the threshold.”
Kaveh nodded. “The seal ring may be tied to Daevabad—it’s certainly never been used to stop any wars outside the city.” He glanced at Dara. “Unless things were different in your day?”
“No,” Dara replied slowly. “The members of the Nahid Council would pass it among each other, taking turns serving with it.” He thought hard, trying to recall what he remembered—it always hurt to think about his old life. “But I only knew that because of the mark on their face. I do not recall ever seeing a ring.”
After another moment, Manizheh spoke again. “Then we need his son. We’ll have to make sure Muntadhir survives the initial siege so he can tell us how to take the seal. He’s Ghassan’s successor. He must know.” She eyed Kaveh. “Can you find a way to do this?”
Kaveh looked apprehensive. “I don’t think that’s information Muntadhir is going to give up easily … particularly in the wake of his father’s death.”
“And I don’t think it’s going to be difficult to force Ghassan’s wastrel son to talk,” Manizheh countered. “I imagine the very prospect of being alone in a room with Dara will have him spilling any number of royal secrets.”
Dara dropped his gaze, his stomach tightening. Not that he should be surprised she’d use him as a threat. He was the Scourge of Qui-zi, after all. No one—least of all the man Nahri had been forced to wed—would want to be on the receiving end of his supposed vengeance.
Kaveh’s face seemed to momentarily display equal misgivings, but then the other man bowed. “Understood, Banu Nahida.”
“Good. Kaveh, I would like you to prepare for your journey back to Daevabad. If there’s a conflict brewing between those sand-fly princes, make sure our people—not to mention our respective children—stay out of it. Dara will enchant a carpet for you and teach you how to fly it.” Manizheh turned back to her worktable. “I need to finish this.”
Dara followed Kaveh out of the tent, grabbing his sleeve as soon as they were clear. “We need to talk.”
Kaveh threw him an annoyed look. “Surely you can teach me how to fly one of your Creator-forsaken tapestries later.”
“It is not about that.” He pulled Kaveh toward his tent. This was not a discussion he wanted anyone to overhear—nor a topic he suspected Kaveh would take well to.
Kaveh half stumbled inside and then glanced around Dara’s tent, his expression souring further. “Do you sleep surrounded by weapons? Do you truly not have a single personal possession that doesn’t deal death?”
“I have what I require.” Dara crossed his arms over his chest. “But we are not here to discuss my belongings.”
“Then what do you want, Afshin?”
“I want to know if Jamshid’s loyalty to Muntadhir is going to be a problem.”
Kaveh’s eyes flashed. “My son is a loyal Daeva, and considering what you did to him, you have some nerve questioning anything he does.”
“I am Banu Manizheh’s Afshin,” Dara said flatly. “I am in charge of her military conquest and the future security of our city … so yes, Kaveh, I need to know if a well-connected, well-trained former soldier—who just poisoned Muntadhir’s political rival—is going to be a problem.”
An expression of pure hostility swept over Kaveh’s face. “I am done with this conversation.” He turned on his heel.
Dara took a deep breath, hating himself for what he was about to do. “My slave abilities came back to me that night … before the boat,” he called out as Kaveh reached the tent flap. “It was brief—quite frankly, I still don’t know what happened. But when I was in that dancer’s salon, I felt a surge of magic, and then I could see her desires, her wishes all spread before me.” Dara paused. “She had at least a dozen. Fame, money, a leisurely retirement with a lovesick Muntadhir. But when I saw into Muntadhir’s mind next … it was not the dancer who occupied it.”
Kaveh halted, his hands in fists at his sides.
“There was no throne either, Kaveh,” Dara said. “No riches, no women, no dreams of being king. Muntadhir’s only desire was your son at his side.”
The other man was trembling, his back still turned.
Dara continued, his voice low. “I mean Jamshid absolutely no harm, I swear to you. I swear on the Nahids,” he added. “And what we say here never has to leave this tent. But, Kaveh …” His tone grew imploring. “Banu Manizheh is relying on us both. We need to be able to talk about this.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them, the cheerful chatter and clash of his sparring men beyond the tent at odds with the tension rising inside it.
And then Kaveh spoke. “He did nothing,” he whispered. “Jamshid took six arrows for him and all Muntadhir did was hold his hand while his father let my boy suffer.” He turned around, looking haunted—and old, as though the very memory had aged him. “How do you do that to someone you claim to love?”
Dara unwittingly thought of Nahri, and he didn’t have an answer for the man. Suddenly, he felt quite old himself. “How long”—he cleared his throat, suspecting it still wouldn’t take much for Kaveh to storm out—“have they been involved with each other?”
Kaveh’s face crumpled. “At least ten years,” he confessed softly. “If not longer. He was careful to hide it from me in the beginning. I suspect he feared I would disapprove.”
“Such a fear is understandable,” Dara said, quietly sympathetic. “People have often looked askance at such relationships.”
Kaveh shook his head. “It wasn’t that. I mean … it was in part, but our name and our wealth would have shielded him from the worst. I would have shielded him,” he said, his voice growing fiercer. “His happiness and safety are my concerns, not the gossip of others.” He sighed. “Muntadhir was the problem. Jamshid thinks because he is charming and speaks Divasti and loves wine and entertains his cosmopolitan court that he is different. He is not. Muntadhir is Geziri to the core and will always be loyal to his father and his family first. Jamshid refuses to see that, no matter how many times that man breaks his heart.”
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.