The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,189

surface.

The icy water sucked him down and attacked him like a rabid animal, shredding his clothes and tearing at his skin. It scrabbled at his mouth and surged up his nose. A white-hot heat burst inside his head.

He screamed into the water. There was something there, an alien presence rooting through his mind, sifting through his memories like a bored student flipping through a book. His mother singing a Ntaran lullaby, the hilt of a zulfiqar in his hands for the first time, Nahri’s laughter in the library, Darayavahoush raising his bow . . .

Everything stopped.

There was a hiss in his ear. HE IS HERE? the lake itself seemed to demand. The turbulent water stilled, and there was a warm press at his throat and chest as the arrows dissolved.

The relief was temporary. Before Ali could even think about kicking for the surface, something snaked around his left ankle and yanked him down.

He squirmed as waterweeds wrapped his body, the roots digging into his flesh. The images in his mind flashed faster as the lake devoured his memories of Darayavahoush: their duel, the way he’d looked upon Nahri in the infirmary, the fiery light that filled his ring as he charged the ship.

Words burst into his mind again. TELL ME YOUR NAME.

Ali’s lungs burned. Two clams were trying to burrow into his stomach and a pair of toothy jaws clamped down on his shoulder. Please, he begged. Just let me die.

Your name, Alu-baba. The lake crooned the words in his mother’s voice this time, a baby name he’d not heard in years. Give your name or see what shall pass.

The image of the hated Afshin was swept away to be replaced by Daevabad. Or what was once Daevabad and was now little more than a burning ruin, surrounded by an evaporated lake and filled with the ash of its people. His father lay slaughtered on the marble steps of the wrecked royal court, and Muntadhir hung from a smashed window screen. The Citadel collapsed, burying alive Wajed and all the soldiers with whom he’d grown up. The city burned; houses burst into flames and children screamed.

No! Ali writhed in the lake’s grip, but there was no way to stop the awful visions.

Skeletally thin gray beings with vibrant wings bowed down in obedience. Rivers and lakes dried up, their towns overtaken by fire and dust while a land he recognized as Am Gezira was swept away by a poisonous sea. A lonely palace grew from Daevabad’s ashes, spun from fired glass and molten metals. He saw Nahri. Her face was veiled in Nahid white, but her dark eyes were visible and filled with despair. A shadow fell over her, the shape of a man.

Darayavahoush. But with black eyes and a scar across his young face, lacking the handsome grace of a slave. Then his eyes were green again and older, his familiar smug smile briefly returning. His skin flared with fiery light, and his hands turned to coal. His eyes were golden now and utterly alien.

Look. The visions started to repeat, lingering on the images of his murdered family. Muntadhir’s dead eyes snapped open. Say your name, akhi, his brother begged. Please!

Ali’s mind spun. His lungs were empty, the water thick with his blood. His body was shutting down, a fuzzy blackness encroaching on the bloody visions.

NO, the lake hissed, desperate. NOT YET. It shook him hard, and the images grew more vicious. His mother brutalized, given over to hungry crocodiles with the rest of the Ayaanle while a crowd of Daevas cheered. The shafit, rounded up and set on fire in the midan. Their screams filled the air, the scent of crackling flesh making him gag. Muntadhir pushed to his knees and beheaded before the yellow eyes of a jeering group of ifrit. A mass of unknown soldiers pulling Zaynab from her bed and ripping her clothes . . .

No! Oh God, no. Stop this!

Save her, his father’s voice demanded. Save us all. The iron bindings grew weak with rust and then burst apart. Something metallic was pressed into his hand. A hilt.

A pair of bloody hands wrapped around his sister’s throat. Zaynab’s terrified gaze locked on his. Brother, please! she screamed.

Ali broke.

Had he been less certain of his imminent death or had he been raised in the outer provinces where one was taught never to speak their true name, to guard it as they did their very soul, he might have hesitated, the request immediately understood for what it