The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,204

you in a bloody uniform, and Jamshid weeping in royal finery. He suddenly felt capable of strangling the young man beside him, the man he’d watched break his son’s heart time and time again, whenever the rumors surrounding them grew a bit too pitched—or whenever something new and pretty caught his eye.

But Kaveh couldn’t say that. The charges he wanted to fling at Muntadhir would likely end with Kaveh being declared the Afshin’s accomplice and one of the arrows in Jamshid’s back shoved into his heart. Ghassan al Qahtani’s eldest son was untouchable—Kaveh and his tribe had just learned all too well how coldly the king dealt with people who threatened his family.

It was a lesson Kaveh would never forget.

But right now, he needed Muntadhir gone—every second he lingered was another Jamshid suffered. He cleared his throat. “My emir, would you please give that name to your father? I would not wish to delay my son’s treatment any further.”

“But of course,” Muntadhir said, flustered. “I . . . I’m sorry, Kaveh. Please let me know if anything changes with his condition.”

Oh, I suspect you’ll know. Kaveh waited until he heard the door shut.

In the firelight, piles of fresh timber and crates of glass ceiling tiles threw wild shadows across the ruined room. Nahri’s patients had been moved while the infirmary was under repair, and she was safely away—in a meeting with the priests at the Grand Temple that Kaveh knew would go long. He’d chosen the time deliberately; he didn’t want to implicate her in what he was about to do.

From his belt, he pulled free a small iron blade. It was more scalpel than knife, its handle wrapped in layers of protective linen. Kaveh cut a careful slit in Jamshid’s bloody tunic, ripping a gash large enough to reveal the small black tattoo that marked the inside of his son’s left shoulder blade.

At first appearance, the tattoo was unremarkable: three swirling glyphs, their lines stark and unadorned. Plenty of Daeva men—especially in Zariaspa, the Pramukhs’ wild corner of Daevastana—still partook in the old tradition of marking their skin with the proud symbols of their lineage and caste. A way to honor their heritage, it was one part superstition, one part fashion, the pictograms themselves so ancient that no one could really decipher them. Beloved but useless.

Jamshid’s tattoo was not useless. It had been burned into his skin by his mother just hours after his birth and for years had been the surest safeguard of his life. Of his anonymity.

Now it was killing him.

Please, Creator, I beg you: let this work. Kaveh lay the scalpel at the tip of the first swirling glyph. The ebony-marked flesh hissed at the touch of the iron, the magic protesting. His heart racing, Kaveh cut away a sliver of skin.

Jamshid drew in a sharp breath. Kaveh stilled as a few drops of black blood blossomed at the cut. They dripped away.

And then the skin below stitched itself back together.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a woman’s voice behind him demanded. Nisreen. She was at Kaveh’s side in seconds, pushing him away from Jamshid, and pulling the torn flaps of his uniform back over the tattoo. “Have you lost your mind?”

Kaveh shook his head, his eyes welling with tears. “I can’t let him suffer like this.”

“And revealing him will end that suffering?” Nisreen’s eyes scanned the dark room. “Kaveh . . . ,” she warned in a low whisper. “We have no idea what will happen if you remove that mark. His body has never healed itself. There’s been an arrow lodged in his spine for a week; there’s no telling how the magic might respond to such an injury. You could kill him.”

“He could die if I don’t!” Kaveh wiped his eyes with his other hand. “He’s not your child, you don’t understand. I have to do something.”

“He’s not going to die,” Nisreen assured him. “He’s endured this long.” She pressed down on Kaveh’s wrist, lowering the knife. “They’re not like us, Kaveh,” she said softly. “He has his mother’s blood—he’ll survive this. But if you remove that mark, if he heals on his own . . .” She shook her head. “Ghassan will have him tortured for information—he’ll never believe his innocence. The Qahtanis will rip through our tribe for answers; there will be soldiers tearing through every grassy knoll, every home in Daevastana.” Her eyes flashed. “You will destroy everything that we’ve worked for.”

“It’s already gone,” Kaveh argued, his voice bitter. “The Afshin is dead, Banu Nahri will have a Qahtani baby in her belly in a year, and we’ve not even heard from—”

Nisreen took the knife from his hand and replaced it with something hard and small. It stung his palm. Iron, he realized, as he held it up in the light to examine it. A ring.

A battered iron ring with an emerald that shone as if it were on fire.

Kaveh immediately closed his fingers over the ring. It scorched his skin. “By the Creator,” he breathed. “How did you—”

She shook her head. “Don’t ask. But don’t despair. We need you, Kaveh.” She nodded at Jamshid. “He needs you. You need to get back into Ghassan’s good graces, to make him trust you enough that you can return to Zariaspa.”

He gripped the Afshin’s ring as it grew hotter. “Dara tried to kill my son, Nisreen.” His voice cracked.

“Your son was on the wrong side.” Kaveh flinched, and Nisreen continued. “He won’t be again. We’ll make sure of it.” She sighed. “Did you find someone to take the blame for the supplies?”

He offered a mute nod. “Bizhan e-Oshrusan. He asked only that we make arrangements for his parents. He . . .” Kaveh cleared his throat. “He understood that he was not to be taken alive.”

Nisreen’s face was somber. “May the Creator reward his sacrifice.”

There was silence between them. Jamshid stirred in his sleep, the motion threatening to upend Kaveh all over again.

But it was also the reminder he needed. For there was still a way to save his son. And for that Kaveh would do anything; he’d grovel before the king, cross the world, face the ifrit.

He’d burn down Daevabad itself.

The ring seemed to pulse in Kaveh’s hand, a thing alive with a beating heart. “Does Nahri know?” he asked softly, raising his hand. “About this, I mean?”

Nisreen shook her head. “No.” A protective edge entered her voice. “She has enough to worry about right now. She needs no distractions, no false hope. And truthfully . . . she’s safest not knowing. If we’re caught, her innocence might be her only defense.”

Kaveh nodded again, but he was tired of being on the defensive. He thought of the Daevas that Ghassan had already executed, the merchants beaten up in the Grand Bazaar, the girl raped in front of the Royal Guard. Of his son—nearly killed defending a Qahtani and then denied treatment. Of the martyrs in the Grand Temple. Of all the other ways his people had suffered.

Kaveh was tired of bowing to the Qahtanis.

A small flicker of defiance bloomed in his chest, the first he’d felt in a long time. His next question came out in a desperate whisper. “If I can get the ring to her . . . do you really think she can bring him back?”

Nisreen gazed at Jamshid. Her eyes were filled with the type of quiet awe most Daevas felt in the presence of one of their Nahids. “Yes,” she said firmly. Reverently. “I think Manizheh can do anything.”