Daevabad. Surely he would not ruin what little stability we are building.”
She stepped forward, cradling his face. “I pray you are right.” She ran a thumb over Dara’s bottom lip, sorrow creasing her expression. “They will sing a thousand songs about you.”
“Sad ones?”
“They are the best.” She turned away. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Darayavahoush e-Afshin.”
Trying to shake off the gloom already reclaiming him, Dara called out, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“No, I didn’t.” She glanced back. “We common women are wise enough to enjoy a taste of heat without staying to be burned.”
She walked away without another word and Dara watched her go, suddenly certain he’d never see her again. He ran his fingers through his hair. Well, that was not quite how he imagined this evening going.
He turned over her words regarding Muntadhir. That the calculating emir couldn’t be trusted was not new information, but Dara did believe he had Daevabad’s best interests at heart, and none of them wanted an intracity civil war between the tribes. Still, perhaps now that he’d made his introductions to the Daeva nobles, it was time to cut Muntadhir out.
Dara’s head swam. Creator, this was not what he wanted to think about now. The wine buzzing in his veins, his body still tingling … Dara didn’t feel like already reassuming the mantle of the brooding Afshin, the Scourge responsible for ending and protecting so many lives. He was tempted to rejoin his men but knew they’d have a better time if their commander was not among them. And yet he wasn’t ready to retire to the small, sad room he’d claimed near the stables.
He pushed away from the wall. The pale stone of the empty corridor winding away in the distance, patterned with moonlight from the marble screens, looked inviting, and Dara suddenly had the desire to walk. He snapped his fingers, conjuring a cup of familiar date wine, and took a sip, savoring its sweetness. To hell with Muntadhir’s snobbery. This was far better than that expensive grape swill the emir favored.
Dara walked and drank, trying not to stagger too much. His steps rang out on the floor as he trailed his fingers over faded frescoes and ruined plaster. Ahead a shadowed entryway beckoned, and he stopped, struck by the odd location—half tucked away and surrounded by far grander doors. He touched the cool marble of the arch.
This must have had magic before everything went to hell. A simple conjurement would conceal this entry quite well or give it the appearance of a dull, boring door—the kind that became harder to see the longer you looked.
Intrigued and having nothing better to do, Dara stepped through.
DARA WALKED FOR WHAT FELT LIKE AT LEAST AN HOUR, conjuring a handful of flames to lead him through a maze of abandoned corridors and crumbling stone steps. The pathways were long neglected, the dust thick enough that had someone come through, their footsteps would have remained. He swatted aside dozens of cobwebs, the movement sending rats skittering.
When the air turned foul, the stone mossy and slick, Dara began to question his judgment. He’d stopped drinking, figuring if he got lost down here, date wine was not going to help him. But his people were feasting and celebrating above him, he might still be able to track down that very accommodating dancer, and instead he was choosing to follow a hunch through moldy basement passages in a haunted palace? Those were not the actions of a sane man.
The corridor ended in a pair of low, grimy doors, the lintel barely coming to his shoulders. Lifting his handful of flames, Dara knelt to examine the doors. There were no knobs or pulls, but he could make out the glimmer of a round copper panel about the size of his hand.
A blood seal. The Geziris were fond of them. Perhaps it hadn’t been Nahids who’d built this mysterious place, but rather Qahtanis.
He kicked the doors in. The diminutive entrance was deceptive, for Dara could tell the moment he entered that the chamber was immense, swallowing his handful of flames in gloom. An unpleasant tang hung in the air, and Dara wrinkled his nose as he sent his flames spinning out in dozens of fiery balls. They danced along the ceiling, illumination spreading in uneven waves.
His eyes went wide. “Creator have mercy,” he whispered.
The cavern was full of the dead.
Elaborate stone sarcophagi and crude wooden boxes. Coffins that could have fit four and tiny ones meant for