The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,107

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.

It should have been a lovely morning. They’d gathered at a pavilion high upon the palace wall, the same place Ali and Nahri had once stargazed. The sun was warm, and there was not a cloud in the sky, the lake stretching like a cool glass mirror below them.

A plush embroidered rug deeper than Nahri’s hand and large enough to sit fifty had been laid out under painted silk awnings and spread with a sumptuous feast. Every fruit one might imagine lay spread before them, from slivers of golden mango and bright persimmon to gleaming silver cherries that made a distinctly metallic crunch when chewed and trembling crimson custard apples whose similarity to a beating heart made Nahri shudder. Delicate pastries of creamed honey, sweetened cheese, and roasted nuts shared space between bowls of yoghurt strained and shaped into herb-brushed balls and platters of spiced semolina porridge.

And even better, a dish of fried fava beans with onions, eggs, and country bread, an unexpected delight indicating that the quiet old Egyptian cook who served in the palace kitchens had a hand in the morning’s meal. In the earliest and darkest months after Dara’s death, Nahri had noticed a number of dishes from her old home making their way into her meals. Nothing fancy, but rather, the comfort fare and street food she most loved. During a bout of homesickness, Nahri had once tried to find the cook, a meeting that hadn’t gone well. The man had burst into tears when she smilingly introduced herself, his fellows in the kitchen later telling her that he rarely spoke and was considered slightly touched in the head. Nahri had dared not intrude upon him again, but he’d kept quietly preparing food for her, often slipping small tokens next to her dishes: a garland of jasmine, a reed folded to resemble a felucca, a carved wooden bangle. The gifts charmed her as much as they saddened her: reminders of the way Daevabad walled her off from a former countryman.

“Did Muntadhir tell you we found a troupe of conjurers, Abba?” Zaynab asked, pulling Nahri from her thoughts. The princess had been valiantly trying to make small talk with them all since they sat down, a task Nahri didn’t envy. Muntadhir was sitting across from her, so stiff he might have been embalmed, and Hatset was slapping Ali’s hand every time he reached for a dish without letting her try it first, because “your father’s tasters are clearly useless.” “They’re excellent,” Zaynab continued. “They summoned up a whole menagerie of birds that sang the loveliest of melodies. They’ll be perfect for Navasatem.”

“I hope they’ve signed a contract, then,” Ghassan said lightly. Oddly enough, the djinn king seemed contentedly amused by this barbed family breakfast. “The last few Eids, I’ve found the entertainers I’ve hired suddenly lured away to Ta Ntry by promises