The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,150

such despair on the eve of a conquest he’d desired for centuries. Certainly not back when he was the Scourge of Qui-zi, the cunning Afshin who’d bedeviled Zaydi al Qahtani for years. That man had been a dashing rebel, a passionate leader who’d picked up the shattered pieces of his tribe and knit his people back together with promises of a better future. Of a day when they would sweep into Daevabad as victors and seat a Nahid on the shedu throne. Back then, he’d had quieter dreams for himself as well. Fleeting fantasies of reclaiming his family’s house, taking a wife and raising children of his own.

None of those dreams would ever be now, and for what Dara had done—for what he was about to do—he had no right to them. But Nahri and Jamshid would have such dreams. His soldiers would. Their children would be the first Daevas in centuries to grow up without a foreigner’s foot pressed down on their necks.

He had to believe it.

The sun blinked crimson behind the mountains, and a deep, rhythmic drumming came from the firelit camp, a welcome distraction from his grim thoughts. Their group was gathering while Manizheh prepared for sunset ceremonies at a makeshift fire altar. It was little more than a brass bowl set atop a circle of rocks, and Dara could not help but think wistfully of the magnificent gleaming altar back in Daevabad’s Grand Temple.

He joined the line of weary soldiers, plunging his hands into the fiery ash in the brazier and sweeping it over his arms. There was a subdued air to the gathering, but that didn’t surprise him. Mardoniye’s death had been the first time most of his warriors had witnessed what a zulfiqar could truly do. Add the whispers he was trying to quash surrounding the vapor that had killed the Geziri scouts, and it made for a tense, grim atmosphere within the camp.

Manizheh caught his eye, beckoning him closer. “Did you find the marid?” she asked.

He wrinkled his nose. “Decomposing on the rocks on the opposite shore and no less self-righteous. But they are ready to assist us. I made clear the consequences should they betray us.”

“Yes, I have no doubt you made yourself quite clear.” Manizheh’s black eyes twinkled. She had returned to treating Dara with her typical warm affection the very morning after they fought. And why not? She had won, after all, putting him firmly back in his place with a few swift words. “And are you ready?”

His response was automatic. “I am always ready to serve the Daevas.”

Manizheh touched his hand. Dara caught his breath at the burst of magic, a sweep of calm similar to a drunken ease surging through him. “Your loyalty will be rewarded, my friend,” she replied softly. “I know we’ve had our disagreements, and I see you standing on the edge of bleakness. But our people will know what you’ve done for them. All of them.” Her voice was intent. “We are indebted to you, and for that I promise you, Dara … I will see you find some happiness.”

Dara blinked, the feelings he’d tried to suppress on his walk back rising and churning within him. “I do not deserve happiness,” he whispered.

“That’s not true.” She touched his cheek. “Have faith, Darayavahoush e-Afshin. You are a blessing, our people’s salvation.”

Emotions warred in his heart. By the Creator, did he want to seize her words. To throw himself back into that belief wholeheartedly, the faith that had once come so easily and now seemed impossible to grasp.

Then force yourself to. Dara stared at Manizheh. Her worn chador and the battered brass bowl before her might have been a far cry from the splendid ceremonial garb and dazzling silver altar found in the Grand Temple, but she was still the Banu Nahida—Suleiman’s chosen, the Creator’s chosen.

He managed some conviction. “I shall try,” he promised. “Actually … I would like to do something for you all after the ceremony. A gift, to brighten your spirits.”

“That sounds delightful.” She nodded to the rest of their group, seated on the grass. “Join your fellows. I would speak to you all.”

Dara took a seat next to Irtemiz. Manizheh raised a hand in blessing, and he bowed his head in unison with the rest, bringing together his hands. The emerald on his ring caught the dying light, gleaming past the soot coating his fingers. He watched as Manizheh went through the sacred motions, pouring fresh oil in the glass lamps bobbing