The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,179

carrying a long, wrapped parcel. “Here you are, Emir.”

“Excellent,” Muntadhir replied. He addressed the crowd again. “I heard the Daevas have a weapon that I thought my brother might like to see. Our dear Zaydi does love his history.” He took the parcel, pulling free the cloth and then holding it out to Ali.

Ali felt a catch in his throat. It was the bow from the Afshin’s shrine. The exact replica of the weapon with which Darayavahoush had shot him.

“Do you like it, akhi?” Muntadhir asked, a soft edge of cruelty in his voice. “Takes a little getting used to but …” He abruptly raised it, drawing the string back in Ali’s direction.

Ali jerked, the motion throwing him back into that night. The silver bow glittering in the light of the burning ship, Darayavahoush’s cold green eyes locked on him. The searing pain, the blood in his mouth choking his scream as he tried to grab Muntadhir’s hand.

He stared at Muntadhir now, seeing a stranger instead of his brother. “May I borrow a horse?” he asked coldly.

The Daevas brought him one at once, and Ali pulled himself into the saddle. The animal danced nervously beneath him, and he tightened his legs as it reared. They’d probably given him the worst-tempered one they had.

“I think maybe he does not like crocodiles,” one of the Daevas mocked.

Another time Muntadhir would have harshly rebuked the man for such words, Ali knew. Now his brother just chuckled along.

“Ah, let us give Zaydi a minute to get used to riding a horse again. A bit different from the oryxes in his village.” Muntadhir pulled free an arrow. “I should like to try this bow out.”

His brother was off like a shot, the sand churning in his wake. As he neared the target, he raised the bow, leaning slightly sideways to aim an arrow upward.

It hit the exact center of the target, the enchanted pitch bursting into a sparkle of blue flames.

Ali’s mouth fell open. That had been no lucky shot. The audience’s applause was thunderous, their surprised delight clear. Where in God’s name had Muntadhir learned to do that?

The answer came to him just as quickly. Jamshid. Ali swore under his breath. Of course Muntadhir knew how to shoot; his best friend had been one of the best archers in Daevabad—he’d trained with the Afshin himself.

Muntadhir must have seen the shock in Ali’s face, for triumph blossomed in his own. “I suppose you don’t know everything, after all.” He tossed Ali the bow. “Your turn, little brother.”

Ali caught the bow, his sandals slipping in the stirrups. But as the horse stepped nervously, Ali realized it wasn’t just his sandals slipping, it was the entire saddle. It hadn’t been tightened enough.

He bit his lip. If he dismounted to check it, he was going to look either paranoid or as if he didn’t trust the Daevas who’d saddled the horse in the first place.

Just get this over with. Ali pressed his heels to the horse ever so slightly. It seemed to work for a moment, the horse moving at a slow canter. But then it picked up speed, galloping madly toward the target.

You can do this, he told himself desperately. He could ride and fight with a sword; a bow was only a bit more complicated.

He tightened his legs again. Ali’s hands were steady as he nocked an arrow and raised the bow. But he’d never been taught how to adjust for the movement of the horse, and the arrow went embarrassingly off target.

Ali’s cheeks burned as the Daeva men laughed. The mood was openly hostile now; they were clearly enjoying the spectacle of the sand fly who’d murdered their beloved Afshin being humiliated by his own kin with a weapon they cherished.

Muntadhir took the bow from him. “It was a good attempt, Zaydi,” he offered with mocking sincerity. His eyes glittered. “Shall we try it backward?”

“Whatever you wish, Emir,” Ali hissed.

Muntadhir rode off yet again. Even Ali had to admit his brother cut a striking figure, his black robe billowing behind him like smoky wings, the brilliant colors of the royal turban glimmering in the sunlight. He executed the move with the same ease, rising in his saddle as if he were the damned Afshin himself, turning backward and again striking the target. The arena burst into more applause, a few ululations coming from a knot of Geziris close to the ground. Ali recognized Muntadhir’s cousin, Tariq, among them.

Ali glanced at the screened balcony above the