The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,213

“Take the vengeance you deserve. You’ve been denied the peace of death. Why should your enemy be granted it at your hands?”

Dara’s fingers shook on the knife, his breath coming fast. Manizheh was getting her revenge on Ghassan; why shouldn’t Dara have his? Was it any worse than what they were already doing? What he had already done?

Alizayd must have realized something was wrong. His gaze darted between Dara and the ifrit, finally dropping to the chain of slave rings.

His eyes went wide. Wild, sheer terror coursing through them. He jerked back with a gasp, trying to tear himself from Dara’s grip, but Dara easily held on, pinning him hard to the ground and pressing the blade to his throat.

Alizayd shouted, writhing against them. “Get off me!” he screamed, seemingly heedless of the knife against his neck. “Get off me, you—”

With a single brutal motion, Vizaresh grabbed the prince’s head and slammed his skull into the ground. Alizayd instantly fell silent, his dazed eyes rolling back.

Vizaresh let out an annoyed sigh. “I swear, these djinn make even more noise than humans, though I suppose that’s what happens when you live too close to those earth-blooded insects.” He reached for Alizayd’s hand, slipping the ring over his thumb.

“Stop,” Dara whispered.

The ifrit glared at him, his fingers still closed around the ring. “You said he wasn’t the prince you were after. I have not touched any of your people. You can give me this one.”

But if the cold way Vizaresh had smashed the young prince’s head into the floor—indeed, as one might swat a fly—had already pulled Dara back to himself, the angry possessiveness in the ifrit’s voice made him recoil. Was that how Qandisha had thought of him? A possession, a toy to enjoy, to toss to humans as a plaything, only to delight in the chaos it would cause?

Yes. We are the ancestors of the people who betrayed them. The daevas who chose to humble themselves before Suleiman, to let a human forever transform them. To the ifrit, his people—djinn and Daeva alike—were an anathema. An abomination.

And Dara had been a fool to ever forget that. However he’d been brought back to life, he was no ifrit. He would not allow them to enslave another djinn’s soul.

“No,” Dara said again, revulsion coursing through him. “Get that disgusting thing off him. Now,” he demanded when Vizaresh didn’t move. Instead of obeying, the ifrit jerked up, his attention caught by something behind them. Dara followed his gaze.

His heart stopped.

“Are you sure this leads back to the outer wall?” Nahri whispered as she and Muntadhir crept through the twisting servants’ passage. Save for a bit of fire she’d conjured, it was entirely dark.

“I’ve told you twice,” Muntadhir replied snippily. “Which of us spent our entire life here again?”

“Which of us used this to sneak into random bedrooms?” Nahri muttered back, ignoring the annoyed look he threw her. “What, am I wrong?”

He rolled his eyes. “This passage ends soon, but we can take the next corridor all the way to the east end and access the outer steps there.”

Nahri nodded. “So, Suleiman’s seal …,” she started, trying for a light tone. “How do we retrieve it? Do we have to carve it from your father’s face or—”

Muntadhir made a choking sound. “My God, Nahri, really?”

“You were the one who got all queasy when you first brought it up!”

He shook his head. “Are you going to stick a dagger in my back and run off the moment I tell you?”

“If you keep saying things like that, very possibly.” Nahri sighed. “Can we try being on the same side for one night?”

“Fine,” Muntadhir grumbled. “I suppose someone else should know, all things considered.” He took a deep breath. “It has nothing to do with his cheek; the mark shows up there once the ring is taken.”

“The ring? Suleiman’s seal is on a ring?” Nahri thought back to the jewels she’d seen adorning Ghassan over the past five years. Quietly assessing the valuables another person was wearing was a bit of her specialty. “Is it the ruby he wears on his thumb?” she guessed.

Muntadhir’s expression was grim. “It’s not on his hand,” he replied. “It’s in his heart. We have to cut it out and burn it. The ring re-forms from the ash.”

Nahri stopped dead in her tracks. “We have to do what?”

“Please don’t make me repeat it.” Muntadhir looked ill. “The ring re-forms, you put it on your hand, and that’s that. My father said it