The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,220

in the palace because of you.”

Dara recoiled, trying to reach for the justifications Manizheh had offered. “And how many Daeva children died when your people invaded? Far more than the Geziri children who will be lost tonight.”

Muntadhir stared at him in shock. “Do you hear yourself? What sort of man plots that calculus?” Hate filled his gray eyes. “God, I hope it’s her in the end. I hope Nahri puts a goddamned knife through whatever passes for your heart.”

Dara looked away. Nahri had certainly seemed capable of that, glaring at him from across the corridor with flames whipping around her hands as if he were a monster.

She was wrong. She doesn’t understand. This mission had to be right, it had to succeed. Everything Dara had done for his people, from Qui-zi through tonight’s attack, could not be for nothing.

He refocused on Muntadhir. “I know you know what happened to my little sister when Daevabad fell. You took pains to remind me when last we met. Give your little brother an easier death.”

“I don’t believe you,” Muntadhir whispered, but Dara’s words seemed to have an effect, worry creasing the emir’s face. “You hate him. You’ll hurt him.”

“I’ll swear on Nahri’s life,” Dara replied swiftly. “Tell me how to retrieve Suleiman’s seal, and I’ll grant Alizayd mercy.”

Muntadhir didn’t speak, his eyes searching Dara’s face. “All right,” he finally said. “You’ll have to get the ring first.” His breathing was becoming more ragged. “The palace library. Go to the catacombs beneath. There’s a—” He gave a shuddering cough. “A staircase you’ll need to take.”

“And then?”

“Follow it. It’s quite deep; it will go for a long time. You should feel it getting warmer.” Muntadhir grimaced, curling in slightly on his stomach.

“And after?” Dara prompted, growing impatient and a little panicked. He wasn’t going to lose time going after Nahri and Alizayd only to have Muntadhir die before giving him an answer.

Muntadhir frowned, looking slightly confused. “Is that not the way back to hell? I assumed you wanted to go home.”

Dara’s hands were at Muntadhir’s throat the next moment. The emir’s eyes shone feverishly, locking on Dara’s in a last moment of defiance.

Of triumph.

Dara instantly let go. “You … you are trying to trick me into killing you.”

Muntadhir coughed again, blood flecking his lips. “Astonishing. You must have been quite the brilliant tactician in your—ah!” he screamed as Dara kneed his wound again.

But Dara’s heart was racing, his emotions a mess. He didn’t have time to waste torturing a dying man for information he was loath to give up.

He drew back his knee, looking again at the smoking green-black edges of Muntadhir’s wound. This was not the fatal strike that had felled Mardoniye so quickly. It was the zulfiqar’s poison that would take the emir, not the cut itself.

How fortunate then, that Muntadhir had been delivered to a man who knew intimately how long such a death could take. Dara had nursed more friends than he cared to recall through their last moments, easing their seizing limbs and listening to their suffering last gasps as the poison slowly consumed them.

He reached out and snatched Muntadhir’s turban, shaking the cloth loose.

“What the hell are you doing?” Muntadhir panted as Dara began binding the wound. “God, can you not even let me die in peace?”

“You’re not dying yet.” Dara hauled the emir to his feet, ignoring how he shook with pain. “You might not tell me how to retrieve Suleiman’s seal. But there is another, I suspect, who can make you tell her anything.”

They ran, Nahri dragging Ali through the dark palace, her only thought to put as much distance as possible between the two of them and whatever it was that Dara had become. Her ancestors’ magic pulsed through her blood, offering ready assistance in their flight: stairs rising with their strides and narrow passageways bricking up behind them, removing their trail. Another time, Nahri might have marveled at such things.

But Nahri wasn’t certain she’d ever marvel at anything in Daevabad again.

At her side, Ali stumbled. “I need to stop,” he gasped, leaning heavily against her. Blood was dripping from his broken nose. “There.” He pointed down the corridor toward an unassuming wooden door.

Her dagger at the ready, Nahri shoved the door open, and they tumbled into a small sunken courtyard of mirrored fountains and jewel-bright lemon trees. She slammed the door behind them and sank down to catch her breath.

And then it all caught up with her. Nahri squeezed her eyes shut, but she could