The Kingdom of Copper

Lubayd wrapped an arm around Ali’s shoulders proudly. “You’d think he’d been riding zahhak since he was weaned.”

“It was extraordinary,” Ali admitted.

The other man laughed. “We’ll make a proper northerner out of you yet, Daevabadi.”

Ali grinned back. “God willing.”

They crossed through the dark chamber, passing the empty tombs of the long-dead human kings and queens who once ruled here—no one would ever give Ali a straight answer as to exactly where their bodies had gone and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Ahead was a plain stone wall. To a casual observer—a human observer—little would mark it as special save the slight glow emanating from its oddly warm surface.

But it was a surface that all but sang to Ali, magic simmering from the rock in comforting waves. He placed his palm upon the wall. “Pataru sawassam,” he commanded in Geziriyya.

The wall misted away, revealing the bustling greenery of Bir Nabat. Ali paused, taking a moment to appreciate the newly fertile beauty of the place he’d called home for five years. It was a mesmerizing sight, far different from the famine-stricken shell it had been when he first arrived. Though Bir Nabat had likely been a lush paradise at the time of its founding—the remnants of water catchments and aqueducts, as well as the size and artistry of its human-crafted temples, indicated a time of more frequent rains and a flourishing population—the djinn who’d moved in after had never matched their numbers. They’d gotten by for centuries with a pair of remaining springs and their own scavenging.

But by the time Ali arrived, the springs had dwindled down to almost nothing. Bir Nabat had become a desperate place, a place willing to defy their king and take in the strange young prince they’d found dying in a nearby crevasse. A place willing to overlook the fact that his eyes occasionally gleamed like wet bitumen when he got upset and his limbs were covered in scars no blade could draw. That didn’t matter to the Geziris in Bir Nabat. The fact that Ali had uncovered four new springs and two untapped cisterns, enough water to irrigate Bir Nabat for centuries, did. Now small but thriving plots of barley and melons hemmed new homes, more and more people opting to replace tents of smoke and oryx hide with compounds of quarried stone and sandblasted glass. The date trees were healthy, thick and towering to provide cool shade. The village’s eastern corner had been given over to orchards: a dozen fig saplings growing strong between citrus trees, all carefully fenced off for protection from Bir Nabat’s booming population of goats.

They passed by the village’s small market, held in the shadow of the enormous old temple that had been carved into the cliff face, its carefully sculpted columns and pavilions laden with magical goods. Ali smiled, returning the nods and salaams of various djinn merchants, a sense of calm stealing over him.

One of the vendors quickly stepped to block his path. “Ah, sheikh, I’ve been looking for you.”

Ali blinked, pulled from his euphoric daze. It was Reem, a woman from one of the artisan-caste families.

She waved a scroll in front of him “I need you to check this contract for me. I’m telling you … that shifty southern slave of Bilqis is cheating me. My enchantments have no equal, and I know I should be seeing higher returns on the baskets I sold him.”

“You do realize I’m one of those shifty southerners, correct?” Ali pointed out. The Qahtanis originally hailed from Am Gezira’s mountainous southern coast—and were rather proud descendants of the djinn servants Suleiman had once gifted Bilqis, the human queen of ancient Saba.

Reem shook her head. “You’re Daevabadi. It doesn’t count.” She paused. “It’s actually worse.”

Ali sighed and took the contract; between spending the morning digging a new canal and getting tossed around by a zahhak in the afternoon, he was beginning to yearn for his bed. “I’ll have a look.”

“Bless you, sheikh.” Reem turned away.

Ali and his friends kept walking but didn’t get far before Bir Nabat’s muezzin came huffing over to them.

“Brother Alizayd, peace and blessings upon you!” The muezzin’s gray eyes flitted over Ali. “Aye, you look half-dead on your feet.”

“Yes. I was about to—”

“Of course, you were. Listen …” The muezzin lowered his voice. “Is there any way you could give the khutbah tomorrow? Sheikh Jiyad hasn’t been feeling well.”

“Doesn’t Brother Thabit usually give the sermon in his father’s place?”

“Yes, but …” The muezzin lowered his voice even further. “I can’t deal with another of his rants, brother. I just can’t. The last time he gave the khutbah, all he did was ramble about how the music of lutes was leading young people away from prayer.”

Ali sighed again. He and Thabit didn’t get along, primarily because Thabit fervently believed all the gossip coming out of Daevabad and would rail to anyone who would listen that Ali was an adulterous liar who’d been sent to corrupt them all with “city ways.” “He won’t be happy when he learns you asked me.”

Aqisa snorted. “Yes, he will. It will give him something new to complain about.”

“And people enjoy your sermons,” the muezzin added quickly. “You choose very lovely topics.” His voice turned shrewd. “It is good for their faith.”

The man knew how to make an appeal, Ali would grant him that. “All right,” he grumbled. “I’ll do it.”

The muezzin pressed his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re dealing with Thabit when he hears about this,” Ali said to Aqisa, half-stumbling down the path. They had almost reached his home. “You know how much he hates—” Ali broke off.

Two women were waiting for him outside his tent.

“Sisters!” he greeted them, forcing a smile to his face even as he inwardly swore. “Peace be upon you.”

“And upon you peace.” It was Umm Qays who spoke first, one of the village’s stone mages. She gave Ali a wide, oddly sly grin. “How does this day find you?”

Exhausted. “Well, thanks be to God,” Ali replied. “And yourselves?”

“Fine. We’re fine,” Bushra, Umm Qays’s daughter spoke up quickly. She was avoiding Ali’s eyes, embarrassment visible in her flushed cheeks. “Just passing through!”

“Nonsense.” Umm Qays yanked her daughter close, and the young woman gave a small, startled yelp. “My Bushra has just made the loveliest kabsa … she is an extraordinarily gifted cook, you know, can conjure up a feast from the barest of bones and a whisper of spice … Anyway, her first thought was to set aside a portion for our prince.” She beamed at Ali. “A good girl, she is.”

Ali blinked, a little taken aback by Umm Qays’s enthusiasm. “Ah … thank you,” he said, catching sight of Lubayd covering his mouth, his eyes bright with amusement. “It is much appreciated.”

Umm Qays was peeking in his tent. She tutted in disapproval. “A lonely place this looks, Alizayd al Qahtani. You are a great man. You should have a proper home in the cliffs and someone to return to.”

God have mercy, not this again. He stammered out a reply. “I-I thank you for your concern, but really I’m quite content. Being lonely.”

“Ah, but you’re a young man.” Umm Qays clapped his shoulder, giving his upper arm a squeeze. A surprised expression came over her face. “Well, my goodness … God be praised for such a thing,” she said admiringly. “Certainly, you have needs, dear one. It’s only natural.”

Heat flooded Ali’s face—more so when he realized Bushra had slightly lifted her gaze. There was a flicker of appraisal in her eyes that sent nerves fluttering in his stomach—and not entirely unpleasant ones. “I …”

Mercifully, Lubayd stepped in. “That’s very considerate of you, sisters,” he said, taking the dish. “We’ll make sure he appreciates it.”

Aqisa nodded, her eyes dancing. “It smells delicious.”

Umm Qays seemed to recognize temporary defeat. She wagged a finger in Ali’s face. “One day.” She gestured inside as she left. “By the way, a messenger came by with a package from your sister.”

The women were barely around the bend when Lubayd and Aqisa burst into peals of laughter.

“Stop it,” Ali hissed. “It’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is,” Aqisa countered, her shoulders shaking. “I could watch that a dozen more times.”

Lubayd hooted. “You should have seen his face last week when Sadaf brought him a blanket because she felt his bed ‘needed warming.’”

“That’s enough.” Ali reached for the dish. “Give me that.”

Lubayd ducked away. “Oh no, this is my reward for saving you.” He held it up, closing his eyes as he inhaled. “Maybe you should marry her. I can intrude upon all your dinners.”

“I’m not marrying anyone,” Ali returned sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”

Aqisa rolled her eyes. “You exaggerate. It has been a year since I last saved you from an assassin.”

“One who got close enough to do this,” Ali argued, arching his neck to reveal the faint pearly scar running across his throat just under the scruff of his beard.

Lubayd waved him off. “He did that and then his own clan caught him, gutted him, and left his body for the zahhak.” He gave Ali a pointed look. “There are very few assassins foolish enough to come after the man responsible for half of northern Am Gezira’s water supply. You should start building a life here. I suspect marriage would vastly improve your temperament.”

“Oh, immeasurably so,” Aqisa agreed. She glanced up, exchanging a conspiratorial grin with Lubayd. “A pity there is no one in Bir Nabat to his taste …”

“You mean someone with black eyes and a penchant for healing?” Lubayd teased, cackling when Ali glared at him.

“You know there’s no truth to those idiotic rumors,” Ali said. “The Banu Nahida and I were merely friends, and she is married to my brother.”

Lubayd shrugged. “I find the idiotic rumors enjoyable. Can you blame people for spinning exciting tales out of what happened to all of you?” His voice took on a dramatic edge. “A mysterious Nahid beauty locked away in the palace, an evil Afshin set to ruin her, an irritable prince exiled to the land of his forefathers …”

Ali’s temper finally snapped as he reached for the tent flap. “I am not irritable. And you’re the one spinning most of those tales!”

Lubayd only laughed again. “Go on inside and see what your sister sent you.” He glanced at Aqisa, holding up the dish. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

Shaking his head, Ali kicked off his sandals and ducked inside his tent. It was small yet cozy, with ample space for the bed cushion one of Lubayd’s cousins had mercifully lengthened to Ali’s “ludicrous” height. In fact, everything in the room was a gift. He’d arrived in Bir Nabat with only his weapons and the bloodstained dishdasha on his back, and his belongings were a record of his years here: the extra robe and sandals that were the first things he’d scavenged from an abandoned human caravan, the Qur’an that Sheikh Jiyad had given him when Ali started teaching, the pages and pages of notes and drawings he’d taken while observing various irrigation works.

And something new: a sealed copper tube the length of his forearm and wide as a fist, resting upon his neatly folded cushion. One end had been dipped in jet black wax, a familiar signature carved around its perimeter.

With a smile, Ali picked up the tube, peeling off the wax to reveal the blade-sharp pattern it had been protecting. A blood seal, one that ensured none but a blood relation of Zaynab’s would be able to open it. It was the most they could do to protect their privacy … not that it mattered. The man most likely to have their communication intercepted was their own father and he could easily use his own blood to read their messages. Likely he did.

Ali pressed his arm against the edge. The scroll top smoked away the moment the blades drew blood, and Ali tilted it, emptying the contents onto his cushion.

A bar of gold, a copper armband, and a letter, several pages in length. Attached to the armband was a small note in Zaynab’s elegant hand.

For the headaches you keep complaining about. Take good care of this, little brother. The Nahid horribly overcharged me for it.

Ali fingered the armband, eying the gold bar and the letter. God preserve you, Zaynab. Bir Nabat might be recovering, but it was still a hard place and that gold would go a long way here. He only hoped sending it hadn’t gotten his sister in any trouble. He’d written her multiple times trying to warn her off providing him with supplies, and she’d ignored him, flouting his advice as thoroughly as she defied their father’s unofficial decree that no Geziri was to aid him. Zaynab was probably the only one who could get away with such a thing; Ghassan had always been softhearted when it came to his daughter.

He fell on his bed cushion, rolling onto his stomach to read the letter, Zaynab’s familiar script and barbed observations like a warm hug. He missed his sister terribly; theirs was a relationship he’d been too young and self-righteous to appreciate until now, when it was reduced to the occasional letter. Ali would never see Zaynab again. He wouldn’t sit by the canal on a sunny day to share coffee and family gossip, nor be proudly at her side when she married. He’d never meet her future children, the nieces and nephews he would have spoiled and taught to spar in another life.

He also knew it could be worse. Ali thanked God every day he’d landed with the djinn of Bir Nabat rather than in the hands of any of the dozens who’d tried to kill him since. But the ache when he thought of his family never quite went entirely away.

Then maybe you should start building one here. Ali rolled onto his back, basking in the warmth of the sun glowing against the tent. In the distance, he could hear children laughing and birds chirping. Bushra’s quiet interest played across his mind, and alone in his tent, Ali would not deny it sent a slight thrill through his body. Daevabad seemed a world away, his father apparently content to forget him. Would it truly be so terrible to allow himself to settle more permanently here, to quietly seize the kind of domestic life he would have never been allowed as Muntadhir’s Qaid?

Dread crept over him. Yes, it seemed to answer, swallowing the simple fantasies running through his mind’s eye. For in Ali’s experience, dreaming of a better future had only ever led to destruction.

Well, one thing was clear: her Daeva elders did not share Nahri’s enthusiasm about the Nahid hospital.

Nisreen stared at her. “You slipped away from your guards? Again? Do you have any idea what Ghassan will do if he finds out?”

“Zaynab made me do it!” Nahri defended herself. Then—realizing it was perhaps a little ungrateful to blame her sister-in-law for an outing she rather enjoyed—she quickly added, “She said she takes such walks often and hasn’t been caught yet. And she promised to take the blame if we were.”

Kartir looked openly alarmed. The grand priest was normally more indulgent of Nahri’s … unorthodox ways, but this latest misadventure seemed to have shaken his calm. “And you trust her?” he asked, his wiry brows knitting in worry.

“On this, yes.” Nahri’s relationship with her sister-in-law was a prickly one, but she recognized a woman eager for a little bit of freedom when she saw one. “Now will the two of you stop fretting over everything? This is exciting! Can you imagine it? A Nahid hospital?”

Kartir and Nisreen shared a look. It was quick, but there was no denying the way the priest’s cheeks flushed in guilt.

Nahri was instantly suspicious. “You already know of this place? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Kartir sighed. “Because what happened to that hospital is neither pleasant nor wise to discuss. I doubt anyone besides the king and a few devoted Daevabadi historians even know anything about it.”

Nahri frowned at the vague words. “Then how do you two?”

“Because Banu Manizheh learned of its existence—and of its fate,” Nisreen said quietly. “She was always poring over her family’s old books. She told us.”

“What do you mean, ‘its fate’?” When neither replied, Nahri’s impatience got the better of her. “Suleiman’s eye, must everything be a seceret here? I learned more from Razu in five minutes than I have from the two of you in five years!”

“Razu? Baga Rustam’s Razu?” Relief lit Kartir’s face. “Thank the Creator. I feared the worst when her tavern was burned.”

Nahri felt a pang of sorrow for the kind gambler who’d welcomed her so warmly. “I’m the Banu Nahida. I should have known ifrit slaves were being hunted down.”

Nisreen and Kartir exchanged another glance. “We thought it best,” Nisreen said finally. “You were still so deep in grief over Dara, and I didn’t want to burden you with the fate of his fellows.”

Nahri flinched at Dara’s name; she could not deny she had fallen apart in the weeks after his death. “It still wasn’t a decision you should have made on my behalf.” She eyed them. “I cannot be Banu Nahida in the Temple and infirmary and then be treated like a child when it comes to political matters you believe upsetting.”

“Political matters we think could get you killed,” Nisreen corrected bluntly. “There is more room for error in the Temple and infirmary.”

“And the hospital?” Nahri pressed. “What political reason could there be to have kept me in the dark about its existence?”

Kartir stared at his hands. “It’s not because of its existence, Banu Nahida. It’s because of what happened to it during the war.”

When he fell silent again, an idea struck Nahri. “If you can’t give me a better explanation that that, you’ll force me to find a way back. One of the freed djinn was a historian, and I’m sure he knows.”

“Absolutely not,” Nisreen cut in quickly, but then she sighed, sounding resigned. “The hospital was the first place to fall when Zaydi al Qahtani took Daevabad. The Nahids inside didn’t even have a chance to flee back to the palace. The shafit revolted the moment Zaydi’s army breached the city walls. They stormed the hospital and murdered every Nahid inside. Every single one, Banu Nahri. From elderly pharmacists to apprentices barely out of childhood.”

Kartir spoke up, his voice grave as the blood left Nahri’s face. “It was said to have been quite brutal. The Geziris had their zulfiqars, of course, but the shafit fought with Rumi fire.”

“Rumi fire?” Nahri asked. The term sounded slightly familiar.

“It’s a human invention,” Nisreen explained. “A substance that sticks like tar and burns even Daeva skin. ‘Fire for the fire worshippers,’ the shafit were said to have shouted.” She dropped her gaze, looking sick. “Some still use it. It’s how the djinn thieves who murdered my parents set our family’s temple ablaze.”

Guilt swept through Nahri, hard and fast. “Oh, Nisreen, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nisreen replied. “In truth, I suspect what happened at the Nahid hospital was far worse. I didn’t read the accounts Banu Manizheh did, but she barely spoke for weeks after finding them.”

“There were some indications that it was an act of revenge,” Kartir added carefully. “The violence … it seemed purposeful.”

Nisreen scoffed. “The djinn do not need a reason to be violent. It is their nature.”

The priest shook his head. “Let’s not pretend our tribe doesn’t have blood on its hands, Lady Nisreen. That is not the lesson I would impart to a young Nahid.” A shadow passed across his face. “Banu Manizheh used to speak like that. It was not good for her soul.”

Nisreen’s eyes narrowed. “She had reason to speak as she did, and you know it.”

There was a knock on the door. Nisreen instantly fell silent. They might be in the Temple, but one still needed to be wary of speaking ill of the Qahtanis in Daevabad.

But the man who poked his head in was anything but a spy. “Banu Nahida?” Jamshid tented his fingers together in respect. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the palace sent a litter for you.”

Nahri scowled. “Because Creator forbid I spend one unauthorized moment in my own temple.” She stood up, glancing at Nisreen. “Are you coming?”

Nisreen shook her head. “I have some matters to finish here.” She gave Nahri a stern look. “Please resist the urge to take another side trip, I beg you.”

Nahri rolled her eyes. “I bet my own mother would have been less controlling than you.”

Nisreen touched her wrist as she passed, an act technically forbidden in the Temple. Her eyes were soft. “But she’s not here, child, so it’s up to us to protect you.”

The genuine worry in her face cut through some of Nahri’s annoyance. For their many arguments, Nisreen was the closest thing Nahri had to family in Daevabad, and she knew her mentor cared dearly for her. “Fine,” she grumbled, bringing her hands together in blessing. “May the fires burn brightly for you both.”

“And for you, Banu Nahida,” they replied.

“SIDE TRIP?” JAMSHID ASKED ONCE THE DOOR WAS closed. “You have the look of someone freshly scolded.”

“A new, rather grisly lesson in Daevabad’s history.” Nahri made a face. “Just once, I’d like to learn of an event that was nothing but our ancestors conjuring rainbows and dancing in the street together.”

“It’s a bit more difficult to hold a grudge over the good days.”

Nahri wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s true.” She set aside thoughts of the hospital, turning to face him. In the dim light of the corridor, the shadows under Jamshid’s eyes were well-pronounced and the planes of his cheekbones and nose stood out sharply. Five years after Dara’s attack had nearly killed him, Jamshid was still recovering—at a gruelingly slow pace no one could understand. He was a shadow of the healthy archer Nahri had first seen deftly shooting arrows from upon the back of a charging elephant. “How are you feeling?”

“As though you ask me that question every day, and the answer is always the same?”

“I’m your Banu Nahida,” she said as they emerged into the Temple’s main prayer hall. It was a vast space, designed to fit thousands of worshippers with rows of decorated columns holding up the distant ceiling and shrines dedicated to the most lionized figures in their tribe’s long history lining the walls. “It’s my duty.”

“I’m fine,” he assured her, pausing to look at the bustling temple. “It’s crowded here today.”

Nahri followed his gaze. The temple was indeed packed, and it seemed like many were travelers: ascetics in worn robes and wide-eyed pilgrim families jostling for space with the usual Daevabadi sophisticates.

“Your father wasn’t joking when he said people would start arriving months before Navasatem.”

Jamshid nodded. “It’s our most important holiday. Another century of freedom from Suleiman’s imprisonment … a month of celebrating life and honoring our ancestors.”

“It’s an excuse to shop and drink.”

“It’s an excuse to shop and drink,” Jamshid agreed. “But it’s supposed to be an extraordinary spectacle. Competitions and parties of every kind, merchants bringing all the newest and most exciting wares from across the world. Parades, fireworks …”

Nahri groaned. “The infirmary is going to be so busy.” The djinn took merrymaking seriously and the risks of overindulgence far less. “Do you think your father will be back by then?” Kaveh had left recently to visit the Pramukhs’ ancestral estate in Zariaspa, ranting about a union dispute among his herb growers and a particularly pernicious plague of ravenous frogs that had besieged their silver-mint plants.

“Most certainly,” Jamshid replied. “He’ll be back to help the king with the final preparations.”

They kept walking, passing the enormous fire altar. It was beautiful, and Nahri always paused for a moment to admire it, even when she wasn’t conducting ceremonies. Central to the Daeva faith, the striking altars had persisted through the centuries and consisted of a basin of purified water with a brazierlike structure rising in its middle. Inside burned a fire of cedarwood, extinguished only upon a devotee’s death. The brazier was carefully swept of ash at dawn each day, marking the sun’s return, and the glass oil lamps that bobbed in the basin were relit to keep the water at a constant simmer.