The Kingdom of Copper (Daevabad Trilogy) by S. A. Chakraborty

Author:S. A. Chakraborty [Chakraborty, S. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper Voyager
Published: 2019-01-22T05:00:00+00:00

DARA BUILT MARDONIYE’S FUNERAL PYRE WITH HIS own hands and stayed at its side until it was reduced to ash, the smoldering remains throwing a weak light into the dark night. Dara was alone by then; Manizheh had overseen rites and then left to see Kaveh off, while Dara ordered the rest of his soldiers to continue with their duties. He could tell they were shaken—for all their devotion and training, few had witnessed the kind of fighting that led to a man bleeding out on the snow, and he could see the unspoken question in their eyes. Would they too end up this way in Daevabad?

Dara hated that he couldn’t tell them no.

A touch upon his shoulder startled him. He glanced back. “Irtemiz?”

The young archer stepped closer. “We thought one of us should check on you,” she said softly. Her gaze fell on the smoking pyre. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Her voice trembled. “I should have had my bow on hand all the time, like you say . . .”

“It is not your fault,” Dara said firmly. “The sand fly was likely waiting for such an opportunity.” He pressed her shoulder. “Besides, he blocked my arrows, and surely, you are not suggesting you’re better than your teacher?” He feigned offense.

That drew a small, sad smile from her lips. “Give me another decade.” Her smile faded. “There . . . there was something else we thought you should see.”

Dara frowned at her tone. “Show me.”

She led him through the dark trees, their boots crunching on the ground. “Bahram first noticed it when he took the horses out. He said it stretched as far as he could see.”

They emerged from the tree line, the valley spreading flat before them. The river was a gleaming ribbon of moonlight that would have normally outshone the surrounding plain.

But the spring grass was not dark. It was glowing with a warm copper hue that exactly matched Manizheh’s vapor, a low fog of death clinging to the earth.

“Bahram . . . he rode out far, Afshin. He said it’s everywhere.” She swallowed. “We haven’t told the Banu Nahida yet. We weren’t certain it was our place, but surely . . . surely, this does not mean . . .” She trailed off, unable to voice the same awful fear snaring Dara’s heart.

“There must be some explanation,” he finally replied. “I will talk to her.”

He went straight to Manizheh’s tent, ignoring the stares of his warriors and the chuckles of the ifrit at their roaring fire. Despite the late hour, she was clearly awake; the light of oil lamps shone through the felt and he could smell the tang of freshly brewed tea.

“Banu Manizheh?” he called. “May I speak to you?”

She appeared a moment later, her familiar chador replaced by a thick woolen shawl. She was clearly readying herself for bed; her silvering black braids had been undone and she looked surprised to see him.

“Afshin,” she greeted him, her eyes concerned as they swept his face.

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