The River of Silver: Tales From the Daevabad Trilogy by Chakraborty S. A

Author:Chakraborty, S. A. [Chakraborty, S. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Adult, Historical, Romance
ISBN: 9780063093737
Amazon: 0063093731
Goodreads: 60133986
Publisher: Harper Voyager
Published: 2022-03-01T08:00:00+00:00

Nahri

I took these Nahri scenes from an old (and very different!) version of The Kingdom of Copper. I’ve reworked them so they feel like something that could have happened before that book, looking at aspects of Nahri’s marriage to Muntadhir and her role as the Banu Nahida. Spoilers for the first book.

“Banu Nahida, stop!”

Nahri didn’t stop. Instead, she sprinted down the corridor to her infirmary. Her heart racing, she didn’t waste time glancing back to see how many guards from the Treasury were pursuing her, but judging from the pounding of feet, it was at least half a dozen.

You fool, she chided herself as she ran. You never should have let your skills get that rusty.

Two chattering scribes ambled out from the direction of the library, their arms heavy with scrolls. Nahri nearly crashed into the first and then intentionally tripped the second, sending him and his scrolls sprawling across the floor. The documents bounced and rolled down the corridor. She could only hope they tripped up a couple of her pursuers.

“Nahri, damn it, stop!” It was her husband this time. He sounded out of breath, and she wasn’t surprised; Emir Muntadhir wasn’t the type to physically exert himself—at least not in this way. That she’d roused him from his circle of drunk poets to play unintentional partner to her heist had been miracle enough.

The guards sounded closer. Nahri could see the half-open doors to her infirmary just ahead. She put on a burst of extra speed.

“Nisreen!” she shouted. “Help me!”

Nisreen must have been close. In seconds, she was at the doorway, a wickedly sharp scalpel in one hand and her eyes bright with alarm as she noticed the running guards.

“Banu Nahida!” she gasped. “What in the Creator’s name—?”

Nahri grabbed the edge of the door and shoved Nisreen out as she flew over the threshold. “Forgive me,” she rushed before slamming the door in the older woman’s bewildered face. She whirled around, pressed her palms against the intricate metalwork on the closed door, and then dragged them down, hissing in pain as the studs tore into her skin, her blood slippery on the decorative panels.

“Protect me,” she commanded confidently in Divasti—she’d already practiced the enchantment in preparation.

She’d practiced . . . and now nothing happened.

Nahri panicked, holding the door closed against Nisreen’s shoving on the other side. She kicked it hard and cursed loudly in Arabic. “Damn it, I said ‘protect me’!”

The blood smoked—her blood, the blood and magic of the people who’d built this place so many centuries ago. Nahri backed away as the metal grating twisted together, firmly locking the doors just as something heavy smashed into them.

She heard several muffled voices arguing on the other side of the door, including Muntadhir’s distinctly irritated tone. She’d never heard him so angry, and considering the number of fights they’d gotten into during the three years they’d been married, that was saying a lot.

There was more pounding on the door.

“Banu Nahri!” she heard Nisreen yell. Judging from the alarm in her voice, she’d learned what Nahri might have stolen.

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