The river of silver, p.1
The River of Silver, page 1
Dedication
For my readers. This would have never been possible without you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Manizheh
Duriya
Hatset
Muntadhir
Jamshid
Dara
Jamshid
Ali
The Scout
Nahri
Ali
Zaynab
Muntadhir
An Alternative Epilogue to The Empire of Gold
Nahri
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt of The Adventures of Amina Al-Sirafi
About the Author
Endorsements
Also by S. A. Chakraborty
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
Though it was more than a decade ago, I can still remember the day I first shared what would become The City of Brass with my writing group back in Brooklyn. New to the group, new to writing, and extremely new to sitting on a stranger’s couch while presenting my heart’s work, I shared the kind of manuscript I thought epic fantasy was supposed to be: one including at least a dozen character viewpoints, multiple cross-country treks, and scores of different cities, villages, and expansive magical vistas, all with pages upon pages of detailed backstory, convoluted histories, and exhaustive descriptions.
You might say they disagreed.
There are certainly epic fantasy stories that require that kind of exploration, they argued, but at its heart, The City of Brass was about Nahri’s and Ali’s journeys. About a young woman ripped away from everything she knows, forced to rebuild her life again and again—and yet who finds in that survival a fierce determination to fight for her people and her happiness. About a young man who struggles to reconcile his faith and his ideals of justice with the reality that the city he loves is built on oppression—and that dismantling it will mean bringing down his own family’s rule. And while I wanted to set them in a fully realized world among a rich constellation of friends and family, lovers and enemies, all with their own histories, quirks, and agendas, I did decide early on that this particular story would focus on Nahri and Ali, and later Dara.
I have a great affection for my side characters, however, and a firm belief that writing things out is the most organic way to let stories grow and breathe. So in the course of working on the trilogy, I’ve gone on parallel quests with unnamed scouts and charted Muntadhir and Jamshid’s relationship in their own words, seen Zaynab rise as a rebel leader, and dived into Dara’s youth in a far more ancient Daevabad. I’ve written scenes that informed my own understanding of the books, even if all I took from them was a line or a sentiment. They were my own form of research notes, but not ones that I intended to share.
Then came the pandemic. Without diving too deeply into my personal experience of a crisis that still isn’t over, suffice to say that for the first few months of lockdown, I couldn’t write a thing. The world was on fire, my family needed me, and I was supposed to create? In a desperate attempt to get literally any words down, I found myself returning to my old Daevabad scenes. Working on something familiar and already partially drafted, in a world I loved and knew intimately, proved much less intimidating than the blank page of a new project. Slowly the words began to return so I went further, envisioning the lives of my characters beyond the conclusion of The Empire of Gold and the tales of people long gone before The City of Brass begins.
I share some of those tales with you now. The stories are arranged chronologically, with a short introduction to let you place them in the context of the trilogy. I hope that you enjoy this brief return to Daevabad as much as I did and know that I am forever grateful you decided to give my books a chance.
May the fires burn brightly for you,
Shannon Chakraborty
Manizheh
This scene takes place a few decades before The City of Brass and contains spoilers for the first two books.
Her son was glorious.
Manizheh traced one of Jamshid’s tiny ears, drinking in the sight of his perfect little face. Though he was barely a week old, the black of his eyes was still tempered by a fiery-hued haze. His small body was warm and soft, tucked safe in the cradle of her arms. Even so, Manizheh held him closer as she made her way out of the tent. It might be spring, but it was still early in the season and Zariaspa clung to its chilly mornings.
The valley before her was glowing in the dawn light, flashes of pink and purple clover twinkling with dew against the long grass. She stepped carefully over scattered stones and broken bricks. She and Kaveh had pitched their tent in one of the many forgotten human ruins that dotted this land, and little was left now to distinguish those remnants from the rocky hillside, save a few archways and one squat column decorated with a pattern of diamonds. Yet as she walked, Manizheh wondered what this place might have once been. Could it have been a castle, a royal home walked by other anxious new parents terrified of the world into which they’d brought a child with noble blood?
Manizheh glanced down again at her son. Her Jamshid. His was a regal name, taken from the humans long ago like so many of their names—a borrowing most Daevas would deny, but Manizheh had been educated as a Nahid, learning things the rest of her people were not permitted. Jamshid was a name of legend and kingship. An optimistic name, spiraling from the last shred of hope in her soul.
“This is my favorite place in the world,” she said softly as Jamshid’s eyelids fluttered, the baby sleepy and milk-drunk. She laid his head against her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of his neck. “You are going to have so many adventures here. Your baba will get you a pony and teach you to ride, and you can explore to your heart’s content. I want you to explore, my love,” she whispered. “I want you to explore and dream and get lost in a place where no one will watch you. Where no one will cage you.”
Where Ghassan will not hurt you. Where he will never, ever learn of you.
For if there was one thing about her baby’s future she was sure of, it was that Ghassan couldn’t learn of Jamshid. The very prospect made Manizheh sick with fear, and she was not a woman easily frightened. Ghassan would kill Kaveh, of that she had no doubt, in the longest, most excruciating manner he could devise. He would punish Rustam, breaking what was left of her traumatized brother’s spirit.
And Jamshid . . . her mind would not let her contemplate the ways Ghassan would use him. If Jamshid was lucky, Ghassan would settle for inflicting on him the same life of terror she and Rustam had been subjected to: enslaved in the palace infirmary and reminded every day that if it were not for the usefulness of their Nahid blood, their family would have been exterminated long ago.
But she didn’t think her son would be lucky. Manizheh had watched the years harden Ghassan into a reflection of his tyrannical father. Maybe Manizheh had been a proud fool to deny Ghassan what his heart had wanted most; maybe it would have been best to unite their families and tribes: to force a smile to her face in a royal wedding and close her eyes in the darkness of his bed. Maybe her people would be breathing easier and her brother wouldn’t jump when someone closed a door too loudly. Was that not the best choice for so very many women, the most they could hope for?
But Manizheh hadn’t chosen that. Instead she had betrayed Ghassan in the most personal way she could, and Manizheh knew if she and Kaveh were caught, she’d pay for that in kind.
She pressed a kiss to the soft downy hair lying in a messy pouf around Jamshid’s head. “I’ll come back for you, little one, I promise. And when I do . . . I pray you can forgive me.”
Jamshid stirred in his sleep, making a tiny sound that drove a knife of grief through her chest. Manizheh closed her eyes, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. His weight in her arms and his sweet scent. The breeze whispering through the grasses and the chill in the air. She wanted to remember holding her son before she took everything away from him.
“Manu?”
Manizheh stilled at Kaveh’s hesitant voice, her emotions free-falling again. Kaveh. Her partner and conspirator since they were children sneaking out to steal horses and wander the countryside. Her closest friend, and then her lover when their curiosity and teenage pinings turned to fumbling touches and stolen moments.
Another person she was about to lose. Manizheh had overstayed her visit to Zariaspa by three months, ignoring Ghassan’s letters ordering her return. She’d be surprised if the king wasn’t already mustering soldiers to retrieve her. One thing was certain: there would be no leaving Daevabad again. Not while Ghassan ruled anyway.
The ring, she tried to remind herself. While you still have the ring, there is hope. But her childhood fantasy of breaking free the sleeping Afshin warrior from the slave ring she and Rustam had found so long ago seemed just that right now: a fantasy.
Kaveh spoke again. “I prepared everything you asked. Are you . . . are you all right?”
Manizheh wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. No, she was not all right. She clutched her baby closer. It seemed impossible that she would have to let him go. She wanted to scream at her Creator. She wanted to collapse in Kaveh’s arms. For once she wanted someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay. She wanted to stop being the Banu Nahida, the goddess who was allowed no weakness.
But hers was not a role one could escape. Even with Kaveh, she would always be his Nahid before his lover and friend, and she would
Heartbreak was writ across his face. “You look beautiful with him,” Kaveh whispered, reverence and pain edging his voice. He drew closer, gazing at their sleeping son. “Are you sure about this?”
Manizheh rubbed Jamshid’s back. “It’s the only way to hide who he is. Nahid magic is strong when we’re children. If we don’t do this now, he’ll otherwise be healing his wet nurses and having skinned knees close up.”
Kaveh gave her an uncertain glance. “And if one day he should need such abilities?”
It was a justified question. In her arms, Jamshid seemed so tiny and fragile. There were illnesses and curses he could catch. He could tumble off a horse and break his neck. Drink from one of the many iron-poisoned streams that coursed through Zariaspa’s thick forests.
And yet those risks were still less than getting caught out as a Nahid.
Amazing, how death might be more preferable to life in Daevabad.
“I don’t know what else to do, Kaveh,” she confessed as they returned to the tent. Their fire altar smoldered in the eastern corner. “I’m hoping a day will come when I can remove the mark, but that day is not today. Honestly, it’s a magic so old and understudied that I just hope I can make it work.”
“How will we know if it does?”
Manizheh stared at her son, stroking a finger down his tiny scrunched face. She tried to imagine how Jamshid would look when he was three months old. Three years. Thirteen. She did not want to contemplate beyond that. She did not want to contemplate entirely missing him grow up.
“If it works, I won’t be able to control his pain,” she answered. “And he will start to scream.”
Three weeks after holding her baby for the last time, Manizheh stood in Daevabad’s throne room.
“So you see . . . ,” she said, finishing her fictional, fumbling excuse for the monthslong delay in Zariaspa, “my experiments at the time were far too promising to abandon. I needed to stay and see them through.”
For a long, tense moment the room was so silent one could hear a pin drop. Then Ghassan drew up on his throne, fury scorching his expression.
“Your experiments?” he repeated. “You stayed in Zariaspa, ignoring my pleas and messengers, to tend to your experiments? My wife, your queen, is dead because of your experiments?”
Saffiyeh was never my queen. But Manizheh did not dare say that. Instead, she fought not to sway on her feet. Nahid magic be damned, she was utterly drained. Her legs and back ached from riding, and her breasts were swollen with milk that would not stop, the slightest pressure of the pads and cabbage leaves stuffed beneath her shirt to conceal her condition bringing stinging tears to her eyes.
Pushing past all that, she said, “I did not receive your messages in time.” Manizheh was too weary and heartbroken to make her response sound sincere; even she could hear how devoid of caring her words came out. “If I had, I would have returned sooner.”
Ghassan stared at her, looking betrayed. There was genuine grief in his expression, an emotion Manizheh had not seen in his face for a very long time. With each decade as Daevabad’s tyrant, he expressed less sentiment, as though ruling the city was sucking the warmth from his heart.
She had no sympathy. Ghassan had had her seized—well, no, not seized, because not even the king was terrifying enough to make people touch her—but she’d been surrounded by soldiers and forced off her horse at the Daeva Gate, made to walk the entirety of the main boulevard through her tribe’s quarter to the palace. Manizheh had done so, trying to keep her head held high and hide the fact that she struggled for breath as the road switchbacked up Daevabad’s hills. Her people had been watching, their frightened faces visible behind windows and cracked doors, and Manizheh could not let the Daevas see her falter. She was their Banu Nahida, their light. It was her duty.
But by the time she’d arrived at the palace her ancestors had built, its stones singing to her, she was a mess. Her clothes were filthy, her dress torn and streaked with mud. Her chador had slipped to her shoulders, revealing her wild hair and ash-dotted brow. All this before they’d even taken her to the throne room, the sacred place where the Nahid Council had once deliberated.
She wondered what her ancestors would think to see her now, disheveled and dirty at the foot of her family’s stolen throne, meant to grovel before the descendants of the djinn who had slaughtered them.
If she was wise, she’d apologize. That’s what Ghassan wanted, Manizheh knew. She had humiliated him. Daevabad’s court was vicious, and its rulers were not spared the gossip of courtiers. Manizheh had made him look weak. Was Daevabad’s fearsome king really all that mighty if his own Nahid could defy him? If that defiance had killed his wife? And truthfully, for Saffiyeh’s death, Manizheh was sorry. She had never borne any ill will toward Saffiyeh; if anything, she had hoped Ghassan’s marriage meant he’d finally given up his designs on her. It would cost Manizheh nothing but pride to apologize, and perhaps a good healer would, chastened by the unnecessary loss of life.
Manizheh held Ghassan’s gaze, aware of the court staring at her. His Qaid, Wajed, another Geziri djinn. His Ayaanle grand wazir. For all Ghassan’s chirping about improving relations between the Daeva and djinn tribes, there was not a single Daeva face among those staring down at her. And these djinn didn’t look like they were grieving. They looked eager. Hungry. Everyone enjoyed seeing an uppity “fire worshipper” shoved back into place.
We are better than you. I am better than you. Not for the first time, Manizheh was tempted to give in to the rage that roared inside her. She could probably break the bones of half the men sneering at her, urge the ceiling to collapse and bury them all.
But she was outnumbered, and for such an act, Manizheh knew every Daeva in the city would die. She would be run through with the weapons of any man left alive here, and then Rustam would be executed, as would Nisreen, her most loyal friend and assistant. The priests in the temple and the children at school would follow. Their Quarter would run black with innocent blood.
So Manizheh lowered her gaze. But she did not apologize. “Are we done?” she asked instead, her voice cold.
She could hear the rage in Ghassan’s. “No. But you are no doubt needed in the infirmary by the other patients you abandoned. Go.”
Go. The command scorched through her, humiliating. Manizheh spun on her heel.
But he wasn’t done. “You will not leave this palace again,” Ghassan declared to her back. “We would not wish for something to happen to you.”
Her hands were burning with magic. A snap of her fingers. Would it be enough to shatter the bones at the base of his skull?
She squared her shoulders and relaxed her hands. “Understood.”
Gossip rose in waves as she strode through the crowd toward the door. The djinn’s metal-toned gazes were hostile and accusing. A heartless witch, she heard. Jealous and cruel. A snob. A bitch.
A fire worshipper.
Manizheh held her head high and swept through the door.
But outside the throne room was no easier. It was the middle of the day, and the palace was bustling with secretaries and ministers, nobles and scholars. Her filthy chador still dropped to her shoulders, Manizheh was instantly recognizable, and she could only imagine how tarnished she looked, dirty and without escort after being punished by their rightful, believing king. The noise of the corridor died with people stopping to stare.
A pair of Daevas across the hall, looking worried, moved for her. Manizheh met their eyes and slightly shook her head. They couldn’t help and she wouldn’t put any of her people at further risk. Instead, she faced the whispers alone. She was cold, it was hissed. She was evil. She’d all but murdered Saffiyeh, the sweetest of queens, to get back into Ghassan’s bed.
The burning had spread up her arms, her neck. A haze swam before Manizheh’s eyes. She could sense every stone, every drop of Nahid blood that had been spilled in this place. Was everyone else aware how much she and her people had sacrificed for them to be standing there, judging her now?
Of course not.
