Manizheh laughed again. “No, there weren’t any legendary guardians around to ruin our fun, and the Pramukhs were fairly indulgent as long as we brought Kaveh along. They seemed not to realize he was equally irresponsible.” She saw Dara’s skeptical expression and shook her head. “Do not let his stern grand wazir face fool you. He was a mud-splattered country boy when I met him, more accomplished at sneaking out to hunt for fire salamanders than reining in two restless Nahids.” She stared into the distance, her eyes dimming. “We weren’t permitted to go to Zariaspa as frequently when we were older, and I always missed him.”
“I suspect he felt the same,” Dara said carefully. He had seen the way Kaveh looked at Manizheh, and no one at camp had missed the fact that their visitor had yet to sleep in the tent they’d prepared for him. That had thrown Dara; clearly the prim grand wazir did have a hidden side. “I am surprised you didn’t bring him with us.”
“Absolutely not,” she said at once. “I don’t want the ifrit to know anything more than necessary about him.”
Dara frowned at the fierceness in her voice. “Why not?”
“Would you die for my daughter, Darayavahoush?”
The question surprised him, and yet the answer was already leaving Dara’s lips. “Yes. Of course.”
Manizheh gave him a knowing look. “And yet, would you let her die for you? Suffer for you?”
She has already suffered for me. “Not if I could help it,” Dara said quietly.
“Precisely. Affection is a weakness for people like us, a thing to be concealed from those who would harm us. A threat to a loved one is a more effective method of control than weeks of torture.”
She said the words with such cold certainty that a chill raced down his spine. “You sound as though you speak from experience,” he ventured.
“I loved my brother very much,” she said, staring into the distance. “The Qahtanis never let me forget it.” She dropped her gaze, studying her hands. “I will confess that my desire to attack during Navasatem has a personal edge.”
“How so?”
“Because Rustam spent the last one in the dungeons. I lost my temper, said something unwise to Ghassan’s father. Khader.” The name fell like a curse from her tongue. “An even harder man than his son. I don’t remember what it was, petty nonsense from an angry young woman. But Khader took it as a threat. He had my brother dragged from the infirmary and thrown into a lightless cell at the bottom of the palace. They say …” She cleared her throat. “They say that the bodies of those who die in the dungeon aren’t removed. You lie with corpses.” She paused. “Rustam spent the entire month of Navasatem there. He didn’t speak for weeks. Even years later … he could only sleep if lamps were blazing all night long.”
Dara felt sick. He thought unwillingly of his sister’s fate. “I am sorry,” he said softly.
“As am I. I’ve learned since that anonymity is far safer for those I love.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Though not without its own cruel drawbacks.”
He hesitated; Manizheh’s words indicated something that he couldn’t let pass. “Do you not trust the ifrit?” he asked. He’d made his poor opinion of the ifrit clear more than once, but Manizheh never wanted to hear it. “I thought they were your allies.”
“They are a means to an end, and I do not trust easily.” She leaned back on her palms. “Kaveh is dear to me. I will not have the ifrit learn that.”
“Your daughter …” Dara’s throat constricted. “When I said I would die for her, I hope you know I would do so for any Nahid. It was not because …” He grew flustered. “I would not overstep my station.”
A glint of amusement lit her face. “How old were you when you died, Afshin? The first time?”
Dara tried to recall. “Thirty?” He shrugged. “It was so long ago, and the last years were difficult. I do not remember exactly.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I do not understand.”
She gave him a wry smile. “At times you speak like a young man who’s yet to see a half-century. And as we discussed … I am a Nahid with a skill you compared to mind-reading.”
Heat filled his cheeks before he could check it, his heart skipping a beat … the very signs, of course, that he knew she’d been looking for.
Manizheh shaded her eyes. “Ah, I do believe that is the lake where we are to meet Aeshma. You can take us down.”
He flushed again. “Banu Manizheh, I pray you know …”
She met his eyes. “Your affections are yours, Afshin.” Her gaze turned a little harder. “But do not let them be a weakness. In any way.”
Embarrassed, he merely nodded. He raised a hand, and the rug dipped, speeding toward a distant gleam of azure. The lake was enormous—more sea than lake—the water a brilliant aquamarine, the tropical hue at stark odds with the snowcapped mountains ringing its shore.
“Lake Ossounes,” Manizheh said. “Aeshma says it’s been sacred to the marid for millennia.”
Dara gave the lake an apprehensive look. “I am not flying over that much water on a rug.”
“We needn’t.” Manizheh pointed to a thin trail of smoke drifting from the easternmost shore. “I suspect that is him.”
They flew closer, zooming over rocky red bluffs and a narrow, marshy beach. It really was a stunning place. Lines of evergreens stood as sentinels against jutting hills and grassy valleys. A few clouds streaked the pale sky, and a hawk circled overhead. The air smelled fresh, promising cold mornings around pine-scented fires.
Longing stole into his heart. Though Dara had been born in Daevabad, this was the type of country he loved. Open skies and staggering vistas. One could take a horse and a bow and disappear into a land like this to sleep under the stars and explore the ruins of kingdoms lost to time.
Ahead, a fire blazed on the beach, the flames licking the air with a bit too much malicious delight.
Dara inhaled, catching the scent of ancient blood and iron. “Aeshma. He is near.” Smoke curled from under his collar. “I can smell that foul mace he carries, thick with the blood of our people.”
“Perhaps you should shift back into your natural form.”
Dara scowled. “This is my natural form.”
Manizheh sighed. “It isn’t, and you know it. Not anymore. The ifrit have warned you that your magic is too much for this body.” She tapped his tattooed arm, the skin pale brown and very much not aflame. “You leave yourself weak.”
Their carpet fluttered to the ground. Dara didn’t respond, but he didn’t shift either. He would do so if and when the marid appeared.
“Ah, there are my erstwhile allies.”
At the sound of Aeshma’s voice, Dara’s hand dropped to the long knife at his side. The bonfire split, and the ifrit strolled through the break with a black-fanged grin.
It was a grin that made Dara sick. That was what he looked like now when he shifted, his fire-bright skin, gold eyes, and clawed hands a mirror of the demons who’d enslaved him. That his ancestors had looked the same before Suleiman’s curse was of little comfort. It hadn’t been his ancestor’s grin he’d seen just before the fetid water of the well closed over his face.
Aeshma sauntered closer, his smile widening as if he could sense Dara’s displeasure. He probably could; it was not a thing Dara tried to conceal. Balanced on one shoulder was his mace, a crude metal hammer studded with barbs. Aeshma seemed to enjoy the effect it had on Dara’s temper, and took special delight in mentioning the times it had been