The Kingdom of Copper. S. Chakraborty A.

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      “I won’t delay you.” Nisreen stood as well, and when she met Nahri’s eyes, there was conviction in her gaze. “Have faith, my lady. Your future here is brighter than you realize.”

      “You always say that.” Nahri sighed. “I wish I had your confidence.”

      “You will one day,” Nisreen promised. She shooed her off. “Go on then. Don’t let me keep you.”

      Nahri did, taking one of the private corridors that led from the harem garden to the royal apartments on the upper level of the palatial ziggurat, a level with an excellent view of Daevabad’s lake. All the Qahtanis had quarters up there save Zaynab, who preferred the garden below.

      Just as Ali had. The thought came to her unbidden—and unwelcome. She hated thinking about Ali, hated that five years after that night, a sting of humiliation still pierced her when she recalled how her supposed friend had quietly led her and Dara into a deadly trap. The naive young prince should have been the last one capable of duping her, and yet he had.

      And she hated that despite everything, part of her still worried about him. For it was damnably clear—no matter what the Qahtanis pretended—that Ali was not merely “leading a garrison” in the peace of his ancestral land. He’d been cast out, and under terms Nahri suspected were rather dire.

      She emerged onto the expansive balcony that ran the length of Muntadhir’s apartment. Like everything he owned, it was achingly sophisticated, its trellised wooden railings and screens carved in the semblance of a garden, with embroidered panels of silk draped to mimic a tent. Frankincense smoldered inside a fiery brazier across from a pile of brocaded cushions that sat angled toward the best view of the lake.

      Cushions that were very much not empty. Nahri abruptly stilled, catching sight of Jamshid and Muntadhir sitting across from each other. Jamshid’s presence there didn’t surprise her—but the fact that they were clearly arguing did.

      “Tell your father to send him back!” Jamshid was insisting. “Is there any reason he can’t drop his damned cargo on the beach and turn right around?”

      “I tried.” Muntadhir sounded nearly hysterical. “I begged my father, and do you know what he told me?” He let out a choked, humorless laugh. “To go put an heir in my Nahid wife if I was so worried about my position. That’s all we are to him. Pawns in his damned political game. And now his favorite, sharpest piece is returning.”

      Nahri frowned in confusion. Pushing aside the guilt she felt for eavesdropping—more on account of Jamshid, her friend, than for the sake of her politician of a husband, who almost certainly had a loyal spy or two installed in her infirmary—she crept closer, tucking herself into a niche between a potted fern and an ornamental carved screen.

      She took a deep breath. The palace’s magic was as unpredictable as it was powerful, and though Nahri had been quietly working to learn how to better call upon it, doing so was always a risk—she had no doubt that if Ghassan got an inkling of what she was up to, she’d be promptly punished.

      But sometimes a little risk was worth it. Nahri focused on the shadows at her feet. Grow, she urged, beckoning them closer and allowing her fear of getting caught to expand. Protect me.

      They did so, the shadows sweeping up to envelop her in a cloak of darkness. Breathing a bit easier, Nahri moved closer to the screen to peer through the cutouts in the wood. The two men were alone, Jamshid seated on the edge of a cushion as he watched Muntadhir with open concern.

      Muntadhir shot to his feet, visibly trembling. “His mother’s going to kill me.” He paced, pulling anxiously at his beard. “The Ayaanle have wanted this for years. He’ll no sooner be back in Daevabad than I’ll be waking up with a cord around my neck.”

      “That’s not going to happen,” Jamshid said sharply. “Muntadhir, you need to calm down and think this—no.” His hand shot out to grab Muntadhir’s as her husband lunged for the bottle of wine on the table. “Stop. That’s not going to help you.”

      Muntadhir offered a broken smile. “I disagree,” he said weakly. He looked close to tears. “Wine is reportedly an excellent companion during one’s downfall.”

      “There’s not going to be any downfall.” Jamshid pulled Muntadhir onto the cushion beside him. “There’s not,” he repeated when Muntadhir looked away. “Muntadhir …” Jamshid hesitated, and when he spoke again, there was a wary edge to his voice. “It’s a long journey back to Daevabad. A dangerous one. Surely you have people who—”

      Muntadhir violently shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t have that in me.” He bit his lip, staring in bitter resignation at the floor. “Not yet anyway.” He wiped his eyes and then took a deep breath, as if to compose himself before speaking again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t burden you with this. God knows you’ve suffered enough for my family’s politics.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” Jamshid touched Muntadhir’s cheek. “I want you to come to me with things like this.” He smiled. “To be honest … the rest of your companions are fairly useless sycophants.”

      That drew a laugh from her husband. “Whereas I can always rely on you to honestly insult me.”

      “And keep you safe.” Jamshid’s hand had moved to cradle Muntadhir’s jaw. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, I swear. I won’t let it, and I’m obnoxiously honorable about these things.”

      Muntadhir laughed again. “That I know.” He took another breath and then suddenly closed his eyes as if in pain. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with sorrow. “I miss you.”

      Jamshid’s face twisted, the humor vanishing from his expression. He seemed to realize what he was doing with his hand, his gaze falling to her husband’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

      The rest of his explanation didn’t leave his lips. Because Muntadhir was suddenly kissing him, doing so with a desperation that was clearly returned. Jamshid tangled his hand in Muntadhir’s dark hair, pulling him close …

      And then he pushed him away. “I can’t,” Jamshid choked out, his entire body shaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not anymore. I told you when you got married. She’s my Banu Nahida.”

      Nahri stepped back from the screen, stunned. Not by the allusion to past intimacy between them—there were times it seemed Muntadhir had literally slept with half the people he knew. But those affairs all seemed so casual—flirtations with various foreign ministers, dalliances with poets and dancing girls.

      The anguish radiating off her husband now was not casual. Gone was the emir who’d confidently pulled her into his lap in the garden. Muntadhir had rocked back like he’d been punched when Jamshid had pushed him away, and it looked like he was struggling not to cry. Sympathy stole through her. For all the trappings of power and glamour of the court, she could not help but be struck by how utterly lonely this place had made them all.

      Muntadhir stared at the ground. “Of course.” It sounded like he was fighting to regain his composure. “Then maybe you should go,” he added, his voice stiff. “I’m expecting her and I would hate to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

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