Читать онлайн «The Empire of Gold»

Dedication

For my parents, who worked so hard to make sure their children could dream, and who were always there, no matter how long and far my wanderings

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Maps

Prologue

Part I

1: Nahri

2: Dara

3: Nahri

4: Dara

5: Ali

6: Nahri

7: Dara

8: Nahri

9: Ali

10: Nahri

11: Dara

12: Ali

13: Dara

Part II

14: Nahri

15: Ali

16: Dara

17: Nahri

18: Ali

19: Dara

20: Nahri

21: Dara

22: Ali

23: Nahri

24: Ali

25: Nahri

26: Ali

27: Dara

28: Nahri

29: Ali

30: Nahri

31: Dara

32: Ali

33: Nahri

34: Ali

35: Dara

36: Nahri

37: Ali

38: Dara

39: Nahri

40: Ali

41: Nahri

Part III

42: Nahri

43: Ali

44: Nahri

Part IV

45: Dara

46: Nahri

47: Ali

48: Nahri

Epilogue

Cast of Characters

The Six Tribes of the Djinn

Acknowledgments

Glossary

About the Author

Also by S. A. Chakraborty

Copyright

About the Publisher

Maps

Prologue

Manizheh

Behind the battlements of the palace that had always been hers, Banu Manizheh e-Nahid gazed at her family’s city.

Bathed in starlight, Daevabad was beautiful—the jagged lines of towers and minarets, domes and pyramids—astonishing from this height, like a jumble of jeweled toys. Beyond the sliver of white beach, the dappled lake shimmered with movement against the black embrace of mountains.

She spread her hands on the stone parapet. This was not a view Manizheh had been permitted while a prisoner of the Qahtanis. Even as a child, her defiance had made them uneasy; the palace magic’s public embrace of the young Nahid prodigy and her obvious talent curbing her life before she was old enough to realize the guards that surrounded her day and night weren’t for her protection. The only other time she’d been up here had been as Ghassan’s guest—a trip he’d arranged shortly after he became king. Manizheh could still remember how he’d taken her hand as they’d gazed at the city their families had killed each other for, speaking dreamy words about uniting their peoples and putting the past behind them. About how he’d loved her since they were children, and about how sad and helpless he’d felt all those times his father had beaten and terrorized her and her brother. Surely she must have understood that Ghassan had had no choice but to stay silent.

In her mind’s eye, Manizheh could still see his face that night, the moon shining upon his hopeful expression. They’d been younger; he’d been handsome.

Charming. What a match, people would have said. Who wouldn’t want to be the beloved queen of a powerful djinn king? And indeed, she’d laced her fingers between his and smiled—for she still wore such an expression in those days—her eyes locked on the mark of Suleiman’s seal, new upon his face.

And then she’d closed off his throat.

It hadn’t lasted. Ghassan had been quicker with the seal than she’d anticipated, and as her powers fell away, so did the pressure on his throat. He’d been enraged, his face red with betrayal and lack of air, and Manizheh remembered thinking that he would hit her. That he’d do worse. That it wouldn’t matter if she screamed—for he was king now and no one would cross him.

But Ghassan hadn’t done that. He hadn’t needed to. Manizheh had gone for his heart and so Ghassan did the same with ruthless effectiveness: having Rustam beaten within a hair of his life as she was forced to watch, breaking her brother’s bones, letting them heal and then doing it again, torturing him until Rustam was a howling mess and Manizheh had fallen to her knees, begging Ghassan for mercy.