Dara had his answer the moment he settled his gaze upon them.
They had no magic.
A crashed Sahrayn sandship lay on its side, its massive sails repurposed into a crude tent. There were no pavilions of enchanted silk or floating lanterns. Instead, the travelers had made a circle of their wagons, palanquins and chariots shoved together to create a wall. Dozens of animals—camels and horses, but also simurgh and a rare tame zahhak—were gathered in the strangest herd Dara had ever seen, the lean ground stripped of grass.
There must have been a hundred travelers, but none were studying the sky. They looked miserable, cold and disheveled, with no flames to warm them or cook their food. Kaveh had been right: with no magic, few people knew how to build a fire. But they had otherwise banded together. Among the drawn faces, Dara saw men, women, and children from all six of the tribes passing around cold food and talking. About a dozen children were playing on the downed ship, climbing over the sewn hull—Daevas and Geziris among them.
Dara steeled himself, hardening his heart once again. Because he was about to undo such intertribal camaraderie.
He slammed to the ground, landing the shedu with a thud that shook the earth. There were cries of alarm, people scrambling to their feet, but he ignored them, drawing up to survey the crowd with every ounce of arrogance he possessed. He tossed his hair back, letting his hands rest on the hilts of his swords. Dara wore no helmet, nothing to obscure the tattoo and emerald-bright eyes he knew shouted his identity to the world, and he could only imagine the spectacle he presented—indeed, that was the point. He was to be the Afshin from legend, the dashing war god of a bygone era.
Unsurprisingly, it was a Daeva man who reacted first. “By the Creator …,” he choked out. “Are you—” His eyes widened on the conjured shedu. “Is that—”
“Rejoice!” Dara commanded. “For I bring glad tidings.” The words sounded false in his mouth, no matter how many times Manizheh, Kaveh, and he had practiced them. “The usurper Ghassan al Qahtani is dead!”
There were a couple of gasps, and then a pair of Geziri men who’d been cleaning saddles jumped up.
“What do you mean, he is dead?” the younger one demanded. “Is this some sort of trick? Who do you think you are?”
“You know who I am,” Dara said. “And I do not mean to waste words.” He drew his second sword—Ghassan’s own zulfiqar—and threw it to the ground, the rest of the king’s bloody turban knotted around the hilt. “Your sand fly king is gone to hell with the rest of his kin, and should you not wish to join them, you will listen.”
More of the djinn were pushing to their feet now, a mix of incredulity and fear on their faces.
“Liar,” the Geziri man shot back, drawing his khanjar. “This is some fire-worshipper nonsense.”
With a burst of heat, Dara commanded the blade to melt. The Geziri man shrieked, dropping his dagger as the molten metal dripped down his skin. The nearest djinn, a Sahrayn woman, started to run to him.
Dara held up a hand. “Don’t,” he warned, and the woman froze. “Touch another weapon, and what I do next will make that look like a kindness.”
The Daeva man who’d spoken up, an older man with silver in his beard and an ash mark on his brow, carefully edged in front of the group. “We will raise no weapons,” he said, his gaze darting to the angry djinn. “But please tell us what happened. How is it you still have magic?”
“Because I serve the Creator’s chosen. The rightful and most blessed Banu Manizheh e-Nahid, who has taken back the city of her ancestors and now rules as was intended.”
The Daeva man’s mouth fell open. “Manizheh? Banu Manizheh? But she’s dead. You’re both supposed to be dead!”
“I assure you we are not. Daevabad belongs to us again, and should you wish to save the lives of your loved ones, you will carry our words.” Dara looked past the Daeva man. He appreciated the courage it must have taken for his tribesman to put himself between the Afshin and the djinn, but this message was not for him. “Those of you from the djinn tribes will not be permitted to continue into the city. You are to return to your lands.”
That provoked another outcry. “But we cannot return!” a woman declared. “We have no supplies, no magic—”
“Silence! You will return to your lands with our mercy, but there will be no magic restored to you yet.” He glared at the djinn in the crowd. “Your ancestors strayed from the right path, and for that there is a cost. You will return to your lands, gather whatever councils you use to govern yourselves, and send your leaders and their families back to Daevabad with tribute and word of immediate fealty.”
There was bristling in the crowd, but Dara wasn’t done. “As for your magic, you have one man to blame: the traitor Alizayd al Qahtani.” He all but hissed the words, letting his anger show—finally something that didn’t feel like an act. “He is a liar and an abomination, a crocodile who sold his soul to the marid and took advantage of the chaos to steal Suleiman’s seal and kidnap Banu Manizheh’s daughter.”
It was an Ayaanle woman who stood now, an elder with flashing eyes. “You are the liar, fiend. And more a monster than any marid from legend.”
“So ignore me. Perhaps the Ayaanle do not wish to see their magic return, but surely not all of you feel the same. For those, Banu Manizheh offers a deal. Alizayd al Qahtani has fled, slipping through the lake as his marid masters have taught him, to hide in your lands. Find the traitor and Banu Nahri both, return them—alive—and your tribe shall see its magic returned.
“Else, perhaps you best go beg the humans of whom you are so fond to
