“Too far.” Dara pulled her into the shadows and then took her against the wall, shoving her skirts past her hips. The transgression sent a thrill through him. Had an Afshin soldier been caught with a dancing girl in the hallowed halls of the Nahid palace in his day, they would have been whipped. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself even a hint of pleasure, let alone something so heedless and impulsive, and Dara moved faster as she cried out, tightening her legs around his waist.
She sighed when they were done, pressing her brow against his. “Sweeter, yes?”
Dara drew a shaky breath, his body still trembling. “Yes.” He eased her back to the ground. “Thank you.”
“Thank me?” She laughed. “Whatever for, you beautiful, tragic man? I’m the envy of half of Daevabad right now.”
“For letting me feel normal,” he murmured. “However briefly.”
She smiled, brushing down her skirts. “Then you’re welcome. I look forward to scandalizing my granddaughters one day with tales of the night I made the great Darayavahoush feel normal.”
He leaned back against the wall, adjusting his own clothes, a bit scandalized himself at how carried away he’d just gotten. In mere moments, she looked untouched and he marveled at the skill. “What’s it like working for Muntadhir?” Dara asked knowingly.
She hesitated only a moment and then winked. “Never dull, that’s for certain.”
“I am honored he sent such a talented acquaintance my way. And glad the promised sweetness was not an iron blade between my ribs.”
The dancer turned over a few of the floral gems he’d upset around her neck. “He has the same flaw as many men in his class, however.”
“And what’s that?”
“The tendency to underestimate women. Especially common ones.” She met his eyes again, a new fierceness in her gaze. “A failure to recognize we can be patriots, no matter the coins in our hands.”
“If this is a warning, you chose a very interesting way to pass it along.”
“I figured I might as well enjoy the process. But no, I do not have a warning, Darayavahoush. I wish I did. All I can tell you is that he’s a dangerous man. A very dangerous one. He is handsome and charming and loves so openly and generously that people miss it. But he is every bit his father’s son, and if the emir wins through convincing what Ghassan won by fear, trust me when I say the consequences will be just as deadly.”
Any lingering ardor vanished. “Muntadhir seems to care about Daevabad. Surely he would not ruin what little stability we are building.”
She stepped forward, cradling his face. “I pray you are right.” She ran a thumb over Dara’s bottom lip, sorrow creasing her expression. “They will sing a thousand songs about you.”
“Sad ones?”
“They are the best.” She turned away. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Darayavahoush e-Afshin.”
Trying to shake off the gloom already reclaiming him, Dara called out, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“No, I didn’t.” She glanced back. “We common women are wise enough to enjoy a taste of heat without staying to be burned.”
She walked away without another word and Dara watched her go, suddenly certain he’d never see her again. He ran his fingers through his hair. Well, that was not quite how he imagined this evening going.
He turned over her words regarding Muntadhir. That the calculating emir couldn’t be trusted was not new information, but Dara did believe he had Daevabad’s best interests at heart, and none of them wanted an intracity civil war between the tribes. Still, perhaps now that he’d made his introductions to the Daeva nobles, it was time to cut Muntadhir out.
Dara’s head swam. Creator, this was not what he wanted to think about now. The wine buzzing in his veins, his body still tingling … Dara didn’t feel like already reassuming the mantle of the brooding Afshin, the Scourge responsible for ending and protecting so many lives. He was tempted to rejoin his men but knew they’d have a better time if their commander was not among them. And yet he wasn’t ready to retire to the small, sad room he’d claimed near the stables.
He pushed away from the wall. The pale stone of the empty corridor winding away in the distance, patterned with moonlight from the marble screens, looked inviting, and Dara suddenly had the desire to walk. He snapped his fingers, conjuring a cup of familiar date wine, and took a sip, savoring its sweetness. To hell with Muntadhir’s snobbery. This was far better than that expensive grape swill the emir favored.
Dara walked and drank, trying not to stagger too much. His steps rang out on the floor as he trailed his fingers over faded frescoes and ruined plaster. Ahead a shadowed entryway beckoned, and he stopped, struck by the odd location—half tucked away and surrounded by far grander doors. He touched the cool marble of the arch.
This must have had magic before everything went to hell. A simple conjurement would conceal this entry quite well or give it the appearance of a dull, boring door—the kind that became harder to see the longer you looked.
Intrigued and having nothing better to do, Dara stepped through.
DARA WALKED FOR WHAT FELT LIKE AT LEAST AN HOUR, conjuring a handful of flames to lead him through a maze of abandoned corridors and crumbling stone steps. The pathways were long neglected, the dust thick enough that had someone come through, their footsteps would have remained. He swatted aside dozens of cobwebs, the movement sending rats skittering.
When the air turned foul, the stone mossy and slick, Dara began to question his judgment. He’d stopped drinking, figuring if he got lost down here, date wine was not going to help him. But his people were feasting and celebrating above him, he might still be able to track down that very accommodating dancer, and instead he was choosing to follow a hunch through moldy basement passages in a haunted palace? Those were
