Bestselling author S. A. Chakraborty’s acclaimed Daevabad Trilogy gets expanded with this new compilation of stories from before, during, and after the events of The City of Brass, The Kingdom of Copper, and The Empire of Gold, all from the perspective of characters both beloved and hated, and even those without a voice in the novels.
The River of Silver gathers material both seen and new–including a special coda fans will need to read–making this the perfect complement to those incredible novels.
Now together in one place, these stories of Daevabad enrich a world already teeming with magic and wonder. Explore this magical kingdom, hidden from human eyes. A place where djinn live and thrive, fight and love. A world where princes question their power, and powerful demons can help you…or destroy you.
A prospective new queen joins a court whose lethal history may overwhelm her own political savvy…
An imprisoned royal from a fallen dynasty and a young woman wrenched from her home cross paths in an enchanted garden…
A pair of scouts stumble upon a secret in a cursed winter wood that will turn over their world…
From Manizheh’s first steps towards rebellion to adventures that take place after The Empire of Gold, this is a must-have collection for those who can’t get enough of Nahri, Ali, and Dara and all that unfolded around them.
This scene takes place a few decades before The City of Brass and contains spoilers for the first two books.
Her son was glorious.
Manizheh traced one of Jamshid’s tiny ears, drinking in the sight of his perfect little face. Though he was barely a week old, the black of his eyes was still tempered by a fiery-hued haze. His small body was warm and soft, tucked safe in the cradle of her arms. Even so, Manizheh held him closer as she made her way out of the tent. It might be spring, but it was still early in the season and Zariaspa clung to its chilly mornings.
The valley before her was glowing in the dawn light, flashes of pink and purple clover twinkling with dew against the long grass. She stepped carefully over scattered stones and broken bricks. She and Kaveh had pitched their tent in one of the many forgotten human ruins that dotted this land, and little was left now to distinguish those remnants from the rocky hillside, save a few archways and one squat column decorated with a pattern of diamonds. Yet as she walked, Manizheh wondered what this place might have once been. Could it have been a castle, a royal home walked by other anxious new parents terrified of the world into which they’d brought a child with noble blood?
Manizheh glanced down again at her son. Her Jamshid. His was a regal name, taken from the humans long ago like so many of their names—a borrowing most Daevas would deny, but Manizheh had been educated as a Nahid, learning things the rest of her people were not permitted. Jamshid was a name of legend and kingship. An optimistic name, spiraling from the last shred of hope in her soul.
“This is my favorite place in the world,” she said softly as Jamshid’s eyelids fluttered, the baby sleepy and milk-drunk. She laid his head against her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of his neck. “You are going to have so many adventures here. Your baba will get you a pony and teach you to ride, and you can explore to your heart’s content. I want you to explore, my love,” she whispered. “I want you to explore and dream and get lost in a place where no one will watch you. Where no one will cage you.”
Where Ghassan will not hurt you. Where he will never, ever learn of you.
For if there was one thing about her baby’s future she was sure of, it was that Ghassan couldn’t learn of Jamshid. The very prospect made Manizheh sick with fear, and she was not a woman easily frightened. Ghassan would kill Kaveh, of that she had no doubt, in the longest, most excruciating manner he could devise. He would punish Rustam, breaking what was left of her traumatized brother’s spirit.
And Jamshid . . . her mind would not let her contemplate the ways Ghassan would use him. If Jamshid was lucky, Ghassan would settle for inflicting on him the same life of terror she and Rustam had been subjected to: enslaved in the palace infirmary and reminded every day that if it were not for the usefulness of their Nahid blood, their family would have been exterminated long ago.
But she didn’t think her son would be lucky. Manizheh had watched the years harden Ghassan into a reflection of his tyrannical father. Maybe Manizheh had been a proud fool to deny Ghassan what his heart had wanted most; maybe it would have been best to unite their families and tribes: to force a smile to her face in a royal wedding and close her eyes in the darkness of his bed. Maybe her people would be breathing easier and her brother wouldn’t jump when someone closed a door too loudly. Was that not the best choice for so very many women, the most they could hope for?
But Manizheh hadn’t chosen that. Instead she had betrayed Ghassan in the most personal way she could, and Manizheh knew if she and Kaveh were caught, she’d pay for that in kind.
She pressed a kiss to the soft downy hair lying in a messy pouf around Jamshid’s head. “I’ll come back for you, little one, I promise. And when I do . . . I pray you can forgive me.”
Jamshid stirred in his sleep, making a tiny sound that drove a knife of grief through her chest. Manizheh closed her eyes, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. His weight in her arms and his sweet scent. The breeze whispering through the grasses and the chill in the air. She wanted to remember holding her son before she took everything away from him.
“Manu?”
Manizheh stilled at Kaveh’s hesitant voice, her emotions free-falling again. Kaveh. Her partner and conspirator since they were children sneaking out to steal horses and wander the countryside. Her closest friend, and then her lover when their curiosity and teenage pinings turned to fumbling touches and stolen moments.
Another person she was about to lose. Manizheh had overstayed her visit to Zariaspa by three months, ignoring Ghassan’s letters ordering her return. She’d be surprised if the king wasn’t already mustering soldiers to retrieve her. One thing was certain: there would be no leaving Daevabad again. Not while Ghassan ruled anyway.
The ring, she tried to remind herself. While you still have the ring, there is hope. But her childhood fantasy of breaking free the sleeping Afshin warrior from the slave ring she and Rustam had found so long ago seemed just that right now: a fantasy.
Kaveh spoke again. “I prepared everything you asked. Are you . . .are you all right?”
Manizheh wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. No, she was not all right. She clutched her baby closer. It seemed impossible that she would have to let him go. She wanted to scream at her Creator. She wanted to collapse in Kaveh’s arms. For once she wanted someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay. She wanted to stop being the Banu Nahida, the goddess who was allowed no weakness.
But hers was not a role one could escape. Even with Kaveh, she would always be his Nahid before his lover and friend, and she would not shake his faith now. She made sure her voice was steady and her eyes were dry before she turned around.
Heartbreak was writ across his face. “You look beautiful with him,” Kaveh whispered, reverence and pain edging his voice. He drew closer, gazing at their sleeping son. “Are you sure about this?”
Manizheh rubbed Jamshid’s back. “It’s the only way to hide who he is. Nahid magic is strong when we’re children. If we don’t do this now, he’ll otherwise be healing his wet nurses and having skinned knees close up.”
Kaveh gave her an uncertain glance. “And if one day he should need such abilities?”
It was a justified question. In her arms, Jamshid seemed so tiny and fragile. There were illnesses and curses he could catch. He could tumble off a horse and break his neck. Drink from one of the many iron-poisoned streams that coursed through Zariaspa’s thick forests.
And yet those risks were still less than getting caught out as a Nahid.
Amazing, how death might be more preferable to life in Daevabad.
“I don’t know what else to do, Kaveh,” she confessed as they returned to the tent. Their fire altar smoldered in the eastern corner. “I’m hoping a day will come when I can remove the mark, but that day is not today. Honestly, it’s a magic so old and understudied that I just hope I can make it work.”
“How will we know if it does?”
Manizheh stared at her son, stroking a finger down his tiny scrunched face. She tried to imagine how Jamshid would look when he was three months old. Three years. Thirteen. She did not want to contemplate beyond that. She did not want to contemplate entirely missing him grow up.
“If it works, I won’t be able to control his pain,” she answered. “And he will start to scream.”
Excerpted from the book THE RIVER OF SILVER by S. A. Chakraborty. Copyright © 2022 by S. A. Chakraborty. From Harper Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.
