by Fuad Baloch
Magus? Shoki wanted to laugh. No matter what title they decided to give him—city guard, emissary, magus—he remained shit at them all. This was his lot in life. And it seemed—
He blinked. How could the queen see him in this world of jadu?
She slapped him. “Keep fighting!”
Shoki bristled with anger, snapped at the queen. She vanished. He stood up straight, drawing his thoughts back to the task at hand.
How long had they been fighting? Hours? Days?
Not that it mattered.
Sudden anger burst through him, taking leave of his senses and restraints.
With a cry, Shoki lashed at the enemy soldiers. He neutered another volley of arrows without a thought, swapped the dozen cavalrymen’s desire to fight with the sand’s destiny to remain unmoved.
He shrieked, howled, flinging himself and his powers over anyone unfortunate enough to come his way.
Over and over, he attacked, fueled by a rage that propelled him forward, leaving him little time to reflect.
When, at last, he surveyed the world around him, the fury beginning to fade, the world was darker, harder to control.
His control was weakening, the limits reasserting themselves.
No! There was so much that still needed doing. He howled in frustration.
“Help her succeed. Help Aleena,” whispered the voice in his heart again.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Help her!”
Shoki shook his head, putting his thoughts in order once more.
What could he do before his well ran out?
He scanned the essence of the stone walls enveloping the Shahi Qilla on three sides. Not that different from the City Walls in terms of constituent parts, yet something wasn’t quite the same. Like a shirt stained with one’s own sweat, it smelled like home, felt familiar, known.
He felt his eye widen.
The walls, and the Shahi Qilla beyond, weren't made from the same materials as ordinary walls. Imbued with magic, the foundations and the walls and buildings all hummed with a latent energy that thrummed in the air.
And deep within its bowels, sat a darkness so black it seemed to pull the very light and his thoughts into itself.
The Divide.
Shoki shook his head, his thoughts growing muddy.
Realization bloomed. Sultans of Istan were Keepers of the Divide. A Divide that wasn't just metaphorical. A physical one that needed to be guarded. A Divide that seemed to be straining against invisible bonds in order to embrace the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.
The enemy magus with the affinity for blood pulled in more.
Shoki felt the cords tying back the vile darkness loosen, the unearthly voices growing that much louder.
This was the Divide all Sultans of Istan were meant to guard. This was why the Kalb inquisitors existed. This is what the woman he loved needed to safeguard.
Desperate, Shoki turned his attention to the enemy magus in the guard tower. He couldn't have been the only one. There had to be more, hidden from Shoki’s sight probably.
Why?
Time passed as Shoki stood still, unwilling to wield any more jadu lest he weakened the restraints.
Something else was wrong.
The enemy magus, and those aiding him, were no longer using their jadu either.
Shoki looked up. The guard tower was empty.
Their magi were still wielding their jadu. Largely ineffectual, but disastrous regardless.
What else could he do? One last act to get Nuraya through the gates.
“Use your magic, your birthright,” the voice cooed at him.
Shoki looked around. “Who are you?” When no answer came, he shook his head, trembling. This was the real battle. One only he seemed to know of.
The quest to shatter the Divide once and for all.
Something greater than all other worldly concerns.
One Nuraya had to understand.
She had to.
The world was beginning to sway under his feet now. Shoki exhaled and gathered his resolve. Deraman was striding toward the portcullis, his skin a tattered patchwork of ripped skin and sinew and blood.
He turned toward the iron gates. Heavy. Well-crafted. Imbued with the will and skill of their master smiths. Shoki looked at himself. A being full of doubt, sniveling cowardice.
He chuckled at one of the easier connections he would make today.
Drawing in a long breath, he willed a transfer—his cowardice, lack of strength with the immensity of purpose of the gates. A much simpler, perfect exchange that would not be as terrible as trying to tear these walls down.
A sharp metallic tang made him gag. He spat, sputtered, stumbled back, snapped out of the jadu world.
The gates were down, the pathway leading into the grounds milling with fighting men.
When Shoki looked up, men streaming past him, he couldn’t spy Nuraya anymore.
She was gone. No doubt onward to take the throne. To sit and rule as the Sultana. As the only monarch in the history of the Istani empire who had broken the very institution that gave the line its mandate to govern.
And he had been helping her along.
Just as the inquisitor had alleged.
What had he done? More importantly, what could he do?
Coughing, he got up and staggered into the Shahi Qilla.
Chapter 46
Nuraya
Screaming, Nuraya thrust, jabbing at yet another guard. Faces had long ceased being unique, blending into each other, a never-ending line of men fated to die at her hand.
Maids ran about, screaming around the wide colonnades of the Shahi Qilla as her men smashed through her own home. One of the maids, a plump woman Nuraya distantly recalled as one of her mother’s hand ladies, wailed on the marble floor, two younger girls beside her.
Nuraya turned away. There would be time to return to them afterward.
“Both the eastern and western wings are in our command,” reported Jinan, huffing as he came to a stop beside her. He grinned, a siphsalar who had finally scored his first major victory. And what a victory that was as well, helping her take back what was hers by right.
Leaning against the stone wall carved with verses from the Husalmin holy books, she rested for a moment. The long, carpeted corridor ahead led directly to the diwan-e-khas. Breath came in gasps as she took large gulps of air. The last time she had been here, there wasn’t enough space even for a princess of the realm to go through without rubbing shoulders.
Now, it was just her and Jinan, the corridor hauntingly empty. Of course, some of the Sultan’s Body who would have been guarding this path, now lay slain in the main plaza.
A shiver ran up her spine. Would Abba have approved of her actions? She inclined her chin toward the large ornate ivory doors at the end of the corridor. Was it possible she had been dreaming all this time, that she’d find Abba beyond the doors, his unblinking green eyes still, cold, disappointed?
Sounds of crashing came from her right. Jinan flinched, his hand pointing the sword at the direction. Unperturbed, Nuraya stood still, a moment of calm descending upon her, so very unlike the mayhem of the past few months.
Memories of the place rose. Men and women dressed in their fineries floated like ghosts, leaving behind trails of intoxicating scents. The ladies shuffled slowly, their necks laden with heavy jewelry, each deliberate step accentuated by the tinkle of glass bangles. Though no one admitted, each of them judged the other on the cut of their peshwaz, maids gathering gossip to be shared at night. The men guffawed, dressed in elaborate robes, colorful turbans, and hats of strange proportions, their manicured hands curling well-cultivated mustaches. Envoys from distant lands across the ocean and far away on the continent mingled easily with the crowd, trading barbs and jokes.
Life. That was what was missing from this shell of a building she’d taken over with the help of those who didn’t have the faintest idea of what this place was really meant to be like.
Her eyes fell on the floor. Not the pristine floor without a speck of dust, but a blood-stained carpet that would need to be ripped out and replaced once all this was finished.
Once she was finished.
She was sure Ahasan had fled, and she’d find Kinas ahead. He had a greater number of forces. But she wasn't fighting fair. Instead of facing the enemy in battlefield, she would capitulate its command, and the body would give in.
Jinan was shouting. Again, she heard him only distantly.
Clenching her jaws, she began marching toward the doors. Another wave of indecision rolled through her. Had Abba been alive, would he have truly approved of her actions? Would he have seen the world the way she did?
For a long time, she had been so certain as to not even entertain the notion, dismissing it as foolish. Now, why was she so unsure?
How would he have dealt with her mother?
She drew out her sword just as a tall figure darted from the pillars beside the closed gates.
“Move!” she shouted.
The man turned toward her, the lines on his ancient, craggy face dark. “You have returned.”
For a moment, her hand gripping the sword grew weak. She narrowed her eyes. “Grand Vizier!”
“If you are going to take the throne, there are many things you have yet to learn.”
Nuraya glared at the old man, half-amused, half-furious. “Is that really the best you can say when I am about to go and deal with the usurper within?”
“Ahasan fled long ago,” drawled the grand vizier. He sighed, his face softening for a moment. “It’s between you and Kinas.” With that, he turned around and rested his hands on the door handles.
“Is that all you have to say? No words of advice? No attempt at playing the mediator? You tried the last time one of my brothers denied me?” she spat the words.
“Who am I to come between the children of Istan?” Grand Vizier Madhu Ghiani pulled, and the heavy doors slid silently open.
For a long breath, Nuraya stared at the grand vizier. His face still held majesty, wisdom, but there was something else in his face now as well. Resignation. A man who knew the limits of his own power. Good.
Nuraya stepped past the grand vizier and entered the diwan-e-khas. Not as vast as the diwan-e-aam, meant to house five thousand courtiers at the same time, yet in many ways, more imposing. The rich, red carpet ran across the hall, culminating at the raised dais upon which sat the Peacock Throne.
Seat of the Sultans of Istan.
The full impact of the moment set her reeling, gasping for a breath. Exhaling, she trudged forward, her eyes sinking to the floor, unable to look up.
She passed empty chairs set aside for the most important people of the Istani realm. Massive portraits of previous Istani Sultans stared down at her, their expressions grave, somber.
Nuraya raised her chin. Standing beside the ornate shades bedecking the massive Peacock Throne, stood Kinas Istan. He wore a dark leather vest, one hand clutching a curved sword in the manner of northern soldiers, the other resting against the gilded throne. Clean-shaved, unlike Ahasan, her brother stood strong, handsome just like she remembered.
“Brother, won’t you congratulate me?” she bellowed, wary of any traps he might have set for her. Jinan, who had crept in behind her, stepped beside her, scowling, his eyes scanning the corners and their rear. “I overcame everything you threw at me. The overwhelming numbers, the veteran soldiers. Even the magi!”
Kinas stretched to his full height, taller than either of his siblings, handsome where Ahasan had been portly, the very picture of a prince. “You’re a usurper, Nuraya,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “You might have surprised me, but nothing changes the fact that you are not worthy of sitting on the Peacock Throne.”
Nuraya chortled mirthlessly. “Oh, really? Just because all my life you have been physically stronger, you would make a better sultan than me?”
Kinas narrowed his eyes, placed hands on his hips. Nuraya was thrown back into happier memories of when the young boy struck the same pose to annoy his sister.
“You have come far enough,” he growled. “It stops here.”
Nuraya came to a stop half a dozen paces from the raised dais, then raised her sword. “Kinas… despite all that’s happened, we’re still siblings. It doesn’t have to go any further.”
“Hah!” Once again, he spat to the side, then leaped down the dais to stand a couple of paces before her.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”
“Oh, yes, it does,” Kinas declared, beginning to walk in a semi-circle. “Despite your ill-advised tactics, unleashing the magi our family was tasked to contain, you have proven yourself incapable of ruling the realm, girl.”
Anger flared through her. “Don’t judge me based on my gender, brother.”
He shook his head slowly. “You are going to make a terrible ruler not because you are a girl but because you’re you. A selfish, self-centered brat who thinks the world resolves around her.” He chewed on his lower lip, came to a standstill. “If you are serious about wanting peace, rescind your claim now. Acclaim me as the rightful heir to our father over the despicable Ahasan and I will show you leniency.”
Nuraya opened her mouth to object. Blood pounded at her temples. She and Kinas had had a happy childhood. Memories of them as young children, running and playing drifted up. Her heart choked. Was it really that bad if Kinas sat on the throne in her stead? What if—
Kinas attacked. A silent cobra, he sprang forward, the sword jabbing at her.
A shadow leapt in front of him, the clang of metal ringing out inches from her face.
Shocked, she staggered back, looked at the man who had rescued her. “Jinan!”
Her brother grunted, the muscles in his arms rippling. “You undeserving, conniving western she-devil. Both you and your magus mother should have been put to the sword the moment you were born.”
Even as she trembled in fury, the two men facing off each other, she raised her hand. “Kinas, it doesn’t have to end this way!”
Kinas feinted to the right, drawing Jinan into a false attack. The Swaying Cobra maneuver. She blinked, time slowing down as she watched the elaborate series of steps associated with the move play out in absolute perfection. Something the Kur’shi teachers had taught them both. One more thing he had always been better at than her.
Jinan had no idea what he was facing. He reached forward, over-committed, out of balance, his force of movement taking him sideways, moments before the sword would swing down and chop his head off.
Nuraya screamed, leaped forward, jabbed her sword through. Kinas’s curved blade crashed into hers with an almighty clang. She screamed at the jarring pain that shot up her arm, rending her fingers useless for half an instant.
The sword fell from her hand, clattering to the ground.
Growling, Kinas strode toward her, his sword rising.
“Kinas, there is still time to step away,” she rasped, one hand reaching into the peshwaz she wore underneath her leather armor. “Accept me as the sultana and I promise to show you mercy in turn.”
“Never!” he grunted and lunged.
Nuraya darted back, her heart growing heavy. When Kinas wheeled around, sword rising again, she reached forward as if to give him a hug.
Kinas’s eyes grew wide as he saw the dagger in her hand, hidden within the folds of her peshwaz—a hiding place denied to men.
Before he had time to dodge, she plunged it into his chest.
The smooth metal cut through the leather, finding home in his heart. Kinas screamed, blood gurgling out of his mouth, gathering at the wound. She stood tall and saw realization bloom in her brother’s chest as he sputtered forward, his eyes narrowing even as both hands tried to grip the dagger hilt.
Kinas rasped, raised a bloody finger at her. “H-h-h…” More gurgles, a hacking, bloody cough. He sank to his knees.
He still gripped the dagger, but she could see the figh
t draining from him, his eyelids growing heavy. “You always did like overextending yourself, brother,” she said, a terrible melancholy filling her core. “You really should have listened to me.”
“Y-y-you… c-cheated…”
Nuraya shook her head sadly. “And you always put too much stock in men attacking you from the front. Life in Algaria would never have suited you.”
Kinas raised his right arm and opened his jaw. No words came out. Behind him, Jinan rose on unsteady feet, his cheeks bloody. The siphsalar reached for his sword, but Nuraya stopped him.
A sultana wasn’t one who shied from doing what needed doing. No delight or sorrow in that simple acknowledgment. Taking a step forward, she bent down and retrieved her own sword, already bloodied from the fighting outside.
“S-sister…” gurgled Kinas, struggling to keep his eyes open.
Nuraya exhaled, her heart growing heavy. She shook her head. There would be time for mourning later.
Taking careful aim, she swung her sword around in one smooth motion, a final act of mercy for a brother she had once loved.
Kinas’s head stayed put for a half-breath. Then it slid from the body and fell on the bloody floor. The torso stayed still an instant longer, before it too collapsed.
Tears brimmed in her eyes, but Nuraya forced herself to remain steady. Forcing her eyes away from Kinas’s corpse, she gestured at Jinan. “Arrange for him to be buried in the Matli cemetery with full honors due his station.”
Jinan blinked, then bowed deeply. “As you say, my sultana.”
Stepping around Kinas’s blood, Nuraya ascended the dais. The Peacock Throne lay empty. Her destination. The one objective that had so gripped her. Here, on this very spot, for so long, Abba had governed the known world.
Something that was her fate now.
Abba, I hope you’ll be proud of me.
She exhaled and took the final step.
“S-Stop!” rang a voice behind her.
Nuraya wheeled about. At the ornate entrance, a tall figure stumbled forward, clothes in bloody tatters. She shook her head, annoyance mixing with anger.