by Zamil Akhtar
“Eshe!” I cried, feeling around me as my sand-filled eyelid refused to lift. I rubbed until it flickered open but couldn’t spot him. All I saw were tentacles snaking forward as a sandstorm whirled around me.
I awoke in a mound of sand. So hot — the red sun burned it and my skin with an angry gaze. That sun had been setting for a long time; why hadn’t it fallen below the horizon yet? Despite the heat on my skin, my insides shivered, as if ice filled my core. How torturous to feel uncomfortably hot and unbearably cold at the same time.
I blinked and blinked to confirm what my eyes told me: in the distance stood a building that dwarfed the Sand Palace, the Tower of Wisdom, and the Grand Bazaar pyramid combined. I pushed to my feet, rubbed sand from my hair and nostrils, and approached the structure. White and shining and built of bone and skull — was this what that awful creature had called the Palace of Bones? It looked as if the populace of twenty Qandbajars had built that thing…from their own skeletons. Would I be another among them?
Why was I walking toward it? Because it was whispering my name and more things that I couldn’t understand. It was at once familiar and also filled me with noxious dread.
Before I could think, I was staring up at it. The top of the pyramid pierced the sky like a spear tip. And then…a low rumble sounded. I expected a pathway to appear and a door to open, leading me within, but as I stared at the bones and skulls, the sweet and deathly stench of flesh and guts filled the air. Every bone in the pyramid rattled, and then the thud-thud of the rattling became a thump-thump as flesh was painted upon the bones. Meat filled the skulls, and the sockets even had eyes now, all staring at me. Skin appeared on the flesh, as if sewn on, and then features like hair and moles and lips and lashes. Finally, the skulls and bones screamed. Each alive, each tortured, each begging for the end with their bulging eyes and flailing tongues.
This was not a Palace of Bones. It was a Palace of the Living, of the trapped, of suffering I hoped to never understand.
But I couldn’t move. I could only stare at the faces, at the shaking arms and legs and torsos. As the mouths closed after screaming, they bit down on the flesh, and now blood poured down the pyramid. That was when a giant, eyeball-covered hand pushed out of the pile of flesh and heads, grabbed me, and pulled me inside.
I floated in a black sea. Stars burned around me. Each one tried to pull me toward it, as if they had hooks, but I stayed in place. I flipped onto my belly and realized I was falling, not floating. A distant light blazed, growing as I fell, though no air pushed against my face. As I screamed, no sound came; a silent terror streamed from my throat.
I was falling into fire. Into a sea of surging, whirling, flaming waves and tornados. Into the sun itself. But it was red and bulging and oblong. And strangely…beautiful, like the swollen belly of a laden mare, seconds from birthing.
I flipped around and saw twelve stars. They danced on a black tarp, swapping positions every second. Slowly, they all dimmed until only two still blazed. The two stars continued to dance, closing in as they coiled. Closer, closer, until they borrowed each other’s light. Spirals of rainbow wisped off one and onto the other.
Somehow, I felt their love. Their utter devotion. And then the last two stars in the sky, with a blinding flash, became one. For a moment, their union painted the black tarp with every color imaginable and unimaginable, known and unknown, pulsing from the center. Their dance had resulted in a rebirth, utterly magnificent. Two had become one and were better for it.
But then, the combined star shrunk until it was the size of Qandbajar. It pulled inward, compacting its fire, turning cold and blue. No longer loved, nor loving — all alone, seething. It would watch everything die.
It sucked me in, pulled me around itself, and then launched me into the black sea. I passed through a sky of giant rocks, each icy and whirling like dervishes. I swam into a sparkling red cloud that somehow smelled of rose wine. And then another star — green and calm — sucked me in, hymning as I neared. After it, too, spat me out, I watched rocks pull together, becoming a flaming cauldron and then turning into a smooth, blue marble, which was destroyed by a spreading wall of flame.
And through all this, I couldn’t think because I couldn’t breathe. I was a witnesser without a will, doomed to spend eternity slinging across stars at the mercy of their anger and sadness and hatred and love.
Until, a thousand thousand years later, a hand tore through the darkness, grabbed me, and pulled me out.
14
Zedra
With Vera taken, I asked Mirima if Celene could attend me. Life in the harem was dull, even during tumult, and the girl hadn’t been doing much aside from learning proper Alanyan etiquette and Paramic. Mirima felt my lofty manner would be a good influence and so agreed.
Alone in my room, as I sat on a floor cushion and pecked a sugared jelly, I said to Celene, “Tell me, dear, did they question you?”
She stood by the door and nodded. “They asked about the girl who bought me.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I haven’t talked to her since the day she brought me here.”
“And they accepted your answer?”
She hunched her shoulders. “Mirima confirmed it, so I suppose.”
Celene didn’t seem as fearful about Mansur’s inquisition as me. I supposed she already felt like a prisoner, so getting locked somewhere dank was a mere degree worse.
“I’m going to ask you something,” I said, “and I need you to be truthful. Given what’s happening, I require honesty from those who serve me. Tell me, do you hate the Alanyans?”
She twirled her hair and stared at the floor. “I don’t hate any—”
“The truth,” I interrupted. “Don’t think I can’t see past your meekness. Inside, you’re raging, aren’t you?”
She believed me to be one of them, of course, but my rage burned hotter than hers. A rage she endured in silence as she continued to twirl her hair.
“I was taken by them, too,” I said, “but I know that to survive, I have to be whatever they find agreeable. What I mean to say is, as different as you may think we are, we’re the same.”
She sighed, tense. “You’ve done more than survive. You’re the mother of a prince. Where I come from, that would make you a queen. I’ll never be anything like that unless I go home.”
“Home — it’s always on your mind, isn’t it? What if I told you I can send you home?”
Now her eyes glistened with hope. “H-How? I’m told there are no ships heading for Crucis.”
“Serve me — faithfully, with absolute trust — and I’ll see you to your home, no matter what.”
“A promise,” she said. “But based on what ought I to believe your promises?”
A good question; the right answer could gain her loyalty. And with Vera imprisoned, I needed someone to help me. But Celene was no servant at heart, though it seemed she could play the role. And a Crucian princess could be useful in ways I hadn’t yet conceived.
I asked, “What is something you want, aside from to go home?”
She twirled her hair again — an anxious quirk. One of my granddaughters did the same. “There’s nothing else I want.”
“Surely, there must be something. Some comfort that would ease all this. Because that I will give you, whatever it is.”
She shook her head. “The only comfort are my prayers, and that you can’t give or take.”
“Then let’s go to the cathedral, meet the bishop, all of that. They won’t let you leave the palace on your own, but I can always take you.” I popped a sugared jelly into my mouth. The brass plate lay empty, now, save for crumbs and bits of sugar powder. I hoped her next words would be as sweet.
Celene sniggered — the first hint of impoliteness cracking through her facade. “Why? What is it you want from me? What does my trust mean to you? Because I’d think the trust of some heathen girl trapped far from home entirely meaningless. Unless…” She held up a finger. “It’s my despe
ration that you’re trying to play. Maybe you think I’ll do anything, and that’s why—”
“I’m not so depraved.” Though I was…in a sense. It seemed Celene’s trust could only be gained with trust. “I wasn’t just ripped from my home, Celene. Everyone I love was killed, by them. By the Seluqals. But I’m not here for revenge. I’m the mother of the future shah, and I…” What wonderful lie could I come up with? “…intend his rule to be a better one. A just one, for all his subjects. Even for Ethosians like you. But to do that, I need help. Allies. People I can trust, because enemies will surround me.”
“What makes you think I care?” she said with venom. “You people are so despicable, you don’t just enslave us, you enslave each other. You’re worse than even the Sirmians. I’d rather Alanya burn than prosper. And if Ethosians burn too, the Archangel knows his own.” Her cheeks twitched as she shook her head. “I’m not going to help you. I’m not going to be your pawn in the games played here. If I did become useful to you, then there’d be less reason to send me home, so there’s nothing in it for me.”
Curse the saints! I needed more than words. Without leverage over Celene, she couldn’t replace Vera in my service, which meant I was alone. While Celene could wheel me here and there, carry me into the closet, and guard my door, I couldn’t trust her with more vital tasks. And each day, it seemed my mission grew more difficult. Too difficult for one frail woman. I could search high and low in the harem but wouldn’t find someone like her: without any attachment to this land or a nearby tribe, who wasn’t already in the service of Mirima, Kyars, or some vizier, and who, like me, hated these people enough to burn her own with them.
“The cathedral is beautiful. I’m certain a visit will brighten your spirits.” I patted the pillow next to me so she would sit. Once she did, I took her hand: so unblemished and smooth, not unlike my own.
I said, “If you had truly lost hope, you wouldn’t still be praying. You believe you’ll one day see your home again, and I believe that too. I don’t pray anymore because my home doesn’t exist, except in my memory. Time has erased it, worse than any war ever could.”
Celene stared just below my eyes, as if it hurt to face the truth. “Your home…doesn’t exist?”
I ignored her comment and continued, “The truth is, you’re stuck here for now. And I’m the only one who will understand you. I’m your best bet, and you know it. If you can’t trust me entirely, then trust me enough to give me a chance. Is that fair?”
She nodded.
I smiled as if I were staring at my daughter. “Good. Let’s go, then.”
I could only pray Vera hadn’t said much about me, though given how Mansur dealt with the Path of the Children rebellion in his province last year, I doubted she’d last. And what if Kato told Mansur it was my suggestion that led him to the fingerless scribe? Certainly, Kato knew I wore an innocent face over my cleverness, but I was hardly the only concubine to do so. He wouldn’t so easily swallow that I was a sorcerer, though. As for Mansur, if he sought the throne, then painting me as a sorcerer would be perfect: if the mother of Kyars’ son killed the Shah, then Kyars himself could be a guilty party. I’d have to silence these worrying thoughts with proper action.
But to do that, I needed an ally and a plan. By carriage, Celene and I traveled to Basil’s Cathedral. I did my best thinking on these carriage rides, as I stared out the window at the oblivious city folk. The death of Tamaz, the arrival of Mansur and the Jotrids — it hardly changed the rhythm of the street, which was an assured yet ordered chaos. Did the people of Qandbajar believe their high, double-layered walls kept them safe? Perhaps from the khagans. But not from me.
Stone doesn’t stand against a determined host. I’d been alive for the deaths of three saint-kings. The last of the saint-kings, Nasar the Honorable, had once considered Seluq his vassal. The Children once counted Seluq as a friend, too. But then he had that dream of a thousand black birds devouring the sun, and a thousand stone walls couldn’t contain him.
One rather trite vision changed history’s course. Now, I had to change mine. Instead of dividing them, I had to align with Kato and ensure Kyars took the throne. Weakening either would empower Mansur and endanger my son. Nothing frustrated me more than how I’d put so many plans in motion, but now had to form a new one to deal with an enemy I’d been oblivious to. I’m sure it had been the same for Nasar the Fool, last of the saint-kings, when some brute from the Waste overran his glorious kingdom. I had to do better. Had to coddle as close to Kato as I could, hide in his golden armor until Kyars returned and ended Mansur’s threat, hopefully forever.
“You always so lost in thought?” Celene asked.
My mother once asked me something similar. I had one of those faces that exposed its musings. “I’m worried about Kyars.” How strange to say that so sincerely. If anything happened to him, Mansur would have no obstacle save for my son — a rather tiny obstacle.
“Kyars.” She chuckled with bitterness. “I was there the day he became a hero. My grandfather would have prevailed and freed me, if not for him.”
“Your grandfather…who came back from death.” If only I knew such sorcery, I’d bring back all the Children. But ought I to darken my soul with powers that controlled death itself? Though Father Chisti had said, “to fight darkness, you must become it.”
“The Archangel brought him back,” Celene said, “only to die days later. Wish I knew why, but we mortals must be content in our ignorance.”
What an odd thing to say. Why content yourself with not knowing? And yet, Father Chisti had mentioned his sip of truth and how it awakened him to the Great Terror. Perhaps it was better to be content in ignorance.
“I knew a man,” I said, “a great man, like your grandfather. God had promised him so much. Verdant land, gushing rivers, vineyards filled with every fruit. And yet...” Once more, I chewed this bitter memory. “They knew it was forbidden to spill the blood of a descendent of Chisti, so they strangled him. There’s no blood when you’re strangled. Nor when you drown. So they strangled or drowned us all.”
Silence lingered as I sipped my sadness. The hum and bustle of the streets outside our thin carriage doors wouldn’t permit a moment of peace.
“Descendent of Chisti?” Celene whispered. Seemed I’d let that slip, but what did she know about us? About our history? About the true heirs of this land, of the Latian faith?
“Sounds like you’re a descendent of your faith’s founder,” she said. “Do the others know?”
I shook my head. “If they did, they’d strangle me too.”
“I don’t understand.” She hunched her left shoulder. “Why do they want to kill the children of a man they revere?”
“I’ve been asking that question for longer than you’ve been alive.”
Her eyebrows reached the top of her forehead. “How old were you when you started asking questions?”
That was the wrong question, but I wasn’t about to reveal my secret. In any case, Celene wouldn’t believe it.
Our carriage halted at the outskirts of the Ethosian Quarter, just next to the Glass District. Celene climbed out first, asked the gholam to unload my chair, and then helped me onto it.
I’d always found this cathedral impressive: three floors in a triangle shape composed of gray brick and covered in stained glass. I’d read that artisans from Dycondi had fashioned it in their style. A sprawl of spires crowned the top, along with a pointed red dome. It stuck out, to say the least.
Word had gone ahead that we were coming, so I wasn’t surprised to see the bishop at the entrance. He resembled a middle-aged peasant I once bought kababs from outside the Grand Bazaar — thin frame, somewhat unkempt black hair, potbelly, and a face that needed a few extra scrubs. He wore a lovely white robe accented with vivid star patterns and greeted us with his hand on his heart. “Archangel keep you,” he said in Crucian to Celene. She smiled, her straight teeth showing, probably relieved to hear her language again.
Whereas I s
huddered: how strange that I understood what he’d said. No way I’d learned Crucian in the past. They continued chatting, and I continued understanding, hearing them talk about angels and apostles and trials and truths. My comprehension of their language was a curiosity, to say the least. One that raised the hairs on my neck.
While our gholam escort waited outside, we entered the chapel. On the altar beyond the pews, a statue of the Archangel stared with lifelike eyes. Its eleven arms and eleven wings were spread, as if to claim as much air as possible. On the other side, a choir of girls and boys hymned in Paramic.
And the angel said,
We are only a trial, so do not disbelieve.
How terrible the price for which you sold your soul.
Beneath the light of Aurora — the dead star of morning.
I shuddered at the ominous verses. Dead star of morning? By Lat, what did that mean?
I was about to ask the Bishop, but seeing the sweet smile stuck on Celene’s face, I decided it better to let the two chatter. Instead, I approached the angel on the altar. “They’d be better off praying to stones, like in the days of old,” Father had said. But this angel statue was metal, not that metal was more intelligent than stone. Had the people of Kostany really witnessed this creature in the sky? I shuddered once more at the thought.
I’d been doing much shuddering in this bizarre place. Just then, I noticed someone in the pew to my right. It took a few seconds to recognize him, though he wore the familiar felt long-hat and metal clasp at his waist: Grand Philosopher Litani. He put his hand on his heart when he saw me.
“You’re one of these people?” I said. “I had no idea.”
He smiled politely, then stood. “I am, in fact, the highest-ranking Ethosian in the Majlis.”
“Impressive. Tell me, did you get the mountain for your stargazing?”
He sighed, heavy and annoyed. “We lost that battle, for now. But I have hope when Shah Kyars returns that he’ll see it our way.”