by Zamil Akhtar
“Don’t forget — they have a sorceress on their side. Our magic against theirs, our god against theirs. It’s almost poetic, and yet…despite all I’ve seen…I fear the men the most. In the grip of battle, everyone is praying, and yet everyone is despairing. Everyone is brave, and yet everyone is afraid. One man charging forward or running in fear can decide it all. What could these gods know about a wavering heart?”
“Pashang…” I began to like the sound of his name. Perhaps because he and his Jotrids were my only hope. Even my own tribe had abandoned me the moment my brother died. My own tribe…“Pashang, what if we get help from the Sylgiz?”
He guffawed as if I’d told his favorite joke. “You mean the same Sylgiz who’ve been my tribe’s blood enemies for generations?”
“Blood enemies is a tad much. We had good relations for a while. You even lived with us!”
“I was more or less a hostage, Cyra. And the day I returned to my tribe, we were at war again. There’s no trust, and the Sylgiz being Path of the Children doesn’t help either.”
“But now we have the same enemy — the Seluqals.” I stroked my chin, almost wishing I had beard hairs to pull. “It would help if we had the same path, too. Which gives me an idea…”
Pashang sighed and shrugged. “Those wheels in your head never stop turning, do they?”
“I asked my brother to convert the Sylgiz to Path of the Saints, in order to solidify an alliance with Tamaz, and he agreed. Now…what if…the Jotrids converted to Path of the Children, to solidify an alliance with the Sylgiz?”
Pashang fell down laughing. I — lightly — stepped on his hand to silence him.
“For Lat’s sake, stop laughing! I’m no fool! Think about it — the Alanyans champion the Path of the Saints and persecute Latians on a different path. What if we, in an alliance with the Sylgiz, championed the other side? Do you know how many still revere the Children but are forced to hide their faith? If we show them our strength — that we are for them — they’ll rise up with us!”
Pashang concluded his laughing fit with a long sigh. “If the Sylgiz were so willing to convert, then they aren’t serious about their faith.”
“No, but they’re serious about power, just as you are. Just as I am. And that’s why…that’s why you and I have to get married. I’m the daughter and sister of khagans, and you’re a khagan — can you think of a better way to unify two tribes?”
He sat up and nodded. Seemed I was finally making sense to him. “All right…it’s an idea. But one far removed from the current dilemma — the ten thousand or so gholam bearing down on us. And that’s not even the full force — more will arrive in days, by ship and land. What do we do about them?”
I didn’t have all the ideas! “You’re the warrior, not me.”
“And as the warrior, I know we can’t win without a defensible position.”
“Can we hold, at least? Why not station our soldiers in the houses, hovels, and villas, instead of in this wide-open camp? Force Kyars to attack his own people if he wants to win.”
“We can try that, but prolonging things is to their advantage. Unless…” He stared at the hole in the yurt, his eyes bright.
“Unless?”
He stood, got on his toes, and reached for the stars shimmering through the hole. “Tell me, how’d you like to visit our old friends, the Philosophers?”
While Pashang went to consult with Tekish and others about our next maneuver, I checked on Eshe. He was snoring on his side, which was relief enough for me. The moment when that arrow pierced his belly…among the most panicked of my life. I’d put him in danger throughout this ordeal…for what?
I caressed the bandage covering the scar on his belly — no blood, thank Lat. Whatever power my blood possessed had healed him. Perhaps rest was all he needed to feel like his old self.
“You’re doubtless a fool,” I said, recalling what he’d admitted after being shot by that Karmazi woman. “But…thank you for not abandoning me. I won’t abandon you, ever.”
“You sound like me,” a man’s voice said from behind.
I spun around. In the yurt flap stood a man with curly yellow hair. As he walked forward in the candlelight, I recognized his more-than-pleasant face.
“K-Kevah?”
“Cyra,” he intoned so dismally, followed by a bitter swallow.
“We were worried about you. Thank Lat you’re all right.”
“But you’re not all right, are you, starwriter?”
I stood and fingered my eyepatch — it was well on. How’d he find out? “I didn’t ask for this. It just…happened.”
“I didn’t ask for this mask, either. Don’t you see? We are but playthings for the gods. They dress us up and set us against each other.” Another bitter swallow. “Once, I served a shah — I was his plaything, as well. But I served, and I serve, because we all have our roles to play for the shahs and gods above.”
“I don’t want anyone above me. Why should I serve? One day, maybe I’ll be a shah. Maybe I’ll be a god, too.”
He shook his head. “Full of dreams. I was, too, at your age. But you’ve not seen the monsters. The screaming angels. The—” He clutched his head.
“I’ve seen them. I saw a palace made of screaming mouths and bleeding, bulging eyes.” I pointed to Eshe. “He saw things, too. So did Pashang. We’ve all sipped it…whatever it is…”
“It’s our future,” he said. “The Great Terror. The hatching of an egg — the egg upon which we stand. The soil which we were born from…all it needs is a little heat…”
Kevah seemed so different from the jovial fellow I’d met in Zelthuriya. What had happened to him? “Last I saw you, you were staring up, saying you saw something…you said, ‘her wings are the span of clouds.’”
“The veil has lifted for you, but by covering that eye, you’re not seeing.” He sighed, sharp and weary. “I wish it wasn’t like this. Remember how I lamented that I’d not attained the allegiance of a single jinn tribe? It seems hundreds of days fasting in the caves of Zelthuriya did progress my fanaa. Or maybe, it’s because I was willing to risk my life to save this kingdom and help you. Either way…Marada, sultana of the Marid, believed me worthy of her power and submitted to me.” He pointed at the ceiling. “Want to see her?”
I shook my head, not wanting to see more terrors. “Are you my enemy, then?”
Kevah nodded. “Not just your enemy. I am your end. And the end of your god — the end of the Dreamer and the Blood Star and all those names from the void. They’ll never look in our direction again once I’m through with them.”
Words said so coldly, yet with utter confidence. I didn’t want to be his enemy…I didn’t want to serve some god from the void…all I ever did was pray…pray to have food, to have warmth, to have love. I wasn’t evil. And Eshe had said it was the Morning Star, not the Blood Star he saw when we held hands. So why was Kevah saying different?
“Kevah...” I could do nothing but sob and crush my tears with my eyelids. “I don’t want to fight you. It’s Zedra I want to fight. She’s the one serving evil!”
Kevah turned his back. “Zedra…she’s wearing a mask, and I’m meant to wear them all. So…you see what I’m saying?”
“You’re going to kill her?” I asked with hope.
“Then after I kill her, I’m going to come back here and — if you haven’t gouged that eye out — I’m going to kill you.”
I gasped, holding in my tears. “So…all I need to do is gouge it out? Right? Will that…get me back on the straight path?”
“I hope so. Because I don’t want to hurt you. You remind me of my daughter. She was full of ambition, too. I’m not stopping you from that…magi aren’t supposed to interfere in power struggles, because whenever they do, it attracts other things. But don’t rely on the void to win…that’s how it begins. Take it from a hashish addict. The first few times, you think it’s serving you. Making you feel better. Eventually, you’ll be serving it, and you’ll be hollo
w inside.”
What a strange analogy…but it made sense. “I don’t want to serve anything evil. I’m a Latian.” I sounded so different from when I was with Pashang, moments ago. What was the truth, then? “But…if it weren’t for this power, he’d be dead.” I looked at Eshe, who still snored. How deep and restful that sleep must’ve been — I was almost jealous.
“As I said, I’m going to kill Zedra, and when I get back—”
“I know what you said.” I made a fist. “I…I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of Zedra. I’m not scared of anything! I’ll make whatever choice I want!”
Kevah chuckled and pointed at the hole in the yurt’s ceiling. “Fearlessness is for fools.” He walked out the flap.
What was so terrifying up in the sky? If I wanted to be as brave as I sounded, if I wanted to lead the charge, I had to see it. I slid my eyepatch onto my cheek and stared up…no stars. No sky, either. Something solid blocked all sight.
I pushed through the yurt flap, keeping my head on the sky. What I saw made my jaw hang: three heads, each bigger than a city, crowded the clouds. Each head had six eyes — balls of sun — and the creature’s wings…they were white and feathered. Unlike a bird, it didn’t need to flutter its wings to perch; rather, it seemed to float, to glide with the clouds. I’d call it a dragon of some sort, but the worst thing was the snakes coiling through its skin. Or perhaps, those snakes were its skin — constantly coiling and twisting and squirming throughout its body and three necks.
I could only gasp, shut my eyes, and slip on my eyepatch. Back in the yurt, I cried. Kevah had made plain he would kill me…and with that thing having submitted to him, what chance did I have? Did I really have to give up my power, the only thing that made me strong?
Throughout, Eshe had remained asleep. “Truth is,” I said, “I’m as much a fool as you.” I brushed his head hair, happy that we could at least have more moments. Perhaps, no matter what happened, that was all that truly mattered.
The gholam launched rockets at the Jotrid camp all evening. They flickered through the sky and rained like fireworks, though always landed on empty scrub. Now bushfires lit the night. I hoped Pashang would heed my advice and move us into the houses of the city folk; would Kyars shoot rockets at his own?
In response, the Jotrids loosed arrows, but without high ground, they couldn’t go far.
Kyars and Kato must’ve believed it was their advantage to wait: they controlled the palace, the river, the largest sections of the wall, and most of the city. And their numbers would only increase, with most of the gholam host yet to arrive. While I’d convinced Pashang to fight on, it was harder to convince myself that we could win against such odds.
Pashang sent riders to the Sylgiz with our offer. My tribe had only recently departed — it hadn’t been long since Tamaz’s murder — and so we could catch them on their way to the Waste. Offer them the keys to the kingdom, not some far-flung province. But would they join their enemy to fight their enemy? Would they believe it possible to overthrow a dynasty that had stood for six hundred years?
I didn’t believe it, but I didn’t have to. Unlike them, I didn’t have a choice, and so when Pashang suggested — of all things — we attack the Tower of Wisdom, I nodded as if it were a good idea. While it could contain some knowledge or invention we could use to even the odds, no one wanted the Philosophers as an enemy. They’d stayed out of this conflict, and by attacking their sanctuary, we’d be forcing them to take a side — the enemy’s side, surely.
So in the middle of the night, with a hundred of Pashang’s best, we rode to the Tower, dismounted at its thick stone doors, and tried to pull them open.
“Not budging,” Pashang said as he pushed and pulled against it.
“Blow it up,” said Tekish.
I approached the door and brushed it with my hand. Beneath a layer of sand, shown an emblem: a circle — the earth — and above it, a throne, stars dotted around it. I’d never noticed this emblem, despite walking past this place for so many years.
I wished Eshe were here — he seemed to know everything — but he was at camp, still resting.
“Bomb bomb bomb,” Tekish said. “Stone won’t stand against the fury.”
Pashang gestured for his sapper to set a bomb at the door. “A few more seconds for someone cleverer than my fool brother to give me an idea,” he said to the sound of grumbles. “All right, then.”
The sapper — a short, muscled man — put a powder-filled clay pot at the door. We all backed away. Pashang stuck his arrow into a torch, setting it alight. Then he nocked it and loosed upon the clay pot.
The blast shook the Tower, shook the plaza, shook me. Chunks of stone flew in every direction. But when the dust and smoke cleared, the way inside lay open, behind a mound of broken stone.
“Onward,” Pashang said. “First to the top gets a palace!”
26
Zedra
After I’d woken from fainting in front of the last person I ever wanted to show weakness to, I pricked my finger with a sewing needle and painted a bloodrune on a parchment. I invoked the Morning Star, and it glowed. I breathed deeply: I was to do something I’d resolved never to do.
I was to go back.
Because I needed it. My anger was in charge, and it’d made me shout my truths in front of Cyra and Kyars’ gholam, and it seemed the stress caused me to collapse. My son once said, during a sermon, “Patience in a moment of anger prevents a thousand regrets.” If I could go back, for half an hour, and be with my sons and daughters, then perhaps I could steel myself. Like the taste I’d given Celene while we were in the bath, this rune would transport whoever touched it home, though it would be a mirage. Still, a mirage inspires the journeyer to tread on, and I needed that hope.
So I tucked myself in my blanket, placed the parchment under my pillow — so none would see — and tapped the bloodrune.
The Vogras River once bore an altogether different course through the earth. Though, ironically, it still passed downstream through Qandbajar, as if the city and river were destined to meet.
Upstream, we Children lived off the river in our home at the base of the Vogras Mountains. To say it was our lifeblood was understating it: we bathed in it, washed our clothes and all else, and drank of its sweet flow. It fell from the snowy peaks, which themselves touched heaven — no doubt, the river was from Lat herself. A gift to her Children, who blessed it with their touch and let the holy water reach even the most ungrateful of Lat’s believers.
This was the moment the water turned from holy to cursed. From blessed to blood.
I was kneeling at the riverside, knees red and aching. The birthmark beneath my ring finger told me I’d inhabited my granddaughter Najat. She was seventeen. From our conversations and the silent moments I’d spent watching her, I’d gleaned that despite how bright and cheerful she seemed, she carried a darkness within that fogged even the most pleasant moments. More than once, I’d passed her my wisdom: “As you get older, you’ll shed that restlessness, and you’ll feel purer. Your pain will lose its edge.”
A mother plants wisdom, hoping it flowers. But those seeds would be ripped out. Everything ripped out.
I looked up; he was standing over me. Small almond eyes, ball-like cheeks, and a crescent mustache.
The man had never impressed me. He resembled the thugs who raided pilgrim caravans headed for Zelthuriya. A warrior of few words — at least ones I could understand. But I’d understood him the other day when he prostrated, kissed my son’s feet, and asked for the blessing of Najat’s hand.
The Sixth Chief, my great-great-grandfather, once lamented, “Telling the truth left me with no allies.” Only in hindsight could I lament: we ended the world by saying no to Seluq the Dawn. I’d enough daughters and granddaughters to forge alliances with every tribe and kingdom in the east, but the Children weren’t known for our prudence. We were known for our purity.
Najat, herself, was not pure. Her mother was a slave my son had captu
red after a battle with an infidel tribe. Still, I thought of her children, of how watered down their god’s blood would be if she married him. Truth is, if only we’d not been so prideful, this one time, our tribe could’ve lingered on.
Wait…what was I doing here, anyway? So many thoughts, and yet, a moment ago, I was…in a bedroom…in a palace, lying on silk, drawing with blood on paper. Now, I knelt on this riverside, and everything was…frozen. Stilled. As if I were in a painting.
But this wasn’t what I wanted. This wasn’t what I wanted to go back to. Not this moment. Anything but this moment!
Something dead floated by me in the river: Eglab! A four-hundred-year-old righteous silat jinn with white eyes, backward feet, and the beak of a stork. He’d once told me, “Lat has decreed that you have many daughters and one son. After that son, you shall have no more children. It was the same for your husband’s mother and will be so for your son’s wife.”
But he was wrong. I had another son. I had Seluq.
His namesake grabbed my head. I glimpsed the sky, or rather, what had replaced it: Marada, sultana of the Marid. Its body was all snakes, its neck taller than the Vogras, and its heads…if one were to fall, it would flatten Qandbajar. Each eye was a ball of fire brighter than the sun.
The jinn of the Marid floated down from it: clouds of whirling smoke, with hands that reached out only to grab and kill. They would bring an end to the righteous Peri jinn tribe that had taught me how to bloodwrite and soulshift.
To my left and right: daughters, granddaughters, great-granddaughters. Some with gray hair, others who couldn’t yet walk. All were forced to kneel at the river’s edge, one of Seluq’s savages at their backs.
“Don’t do this,” I said to Seluq. Why even try, though? Nothing could change what had happened. History would flow, like this river, to wherever it was destined. And yet, I wanted to spare myself pain. Spare Najat pain. “Your horde will destroy the dynasty of the saint-kings, and for six hundred years, your progeny will rule three kingdoms. Your name will blaze in red and gold across history’s pages. But that glory will never erase this sin. Don’t do this!”