by Zamil Akhtar
Tekish was…my husband and Pashang’s brother?
“You’re right,” I said. “Such an idiot.”
He stopped, his eyebrows raised. “You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever agreed with me.” Oh Lat, was he on to me?
I clutched the dagger on my right side. Perhaps I ought to slit his throat and not risk failure.
He put his hand on my shoulder as I lifted the dagger, ever slowly, from its sheath.
“I know this whole thing’s been rough on your marriage. But…Tekish loves you, and only you. I even saw him writing you verses the other day, poetry book in one hand and quill in the other.”
Pashang turned and trod down the stairs. I breathed in relief and pushed my dagger back into its sheath. I should’ve just killed him, but one thought kept me from it: Cyra must die.
The Tower rumbled and shifted as an explosion sounded downstairs. I ducked, arms covering my face, while Pashang quickened his pace. Just what was Cyra doing?
I bolted down to catch up, coughing from the smoke. Finally out of the stairwell, I saw Cyra in the corner of the ground floor, a smoking hole beneath her.
“Stairs!” she exclaimed, pointing at the hole. “This is how the Philosophers escaped!”
Jotrids gathered around — by Lat, they stunk. Of horse, sweat, horse sweat, and various kinds of grasses and shit. It reminded me so much of Seluq’s horde that I wanted to spew.
I pushed to the front of the crowd; the hole Cyra had made lay before my feet: an iron staircase, covered in shattered concrete, leading into the darkest tunnel I’d ever seen, as if it were steeped in black fog.
Footsteps. From the tunnel. Faint, but they neared. Pashang moved toward Cyra; now both stood in front of me. Everyone focused on the footsteps coming from the tunnel; whoever was making them neared. Good.
I unsheathed both my daggers. One swipe at Pashang’s neck and one swipe at Cyra’s was all I needed to end this. To win. I stepped closer to them, as the footsteps from below ceased.
“You…” Pashang said. “I knew it would be you!”
Who? Instead of jumping for their necks, I turned to see a man standing at the bottom of the staircase, murky in the black fog.
He wore a tulip-patterned cloak, hood off. His hair was combed almost over his eyes, and what dead eyes they were.
“Father?” I said, regretting it immediately. What was he doing in the tunnel the Philosophers had supposedly used to escape?
I looked up to see Pashang glaring at me. Curse the saints. He knew.
I lunged at his neck. He sidestepped and elbowed me in the cheekbone, sending stars through my vision as the daggers flew from my hands.
“Elnur!” another Jotrid shouted. Pashang wrestled me down.
“Elnur’s not in there!” Pashang cried, pinning me. “Zedra is! Get rope!”
“Father!” I screamed. He was just down those steps. He had to help me. “Father!”
Pashang twisted me onto my stomach, then tied my hands tight. I could do nothing but flail my legs and scream for Father’s help.
Footsteps on iron. Father was climbing the stairs. Coming to save me. As he did, the Jotrids made way, as if fearful. He emerged and looked upon me…with a stinging pity.
“You know what?” he said to Pashang. “I think I forgot a book upstairs. Did you happen to find it?”
A…book!? Your flesh and blood was crying at your feet, and you asked about a book!
“Father!”
“Why’s she calling you that?” Cyra asked. “Who are you?”
The Jotrids raised their matchlocks as Father stepped toward me. Pashang stuck his hand up, gesturing for everyone to lower their guns. Perhaps by some prior experience with Father, he knew weapons couldn’t harm him.
Father would save me, surely. But unlike the day Seluq came, I didn’t need saving. I wasn’t really here. They weren’t about to kill Pashang’s sister-in-law, and this cycle would end soon enough. I needed to calm down and let it play out.
“I hoped for more from her,” Father Chisti said. “But she’s turning out to be such a disappointment.”
Why was Father telling them that? How could he be so cruel?
Father sighed, then crouched near my head. “Zedra, you know what you must do. Use the bloodrunes from Volume Two. That will end this war, not this pathetic attempt.”
“Just what are you telling her?” Cyra shouted, as if ready to punch my father with her bony fist. “And where does the tunnel lead?”
“You’re welcome to come and see.”
Pashang stepped forward, face to face with Father Chisti. “That day in the Red, you led me to the Palace of Bones. Why? What’s this all been for?”
What? Why would Father Chisti lead Pashang to that cursed place?
Father shook his head, then looked down at me. “You’re not desperate enough, Zedra, is that it? You have the key to the kingdom in your hand.” He turned to Cyra. “She’s in the Glass District. Aim your cannons there, specifically at a cluster of houses just east of the unbreakable statue of that wonderfully named saint. One good blast, and all the glass will fly. Mayhap a stray shard will cut that son of hers across the cheek.”
Curse the fucking saints! How could he reveal where I was!? Where baby Seluq was!? I screamed and flailed against the riders holding me down.
“Our son!” I shouted. “How could you endanger him? Why?” I writhed and cried, but to no avail.
Father turned away. The Jotrids let him walk down the steps. He gave me a final, disappointed glare before disappearing beneath the black fog.
“Don’t walk away!” I screamed. “All I did was for you! For your Children!”
But he was gone. A Jotrid, who resembled a twig-thin Pashang, knelt over me.
“Elnur…are you in there?” he said.
No, Elnur wasn’t here, unfortunately. I wanted out as much as they wanted her in.
Cyra stood over me, a black patch covering her profane eye. “Let’s attack the Glass District, like he said to.”
I wanted to bite her shin but couldn’t break free of the Jotrids holding me down.
“Who are you, Zedra?” Cyra asked. “What was this…this game…all for?”
“It’s not a game!” I screamed. “Everything depends on me!” I let myself breathe. “On me…always on me…”
She bent down and brushed my cheek with her smooth fingers. “You invaded my body, killed my father-in-law, and then slit my throat. Don’t you think I deserve to know why? Is there no justice in you?”
Justice? What did this bitch know? What did any of them know? “Was there justice, the day Seluq murdered three generations of the Children?”
Cyra shuddered, then shook her head. “Seluq…the Dawn?” She gasped, as did the Jotrids around still listening. Understanding dawned on her face. “The Children,” she said, covering her mouth.
“I am the last of them,” I said. “Me and my son. Please…Cyra…I’m sorry…I’m sorry I hurt you the way I did…but I had to…I had to…the Children must rule again…must rule…or else…the Great Terror…”
“Will remake us in fire.” Cyra shut her eyes, but the tears leaked anyway. “That’s why you did this?”
“Father Chisti said it was the only way.”
She glanced at the hole in the ground that led to the fog-filled tunnel. “Chisti? Are you saying that man was him?”
“He is the father of our faith, the father of the Children.”
“Zedra, have you ever considered that maybe he was lying to you? Father Chisti lived and died a thousand years ago.” She shook her head. “I stood at his sepulcher. I saw his shroud. That can’t be him. You’ve been misled all this time.”
Dull girl. The truth is, I’d prayed to him, and he saved me. Brought me to that cave, which brought me to this time. Only Father Chisti could do that, would do that.
“I lived six hundred years ago, and yet I’m here. I don’t expect you to understand.” I swallowed the pool of spit in my mout
h. It tasted just like my own. “Cyra…Pashang…if you don’t stop this, it won’t end well. I will do what I must to win. There’s going to be calamity. I don’t want to…but you’re forcing me by being so obstinate. Just go away, all of you. Kyars has given you time to go away — that’s why he hasn’t attacked and finished you all off. Don’t think hauling up a few cannons will win you this war. You can’t win. Just go. Go away, far away, to the Waste, a world away. Never come back here. If you don’t heed these words…”
Cyra shook her head while the surrounding Jotrids grumbled. “Wouldn’t that be nice, if all your problems just ran away? I’ve thought about it, I really have. I didn’t have to come back to Qandbajar. The world is vast. I could have gone anywhere else, cherishing my life, after what you did to me.” She paused, as if in reminiscence. “Perhaps I should’ve. What is there for me, here? You took everything that mattered. But I’ve thought about it.” She sniggered. “Bring your calamities. Throw at me, whatever you can muster. It won’t stop me. You’re descended from the Children…good for you. I’m descended from khagans, from conquerors, and I won’t back down.”
Why? Why did it have to be her? Was this the curse of the Blood Star, choosing the most stubborn bitch on earth to stand in my way?
I laughed. “All right, Cyra. See what happens now. You chose this, not me. The suffering, the torture, the screams — you’re going to bear it, not me. I gave you the chance to turn away, but you chose this path, so I’m going to do what I must. This is the end.”
My soul returned to the closet. What else could I do but cry? I dried my nose on the dress hanging above my face, then pushed open the closet door.
Celene was still there, sitting against the wall. “You all right?”
“I failed again.” I trembled and sobbed. “I always fail.”
Our room had one small window near the corner. I’d put Seluq and his crib just beneath so he’d get fresh air and light. I picked up sleeping Seluq, handed him to Celene, and pulled the crib into the other corner, as far from the window as possible.
“Stay away from the glass, dear,” I said, after putting Seluq back in his crib. The baby cooed. Soon, he’d be crying.
I sank against the wall, tasting bitter tears. How much longer did we have? Where else could we run if they attacked? My enemies were everywhere, and I made more every hour. Would Kato and Kyars turn on me soon, too? It wasn’t supposed to go like this!
“What happened?” Celene got on her knees in front of me.
“They know I’m here,” I said, “and they’re coming for me. I’m so tired. So tired of running.”
Celene took my hand. “Running is good. It means you’re still free. It means there’s hope, right?”
Hope. The bitterest thing in the world. Sometimes I wished Father had just let me drown with my daughters. Let my hope and the hope of this world end.
“Celene, dear…you shouldn’t suffer with me.” My arm began shaking. “Celene…I’ve been lying to you…” And now my leg. “I can write a rune that will…” Even my words shook. “…really take you home.”
She looked at me sideways. “What? Then why…why didn’t you, all this time?”
“Because I needed you…but now…you should go. This isn’t your fight. You’ve served me well, and, more than that, you’ve been a dear friend. You deserve all the good in the world.” How could I do this to her? She’d been loyal. She’d stayed true. “I’m just…going to need some of your blood…to write the rune.”
They would come soon. Come for Seluq and me. They’d launch their cannonballs at us any moment. I hadn’t the time…the time to reason with myself. To justify what I was doing.
“Why are you shaking?” she asked.
“Because…I’m scared. Scared of what they’re going to do to me, to my son, to my family. But you need not be here. I’m going to send you home…it’s the least I can do.”
“Is it so?” She pushed closer to look deep into my eyes. “I can go home…just like that? But if you’re so powerful, why not send yourself away, too?”
“And go where? This is my home! My son is the heir to this kingdom. I’ve nowhere to run!”
Celene touched a finger to her chin, as if to ponder.
“Dear…” I threaded my hand through her hair. “I would never allow anything to happen to you. Just a bit of your blood…that’s all we need.”
Celene nodded. “All right…I saw a needle in the closet. Will that do?”
“Yes, dear. I just need a few drops.”
So she pricked herself with the needle; I wet my finger with her blood as it dripped and wrote a bloodrune on the wall: it resembled a throne.
“Think about your home really hard, dear,” I said. “Picture it in your mind. How it smells. How it sounds. The people who make it warm.” I heaved and swallowed every bitter feeling. “Don’t stop thinking about it. Now…close your eyes.”
“All right,” she said, smiling. “Is this goodbye, then?”
I brushed her cheek. “No, we’ll see each other again, I’m sure of it.” I kissed her forehead, then hugged her. She held me tight, warming me.
Celene said, “Ever since I boarded that ship with the Patriarch, bound for Kostany, it’s been hell upon hell. Between three kingdoms, you’re the only one who was good to me.”
A whine came from the window, as if the sky screamed. Then thunder struck, and with a rumble and screech all the glass in the Glass District shattered and flew, including the small window in the corner of our room. Glass peppered the floor.
Baby Seluq filled the air with wails. I peeked into his crib; he was fine, thank Lat.
“They’re coming,” I said. “We have to hurry, dear.” I took her hand. “Give my greetings to Adonia.”
Celene nodded, closed her eyes, and smiled the smile of home. Such radiant joy — she must’ve been thinking of her father and Adonia, so eager to hug them and laugh and be happy again.
I pushed her finger into the rune. She collapsed in my arms.
I finally let the tears flow; they trailed down my cheeks and onto her forehead. She was only asleep…for now. Father was right…I hadn’t been desperate enough…but now…now that I knew they wouldn’t stop…I had to do this.
I locked the door. I pushed the mattresses against the wall for space to paint the bloodrune. A massive one, larger than I’d ever made. It would require every drop from her body.
I pulled Celene into the center of the room. How serenely she slept. How could I? How could I do this?
With her head in my lap, I unsheathed the dagger I’d been concealing. My tears dripped onto the blade; I wiped them off, polishing it. An old woman looked back in its sheen. An evil woman. Driven to hateful things by hateful people in a hateful world.
I squeezed the hilt, ready to slick the blade across her beautiful neck.
Wasn’t there another way? Was Cyra right about me? Had I been deceived all this time? Was Aicard right about god…was I a victim of her schemes? I’d never been so unsure of myself, and yet, I had to save my son. They were coming!
Another cannon blast shook the earth. And more rumbling — the endless rumble of hundreds of horse hooves. The Jotrids neared, and though gholam guarded the district, who knew what Cyra would do? She’d summoned locusts and then a simurgh…what monster would she conjure next from the depths of the Blood Star? I had to act before she did. I had to conjure my own monster, and this was the only way.
A knock sounded on the door. “Sultana, are you all right?” It was Kato’s mistress.
“We’re fine,” I shouted back. Baby Seluq was still crying. Perhaps I ought to calm him first.
I picked up my son and cradled his head over my shoulder, his cheek tucked into my neck. I rocked him, as jittery as I was. But he wouldn’t stop crying.
Another cannon shot quaked the district. Then, more cannons sounded — but these shots came from the palace’s direction. Was Kyars firing back? I could only pray he would level that fucking tower.
I cradled her head in my lap once more. Put the blade to her neck, my hand too jittery for a clean cut. So I breathed in…and out. In…and out. The death-giving cut was the hard part; I just needed to get it over with. In…and out. She wouldn’t feel pain; she’d go to hell with the other disbelievers; or, perhaps, go to her god, if we Latians were the cursed ones. Either way, a small comfort that her ultimate fate wasn’t mine to judge.
I held my breath to still my thoughts. One slice, just like I’d done to Cyra. I was fearless then, and this was no different. Just another girl who needed to die for the sake of the Children, for the sake of mankind.
29
Cyra
Zedra…how foolishly she’d behaved. Had she kept silent, we wouldn’t have been certain where she was, but by writhing and screaming at her father, she confirmed that Kyars had sent her and the harem to the Glass District in anticipation of our cannon barrage. It was too sweet a target to ignore, so Pashang and Tekish and hundreds of riders had gone to charge it whilst our cannons gave it an early bright morning.
It made me a little sad. Sometimes, when I thought of Zedra, I still felt the friendship of a girl who loved the adoration of Laughter Square’s poets. Who doted endlessly on her innocent son. Who would eat too many jelly sweets, then cry about the extra pound on her hips. Who could imitate the harem dancers almost too well. Was that really our life, once? By Lat, what had happened? How could it have come to this? Though I still wanted to smash her eye out, there was a deeper menace behind it all, and I couldn’t rest without knowing.
Kyars, predictably, had fired his cannons at the Tower of Wisdom. It wasn’t easy to hit: though tall, it stood rather narrow, and so his shots, which fired from atop the walls under his control, missed and exploded the houses of the people he was supposed to protect. A fire now raged in the shanties and tenements behind the Tower, and droves of Qandbajaris ran from their homes and stampeded toward the city gate. Some dragged wagons of their belongings, others cradled children at their chests, and yet more departed with only the clothes on their backs. It made me sad, what Zedra had done to them.