by Zamil Akhtar
He sniggered. “Kill his enemies for him, and…?”
Cyra stood and looked down upon her brother, curly locks still blocking her face from my view. “Go to the Shrine of Saint Jamshid, get on your knees before Khizr Khaz, and, in the sight of the entire kingdom, renounce the Path of the Children and embrace the Path of the Saints — effectively, for the whole tribe.”
“You’re serious?” Cihan held his hands up, as if in disbelief. “This is your idea?”
“You want Alanyan land, and yet you don’t want to become like them. You can’t have it both ways, brother. You said earlier that you don’t blame me for the way I am, but I chose this way of life with my whole heart. I am Alanyan — I am not one of you, not anymore. Want to be warm in the winter? Want to escape the frightful tribes up north? You can’t come to a new land clinging to old ways. You better practice your Paramic, too, because I recall you were never very good with it. Now, if you agree, I’ll go present the offer to Shah Tamaz.”
Impressive. I’d learned long ago that a good tongue-lashing was all many men needed to move mountains. Her raw confidence jittered my nerves, making me twitch my wings.
“Well…” Cihan scratched his beard. “Converting would undermine that unending thorn in my backside, Gokberk and his saint-cursers. The fool thinks he’ll be khagan if I’m dead — well, surely not if we change paths. Perhaps be a good reason to even—”
Knock-knock sounded on my bedroom door. I was back in the closet, shrouded in darkness, a dismal beam of setting sunshine streaming through the small hole. Whoever was knocking on my door had pulled me from the drongo, though unlike before when I’d been pulled in the middle of a cycle, this cycle was nearly done, so the severing wasn’t painful.
In any case, it seemed like Cyra was about to speak with Tamaz, so I had to switch to the rat shortly. Not something I enjoyed like I did the bird: being a rat chittering about within soaking-hot walls wasn’t as fun as it sounded.
I got out of the closet and opened my bedroom door to Sultana Mirima’s beaming face. She held baby Seluq in her arms. “He’s been such a good boy. A wonder. Not at all fussy like his father was.”
I took the warm bundle that was my son and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sultana. You’ve cared for him so well. He’s truly blessed to have a grandaunt like you.”
“I’ll look after him anytime, dear. Your son is the treasure of my eye, and my purpose for — may Lat provide — hopefully living another fifty years.”
Poor Mirima was as barren as the winters of the Endless, just like Kyars. That was why her husband had left her, and she never remarried. But to be true, she seemed the type that would be a good mother: usually strict, yet soft when appropriate.
After she left, I put Seluq in his crib and rocked it gently. “One day, you’ll be the Shah of Alanya. And then you’ll be the Shah of Sirm, and then the Shah of Kashan. The Master of Shahs, they’ll call you. Padishah.”
How ironic. Seluq the Dawn had been called Padishah, and then Temur a hundred years later. None before and none after attained the title. But unlike them, my Seluq was no Seluqal. Not a drop of that wicked blood ran in his veins, thank Lat.
I took him in my arms again, desiring his warmth on my cheek. His gentle cooing made me giggle. If only this happiness could be eternal, but given whom we were, that was impossible. Destiny would carry us in its storm. “You are the Children,” I whispered in his ear. “You are god’s blood.”
5
Cyra
Upon hearing that I’d negotiated with my brother, Shah Tamaz admitted me into his office. He sat at a low desk and threaded a pair of diamond-encrusted rubies through a golden chain. That and the jewelry shimmering in the flower-patterned chest to his side seemed so out of place amid the plain carpets and unadorned sandstone walls. I peered into the chest: rings of coiled platinum, eight-fold diamonds, pearl-studded bracelets, diadems with impossibly specific etchings, earrings of lapis lazuli and sapphire — that chest was worth more than the Sylgiz tribe. A simpler orange cat sat on his low desk, licking its paws and mewing while Tamaz crafted.
“A woman’s affection is hard work,” the Shah said, beaming. “But nothing earns it like jewelry, especially crafted with your own hands. It’s the same with poetry, really. An original verse earns more than a borrowed one.”
If only someone would gift me rubies and verses. I bent my neck. “My mother’s favorite was a horn made from a red-antlered deer. Took my father twelve hours to track the animal.”
“True love is rare, so that which displays it ought to be, too. If it rained gold, it would be as worthless as sand.”
“But you have everything, my Shah. What could one possibly gift to you?”
He chuckled. “A moment of peace, perhaps. The chance to sit in the sand, beneath a starry sky.” I could hear the nostalgia in his sigh. “I’m not unlike you. My mother hailed from a fierce desert tribe not far from Holy Zelthuriya. When I was born, my father sent me to live with them so that I wouldn’t grow to be soft. You think the Waste is bare, but we survived weeks on sips of water. I didn’t see Qandbajar until I was twelve.” He smiled as if dreaming happy memories. “Want to show your love? Send me back to that place, that time.”
“You ask a bit too much of me,” I said with a chuckle. “I think I can manage a nice pair of shoes, though.”
He gestured for me to sit on a floor pillow. “You sell yourself short, Cyra. Obviously you have something more, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. So tell me, what did your brother say?”
I sat and crossed my legs. It had taken a heap of pleading to get my brother to agree. I wasn’t a good negotiator, clearly, because my first offer to Cihan was my best one. I’d watched the common folk haggle in the bazaars, and they always asked for more to start, then negotiated toward a compromise. I resolved to be as clever with Tamaz.
“My brother said he won’t be leaving. Either you give them what they want, or they’ll take it by force.”
“If only I knew what they wanted.”
“Ten thousand hectares in the fertile fields east of Qandbajar.”
Tamaz stroked his funnel-shaped beard. “I understand the winters have been getting harsher each year. My agents in the Waste tell me that one of ten didn’t survive the last one, and I’m only talking about the southern part. Speaking of which, the khagans in the north are fighting to get south, and the khagans in the south are fighting to get here. Your brother’s desperation is plain. But let’s skip the fanciful demands and get to something more reasonable. You know your brother. What would he accept?”
I rubbed my chin as if I had a beard too and pretended to think deeply. “Knowing my brother, he wouldn’t want charity. That’s why he’s framed this whole thing as a recompense for those dead traders. Sylgiz don’t like to be given. They like to trade…or take. Let them make a fair trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
“It doesn’t rain gold in the Waste, like it does here. But they have warhorses and warriors to ride them. Let them fight for Alanya. Let them take back what was taken from us.”
Tamaz straightened his back and nodded. “Send them to fight the Ethosians? In exchange for what?”
“What do you think would be fair, my Shah?”
He sighed, sharp and weary. “They could protect what they retake in my name. But putting the Sylgiz beside the gholam and khazis would be like putting a barrel of gunpowder in the path of a flaming arrow. The moment a khazi hears ‘curse the saints’ come out of a Sylgiz rider’s mouth, they’ll be slaughtering each other, not the enemy.”
I nodded, finding it hard to subdue my satisfied smile. “They won’t be cursing the saints anymore. As part of the deal and on behalf of the whole tribe, my brother has agreed to renounce the Path of the Children and embrace the Path of the Saints.”
Tamaz snickered. “Do you know how many missionaries we’ve sent up there? I’m sure you’re aware how strange your tribe’s customs are. Not only do they pray to the Children, but
they combine the faith of Lat with all kinds of heterodox ideas from the Waste that the Fount have deemed entirely unacceptable. They’re as stubborn as a barreling ox. Something more is needed.”
The orange cat jumped off the desk and purred around my legs. I gave it a pat and realized that perhaps I ought to try a more thoughtful tact.
“Look at me,” I said. “What do you see, Your Glory?”
He groaned. “Don’t play games, Cyra. You’ve tried your best to make a deal, I know. The sincerity and earnestness you’ve shown, it makes me proud to have raised you these past eight years. But I’m the Shah of Alanya, and I must protect Alanyans. That’s the job Lat gave me. And there’s nothing…absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my people.”
“Am I one of your people? Or one of them?” My voice quavered. “What do you see when you look at me, Your Glory?”
“You’re the daughter of Khagan Yamar — that’s why I took you in. For this purpose, this very moment, to be a reason for them not to attack us.” He gazed into my wetting eyes. “But…that was then, and this is now. I could never hurt you, Cyra. No matter what happens, I would protect you as if you were my own, because you…” now his voice quavered too, “you are as a daughter to me.”
Was I? The shaking part of me wasn’t so sure. If he wouldn’t find me a husband because I was his hostage, would he protect me when truly desperate to win? When it was his final and only card to play? And, if so, would my brother relent to spare me? Perhaps I was as worthless as sand…to both of them.
“The truth is, my Shah…the truth is I don’t belong here. Nor do I belong there. I’m not cherished here, nor am I cherished there.” Ugh. Fuck me. Always, tears gushed and my voice cracked when speaking heavy and honest words. “I’m an ornament, like one of your jewels.”
“Cyra—”
“My Shah,” I interrupted, hardly concerned with propriety. “I have one more proposal. And if I’m as precious as you claim, you’ll at least consider it.” I had to ask for something he wouldn’t give, so we’d settle on what I really wanted. I also had to test him, to know if he truly considered me family. “I’m almost twenty-four. I need a husband, lest I fall into temptation.” I gulped. “Marry me to your son, to Prince Faris.”
While I bared my heart, the cat distracted Tamaz by pawing at the wall and growling.
“Faris is only fifteen.” Tamaz tss’d his cat, and it looked back at him with a mew. “You’ve a few too many years on him.” He shot me down, as expected. “But, as I stated, I’m impressed with you, Cyra. Until now, I’d assumed you were like every other girl in the harem, content with prancing about the bazaars all day. But it’s clear that higher yearnings have awakened in you. Therefore, I have a better idea.” Shah Tamaz cleared his throat.
I needed to suggest Hadrith, now, before he proposed some lowly vizier’s son. “I have another suggest—”
“You’ll marry the Crown Prince.”
What?
“Pardon?”
“Crown Prince Kyars needs a wife. He needs someone who will inspire…stability. Loyalty. Simplicity. You’ve a khagan’s blood. You grew up knowing the value of a sip of water, a bite of food, like I did. That’s what that fool needs to make him a better man. And speaking of food…prices are soaring in the markets because your brother’s horde is devouring all the crops and grazing grass. I can only supply so much grain from the palace reserves. I’m of the mind to compromise, and to seal that compromise with a marriage. So, I ask you, why not? Do you accept?”
Only now did I notice my whole body was shaking. My heart quaking. All I could do was nod.
“Wonderful. Tomorrow,” Tamaz said while scratching his cat’s chin, “I will invite your brother to the palace. We’ll sign an agreement. I will give him whatever forts he retakes on the coastline to govern in my name. Khizr Khaz and the Order of Saint Jamshid will accompany them to ensure that they practice the true faith of Lat, with all the proper precepts and acts as set down in the Recitals of Chisti. And, finally, you will marry Kyars. I’ll stand in for him in absentia — I’m not giving him the chance to say no.”
“T-Tomorrow?”
As the orange cat jumped in his lap, Tamaz picked up the golden chain with the diamond-encrusted rubies and handed it to me. “Tomorrow.”
I pinched myself on the way to my room. No, this wasn’t a dream. This was like wrecking your ship in a storm and waking up on an island, only to find trees that grew emeralds.
As thoughts raced like chariots through my mind, a fat, black cat sprang in front of me. I stared at it, aghast. A slithering tail, hand-like feet, flappy ears — that was no cat, it was a rat! A rat with bulging, angry eyes…as if I’d killed its brother.
Before I could scream, the eunuch Sambal jumped out from behind a pillar and smacked the rat with a broom. I ducked as it flew over my head, smashed into the wall, and landed on its side. Its ugly feet jittered in the air, then its twitching slowed, and it laid limp.
“I…I did it!” Sambal cheered. “Finally, that Ahriyya-spawn is no more!” Sambal took my hand and shifted his head back and forth, shaking his hips, then twirled me twice. He let go, tip-toed while waving his arms like water, then danced his way down the hall, skipping steps and singing in some strange language. But it was melodic and joyful enough.
It seemed many of us had a reason to sing today…save for that rat. Poor thing died with tormented eyes.
I returned to my room and ransacked my closet. None of the dresses inspired joy, so I headed to the Grand Bazaar. While walking through the garden toward the gate, I spotted the last person I wanted to see: Hadrith, sporting a checker-patterned maroon sash tied loosely around his brocade.
I kept my gaze low, trying to pretend I didn’t notice him. But he diverted onto my path and said, “I’ve been looking for you, dearest. Where’ve you been?”
I avoided his eyes, which were always so penetrating. “Had a toilsome day.”
“Oh, I know. Riding back and forth between here and your brother’s camp. You’re better at my father’s job than I am, it seems. You could be the first woman Grand Vizier.” Hadrith’s snigger turned into a chuckle. He could mock all he wanted, but I’d be something even greater tomorrow.
“I’m busy right now,” I said. “It was nice talking and all, but if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”
He lifted my chin with his finger while gazing down with those diamond-hard pupils. “Come by my house before the sunset prayer.”
“I really can’t today—”
“It’s very important. Very, very important.”
“Hadrith, I would but—”
“Did I not say ‘very’? Am I not your beloved? Why would you refuse?” He folded his arms.
“All right, I’ll stop by. But I can’t stay long.”
“See? Obstinance never works with me. In the future, save your breath and my time.”
I wanted to call him the son of a slipper, as we would in the Sylgiz lands, but decided to swallow my irritation and get on with my tasks.
On the brocade floor of the Grand Bazaar — found at the end of a wearisome climb — the tailor measured me and promised something splendid by mid-morning. The sheer number of fabrics, jewels, and styles overwhelmed my already strained mind, so I let him choose. Since this event was tomorrow, there wouldn’t be a big wedding, just a signing ceremony, but I still wanted to look better than ever. The festivities would take place once Kyars returned and learned that the girl he’d once called a “dull, reed-limbed savage” was now his wife. Although, that wasn’t the worst thing he’d said: “I could have you anytime, you know. I just don’t want you.” He’d lost that mean streak with age, thankfully.
After leaving the Grand Bazaar, I went to Laughter Square to get verses from Eshe — I needed some humbling after what had transpired — but his brass throne sat empty upon its dais. The flowery nonsense of the other poets didn’t interest me, so as the sun declined and streaked red across the clouds — and being a w
oman of my word — I made my way to Hadrith’s palace. My gholam escorts waited at the entrance while I went inside.
Sitting around the living room on plush floor cushions was a motley collection: Hadrith, a hookah pipe in his mouth, Ozar, also smoking, the rat-slaying eunuch Sambal, who was chewing sesame seeds, and, most surprising, the master of insults himself — Eshe.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Sit.” Hadrith snapped his fingers, and a serving boy approached. “Get her whatever she wants. What do you want?”
“To know what’s going on.”
“Oh, you’ll know soon enough. Don’t smoke, do you, Cyra?”
I shook my head and fixed my gaze on Eshe, who was reclining on a pillow and eating green grapes. “Why are you here?”
“I have no idea,” Eshe replied. “But I never refuse hospitality, especially from on high.”
“Cyra likes sherbet,” Hadrith said to the serving boy. “Raspberry is her favorite.”
“I hate raspberry.” I made a disgusted face.
Hadrith looked like he’d just stubbed his toe. “Oh, ah, masala then?”
“Have you misplaced where I come from, too? Just get me orange or tamarind.”
I sat on a sequin-covered cushion beside Eshe, eager and wary about this gathering.
“Now that we’re all here,” Hadrith said, “I can start. But…by Lat…where to start? It’s hard to even form the words, so I’ll just come out and say it. I believe — and I’ve the evidence to back it up — that at this very moment, there is a faction in the palace plotting to overthrow the Shah, and — and I can’t believe I’m saying this — that this faction is led by a sorcerer.”
Holy…that was unexpected. And not something I wanted to hear the day before my marriage ceremony.
But why was I the only one surprised? Eshe kept popping in grapes. Ozar bubbled his hookah. Sambal chewed his seeds so loud, it grated.
