by Zamil Akhtar
I chuckled. How mischievous was this jinn? Sometimes, it seemed Kevah’s patience with it really wore thin. “What did it say?”
He shook his head. “Nothing that ought to be repeated. Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you. And to be truthful, it’s hard because I’m not the best at…baring my feelings.”
“Just tell me.”
He cleared his throat. “Hearing you talk about what happened to you…it reminds me of what happened to me. Of the despair I once felt, after I’d lost everything. I never want to feel that way again.” His voice quavered. “Truth be told, I came to Zelthuriya to lose my feelings…every feeling…if it meant I’d never have to taste that kind of pain. I came here to…in a way…to die.” He sighed somberly. “That’s what fanaa meant to me. But for some reason…I just can’t. No matter how hard I try — with fasting, prayers, meditation — myself won’t go away. I can’t become a pure fire, burning away wick and candle in unity with Lat.” He caught his breath. “And so, all this time, I’ve believed myself to be a failure. But, listening to you, now I don’t want to lose myself. Because it’s my sympathy that makes me want to help others, and were myself to burn away, perhaps I’d become cold like the men and women in that room.” He shook his head. “I’m rambling, now. Look, my meaning…if you’re going to Qandbajar, I’ll go with you.”
His eyes shimmered when he spoke. His sincerity, honesty, vulnerability — it pulled me toward him, the way the earth pulls down lightning. Did he feel it, too?
Of course not. I shrugged it off. The Disciples weren’t wrong about me — I was sinful. But now, my sinful thoughts were but fantasy. I had not the confidence to try anything, given my ugliness. Kyars honoring our marriage was my only hope of ever having affection.
“Thank you,” I said. “It means everything. At least I have you, and…what was his name, again?”
“Kinn.”
“Kinn.” The book stack in the corner tumbled. On its own.
“Don’t do that,” Kevah said to the wall. “You’ll scare her.” He turned to me. “He’s just excited you said his name. He’s strange like that.”
A knock sounded on the door. Kevah yelled, “Enter!” and Sheikh Khizr walked inside, his hood lowered off his head. Kevah and I stood out of respect, then sat back down.
“Cyra,” he turned to me, “a terrible thing was done to you. I know you spoke truly, that you’re innocent. The Order of Saint Jamshid stands with you.”
Those words: a soothing breeze on my ears and more than a flicker of hope in my heart. Many viziers belonged to the Order, as did the heads of several merchant and manufacturing guilds. Outside the palace gates, only the Philosophers rivaled them for prestige.
“Thank you, sheikh,” I said. “That means everything to me.”
“That’s lovely of the Order,” Kevah said, “but what of the Disciples?”
Sheikh Khizr sighed and shook his head. “The Disciples can’t be seen getting involved in what could be a succession conflict.”
Silence lingered for a moment, as if each of us was surprised. Khizr Khaz, especially, seemed burdened by his words, shaking his head at Kevah’s gesture to sit.
“Succession conflict?” I said. “No one is denying Kyars’ succession, not that I know of.”
“That’s where the fog hangs heavy,” Sheikh Khizr said. “Few were made aware, but when your brother and the Sylgiz horde surrounded Qandbajar, the palace took measures in case of a prolonged siege. Tamaz sent a letter through the Archers of the Eye to the governor of Merva, his brother Mansur, summoning him to deal with the Sylgiz.” He took a deep breath. “By now, Mansur must’ve heard of his brother’s demise. But he also knows how far away Kyars is. An empty throne…I fear it would be too tempting to pass up.”
That both surprised and didn’t surprise. Of course Tamaz, the wise shah that he was, would’ve made arrangements in case the negotiations failed. “Are you saying Mansur is going to declare himself Shah, in opposition to Kyars?”
Khizr Khaz sighed as if in mourning. “I’ll not hide my part in this any longer — summoning Mansur was my idea. That’s why I asked you to leave the room — it’s my sin. The man has always been a dear friend and a staunch defender of the Path of the Saints. I feared the Sylgiz, with their fervent cursing of the saints, would level our shrines if ever they entered the city. But now…now I regret this course. Given the timing, Mansur may already be there.”
An unwelcome new page had been added to my understanding of this problem. Even so, it didn’t fit right. “But Kyars is the designated heir. The proclamation is hanging in the great hall, signed by every governor, Seluqal, and vizier.”
“A piece of paper,” Kevah said. “What matters is how many gunners you have at your back. Although, Kyars does have tens of thousands of gholam — hard to overcome.”
“Hard,” Khizr Khaz said, “but hardly impossible. Mansur isn’t coming alone. He’s bringing Khagan Pashang and twenty thousand Jotrids with him.”
Oh Lat. The man who, eight years ago, had torn me from my world and thrown me to the Alanyans, despite once living with my family. The Jotrids were sitting in my blind spot this whole time.
“Pashang is an animal,” I said. “What was Tamaz thinking? Why would he summon my tribe’s blood enemy to…” I didn’t finish asking because the answer was obvious. Of course he’d summon the Jotrids precisely because they hated the Sylgiz and would destroy them if given any chance. Tamaz was as clever as he was wise.
The candle in the corner niche flickered.
“Pashang might be an animal, but he’s on a leash,” Khizr Khaz said. “And Mansur is holding it. The Disciples want no part of this. They prefer to watch, wait, and see which direction the wind blows.”
Were they Disciples of Saint Chisti or cowards?
“This isn’t about the succession!” I wished a certain Disciple were sitting here so I could scream in her ear. “Are they going to ignore the soulshifter who began this chaos?”
“A soulshifter in hiding,” Khizr Khaz said. “For them, it’s only a problem if he acts against the faith or Zelthuriya itself. But for now, the worst thing this soulshifter has done is mutilate a girl and kill a shah.”
“That’s not bad enough? Cowards! Are they going to wait till the sorcerer is knocking on their door? Till the whole kingdom is in flames? By then, it’ll be too late!”
Kevah said, “It’s up to us, then. We’re not powerless. The three of us are a start.” A book in the corner flung open and thudded against the wall. “Four — the four of us!”
Khizr Khaz glanced at the fallen pile of books. “That a nasnas you have haunting you?”
Kevah shook his head. “Worse. A shiqq.”
“Exorcised a few of those,” Khizr grumbled. “As you were saying — no, we’re not powerless, but it might be better if we were. People notice when power takes sides, which is why I won’t act directly, not yet. The two of you, however — a girl thought to be dead, a magus in training who no one outside this city knows — could act mostly unseen.”
I slammed my fist into my palm. “So you’re not going to do anything, either?”
“He’s right,” Kevah interjected. “If the Order suddenly took up arms against the gholam, with Mansur and the Jotrids and Kyars and his army on the way…even Qandbajar isn’t large enough to stew such chaos.”
“Maybe that’s what we need. Chaos and war to root out Kato, the sorcerer, and the other traitors following them!”
“Or, we expose the sorcerer,” Khizr said, “arrest Kato, and assure that Kyars takes the throne. That would be victory, in my eyes.” He looked at me. His cheeks loosened, and his lips took a kindly shape — a genuine smile, if there ever was one. “By the way, I was happy to marry you and Kyars. Don’t take what the Disciples said about your character to heart. Even in this holy city, great sins stalk us day and night. But in Qandbajar, we eat and breathe sins just to survive. Kyars could do far worse.”
That was reassuring, coming fr
om Grand Sheikh Khizr Khaz himself. I nodded, feeling ever-so-slightly restored.
“I’m heading back to Qandbajar, now. Best we travel separately. When you arrive, the Order will have lodging prepared. Kyars is said to be a week’s march, and Mansur and Pashang — if my assumptions hold — could arrive any moment. We’ve a sliver of time to act. And if we fail…Lat help us.”
Before he turned to leave, I had to ask, “Sheikh, everyone saw my hand stab the Shah, so why do you believe me?”
Khizr Khaz gazed at the floor as if a memory shown there. Perhaps I should’ve just accepted his help without asking why. But I needed to know, for the sake of trust, why my allies were my allies.
He smiled and stroked his beard. “They call me khaz because I was, once, a warrior. My blade tasted the blood of hundreds — heathens or heretics, all. One of my greatest foes was a certain Sylgiz khagan — Yamar the Young. Your father, Cyra.”
I gasped at his mention.
Sheikh Khizr cleared his throat as if preparing a sermon. “About twenty years ago, the first time I faced him. How I looked down on the man. He and his raiders had ransacked a shrine, a hundred miles north of Merva, and were carrying off its valuables when my troop of khazis intercepted them. A bandit — we called your father — nothing more.” Khizr Khaz shook his head. “What a blow this so-called bandit dealt us. That was the first and last time I ran from a battle. Truth be told, I have feared you Sylgiz ever since. The ferocity with which you pursue your causes, whether the scant valuables of a shrine or wintering land, inspires a begrudging respect.
“Just as I experienced your father fight that day — thundering at us with nothing but a spear and some frail, leather padding — I saw you fight, in that room, against those Disciples. That’s character, and if the Disciples can’t see it, then they’re blind. I’d always prayed to have warriors with hearts like you Sylgiz on our side, because then our side could never lose. You almost made that happen, Cyra. You almost brought them into the light. Just as your father was more than a bandit, you are more than what you think. Far more. And I know that you’ve the heart to see this through. Bringing to mind how fearlessly your father charged at us and how you didn’t cower to those Disciples, I’d rather stand with you than in your way.”
After Sheikh Khizr left, Kevah went to tell the Disciples he was leaving, too. In the meantime, he tasked me with buying a camel for the journey. I wasn’t sure what camels cost, but Kevah gave me a pouch of silver and copper coins, so I hoped it would do. I also wasn’t certain if he wanted me to buy two camels or one, but I’d probably prefer riding at his back.
While wading through crowds of pilgrims on the way to the camel market, someone grabbed my arm and tugged me off the street into an alley between two mountains. I was about to scream, until I looked upon the hooded man’s face: big brown pupils, skin the color of deep soil, and short, ever-curly hair.
“What happened?” Eshe said.
I calmed my breathing, then asked, “How’d you get into the city?”
“I have my ways. And I noticed you have yours. You’ve been living in the Shrine of Saint Chisti, so I assume you have something good to tell me.”
But could I trust Eshe? He’d saved my life, and at great risk. Though I couldn’t forget how he kept stuffing seeds into my mouth every time I’d said more than two words.
I summarized what happened. He actually smiled…and didn’t stuff seeds into my mouth. I’d heard of such seeds — Hadrith once told me that the Philosophers, through their genius, bred poppy seeds with ten to a hundred times the potency and now produced and sold them as a palliative, among other things.
“So good,” Eshe said. “Me and a magus, side by side, saving Alanya from a sorcerer. It will surely enliven me more than insulting pimply pashas all day.”
Was that why he was doing this? To feel alive? “Can I ask…what did you do to get whipped, thrown off a mountain, and exiled?”
The question seemed to sting as he shut his eyes and slowed his breathing. “I don’t think I owe you an explanation.”
“I never said you owed me anything. I’m simply curious. People here seem to despise you, but you don’t seem like a bad person.”
He chuckled. “Have you not realized? Everyone here is bad. The only difference is, I confessed my crimes.”
A throng of pilgrims clad in white passed by, chatting in what I guessed was Vograsian, with how soft and smoky it sounded.
I shook my head. “All I know is, you didn’t have to save me. Tie my half-dead body to your back and haul me across the desert. I owe you more than I could ever give. So…I don’t care what you did to be banished. Whatever it is, it’ll never change my opinion of you.”
“Sweet words, lady. But sugar dissolves on the tongue. If I told you what I did, you wouldn’t look at me like you’re doing now. You’re probably going to find out anyway, but I’ll savor your admiration whilst it lasts.”
“If I’m going to find out anyway, better to hear it from you.” I clutched his forearm. “What we’re attempting is dangerous. If I’m to put my life in your hands again, I need to know everything about you. Right now, Kevah and I have an understanding. But you’re not a part of that, and if I wanted, I could shut you out.”
He sighed like a slow-blowing sandstorm. “Cup of date wine would help the words flow.”
Kevah had mentioned it could take a while for him to sort things out with the Disciples. I supposed we had time.
“Lead the way,” I said.
Eshe led me through a maze of alleys between the mountains. We arrived at a sprawling residential area with cave-like houses chiseled throughout the mountainsides. Streams, date palms, and acacias covered the oasis in the central plaza. We sat against a tree, and a vendor from a nearby stall brought us two cups of date wine for two coppers. In Qandbajar, date wine cost ten times as much.
I sipped — sweet and acidic. I recalled Tamaz enjoying date wine while listening to Kashanese poets, who liked to bang on drums as they spouted verse, though few others in the palace seemed to care for it, most preferring grape or cherry wines. It had a simple taste, bouncing between its tangy and sour notes. I wished I could’ve enjoyed a cup with him, but it was too late. If I could give Tamaz, my brother, and myself justice, it would be small recompense for all the drinks we’d never share.
“Used to love climbing up there.” Eshe pointed to a mountain peak in the distance, not too distinct from the others. “To-die-for views. Romantic, even.”
“Where are you originally from?” I asked.
“Himyar, by blood and birth. But I grew up far from that land, in Merva. So I am…an Alanyan, I suppose. My father was a merchant. He traded in the usual — spices, silks, ebony, metals — but he’d also trade books. He’d bring wagons of dusty, bulging tomes from Himyar, some the only copies in the world, and sell them to the Philosophers. When the Golden Kingdom fell, vagabonds looted the libraries, as they did all else. My father considered it a duty — a rather profitable one — to recover those books. Spread some light in the world…and make a handy sum thereby.”
Perhaps that was Eshe’s philosophy, too. Do good and gain. I mean, everyone was trying to gain, but at least it seemed he wanted to do good, as well.
“How’d you become a Disciple?”
He chuckled. “Ah, but what you really want to know is, how did I unbecome a Disciple.”
I gave him a slow nod.
After a few anxious gulps, he began. “I joined the Disciples with my brother. We’d been part of a saintly order in Merva and were chosen for our upstanding character…as well as a unique familiarity with various obscure methods of sorcery.”
“Is that so? Where’d you get such knowledge?”
He tapped his head. “The books my father traded — the rarer ones, we’d copy by hand. It’s said that when the Golden Kingdom ruled Himyar, sorcery was rampant — the blood plague was its downfall, after all. My father recovered many sorcerers’ tomes, and my brother and I committed severa
l to memory.”
“I know you’re a bloodwriter. That’s how you saved my life.”
Eshe nodded. “I am. They say that to gain the power to write with blood, you must be baptized in god’s blood. My mother and father told me it rained blood the day I was born.”
“Rained…blood?”
He hunched his shoulders. “Don’t ask me. The blood plague was a nasty thing, lady.”
“Since you can write bloodrunes, can you soulshift as well?”
Eshe shook his head. “No. Even with my knowledge, I don’t know how one gains that ability. It’s lost to history, I’m afraid.”
“Can a soulshifter just possess anyone he wants?”
“Thankfully, no. He can only possess someone whose blood flavor is the same as that of the bloodrune he’s using. There’s also a range, and each bloodrune can only be used once before needing to be rewritten. So whoever possessed you…it was deliberate.”
That, I didn’t doubt. For whatever reason, the soulshifter wanted war between the Sylgiz and Alanya, so I was the perfect vessel to stab Tamaz.
The vendor, a kindly old man with spotted skin, walked by and asked if we desired more wine. Eshe and I declined with polite smiles.
“Sorry, you were telling me about how you joined the Disciples.”
“What was I saying?” Eshe scratched his thin eyebrow. “Oh, yes. So later, when my brother and I became Disciples, we tracked and investigated reports of sorcery across the three kingdoms, sometimes coming face to face with all manner of terrifying—” He swallowed, hard. “Let me just get the point. Years ago, there was a magus living in Zelthuriya. Her name was Aschere. One day, we overheard her incantations — ‘Dreamer,’ she kept saying. My brother and I believed she was…that she was calling to something from the void. Something that, itself, called to the Blood Star. That she’d begun worshipping it. Channeling it, to do something truly terrifying.”
“Blood Star? I’ve heard that before, somewhere…”
“There are tribes in the Waste, as well as in the icelands of Yuna, that worship it, though the star itself is no longer visible in the sky, as it was just before the birth of Saint Chisti. But that’s a topic for another time. We told the elder Disciples about our suspicions, but they demanded proof. So we followed Aschere around and noticed that she had one friend — an Abyadi girl who sold tea. Sometimes, she’d sit with this girl all day, beneath the sun and the stars. Now Aschere had attained exemplary fanaa — she would not eat nor drink nor sleep nor laugh nor smile. What need did she have of this friend? So we followed the tea girl, watched her for weeks. But she was just a normal tea girl — she’d buy leaves at the market, grind tea at her stall, and sell it to the pilgrims. Even used the money to support her sick father.”
