by Zamil Akhtar
Everyone seemed to be pinning their hopes on my beloved. Even opposing factions saw Kyars as their proponent. I’d only known him a year but never noticed this immense character that might as well stand in place of that angel statue. The Kyars I knew was vain and base — I’ll never forgive the vile things he made me do with himself and other women in the harem — though he did possess a certain cunning. Thank Lat that since birthing him a son, I was safe from his immorality. It seemed he was as many-faced as the cleverest in Qandbajar — disappointing I hadn’t realized it sooner.
These Philosophers, though — I was glad they kept so many useful books, but their severe lack of practicality bewildered. “Considering the death of his father and the coming of one horde and the going of another, I somehow doubt my beloved Kyars will care either way.”
“On the contrary, we all ought to care about the heavens. Doesn’t your faith teach that stars birthed us all?”
Something the saint worshippers and the Children agreed on.
I nodded. “And what do the Philosophers teach about the stars?”
He tilted his head forward, as if out of surprise for my question. “We have a different way of knowing than this faith or that, and we don’t claim to know anything we can’t observe or deduce.”
“Nothing of import, then.”
He chuckled in a mocking tone. “Not to small minds, no. But yours isn’t. You’ve quite the reading habit, I hear. A woman who likes books. The dream of many a Philosopher.”
“Is that so? Does your wife read?”
Again, that mocking chuckle. It did not endear. “I didn’t say it was my dream. Rather, I believe everything has its place. Religion belongs in the chapel. Stars in the sky. And a concubine, certainly not behind the pages of obscure medical texts.”
So he’d seen my record at the Tower of Wisdom. Why did he care? His condescension chaffed on my already frayed nerves.
“I’m not just any concubine, Litani. Only a second-rate Philosopher would fail to deduce that I’ve the ear of the man you’re placing your hopes in. You’d do well to remember that.”
“You have his ear — and other parts, clearly. I understand. But we Philosophers don’t fear power — we are power. When they needed to reverse engineer those fast-firing Crucian guns, who did the palace turn to?” He double-tapped his collar, which had a metal pin on it that resembled a throne. “Knowledge isn’t a game, Zedra. It isn’t a dress or tiara to make you gleam. It is the fount of victory. You’d do well to remember that next time you borrow a book.”
After that speech, I somewhat admired the fellow. He knew well who I was — or rather, who I was pretending to be — and yet, like Kato, didn’t try to suck on my toes. Rather, he stepped all over them because he possessed something weightier than the throne — his knowledge. My great grandfather once said, “A hopeless person sees difficulties in every chance, but a hopeful person sees chances in every difficulty.” I wouldn’t let Litani’s obstinance hinder me.
I smiled as warmly as I could. “If you’d rather I didn’t read obscure medical texts, then grant me access to the highest two floors of the Tower. I just might find something more appropriate to my station.”
Litani winced as if he’d eaten a sour date. “So you can embellish yourself further? Have you been listening? Only three have access to the top floors, and one of them is in jail for being a Path of the Children sympathizer.” Wait…did he mean Wafiq? The Philosopher I’d found in the dungeon, repeating the names of the Twelve Chiefs of the Children? I had no idea he was regarded so highly, no idea who he was in the first place. “I’ve already said too much.” Litani came to my ear, whispered, “Point is, I’d rather burn the whole thing down than see you prancing around my office.”
So he really didn’t like me. Didn’t fear me. Didn’t think I’d make a good ally. Whereas Kato didn’t fear me but liked me enough to consider an alliance, which then bloomed. How was I to endear myself to this Philosopher?
I tapped the armrest of my chair. “I won’t be prancing, if that’s any consolation. Consider it an official request. I want to read what you’re keeping on the top two floors.” More out of curiosity — just what could they be hiding there?
Litani folded his arms. “Then consider this an official denial.” He raised a finger. “No.”
My only consolation was seeing the brightness on Celene’s face as we rode to the palace. Not merely because it endeared me to her, but also because it made me happy to see her happy. Praying in the house of her god had warmed her. Familiarity is comforting. Which is why it stunned me when she said, “The bishop is a heretic.”
“Come again?”
She bit her lip. “They don’t obey the Patriarch in Hyperion.”
Well, obviously not. The Seluqals would never permit a clergy that took orders from a power outside Alanya.
“They worship your Archangel though, right? Isn’t that enough?”
“They do, but they place Marot above Cessiel as the closest angel to the Archangel himself. Blasphemy. That’s what happens when you’re severed from the source of faith.”
Marot? Cessiel? Such strange names — who cares what angel was above the other? I did understand what she meant by severed from the source of faith — that was what happened to mankind when they murdered the last of the Children. It had put us on the path toward the Great Terror. The reminder that I bore this whole thing almost paralyzed me.
Celene smiled, her chin turning pink. “No matter, the chapel was holy enough. Thank you for bringing me.”
“My pleasure, dear. Seeing you bright like this makes me joyous, too.” That wasn’t a complete lie. Celene, Vera, even Cyra — whenever they’d smile, it reminded me of my daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters. And if anything could pierce my shell, it was remembering that time, that place when we were together, joyful, and free.
Upon arriving at the palace, Celene wheeled me to my room. A eunuch was standing on my bed, wearing a red sash, his back turned. Sambal? How dare he soil my bed! But he’d run off to Kashan. And this one…he was far too lofty…
He turned around: his dark hair fell on his face, almost covering his eyes. I’d been staring at his feet and back since we first met; I barely recognized those emaciated cheekbones and sharp chin. But worst of all were the lifeless pupils that seemed to stare at nothing, even as they gazed into me.
I turned to Celene. “Dear, best you go now.”
She nodded and left us, glaring at the man all the while.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Father Chisti stared down at me, also something I wasn’t used to. He’d barely ever looked at me.
“You’re having a lovely time, aren’t you?” he said. “Enjoying a life you didn’t earn. Making friends in every quarter of the city. Devouring delights that hadn’t even been conceived when I was alive. Is this the sum of your purpose?”
“What are you saying? I’m doing everything for our cause!” I banged on my armrest, my coolness dissolving before the father of our faith. “You warned me about Kevah but said nothing about Mansur and Khagan Pashang! Do you realize how much that’s set us back?” I hugged myself to ease the trembling.
“Shh, dear daughter,” Father said. “You don’t want to startle your minders. Khagan Pashang is under a cloud that even I cannot pierce.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that, like you, his intentions and actions are not of this world.”
I shook my head. “Can you not be so cryptic, for once?”
His thin smile, too, barely seemed of this world. “I deal in cryptic, lovely daughter. That’s what makes me such a good saint for the masses. But for you, I’ll be clear — Pashang is now your primary problem. Get rid of him.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that. But it’s not so easily done. The man won’t enter the city, and he’s surrounded by tens of thousands of riders.”
“Easy or not, you’d best defeat him soon because Magus
Kevah is coming for you. As we speak, he’s confronting Marada, sultana of the Marid. Or rather, she’s confronting him. Surely, you’ve not forgotten her?”
I rubbed my suddenly frigid arms. The image of a cloud filled with snakes out of which shot three dragon heads, each with eyeballs of fire, flashed through my mind. Oh Lat…not Marada…how many horrifying enemies, worldly and otherworldly, would I have to face?
Father reached behind his back and plucked something, as if out of the air: a book. He held it forward so the spine faced me. Flavors of Blood Volume Two by Aligar of Zunduq was sewn onto the spine in gold thread.
“The time for subtle methods is over,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “You had that all this time? Why?”
“I was solving the puzzle for you.”
“Puzzle? What puzzle?”
He opened the book; blue ink covered the pages, some letters circled, others crossed out. “It’s not merely a medical tome. Aligar was a bloodwriter, and he filled this volume with coded rune recipes. I’ve deciphered it for you. Use the recipes, destroy Pashang, and get our plan going again.”
A wonderful reveal, and yet, it all seemed so strange given who it was coming from. “Are you alive, Father? Have you been living in Qandbajar? How can you be here? How are you checking out books from the Tower of Wisdom and deciphering codes?”
He stepped off the bed and approached, then took my hand. “Occultation is as lonely as it sounds. A trip here, once in a while, doesn’t hurt.” He clasped our hands together. “But if I do anything more, they’ll know.” He gestured at the sky outside the open balcony door. “I have to be careful. You, though, never mattered. There was a time when I never mattered, too. That’s the only time when you can change the world…because they won’t be looking.”
“Who are they?”
He bent down and whispered, steamy in my ear, “I pray you never, ever find out.” Then he slid his hand up my thigh.
“What are you doing?” I asked, trembling.
Then across to the other thigh. “What is a saint without miracles?” He kissed my cheek.
I shut my eyes, resigned to let him do whatever he wanted. I tried to take a deep breath, but the trembles wouldn’t let me.
Instead, Father Chisti got up, opened the door, and walked out of the room.
“Father?”
I was stuck in the chair with no one to help me off. I pushed out, ready to fall and crawl, but somehow I stayed on my feet. My knees didn’t buckle, either. I walked forward a step — no pain. I walked backward, then forward again. I rushed into the hallway, but Father was gone.
Miracles, indeed.
Flavors of Blood Volume Two — finally, I held it in my hands. I smelled the cover — old and leathery. It was bound in the traditional fashion, with a flap on the back that wrapped around to the front. The vellum pages bulged unevenly, typical of older books, though I found it rather charming.
With this heft, it would take two days to read if I did naught else. But I had much to do. Father had stuck notes into the back with the bloodrunes he’d deciphered, so I pulled out those papers.
Looking at the scrawls he’d made in red ink, I shuddered. He’d noted the specific widths and lengths each character had to be. And these characters…I’d never seen them before. They were more like paintings — of animals and stars and trees. And given how large each character was...these weren’t bloodrunes. These were…
I gasped, then put the papers back in the book. I closed my eyes — I saw the patterns blazing across my inner eyelids with the red light of the Morning Star. I wanted to forget them, but they’d been seared onto my mind.
Perhaps I should read the actual book first. This volume contained descriptions of the eleven rare flavors I didn’t know about, and I particularly wanted to know what flavor the red-haired woman possessed. I ought to close the blinds, order a pot of cardamom tea, light a lantern, and get to reading. To be truthful, while I could learn much to further the cause, I also enjoyed Aligar’s lavish, metaphor-reliant prose.
I began from the beginning, which was a rehash of the first volume. So I skimmed until I reached the descriptions of the rare flavors. Conqueror’s blood came first, but I knew that well enough. After was god’s blood, which my son possessed. And then…
My door burst open. Curse the saints! I’d forgotten to lock it. Mansur marched in, two of his mirror-armored household guard at his side, clutching the silver daggers in their sashes.
“What if I was changing?” I slammed the book shut. “How dare you enter without permission?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time another man has enjoyed your nakedness, would it?” Mansur’s tone was a dagger, too.
What the hell was going on? Just what was he insinuating? “H-How dare you? What will the Shah do when I tell him his uncle said something so untoward about the mother of his son?”
With a sickening grin, Mansur’s whiskers reached his ears. “And what will my nephew do when I tell him that your son is not his.” He tilted his head toward me. “Hmm?”
Unexpected…yet typical.
“So…this is the game you’ve chosen. It won’t work, Mansur. You’re declaring war on your nephew, who is even more loved than his father. You think casting doubt on my son as heir will win you the support to become Shah of Alanya?”
Mansur shook his head. “Like I said, I’m here to find the vipers, dear. I don’t covet my nephew’s throne. The Ruthenian handmaid, Vera, has told us everything. All the high viziers have heard her confession. How you would go into the city and visit strange men, all to satisfy your licentiousness. This is what Kyars earned by being so permitting with his women.”
I never expected Mansur to stoop this low…but I didn’t know him. Had he tortured Vera until she agreed to spout such lies? Did this gray fool really believe calling me a whore would make him Shah?
“I’m disappointed,” I said. “You’ve bent over and plucked such low-hanging fruit, it must’ve been buried in the ground.”
“You and I both know that my nephew has bedded hundreds, with not a son or daughter to show. And then you come along, and of a sudden, a miracle pops out.”
Of course. He wouldn’t accuse me of being a sorcerer; no one would believe that without hard evidence. But a whore — completely understandable, given that I looked like a beautiful, young girl. A believable lie was always better than an unbelievable truth. Even though, ironically, my son wasn’t Kyars’ — though Mansur didn’t know that.
“You’re disgusting and wretched, Mansur. Your lies don’t merit a response. Kyars will have much to say, I’m sure, though he’ll let his steel do the talking.” I gave him an assured smirk and held out my hands so he could chain them. “Well? Have you a cell prepared?”
He shook his head. “’Course not. I’m confining you to this chamber until Kyars returns. No more dallying about the city. Such freedom is the ruin of modesty, of innocence.”
He and his guards turned to leave. I was meant to destroy him and Khagan Pashang, and now I couldn’t leave my room. Though I could soulshift from my closet, I couldn’t rely solely on sorcery to achieve my goal. The truth is, I was never good at reacting to surprises; careful planning had always been my strength. But the plots I’d set in motion, from when I’d arrived here a year ago, had been smashed with a hammer. I’d lacked foresight. Curse my lack of insight, too; I’d not read Mansur as well as I should’ve. My hopes now rested on one man: Kato.
“Did Kato approve this?” I asked, “or are you going over his head, too?”
Mansur paused at the threshold. “Over the head of a coal-skinned slave?” He sniggered. “Seluq is my ancestor, my blood, that means I was born with my feet on the heads of everyone, the least of which is some Himyarite. All serve us.”
“Spoken like a true Seluqal.” I chuckled with venom. “But Tamaz was not so haughty, and neither is Kyars. If you think all before you so base, then you won’t notice when they come for you. Hadrith, Ozar, Cihan, Cyra —
four of Tamaz’s subjects, and yet they killed him.”
“Only them?” Mansur shook his head. “I’ll fill the old barrack with all the conspirators, not just convenient scapegoats.”
So, he would continue Kato’s policy of using the old barrack to imprison his enemies. Good to know.
He walked out and shut the door, leaving me with acrid thoughts. I couldn’t let them trap me. If Mansur controlled the palace, how long would it be until Pashang’s horde entered the city? The gholam still controlled the city walls, and Kato was no fool to allow it. But what had happened to him? Was he also being kept in the old barrack?
Kato had underestimated Mansur. But I couldn’t blame him. To refuse Tamaz’s brother entry would have been a dangerous gamble for a slave. Kyars, it seemed, would have to save us from his own blood.
No. We couldn’t wait for him; I’d have to do it. I stood on my bed — how wonderful to have working legs. I hoped to never take them for granted. Now that I could walk, I had to get my son back from Mirima. And then I had to get out of here.
15
Cyra
Desert. Snow. Bones. Stars. And…slap!
I coughed water that had snuck into my nostrils and slid down my windpipe. Then I rubbed my left eye and the bandage covering my right socket. Ground my knuckles into my tear ducts.
For a moment, I thought I was eight years old again. A yurt ceiling stared down, colored with paintings of vines and flowers and lions. In the center, an ice-filled stove cooled the air. Casting their shadows upon me were a group of men; they wore sky blue caftans with bear-fur shoulder pads and hard caps plumed with dark, spot-filled argus feathers. How I hated those outfits.
I recognized two men: Tekish, wiry as ever, arms folded and consternation stuck on his thin face. And his brother, Khagan Pashang, his calloused hand on my raw cheek.
“Oh, you felt that?” he said. “Apologies, Cyra, but naught else would wake you.”
“Where am I?” I whispered.
