by Zamil Akhtar
He matched my low tone. “Somewhere with more even lighting.”
My head throbbed. Dry aches chaffed my throat. “Water would be nice.”
Tekish, whom I recalled was younger than Pashang, handed me a furry waterskin. I sat up and smelled it — just water, thank Lat. I sipped until the dryness eased.
“I heard you were coming,” I said, glaring at Pashang. “Waking up to your face, just a continuance of my terrible fortunes of late.”
He smirked. “I wouldn’t want to wake to my face, either. Thankfully, I’m the only one who never has to.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Nothing you have to say could ever — ever erase what you did to me.”
Pashang removed his plumed hard cap, then scrubbed the sweat from his straight, brown hair. Not an imposing man — rather soft-faced and pleasant, especially those light brown eyes — but within, there wasn’t a darker soul this side of the earth. Slightly frail in build, though tall — some would say lanky, others lean, to put a more positive spin. In his neat, formal Jotrid outfit, he seemed rather proper. It was disarming, and being disarmed around Khagan Pashang ought to terrify you.
“Sour over old times, are we?” he said with a sigh. “I did as ordered. Tamaz wanted a Sylgiz hostage to keep your tribe from expanding onto his territory. I asked him whether he wanted a son or the daughter, he said the daughter would do. Just to be fair, I asked your father what he preferred to part with, and he also chose you. An amicable deal, brokered by none other.”
What lies! Tamaz had said he didn’t know the Jotrids kidnapped me, and ordered me brought to his palace for my safety, as well as the kingdom’s peace.
“Did Tamaz tell you different?” Pashang said, obviously noticing the trouble in my downcast gaze. “Of course, he did. Blaming us Jotrids was one of his many clever tricks, but everything we did was by his or his brother’s design. I was but the towel he used to soak up blood, so his floor could sparkle.”
“Just because someone else gave the order doesn’t absolve you!” I grunted. In any case, Tamaz was dead and Pashang not, so it was a fruitless argument.
“My two traveling companions,” I said. “Are they here?”
“The Himyarite man and the Abyad woman. They, too, are our guests.”
So Eshe was here. Kevah, probably not. But what woman was he referring to? The Abyads were a collection of desert tribes from the south, near the Yam Sup Sea and the border with Himyar. I had no companions from there.
“Are we your guests, Pashang, or your prisoners?”
His smirk was insufferable. “I’m sure you’ve heard tales of how Khagan Pashang treats his prisoners.” He gestured at the surrounding comforts. “This isn’t it.”
“So you’ll just let me leave…despite what everyone is saying about me?”
“I couldn’t care less. Actually, that’s not true. It’s refreshing to find someone as reviled as me in this kingdom. After hearing about what you did, my shoulders feel a slight lighter.”
Nauseous, I rested my head on the pillow and turned to my side. “You’re a client of the Seluqals. Won’t they order you to turn me over, like before?”
From this angle, I stared into his brown beard. Unlike most men his age, it seemed Pashang kept it trimmed close to his face. Some would call it womanly. But thinking back on the days when he lived with us, his beard was always rather patchy. Perhaps he couldn’t grow it full, which wasn’t that uncommon in the Waste.
He looked at Tekish and gestured at the flap.
“Feel better, Cyra,” Tekish said as he walked out of the yurt. The other men followed him.
“You obviously don’t trust me.” Pashang sat at my bedside, too close for comfort. “Which is sensible — trust requires trust. The gulf between us is wider than the Endless. But I’ve no design against you, and neither does Mansur. Go wherever you like — I won’t be your problem, so long as you won’t be mine.”
“Pashang, I—”
“When we were children, you used to call me something else. Remember?”
I winced at that thorn prick of remembrance. “You’ve grown out of that name, surely.”
“Say it. Say it one more time, for the sake of our memory.” His hungry smile showed a yearning for the past. Too many seemed to live there, building homes with their last happy memories. I despised the thought of living in what had gone — always better to look ahead.
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m not the same person, and neither are you. What kind of monstrous woman would kill the Shah of Alanya…haven’t you asked yourself?”
“Say it, Cyra. Just hearing it would be a salve.”
“I won’t.” That came out hoarser than I wanted. “You’re a sad creature, Khagan Pashang, and always have been. ‘Our memory,’ you say. I don’t have a single fond memory of you. Even when we were children, I found you cloying. Just as insufferable as you are now.”
“You used to scold me in the same way.” He inhaled as if nostalgia scented my words. “I’ll have to make do with that.”
I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. For a moment, I saw stars shimmering in the daylight. I blinked and blinked and saw only the yurt ceiling, with all its magnificent patterns. From the shock of meeting Pashang, I’d neglected the more pertinent questions.
“Where did you find me?”
“We brought a storm with us from the Endless. The Zelthuriyan Desert hasn’t seen a summer snow in decades. We rescued hundreds — dug them out of mounds, gave them rest, medicine, food. You were, thankfully, among them…”
That didn’t sound right. The Palace of the Living flashed through my mind: tormented souls, stuck within a pyramid of flesh, each mouth singing its pain. And I’d been in heaven, floating with stars, watching their births and deaths.
Dreams, perhaps? Yet they carried the scent of memories.
“You’re such a saintly man,” I scoffed. “I want to see my companions. Now.”
Pashang raised his hands, palms up. “Go see them, then.”
I threw my blanket off and pushed to my feet. A heavy layer of sweat stuck to my body.
Pashang folded his arms and said, “You’ve turned red.” He sniffed — was he smelling me!? “Sweating sickness, seems like. Cold never agreed with you.”
“Where is my Himyarite friend? I want to see him. I want to know he’s healthy.”
“You’ve one mind, eh, Cyra? Always admired that. I recall when your cousin sewed a lovely fur cap, which your father wore on his rangings. Your face was red with jealousy. You wanted to make a prettier one and spent days just—”
“Shut up! I’d sooner gouge my remaining eye than reminisce with you!”
He tightened his shoulders and winced — was that all it took to silence the fearsome Pashang?
Upon walking out of the yurt, the sight of Qandbajar’s gleaming saffron wall stunned me. Beyond, the Tower of Wisdom tasted the clouds, and the Sand Palace shimmered like crystal on its hill. The Grand Bazaar pyramid pointed to the sun like a brandished dagger. Last I remembered, we were two days from Qandbajar. Seemed they’d brought me a long way.
“You know, you’re adorable when you’re confused,” Pashang, who’d followed me through the flap, said.
I wanted to retch at the thought of him finding me adorable.
“We brought you here by cart. You were asleep the whole time. Your friends, though, fared better and have been doing well.”
Fitting that I’d departed Qandbajar in sleep and had returned in sleep.
Pashang gestured his head at the seven-row prayer line facing northwest, toward Zelthuriya. In the midst, there he was: Eshe, swaying his head with each repetition of Lat’s name.
I rushed over, pulled him out, and hugged him. Unthinking. It was good to see an ally, amid so many enemies. He stumbled into my arms, bewildered at first, then exclaimed, “Cyra! You finally woke!”
“Where’s Kevah?” I asked.
He shook his head and sighed. “No idea what happened to him. I got
covered in snow after that whirlwind separated us.”
“Whirlwind?”
“I’d rather not remember. Are you feeling all right? Your face is…redder than a monkey’s ass at sunset.”
Quite a comparison. “I don’t want to stay here a moment longer. Khizr Khaz mentioned he had a place for us at the shrine. Let’s go.”
Eshe and I turned toward Pashang, who watched us with his hands neatly folded below his chest.
We approached him together. “Pashang, we’re going into the city,” I said. “As much as I begrudge it, you have my thanks for saving and looking after us.”
“And your other companion?” Pashang said. “You don’t want to see her?”
“You’re mistaken.” I shook my head. “Our other companion was a young man. His name is Kevah, a Ruthenian by birth and Sirmian by raising. If he comes here, tell him we went where we were supposed to.”
“Kevah’s certainly not a young man,” a woman behind me said.
I turned to see another I never wanted to see: the black-clad Ruhi. Lacking in height, she seemed like a child wrapped in a tablecloth, which I so wanted to rip off.
“What in Lat’s name are you doing here?” My hand formed a fist without me even knowing.
“Followed you. That was my mission. Until the sky fell. Then I tried to save you but ended up needing saving myself.”
My jaw hung in shock and disgust. “So…the Disciples sent you to spy on us. You certainly don’t stand out.” I chuckled, then turned to Eshe, hoping he would appreciate the jape. But he gazed at the ground, eyes closed, his body wincing as if from shame.
“You think I stand out like this? Wait till you see what’s underneath.” In one motion, Ruhi pulled off her veil, then threw it to the ground.
Patterned blood covered her face. On her nose was a character that resembled a cup with a dot in it, and across her forehead, one that looked like the sea. On her cheeks shown what I could only describe as a snake eating itself. All manner of lines went down her neck and onward beneath her caftan. Bloodrunes covered this girl.
Eshe wouldn’t look. Now I realized why. Because he and his dead brother had painted those bloodrunes when they tortured her.
We went to the yurt I’d woken up in to talk, out of earshot of Pashang and his riders. Bone-crafted pitchers of water and kumis sat on a low table, which the three of us shuffled around.
“Still won’t look at me, Himyarite?” Ruhi said.
Ignoring the bloodrunes, she had a pleasing face. Gentle, wheat-colored hair, slightly up-slanted nose, and pupils like coffee beans.
Eshe finally looked at her, but not with remorse. “My father had a saying, a Himyarite wisdom. ‘When webs of a spider coalesce, they can trap a lion.’ What web did you spin for the Disciples, I wonder?”
Ruhi huffed. “All this time, I thought you’d repented. But looks like you’re still on the path that got you and your brother thrown off a cliff. Want to know how I became a Disciple? It’s thanks to you.”
“What?” Eshe said.
Ruhi pointed at the bloodrune on her forehead, which looked like sea waves. “Thousandth Hell — that’s what this one is called, right? The pain it caused has never ceased. Even now, my skin is boiling, and every time it cooks, new skin replaces it. It’s only by perfect fanaa that I’m able to endure living, which is the trait the Disciples value most.”
Eshe stared at her with watering eyes. He looked like a man who was sorry, and yet he said nothing.
“I always wanted to ask you,” Ruhi said, showing no emotion, “why did you go so far? Did you…enjoy it?”
Eshe shook his head. “No. I went so far because…because to save the people from whatever Aschere had planned, was worth the suffering — even death — of one girl.”
“What you gave me was worse than death. But I see truth on your face. In the moment, you believed you were serving the good. And yet…even now, you’re not sorry.”
“I’m not sorry because I still don’t believe you. Hearing your cries that day, my mercy overcame my wrath. But when I heard about what your friend Aschere did — how her wicked actions led to the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent Latians — if there’s still a chance you know an inkling about the evil she served — I’d do worse to you, right now, where we sit.”
“E-Eshe…” I clutched his shoulder. How could he say such a thing?
Ruhi sighed. “All I know is this — even an evil woman needed a friend. Aschere would tell me about the life she left behind. A loving husband, a baby son, an adopted daughter, a father. She was lonely, and so was I, to be true.” Ruhi shook her head. “You know what? I don’t think she believed herself to be evil. Like you, I’m sure she thought the suffering she brought worth it.”
“You’d compare me to her?” Eshe glared with fire. “I was trying to prevent calamity! I would have even confronted Aschere herself, but a bloodwriter is no match for a magus.”
“So you tortured a little girl?” Ruhi sneered. “If you still can’t see how wrong that is, you are truly lost, Eshe.”
Is this how it had been when Eshe and his brother tortured her? If so, we weren’t going to solve this now.
Eshe took a chug straight from the kumis pitcher. “Someone has to do what others won’t, to protect the land. If the Disciples don’t understand that, then I’ll be their shadow and let Lat be the judge.”
While I felt for Ruhi and understood Eshe’s position as well, none of this mattered.
“Stop! Right now!” I turned to Ruhi. “I don’t know what you want, but best we go our separate ways. And if I see you following us, I won’t be so kind next time.” Now I turned to Eshe. “I thought you regretted what you did to her, but I guess not. In any case, it was never my business. Lest you forget, we’re here to find a sorcerer, and your problem with her has nothing to do with that.”
“What makes you so sure?” Eshe said. “What if Aschere and the sorcerer in the palace serve the same evil?”
“Fanciful,” Ruhi scoffed. “But you’ve no evidence. You’re clutching, like you did with me.”
I got up and tried to pull Eshe up too. I didn’t want to stay in this camp another moment. But Eshe yanked out of my hold.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said to Ruhi, “out in the open, again. Watch yourself, because I’m not done with you.”
“And I’m not done with you,” Ruhi replied, her slight lips plump with disgust. “I’ve my own mission, on behalf of the Disciples. Best not get in my way, because I’m no longer a little tea girl for you to abuse.”
“Spy,” Eshe said, pushing to his feet at last. “I know a liar when I see one!”
I dragged him out of the yurt. A string of horses passed by, tied to each other. All around, horses, men, and women went about. The sweet tang of fruits filled the air; a young Jotrid woman sorted muskmelons, pomegranates, and dates into baskets. They grew in the cultivation beds along the Vogras River, though I wondered if they’d paid for or taken from the sowers who tended that land.
“Listen.” I grabbed Eshe’s shoulders. “Forget about her. Let’s go find Khizr Khaz and finally do what we’re supposed to — unveil the soulshifter. Kyars is going to arrive any day now, and if we don’t have a truth to tell him…”
“Do you think I’m doing this for you?” Eshe said, his voice laden and sad. “Or for some pompous fucking prince?”
“Why are you, then?”
“I track and hunt sorcerers. Aschere was the worst of them — she brought an infidel army into a Latian city and nearly caused the ruin of a kingdom. I won’t let it happen again, no matter what I need do to stop it.”
I nodded as quickly as I could. “I’m with you, brother. I might be a victim of the sorcerer, but doubtless he has worse planned. But if I were you, I’d forget about Ruhi. Her and all this,” I spread my arms, gesturing at the Jotrid camp, “it’s a distraction. I want to expose the sorcerer that took my life, took my face, took every shred of happiness. Maybe then I can get somethi
ng back. We might have different reasons, but our goals are one.”
“One goal, then,” he said. “Nothing should separate us, and no mercy for the wicked. I’ll hold you to that.”
We shook hands, reaffirming our shared purpose. Though whether our methods and values aligned was an open question.
“Did your camel survive?” I asked.
Eshe winced and shook his head. “Fluffy wasn’t made for snow.”
She was rather fluffy for a camel. Poor girl. “I could try asking Pashang for two horses. Although…I’d rather not speak with him, again. The gate’s not that far — we could just walk.”
“You mean the man who had every healer in his camp attend you, who would watch you sleep for hours to ensure you weren’t dying? Pashang worships you, and there are five horses for every rider here. Go ask him.”
Well, I supposed I had to.
Pashang was sitting at a fire pit, alone, roasting what smelled like yak on a spit. I recalled it being his favorite, and I rather missed its juiciness and delicate flavor. But did the great khagan of the Jotrids have nothing better to do or anyone to sit with? How quaint.
“Do me another kindness,” I said, straining to be as tempered as I could with him. “Lend me and my companion horses. They need not be mares, or Kashanese. Whatever you can spare.”
He looked up with concern. “Sweating sickness is like this, you know? Lively enough to move mountains in the day, but come the moon, you’ll be clutching your sheets.”
“So long as they’re not your sheets, I’ll endure.”
He sighed, almost out of resignation. “Doesn’t being here, with us, remind you of home?”
I pointed to the Sand Palace, which looked fuzzy at this distance. “That’s my home, Pashang. That’s where I’m ending up. Either there, or in the grave.”
“So ambitious. Like your brother. I lost to him twice, you know. Was looking forward to a third try at some of that Sylgiz grazing land, but now…” He raised his hands in defeat. “Guess I’ll have a go at Gokberk.”
“A Sylgiz has ten times the spirit of a Jotrid.” My father’s words spewed out of my mouth.
Pashang chuckled. “And a Jotrid has ten times the strength of an Alanyan. So that would make you a hundred times better than any man in those walls. Why, then, are you finding it so difficult?”
