by Zamil Akhtar
How perceptive. I would back off, but that wasn’t my style. “Daughters of khazis watch a lot of plays, do they?”
Her snicker stung a little. “‘Slave’ — that’s what you said about yourself. Describes my mother, too, but she was so much more. We all have to be more, don’t we? To break through the cages we’re birthed in?”
How true. But that water clock was draining, and much had to be done. “Well said. I’m afraid I don’t have more time. I hope I haven’t…put you off. I’d so like to chat again.”
“Takes more to put me off.”
At that, I left the shrine. On the way to my lodging, Celene ran up to me, her breaths quick and raspy. “Zedra, I must tell you something — you may not believe it — but I must tell you.”
I touched her cheek, which was pink with worry. “What is it, dear?”
“That girl in the shrine…do you know who she is?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
She shook her head. “No, I came to find you, but when I saw her — by the Archangel, by the Twelve — I’m certain it’s her.”
“Calm down. You’ve all the time in the world.” I clasped both her cheeks, which used to relax my eldest daughter. “Now, tell me what you want to say.”
That didn’t seem to calm her; she choked on her words. “I…I was…”
“Just say it.”
“I was at her funeral! I saw them bury her in the Sublime Seat’s garden! Plant her shrine — however you people say it. Like my grandfather, that girl should be dead!”
Not a word of it made sense, but Celene seemed sincere. “Who should be dead, dear?”
“Her name is Sadie. She saved my life. But she’s also the daughter of the Shah of Sirm!”
Those words were like a thread, weaving disparate parts together. Of course — that was why she’d corrected Abu during the meeting; she was talking about her own mother, whom she’d proudly mentioned during our conversation in the shrine. And indeed, Kyars had saved her father, the Shah of Sirm. “And you say…she died?”
“My grandfather killed her with a stone! Everyone in Sirm believes her to be dead! But that’s her! I swear by the Twelve, by the shining apostles, by—”
“All right. I understand. Relax. Thank you for telling me.” It was the second time, according to Celene, someone had come out of the grave. The story of the Crucian imperator was well known, but now this girl, too? Could it be related to her unknown flavor of blood?
The sun laid in the earth, now, leaving us with a windless evening. I looked toward the hanging crescent. Kato had described time like a noose, and it began to choke me. Our hastily assembled coalition had to act before Mansur and Pashang could bolster their positions, and I had to secure my son, who wasn’t just my son; he was the Children. The shield against the Great Terror. The Padishah of the Final Hour. That ought to be my focus, not some princess who’d supposedly risen.
Something chittered by my ear: a grasshopper. It landed on the nearest arch, its horns twitching. Four more joined it, each colorless and fat. Locusts. Their cries reminded me of broken bells.
A swarm of them descended on the shrine. Celene winced and hugged herself. Did they not have locust plagues in Crucis? They would no doubt devastate the crops, but the common folk, not us, would bear that suffering.
“It’s no danger, dear.” I touched her shoulder. “Come, let’s go inside. There’s much to be done.”
And yet, as I gazed at the sky, the swarm obscured the crescent, and even the stars dimmed.
19
Cyra
The locusts clinging to the Tower of Wisdom filled the city with a shrill, spine-numbing cry. They twitched upon the limestone, as if the Tower itself fluxed in the night. It reminded me of the Palace of the Living, which was formed from screaming eyes and mouths. Given what I’d done, I wondered if I’d one day join that tangled mess of human parts.
Pashang, I, and hundreds of riders galloped through the streets toward the Tower. I rode behind Pashang’s brother, Tekish, since I was too weak to ride on my own, digging my fingers into the chainmail around his waist to keep steady. No Alanyans in the streets — what else could they be doing but huddling together and praying?
I’d not watched the battle but, from the elated chatter of the Jotrids, surmised that it had been quick and brutal. They’d rushed toward a part of the wall where the locusts hovered so thickly that the gholam couldn’t see, scaled it with ladders, and overwhelmed the surprised gholam atop. Once the Jotrids opened the gate, the surviving gholam retreated to the second wall, where minutes later, the same course of events repeated. Apparently, Pashang killed three men with arrows. Everyone was boasting about how many they’d killed. In a way, I’d killed as many as all of them put together, though this wasn’t the time or place to digest the thought.
But as we rode, I started to feel brighter, knowing that I was the reason we’d broken through two layers of wall and cut through hundreds of gholam. Because they were Kato’s gholam, and it was good to strike back at the men who killed my brother. Though Khizr Khaz believed the sorcerer was aiding Mansur and Pashang, if that were true, then why didn’t the sorcerer help Pashang get into the city? No — in my mind, it still pointed to Kato because if Mansur hadn’t come, he’d still be in charge. And Pashang was his enemy, so the enemy of my enemy was my ally — at least, for now.
Wasn’t that how everyone in this city behaved? One day an enemy, the next day an ally, and the next an enemy again, all for self-gain? Pashang had believed that I killed Tamaz, and yet he didn’t mind, as if I’d slew a bug rather than the Shah of Alanya. It seemed he was the best ally I could have, but only until I’d exposed the sorcerer and cleared my name.
Philosophers crowded the plaza outside the Tower, locusts sitting on their tall, felt hats. Some held glass jars and collected the jittering things, as if to eat them. But being Philosophers, they probably wanted to study the creatures I’d conjured out of the air.
As we circled them on our steeds, they huddled together; a few clutched the matchlocks at their sides. One pulled his matchlock out; Pashang unleashed an arrow, and it zipped through the air and pierced his neck. The man fell with bulging eyes as the other Philosophers raised their hands.
Litani pushed through to the head and faced Pashang. “You just struck down the foremost catopter expert in the country.”
Pashang tucked his bow behind his back and shrugged. “Catopter? Isn’t that a fish?”
“You’re making a dangerous enemy, Khagan Pashang.” Litani smiled — too at ease for my liking. “Or perhaps you took a wrong turn on your way to the Sand Palace?”
“No, I’m precisely where I want to be.” Pashang jumped off his horse. The moon reflected in his mirror armor, between fresh flecks of blood. He gazed down at Litani. “I’m here for Eshe. Release him and we’ll go. Refuse…” He gestured with his head at the dead Philosopher.
“What do you want with the former Disciple?”
Pashang put a hand on the Grand Philosopher’s shoulder. “Litani, remember last we met?”
“At Mansur’s granddaughter’s wedding. What of it?”
“You were with your wife and three sons. Blessedly beautiful family, though I recall one of your sons being a bit overfed. I think he’d make a nice chair for my victory meal tonight. My brother is a bit frailer, so your wife would do. Oh, you live in the Glass District, don’t you?”
Litani shook his head. “How many times have you practiced those lines?” He chuckled with indifference. “Let me make something clear — we Philosophers are beyond some pitiful Seluqal succession. We are like the clouds in the sky, entirely undisturbed by the battles below.”
Pashang grabbed an arrow from his quiver. Without taking his eyes off Litani, he tossed it up. It flipped a few times in the air and clattered on the cobblestone, tip facing a young Philosopher with a rather long neck.
Two riders grabbed the man. He howled and writhed in their grips as they bent him over and faced him down.
Other Philosophers protested and screamed the man’s name. Litani, though, remained cool and expressionless.
Pashang put his boot on the young Philosopher’s neck.
Tekish turned to me and said, “This will be…crueler than the usual. Look away.”
I shook my head. “I’ve learned that if people don’t fear you, then they’re likely to hurt you. I know I’ll have to do like to succeed.”
Tekish chuckled. “Wisest thing to ever come out a Sylgiz mouth.”
Pashang took his boot off the screaming man’s neck. “You know what, I’ve changed my mind. Let’s be merciful, for once.”
Two Jotrids brought the young Philosopher to his feet. Then one clutched his right arm, and the other the left. They each pulled, as if his arms were rope. The man’s wails heightened in pitch. Dear Lat. Bones snapped. The Philosophers gazed, mouths agape, while the Jotrids smiled. Snap-snap. The sound churned my stomach. The neck tore off the shoulder at the left side, and now the man’s neck dangled to the right — it seemed the Jotrid warrior on the right was stronger, and he shouted with joy, as if he’d won.
I forced my horrified eyes to look as Pashang unsheathed his scimitar and sliced the tortured, now silent Philosopher down the middle. As the two Jotrids pulled him apart, his blood and innards spilled onto the cobblestone, smelling of copper and cold, rotted meat.
I shut my eyes, yet those innards glowed on my eyelids. Is that what we were made of? Could my own flesh be pulled apart like that? Now I regretted not looking away, regretted even coming here. But I had to steel myself for what was to come.
“For a cloud, he bled quite a lot.” Pashang smiled at Litani. “But perhaps you don’t care so much for blood. Now, the next word out of your mouth better be more pleasing than a maid’s teary moans, else I’ll fill the river with ink and bones.”
Litani glanced toward the Tower’s entrance and said, “Ask him if he’s willing to part with the former Disciple.” Then he turned to Pashang. “You’ve made a grave mistake. There’s a reason the Sand Palace never interferes with our affairs. You’re going to regret this.”
“I’ll add it to a long list, at the top of which is eating my father bloody and raw. Wish I’d seasoned him first.”
I stayed behind Tekish, careful not to be seen. Pashang’s talent for cruelty had won. And the Philosophers, for all their enlightenment, were still blood and innards. Their Tower was stone and paper, and if determined, Pashang could end them this night, as he was known to end things.
“Not willing to suffer for all your ink, eh?” Pashang said to Litani as we waited. “That’s why I’m not afraid of you.”
“Oh, we’re all willing to die. But it’s not up to us.”
“I never said ‘die.’ Dying is peace. It’s the very opposite of suffering. How many hells would you burn in for a book, hmm?”
With locusts still swarming through the air, Eshe stepped out of the Tower’s double doors. I almost jumped off the horse and ran to hug him, but Tekish raised his hand to stop me.
A man wearing a flower-patterned cloak escorted Eshe to Pashang. His hood shadowed his face; I couldn’t make out much detail, except for some kind of covering over his eyes.
Eshe, though, wouldn’t raise his gaze. He wore a white caftan meant for a man twice his size. His body didn’t seem injured — though from his trembling, his spirit certainly did.
“You all right?” Pashang asked him.
But Eshe said nothing and continued staring at the ground. I could barely stay on my horse with the worry coursing through me. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
“He’s not,” the man in the flower-patterned cloak said, a voice from somewhere dark in his throat. “Let’s just say he drank too much.”
Pashang stared into the shadowed face of the cloaked man, then said, “You…I know you…you were there…”
Did they really know each other? Just who was he?
The man in the flowery cloak turned and walked toward the Tower. Before he could go through the double doors, Pashang grabbed his bone bow, nocked a wooden arrow, aimed with a squint, and loosed.
The arrow cried through the air, enflamed, and turned to cinders before it could pierce the man in the flower-patterned cloak.
“If you want to try again,” he said, “I’ll be at the top.”
By Lat, what sorcery was that?
Litani smirked, then followed his master through the doors of the Tower, locusts singing the while.
Without resistance, we rode through the streets to the Sand Palace. Mansur’s guards let us through the palace gates. I was eager to check on Eshe, but Pashang wouldn’t allow it until we were safe. When I glanced at my back, I couldn’t see my newly freed friend, which ate at me. He was riding behind someone in the rear, hundreds of horsemen between us.
Returning to the Sand Palace, like this, filled me with a prickly dread. Had I just led the enemy into my home? How would Kyars take the throne now that Mansur had rebuffed his hold with thousands of Jotrids? And yet…
So long as I could live here, in my home, did I really care whether Kyars or Mansur sat the throne? So long as I was at the top, as far from the grave as possible, did I care whose shoulders I stood on?
As we rode through the archways and locust-infested gardens, with crystal fountains shimmering in the moonlight, I realized I barely knew myself. Barely knew what I was capable of, what I was willing to do, just to feel better. Did I not have loftier, more honorable motives than helping myself and my friends? How was I different from a corrupt vizier, Ozar, or Mansur? Hadrith, self-serving as he was, still showed loyalty and friendship to Kyars, who was without question the designated and rightful heir.
But why show loyalty to a man who’d never cared for me? Though Kyars was my husband by law, could Sheikh Khizr enforce our marriage, especially when the country believed I’d killed Tamaz? So many things were up in the air, and I was relying on others to settle them. When had relying on others ever gotten me anywhere, aside from one-eyed and left for dead?
“Cyra.” Tekish broke my thoughts. I was still clinging to him as we trotted through the palace garden, my hands sweaty on his bloodied chainmail. “You can’t be seen here. If some vizier recognizes you, there’ll be trouble.” He handed me an orange turban and an eyepatch. “Put these on. You’ll be my beardless boy for the night.”
“You like the one-eyed boys, Tekish?” I said, surprised at my brazenness.
His boisterous chuckle clashed with the grating, endless chirping of locusts. “Don’t make me say something I’d regret saying to a sultana.”
“Why not? I may enjoy it.”
“Jotrid humor is rather merciless. Do you enjoy that kind of thing, Cyra?”
I didn’t think so, but I barely knew myself. “No,” I whispered, hoping it to be true.
Someone shouted something at Tekish. A woman rider to our left, with zealous eyes and hair that didn’t reach her ears. Blood covered the spear on her back. I’d noticed her in the vanguard as the Jotrids charged the city gate.
“My wife isn’t happy you’re holding me so tight,” Tekish said with a chuckle. “Maybe she’ll feel better if you looked like a boy.”
“Why? She lets you fuck boys?”
He took a chug from a waterskin, then handed it to me. “It’s true, she’s less jealous when it’s a boy licking my cock.”
I cringed, not wanting to know about Tekish’s perversions. My own bothered me enough. His satisfied smirk didn’t reveal whether he was jesting.
His wife’s glare revealed much, though, and filled me with a nauseous caution. I didn’t need more enemies, so loosened my grip on Tekish’s armor and sat at the saddle’s edge.
“I’ll be your boy, then.” I had no idea how to wrap a turban, but after much tugging and scooping and tying, managed to bundle my shoulder-length locks into it. The eyepatch snapped on easily enough. Now I was truly unrecognizable — mind, body, and soul — to myself, most of all.
An unexpected man stood at the
palace entrance, along with tens of Mansur’s household guard, who were all garbed in mirror armor inscribed with holy verses.
That man was Ozar. Was he on Mansur’s side? I hid behind Tekish, fearful the spice master would recognize me, despite my disguise. I peeked over Tekish’s shoulder to see just what was happening.
Ozar and Pashang conversed, though in a whisper. Pashang seemed…surprised…agitated by whatever Ozar was saying. The two talked for minutes until Pashang ordered us to dismount.
Mansur’s guard opened the palace door and welcomed us to enter. We passed by the massive stone simurgh, which seemed to eyeball us, and entered the Sand Palace.
I waited at the entrance as tens of Jotrids walked by. Waited for Eshe. As I fidgeted, a sweet breeze seemed to kiss my shoulders: that familiar, Sand Palace air, propelled so lightly by the ceiling rafters. I was home. And yet, who knew what enemies remained? If a spy spotted me and reported to Kato, I could be captured. Killed, even. No — until my home was safe, until I’d defeated my enemies, I couldn’t let myself enjoy relief.
Finally, Eshe walked in, his eyes downcast.
I hugged him. His trembles flowed into me, and he didn’t hug back. I looked upon his haggard, weak appearance as he gazed at me with short but heavy breaths.
“Eshe,” I said, gripping his shoulders. “What did they do to you?”
“Cyra…” He managed a soft, kind smile. “You look like a beardless boy.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, or the line to your throne will empty.”
He chuckled; raising his spirits filled me with a fluttering relief.
“Thank Lat you’re here, Cyra. Was it you who asked them to save me?”
I nodded. “You saved me, didn’t you? Do you think I’m the kind of person to forsake a friend?” I hoped I’d never be. “Tell me you’re all right, Eshe. You’re all right, right?”
