by Zamil Akhtar
Curse the saints. They had a spy in the shrine? For everyone’s sake, I had to find out who.
I turned back to Ozar and said, “What did he say?”
Ozar eyed Vera. “We should speak in your room, never know who’s listening in a vast hall like this.”
No, I hadn’t the time. “Tell me here. Now. I’m in a hurry.”
He shook his head. “That would endanger you-know-who. And I won’t put an ally in harm’s way.”
Was it Hadrith? It had to be; the two were known allies after having been enemies for so long. “Find me later, then.” The water dripped out the clock every second that passed. I had to get baby Seluq to safety within twenty minutes, and there was a long way to go.
Vera followed me through the archway, past the simurgh statue, across the gardens, and to the palace gate, which was open. Jotrid riders flowed through — an endless sea of them, filling the palace grounds with horse stink. They weren’t the only pestilence; locusts flew overhead, their fluttering wings like Ahriyya’s whispers. Already, they were devouring flowers and trees, and the pleasure garden began to resemble a bullet-riddled battlescape.
“I hate-hate-hate these things,” Vera said as she waved her hand in front of Seluq to shield him from the bugs. “Where are we going, anyway?”
I put my finger on her lip to silence the question. “Give him to me.”
She handed over my baby. I held him to my chest, his tiny breaths against my beating heart.
“Please don’t hurt him.” Vera’s eyes wetted. “I know someone who’ll take him. Raise him on a farm. He’ll never know who he really is.” Trembles overtook her breaths. “Just…don’t…” She sobbed. “Don’t hurt the child.”
If she truly cared about my son, then she wouldn’t have called his mother a whore. Nothing had endangered him more than her aspersions. I turned away, letting her chew on a painful uncertainty.
“Don’t hurt him!” Her cry echoed in the night as I walked through the gate against the tide of Jotrid riders.
A gate guard, also clad in mirror armor like the rest of Mansur’s ilk, was standing by and watching the Jotrids pass. I said to him, “I need a carriage. Right now.”
He bent his neck. “Your Highness, yes, of course. I’ll have one here in five minutes.”
“Did you not hear me? I said right now!”
His neck stayed bent. “But…this afternoon…you ordered us to fortify the palace and not allow anyone in or out. The carriages were moved from the remise to the stable grounds.”
I turned to the Jotrids. “Whoever gives me their ride right now, I’ll give you a thousand gold pieces come morning!”
Four men and two women dismounted. I handed Seluq to the gate guard, then grabbed the nearest mare — golden-haired and fair-maned — and climbed on. My bones and muscles groaned with each stretch and pull, a reminder that Mansur was old. After the gate guard handed Seluq back, I clutched the reins with one hand and my baby with the other, somewhat worried about how much Mansur’s groin ached on the hard, tanned saddle. Could this frail fool even survive a ride?
No time to consider it: I spurred the mare, and we were off, galloping in the opposite direction to the Jotrid wave engulfing the streets.
As the wind whipped against us, Seluq began crying. No time to stop and comfort him, so we rode on. The fastest way to the Shrine of Saint Jamshid was through the Glass District, which was thankfully devoid of Jotrids. The buildings here always seemed so odd and mismatched, with their glass walls and bright domes. Now locusts covered them, their song like the wails of demons. We passed by the unbreakable statue of that saint — I could never remember her name — and down the winding lane that led to the bridge of Saint Jorga, past which sat the Shrine.
Except…men armed with long-barreled matchlocks guarded the bridge. Through the locust-infested air, I could only discern that they wore the rough, hooded cloaks of the Order.
With minutes remaining, I trotted toward them until they took notice and approached.
“The bridge is closed,” one said. “Turn around, old man.”
I climbed off the horse as two aimed their matchlocks at me.
“Turn around!”
“I’ve a message for your sheikh,” I said, holding my baby tight. “For Khizr Khaz and him alone.”
They lowered their guns once they noticed the baby. “Who are you?”
“Just a vizier.” A crack appeared in my vision. “I must speak with your sheikh. Now. Right now. There’s not a moment to lose. I’ve just come from the palace and have much to tell him.”
Another man, who was standing near the river, approached. Fair-haired, like my horse, with light skin and eyes. He spat a chewed-up jelly delight from his mouth, then studied me up and down. “I know you.”
I walked toward the bridge, but the men continued to block my path.
Another crack erupted across my vision. I trembled. Only a few more steps to reach the shrine, and yet…
“Please, I must speak with the sheikh. Let me pass!”
The jelly-chewing man grabbed my hand, fingered the flat ring with the simurgh seal, and looked at my face with flaring pupils. “No question. Saw you when you visited the shrine, the other day. You’re Mansur!”
More cracks nearly blinded me. I handed my baby over to the jelly-chewing man. He held Seluq out in front, as if ignorant about how to carry a child.
“Khizr Khaz, now!” was all I could say before everything shattered and I awoke in the pile of robes.
I pushed out of the chest and onto my feet. Barely glanced at Celene as I ran out the building, through the arches, and toward the shrine itself. I took a shortcut through the area around the sepulcher, then ran down the steps toward the street, where gun-toting hooded Order men waited and chatted. They took notice; one shouted, “No one’s allowed on the street! Jotrids are everywhere!” as I ran by toward Saint Jorga’s Bridge. They gave chase. I sprinted harder than I ever had, locusts streaming through my hair.
Ahead, another cohort of Order men blocked the bridge. Too many. They formed a wall; I tried to run aside, but one of them grabbed my arm and pulled me into him.
“How dare you touch me!” I screamed. “Kyars will cut off your hand!”
“You can’t be here!” the bear-like man said. “Return to the shrine!”
I pounded his grip. Smashed it with all my strength. That did nothing, and he only tightened his hold. I writhed and screamed and cursed. I needed blood. Any blood.
I pulled his dagger from his belt. He grabbed my wrist before I could cut myself, then squeezed so tight I couldn’t grip the dagger. It clattered onto the ground.
“Let me go!”
“It’s dangerous! There are Jotrids all over! Return to the shrine!”
“No! Let me go!”
I tried to peer across the bridge but couldn’t see the other side amid the locust swarm. Where was Mansur? Where was my son? Surely, just beyond the bridge!
“Let me just go over the bridge! Please!”
But the men wouldn’t heed. The bear-like one put me over his shoulder and carried me toward the shrine. He didn’t flinch as I pulled his hair and punched his back. I could only resist so much before I huffed, breathless, my strength consumed by rage and longing.
They dropped me on the floor of my lodging, then barred the door. Celene ran up to me, still holding one of those robes, her cheeks tight with worry.
I spent the remaining hours screaming at the guards. Begging them to ask Khizr Khaz if they’d brought my son to him. Trying to get out through the windows, but they guarded them, too. All for my safety. If anything happened to my son, not a one would be safe from me.
If only I could have soulshifted again, but the sun needed to rise. I lamented the limitations of my powers, both worldly and otherworldly.
At dawn, they relented and escorted me to Khizr Khaz’s office. The old warrior was conversing with some stoop-backed vizier.
“Out!” I screamed at the vizier. He win
ced and crawled out of the room.
Khizr Khaz folded his hands and glared at me. “Sultana, I heard about your…behavior. I apologize for not addressing you sooner, but last night kept me occupied. Now tell me, what’s the matter?”
“Last night, I had a dream. I saw my son. I saw him being brought to this shrine. Where is he?”
Khizr bade me to sit. I didn’t.
“A dream?” he said. “Sultana, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Father Chisti himself brought my son to me in the dream. Where is he?” I wiped the slobber which had burst onto my chin.
Khizr shut his eyes and sighed. “You look like you haven’t slept. No one has, after what happened. We’re all going mad. But I assure you, I don’t know where your son is. Last I heard, he was at the palace, with Mansur.”
I wanted to throw his desk in his face. How could he not know? I’d delivered my baby with Mansur’s hands to one of his Order men. How could he not be here? Was he lying? Was he a traitor?
My arms shook as I glared down at Khizr Khaz. He stood.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Go back to your lodging and rest, sultana. Your son is my foremost priority. Are you even aware that, last night, the Jotrids broke through the wall? They’ve reinforced Mansur’s hold on the Sand Palace. The awful truth is — we’ve been dealt a hard blow that—”
I turned away and marched outside to the fresh morning air. Tugged on my hair. Paced back and forth, retreading it in my mind. I’d handed Seluq to that cloaked, fair-haired, jelly-chewing man. He had my baby. He was an Order man, and so he had to be here. I’d turn over this whole shrine if I had to!
Either Khizr Khaz was lying, or his men were not loyal. But then where else would those Order men take Mansur and my child? Surely not back to the palace.
I turned to see Khizr Khaz, hood down and white hair blowing with the breeze.
“You called him Father,” he said.
“What?”
“Saint Chisti. You called him Father. Slip of the tongue, I assume?”
Had I? How foolish of me. “So what? He is the father of our faith, so to speak.”
Khizr Khaz shook his head. “He is, but no one refers to him that way, save for those far astray, on a path descending to hellfire.”
I wanted to smash his head against the stone arch. “My son is in danger, and you chastise me for a stray word?”
“Stray words oft reveal the truth. Does Kyars know you’re Path of the Children?”
“Freeze in hell.” I spat at his feet.
As I turned and walked away, he said, “What else are you hiding, I wonder?”
I went to the women’s section of the shrine for some privacy. Sat in the carpeted area nearest the sepulcher, which was covered by a wire cage. I shut my eyes and allowed the cool air blowing down from the leaf-colored dome to soothe me. But it didn’t. Nothing could stop my heart from pounding with rage.
Nothing could stop the tears, either. I covered my face, but they flowed onto my lips, tasting bitter and dark. I’d gotten my son back. I’d held him, kissed him, felt his beating heart. How could this happen? He was there, just outside, across the bridge, across the cursed saint’s bridge!
No matter my power, I could never stop it. I’d watched Seluq’s horde drown my daughters, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters. My son, his son, and his son’s son had been strangled. Three of the Twelve Chiefs of the Children — I could do naught for them.
Why did I survive? Because I was a bird watching from a treetop. After the cycle ended, Father Chisti brought me to this time, this place to rebirth our lineage. It was all on me, all on me, but I was never enough, never enough.
Footsteps pattered on the carpet. I turned to see that girl — Safia, or rather, Sadie, rubbing the crust out of her eye. She seemed as bleary as me as she sat in the middle of the room and stared at the sepulcher, her lips still and prayerless.
Khizr Khaz had asked what I was hiding. Well, nice to know I wasn’t the only one. I scooted over to her; she welcomed my presence with a gulp that rolled down her throat as if she’d swallowed a leather ball.
“What were you doing last night?” I asked.
She covered her mouth as she yawned. “Guarding one of the bridges. Not much else we could do.”
How had Shah Murad’s daughter become so masterful with arrows? The Seluqal women in Alanya were not trained to fight. The Alanyans liked to cast the Sirmians as warlike — if even the princesses were warriors, it must be true. Whereas the Seluqals in Alanya embraced the ways and words of the saint-kings they conquered, it seemed the Seluqals in Sirm clung somewhat more to the ways of the Waste.
“Did you…” I sniffled. “Did you see an old man carrying a baby?”
She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head.
Why was she here? Why wasn’t she with her family? Did she not understand how precious a moment with your blood is? With your mother and father and brothers and sisters and daughters and sons? All that matters is blood. Only blood.
I sobbed as I stared into her kind pupils — the color of late afternoon sunshine. I seemed to spread my sadness to her; her eyes watered.
“What happened?” she asked.
I covered my sobbing face and shook my head. “Don’t trouble — yourself with — my sorrows, dear.”
“I heard Mansur has your son captive. I wish I could help.”
“Why? Why help me?”
She let out a heavy breath. “I’ve seen so much death. Seen death itself. I thought by helping your son’s father that I could help spare Alanya…whatever it was that happened…up in Sirm, where my father fought.”
She wanted to relate her wisdom yet couldn’t expose herself. A fine seam she threaded, but I’d let her.
I said, “I would’ve been proud to have a…sister like you.” I really meant daughter. “The Jotrids have their women holding bows, but the Jotrids…there’s nothing good about them.” They reminded me of Seluq and his horde. “They’re cruel and uncultured. You, on the other hand, seem to hold every virtue.” If I could wield a bow like her, perhaps I could’ve killed Seluq and stopped this awful history from unfolding.
“That’s not true,” she said. “I’m a coward. I always do the easy thing. I run away.” Had she run from her family? Was that why she was so far from home? “I’d rather fight someone else’s battles, because my own scare me so much.”
I rubbed away my tears. “Do you know the story of Safia, your namesake, daughter of Fa…Saint Chisti?” My great-great-great-great-grandmother.
Sadie shook her head. “I had no idea it was his daughter’s name.”
Of course she didn’t. The saint worshippers pretended like his children never were — their shame for killing us all. I began, “When Safia was twelve years old, she was taken by…” I pointed to the sepulcher.
“By Saint Jamshid?” Sadie raised her eyebrows.
I nodded. “Jamshid wanted to resolve the rift between himself and the family of his teacher, Chisti. As his best student, he considered himself the heir, and I think he really believed it because Chisti had no sons, only daughters. So he took his teacher’s favorite daughter, without asking, to be his wife. That way, his children would have Chisti’s blood, and there’d be no conflict.”
Sadie shrugged. “Sounds reasonable…sort of…but he kidnapped her…so maybe not…”
“Safia had already been promised to her cousin, and he swore he would save her.”
“Cousins? Well, I know the feeling…”
I rather enjoyed how engaged she was, but I’d barely begun the story. “Armies were raised, and a battle was to be fought over a twelve-year-old girl, one that would decide the future of the Faith.”
“Right,” she said. “I think I remember something about that battle. Though the way I learned it, Jamshid was fighting to keep the Faith together. Fighting heretics who had manipulated Saint Chisti’s family and sought to divide the Faith of Lat.”
Of course they’d
tell such lies. In truth, it was Jamshid who split the Faith with his avarice.
“Well, either way, we all know Jamshid won. And it wasn’t even close. But he didn’t get what he wanted. Safia, through sheer cleverness, escaped and traveled to the Vogras Mountains, where she married and founded a great tribe. They became known as the Children.”
Sadie put a finger to her chin. “Hmm, the Children. A few zabadar tribes in Sirm still follow their path.”
“Is that so? The Seluqals there permit it?”
She nodded. “In Kostany, they have their own sheikhs and shrines. But they don’t call them shrines — they call them gates, I think. But…I don’t want to overstate things…their followers are very few.”
Those who called themselves Path of the Children today were like a shadow cast by a long-dead flame. They barely knew what to believe. They called their shrines gates because they imagined, by entering them, they were walking through a gate into the presence of the Twelfth Chief, my great-grandson, whom they believed would return to save the earth from the Great Terror.
Nonsense. He was strangled to death. I was the only one who survived that bloodbath. I, and my son Seluq, would save them by uniting the east under one padishah with the blood of Father Chisti, as it was always meant to be.
But I couldn’t blame them for inventing falsehoods to give themselves hope. At least they were trying to follow the true path, unlike these saint worshippers.
“Are you…one of them?” Sadie asked.
“If I were, they’d lock me in a dungeon until I recanted. Do I look like I’d do well in a dungeon?” I smiled. “My mother, though, believed. That’s why I know the story.”
“Saints. Children. Angels. Lat. I never understood why everyone hates everyone else for the sake of things we’ve never seen. Although…”
Well, she was looking at the Children, so that wasn’t true. But could I be like the best of us, like my grandmother, Safia? Could I survive this and rebirth our tribe? Rekindle the flame of truth?
Dwelling on her story — how she persevered despite all seeming lost — calmed my heart. There was hope. I needed to find my son and wipe out Mansur and his Jotrids. I’d use every bloodrune I’d ever learned if it came to it.
