by Zamil Akhtar
Did she want me to say sorry? Sorry I destroyed your life. Maimed you. Killed a man you treasured and got your brother killed. I wished I’d never done it, but I couldn’t hold that remorse. True remorse requires repentance, and true repentance requires justice, and if I were to face justice, then who would protect my son?
“I…” She kicked a stone, put her hands in her pockets, and gazed at the ground. Good. She was doing my delaying for me. “I…even after all you’ve done, Zedra, I’ve decided — I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want to hurt your son.”
That made me smile. “Then why block our way?”
“Because I can no longer let you abuse your power. Your power to bloodwrite, to soulshift. You can leave with your son, but not with your sorcery.”
What? Had she found a way to strip me of my sorcery? Impossible…but with her, it seemed nothing was. I swallowed a lump.
“Zedra…we were happy, weren’t we?”
“I was never happy.” I shook my head. “My pain…the pain of my tribe…six hundred years couldn’t wash it away.” Perhaps I ought to lengthen this story, get her to sympathize. “You were born and raised on the same path. The Path of the Children. You know our story, what we suffered. Don’t tell me eight years with the saint worshippers erased your love for the Children.”
Birds squawked overhead — vultures. How ominous…and clever.
“I haven’t forgotten the Children,” Cyra said, “but I never cared for the divide. What does it matter whether you believe in the saint-kings or in Chisti’s descendants? In the end, we worship the same god, in mostly the same ways. But it was never about god — it was about power. I know it’s not what you want to hear, Zedra, but it’s what I believe. And I fear…I fear that man used your pain to control you. He’s not who you think he is. He’s not Father Chisti.”
“I know…” I looked away in shame. “I could never understand why he was so different from the holy man I imagined. Why he’d been severed from Lat. And yet, I don’t blame him for what I did. His motives might be false, but mine aren’t. I do want what I want, and I’m still going to get it, but I’ll do it my way, not his.”
“That’s all I’ve been wondering.” Cyra’s voice cracked. “What do you want, Zedra?”
The sad truth is, I could’ve just done nothing. I could’ve let Cyra marry Kyars, and the three of us would’ve raised my son into the eventual Shah of Alanya. Had I just let it be…but I wanted to make them suffer, more than I wanted justice and mankind’s salvation. I wanted to destroy the saint worshippers and the Seluqals who championed their path, and I still did.
“Cyra, you’re a fool for thinking we can resolve this. There’s no world where you and I share a place. My son is going to be the Shah of Alanya one day, and you’re going to be dead in a ditch.” Curse the saints…that outburst wasn’t helping. All this time, I’d let rage poison my words and deeds. I couldn’t achieve what I wanted this way — I needed to grip myself the way a warrior grips a sword.
“Why?” She seemed to struggle to pluck her words. “What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing! You did nothing!” I shouted so loud that those out of earshot must’ve heard, their necks steered in our direction. “You were innocent, and I know you earnestly tried to be my friend. But that’s all shattered into a thousand thousand pieces, and we can’t put it back together. And…you’re right. It’s all because of me — my weaknesses, my delusions, my wickedness.” Perhaps if I showed remorse, she’d think her plan working, and we could continue conversing until help arrived.
“I can’t accept that. Whatever made you invade my body and do what you did…needs to die. If it was that man who made you do it, then say so. I’ll understand that he misled you…that you thought you were doing something good.”
I sighed, wishing I could say that. Perhaps I ought to absolve myself. Put the blame on that man and his whispering. It would make her hate me less, perhaps even forgive me, if her tone were true. But I didn’t want her forgiveness. I didn’t care if she hated me. Eventually, for the safety of my son, I’d have to kill her, regardless.
“It was me,” I said, hoping she’d appreciate my honesty. “I won’t lie. I didn’t feel bad stabbing Tamaz. He was just another evil man hiding behind a mask of kindness, sitting on a throne that his ancestor Seluq took by might. A throne that belongs to my family alone.” Finally saying that to someone’s face was like lifting a boulder off my chest. “As for you, Cyra…I never liked you, and maybe that’s why I didn’t feel bad hurting you. You think of us as friends, but I’m too old to be your friend. You were like a petulant child to me, and you still behave like one.” I didn’t expect honesty to sting so much. “That’s the sincerest thing I can say.”
Her eyes watered; she shook her head. “You say it so matter-of-factly. As if you’re recounting an average day in the life of Zedra. Are you sorry in the least?”
Honesty seemed to be working, bringing out her emotions…as well as mine. “Why does it matter? You said you don’t want to hurt me…well, I have a way out for you, too. Take your Jotrids and go into the deepest, reddest part of the Endless. Never come near this kingdom, and I won’t have to kill you. We’re only enemies because we’re both trying to sit on that dais, just beneath the golden divan in the great hall. If not for yourself, then do it for Alanya, Cyra. My son is the heir, and as his mother, I can’t get what I deserve, because if I did, they’d string me up, and there’d be no one to protect him from the machinations of the viziers and sheikhs and gholam and whoever else wants a piece of him. Stop only seeking justice for yourself — think about what’s best for everyone. I need you to see beyond yourself, for once.”
I couldn’t have said it better, could I? Surely that was my best, sincerest, and most honest argument.
Cyra kicked another stone off the road. “You’re the one not seeing. You’re the one who brought calamity to the kingdom — I just reacted to what you did. For the sake of your son, I’m going to let you live. Bereft of your power. Alanya will be shaped by us, not the Seluqals, and not you.” She huffed out an exasperated breath. Bearing these heavy words seemed to take a lot out of her, as it did me. “I’m giving you a way out, one that you don’t deserve.”
I chuckled at her overconfidence. Determination mattered, sure, but in that she’d met her match. “Lat herself gifted this kingdom to the Children. My grandmother, Safia, ran away because she had no power. She couldn’t bloodwrite, nor soulshift, nor write upon the stars. I’m not so weak.” I smiled as tenderly as I could. “Thank you for offering me a way out. You’re right — it’s more than I deserve. But I can’t let you take my power. Understand this, Cyra. I’m not seeking justice — I am justice. Justice for the Children. I will destroy what destroyed them. I will restore their place upon the throne of the earth. You can be safe from my wrath, so long as you go and never return. It’s really that easy, dear.”
This conversation wasn’t as worthless as I’d expected. So many doubts plagued me on the carriage ride, but Cyra had — unintentionally, I’m sure — reminded me of my gifts, my enemies, my purpose. Perhaps that man had fooled me, but the injustice suffered by the Children was no mirage. My ability to right those wrongs was real, and I’d already started down that path. Baby Seluq still had my blood, which made him the Children, regardless of whom his father was. I couldn’t run away from what I’d started; rather, I’d have to return to Qandbajar, once my son was safe in Dorud, to finish it.
“Cyra!” Pashang shouted from down the road. He and Eshe raised their hands and ran over to us. Behind me, Kato and one other gholam did the same.
Pashang pointed toward the open scrub. “Someone’s coming!”
I squinted to see a single horseman galloping toward us.
Kato stood in front of me, as if to be my shield. “This your trick?” he said to Pashang. “I’m sending a rider to intercept.”
“No trick,” Pashang replied, “unless it’s yours. I’m sending one, too.”
They both
gestured their orders to their respective riders, who took off to meet whoever was coming at us.
“Let’s go, Zedra,” Kato said. “I don’t like this.”
I couldn’t help but watch the Jotrid rider and the gholam rider approach the oncoming horseman.
“Zed, let’s go!”
Pashang and Eshe begged the same of Cyra. I was about to follow Kato back to the caravan when the riders we’d sent to intercept suddenly…vanished. Into the air.
The oncoming horseman sped up. The ground quaked as he neared. By Lat…my throat tightened and my hairs chilled…it was him.
“Father?” I said as the rider arrived, not knowing what else to call him.
And he wasn’t alone. At his back, bound together with rope, were Sadie and Celene. With one hand, he gripped the rope binding them, held them both up as they wriggled and screamed like trapped rats, and tossed them into the air. They landed with a soft plush in a pile of sand while the rest of us backed away.
Kato said, “Hurry back, now. We’ll deal with him.”
Gholam rode by, matchlocks forward, toward Father. I didn’t want to watch, but I had to see. Had to see what he’d do.
Father drew a line in the air, as if the riders were a picture he was striking out. Heads flew off necks; blood erupted; their bodies dropped onto the road as the horses nickered and ran in fear.
“Fuck,” Kato said, eyes stuck with terror.
“You’re the one who needs to run. Go to your son and daughter — take my son, too — and get out of here!”
“I’ll not leave you, Zed.”
“He’s here for me!” I grabbed Kato’s shoulder plates. “You all need to go!”
“No way I’m telling Kyars I deserted the mother of his son. If I must die fighting some debased sorcerer, then so be it! I’ll be in good company.”
“He’s not just some sorcerer!”
I pushed Kato away and ran toward Father. Father drew a square in my direction. Sand erupted into the air at my back, forming what resembled a waterfall…a sandfall. It grew and widened until it was bigger than a palace, cutting me off from Kato, the gholam, and my son.
“Stop this!” I yelled.
He drew a square in the other direction, and a sandfall erupted behind Cyra, blocking her from her allies. Then he did the same toward the mountains, and the scrub, until a deafening wall of falling sand enveloped us.
I knew what he wanted. Why else drag Celene and Sadie here? For the bloodpainting I refused to make. But if he were so powerful, why couldn’t he just paint it himself?
Father climbed down his horse, then tugged off the rope binding Sadie and Celene. Free to move, they both crawled away. But there was nowhere to go.
Cyra approached Father, as did I. The air between us filled with sand blowing and roaring across the sandfalls. It stuck in my eyes and mouth and hair.
Sadie and Celene got to their feet and held hands. Cyra made a fist and glared at Father.
“Marot!” she screamed.
Marot…the angel who’d tempted men with magic. One of the Twelve revered by the Ethosians. I’d seen his mural in Celene’s mirage, holding four cards at his front and ever more behind his back as he offered men the power to write with blood and on the stars. So that’s who Father was.
“I failed.” His voice came from above, below, everywhere. “I’m going to suffer for my failure, but not alone. You’ll do what must be done.”
Celene tugged on her hair, tears across her face. Sadie’s arms shook as she hugged herself. Cyra glared at Marot with her fist outstretched.
I stepped in front of him, not even bothering to rub the sand from my tear ducts. “I won’t do it. I won’t hurt them. If you’re so intent, stain your own hands.”
Marot said, “That’s not how this works. You have to do it. Because if I were to write a bloodrune that powerful…well,” he pointed to the sky, “someone up there might notice. Perhaps my father, or grandmother. And if you think I’m bad, see what happens when they’re looking our way.”
I shook my head. “No! I won’t! I won’t ever. You’re a greater evil than anything I’ve seen!”
Someone took my left hand; Cyra, her eyebrows ruffled in anger. She squeezed my hand, dampening it with sweat.
“What are you going to do?” Marot laughed. “Write me out of existence? That’s not how starwriting works. The Blood Star loved the Morning Star — before they merged and thereby destroyed seventeen million worlds. Your handhold must love you too, Cyra. I’m afraid Zedra doesn’t.”
The Blood Star and the Morning Star had merged? As in, they were one and the same?
Marot drew a pattern with many points and sides. He stepped back, and a woman blinked into the spot in front of him. My Kashanese handmaid, and she was holding baby Seluq! Marot grabbed my baby and touched the terrified handmaid on the forehead; she screamed, and her body exploded, blood and guts splashing. I turned away, but it washed over my face, my caftan, and got in my eyes and nose and mouth, tasting sour and sweet and metallic. Fleshy and sickening and full of bile. Her innards must’ve covered Cyra and the others, too. But truly, all I could think about was my son!
I lost sight with the sand and blood blowing in my eyes. My son’s cries, though, were a relief. I rubbed the blood and sand from my face, enough to see Marot cradling my son, his fingertip on the baby’s forehead.
“Please don’t!” I cried. “The blood of Chisti…must never...”
“He doesn’t have the blood of Chisti,” Marot said. “Nor do you. Chisti lives on in my memories, as Zedra lives on in yours.”
What? What lies was he telling? “I’m Zedra, daughter of—”
“No. You’re not. You’re just a sad little girl with the memories of a sad, old woman who died a long time ago. That’s why your blood is so base. But the blood of this little one,” he rocked my son gently, “is my own. God’s blood.”
How could that be true? Impossible. And yet, just as bloodrunes could transport you into another’s dreams, bloodrunes could pass on memories and lifetimes.
But…no…I was there. I lived that life. It couldn’t all be because of some bloodrune! “Don’t hurt Seluq. Are you so vile to harm your own?”
Marot laughed, utterly demonic. “I’ve baptized thousands with the blood of my children — without their sacrifice, there would be no bloodwriters. My father will likely sacrifice me, one day, for his own cosmic purpose. We don’t share your base sensibilities. Ah, but that’s what makes mankind so beloved to Lat, isn’t it? And yet, where is she?” That demonic laugh sapped me of strength. So confident, so in control. “Where is the queen of the jinn, the fallen angel, the protector of this land? Tsk-tsk-tsk. I think it’s quite clear — she has forsaken you.”
A red tinge infected the air; the sand turned…bloody. I looked up to see a red sky, red clouds, and a red sun. Blood in everything.
Sadie stumbled toward me. She clutched my arm. “Zedra, if you must, then use my blood. I’ve already seen death, and I don’t mind it. Just…don’t hurt Celene.”
I wiped an orange bit of flesh dangling off her cheek. “No, I won’t do it.”
“He’ll kill your son. Your son is the heir. He’s more important than me.”
“He’ll be the heir of nothing if I write that rune. They say the Golden Kingdom fell in a decade to the blood plague.”
That made Marot laugh. “I was there.” His voice burned in the air. “It was the Philosophers who succumbed to temptation in the Golden Kingdom. Their lust for power, for advancement, for ascendence brought it upon them. The rivers turned to blood, as did the rain, and even the water in men and beasts, till they exploded from the pressure! To this day, Himyar is a cursed land.”
Cyra approached us, her arm around Celene, who still trembled.
“Why would anyone want that?” Cyra asked. “Why destroy?”
“You always ask ‘why’. But what you really need to ask is — ‘why not’. Leave your house unlocked, do you wonder why someone burgled
it? If you must ask, ask it of your god.”
Why, indeed, was any of this happening? My son! My anchor in the world. My love for him was my only certainty. Even if the blood plague destroyed this kingdom, at least I’d still have him. We could go somewhere else and just live…
I looked to Sadie and Celene. I could choose either. But it would have to be Sadie, wouldn’t it? Sadie was willing to die again.
“I’m going to kill your son,” Marot said from everywhere, “and then, I’m going to kill everyone here. There won’t be a victor. Or, one sacrifice and the rest of you live. Millions will die from blood sickness, but did their lives ever matter to any of you? You who waged wars for your own sake?” That laugh again. “And yet, you think I’m wicked? What I’m not is a hypocrite, content to order death so long as I don’t suffer.”
“Marot!” It was Celene. She screamed, “is this the will of the Archangel!?” at him in Crucian. Of course…Marot was her angel. She was a heathen, after all. Perhaps she ought to die in sacrifice to her own god. Better her than my son. Better this kingdom than my son! Whether he was the Children or not, whether I was the Children or not, we were mother and son, and that no one could take away.
“All right,” I said, glancing between Sadie and Celene. In the end, Sadie had left my side, while Celene stayed true. That ought to be the deciding reason. “Sadie…I’ll do it with her blood.”
Sadie’s eyes widened. “No…if it’s going to kill millions, then—” Her lips clamped shut, and a thread wound across them, tying them so she couldn’t make a sound. Thread bound her hands, too, and a force knocked her to her knees.
Marot came to my side and put a dagger in my hand. “Excellent choice,” he said. “This land will drink deep of her star’s blood.”
Black thread also bound the lips and hands of Celene and Cyra as Marot’s magic forced them to their knees. Only I remained standing while my son wailed in Marot’s grasp.
Perhaps this was justice. Or the closest thing. If the Children couldn’t have this land, then no one should. Better it be cursed, for eternity.
