by Zamil Akhtar
So I would die as Zedra, a proud daughter of Chisti. But I wasn’t her, was I? I’d warred for my blood, though I didn’t have that blood, and neither did my son. The real Zedra, her soul must’ve been in Barzakh. I was just a shadow. A mirage.
And it’d all been for nothing. Nothing but the machinations of an evil angel who wanted to curse the land.
I kissed my sleeping son on the forehead. “Goodbye, Seluq.”
I took a deep breath — my final one as Zedra — held out my finger, and touched the rune.
Epilogue
Cyra
The palace was empty by the time we arrived. Kyars had enough time, it seemed, to load the treasury and flee the city, leaving us with a precarious hold. But Qandbajar, my home, was the real treasure.
Those first nights in the Sand Palace were difficult, and not merely because of my screaming bones. Lying alone on silk sheets, the new moon unseen through the window, I thought about what I’d done, ceaselessly, and could hardly sleep or eat.
Was Lat really dead? Whose hand had crushed her? Was that what Marot wanted all along? No, not Marot — whomever Marot was serving.
“It’s not a game when you’re the pawn being sacrificed,” Marot had said when we confronted him in Basil’s Cathedral. “I’m going to suffer for my failure, but not alone,” he’d said in the desert. But if Marot was a pawn, then what was I? What were any of us?
And why did Marot leave us two melodies when all he wanted was for us to kill Lat?
I wanted to ask Eshe, but he wasn’t talking to me. When we returned to Qandbajar, he left the palace, though I didn’t know to where. With my injured back, I couldn’t exactly walk around searching for him but later heard he was at his house in the Glass District. I requested he come to the palace, but he didn’t acquiesce, so I took an escort and traveled to his apartment.
I saw him in the window, but he wouldn’t open the door. I begged and begged, cried and cried, told him how much I loved him, but still he wouldn’t face me. The Jotrids offered to break the door down, but if he didn’t want to see me, then I wouldn’t force him.
He’d said one final thing to me on the ride from the bloody desert to Qandbajar. He said I’d “cursed the land” and that in ten years, the blood plague would “spread throughout Alanya” just like it had in Himyar. It was my fault for not heeding him, for not accepting defeat, for not dying when we were supposed to.
In the end, it seemed I’d been used. Zedra had been used. Even Marot had been used…by whom, or what, I didn’t know. Marot had mentioned his father and grandmother…but also that they weren’t looking our way, yet. So who was his taskmaster, then? Could it be…the Dreamer?
And what of the Blood Star? The Morning Star? What were they? How had they become one and the same? Why had Marot taught us how to use them for sorcery? Just what was going on in the sky, so high above, that we were less than ants?
Too many questions, and no answers, whatsoever.
A week later, the Sylgiz arrived. My tribe. They filled the landscape outside the city, as they’d done when this ordeal began. We needed them — the Jotrids couldn’t conquer Alanya on their own, with enemies in every direction. And so, after a tough negotiation, all of us sitting in a circle on the floor in the great hall, their new khagan, Gokberk — whom I hated because he once stomped on a puppy’s neck, when we were children — finally agreed to an alliance after we promised him all the river-fed land east of Dorud, though we hadn’t conquered it yet. Pashang told me later he would have Gokberk strangled, just in case, once things settled down.
To seal the alliance, Pashang and I married. It wasn’t the ceremony a girl my age dreams about, but it resulted in something better. No one sat the throne, and it was agreed that a council of three Sylgiz and three Jotrids would make decisions.
Everyone quickly realized that a deadlocked council wasn’t much good, so we decided I would be the tiebreaker. That gave me more power than I’d hoped for, but to be true, it all seemed so hollow.
Because, like last time, Mother wasn’t among the Sylgiz who came. Cihan had said she was near death, though I never asked, and no one told me whether she still breathed. Perhaps I couldn’t bear the pain of knowing I was truly, fully alone. What would she think of me, anyway? Would she be proud of her starwriter daughter with the bulging black eye, or horrified at what I’d done to win?
The conversion of the Jotrids was the other bedrock of our alliance. The same day as our marriage, a Silklander scholar named Wafiq, who wore the high felt hat and metal clasp of the Philosophers, presented himself to the council. He claimed to have memorized all the books of recorded sayings of the Twelve Chiefs of the Children — scores of tomes, each hundreds of pages, kept on the top floor of the Tower. Books that had been forbidden since the time of the saint-kings, that only the Philosophers had preserved, as they did all knowledge. He would revive the Path, he claimed, arguing that because the Sylgiz had no written texts, they weren’t following the Path of the Children properly, despite the earnestness with which they cursed the saints. And so, the leaders of both tribes testified to the Faith — to worship only Lat through the intercession of the Children, alone.
And then the Sylgiz, overtaken by a crazed fanaticism, ripped the bodies of the saints from the shrines, burned them in a bonfire at the city center, threw them in a ditch, and covered them in the dung of their horses and herd animals.
It started a fight. Many Jotrids who couldn’t stomach it, as well as tens of thousands of city folk, rioted and arrayed against them to defend the path they’d adhered to all their lives. The council of seven convened in the great hall to decide what to do, splitting down the middle — three Sylgiz wanting to impose the Path of the Children, and three Jotrids, including Pashang, desiring toleration of both paths.
I really considered both arguments. Thought about it perhaps more than I’d ever considered anything. The Seluqals remained the champions of the Path of the Saints, and unless we broke from their past, we would stay in their shadow. Though followers of the Path of the Children were few, they were most numerous in Merva, where Kyars was heading, and if Zedra had taught me anything, it was that they deserved justice for all they’d suffered.
So I broke the tie. We fired upon the rioters and the rebellious Jotrids, killing hundreds, but also ending the riots and sending a clear message: the Path of the Children was the only path in the new Alanya.
What would Khizr Khaz, who I assumed had departed either with Kyars or as his prisoner, think of me, now? What would Eshe? Kevah? Ozar? Hadrith? Mirima? And yet, if there was one thing I’d learned from this whole ordeal, it was that live or die, you had to choose a side. You had to make enemies. And so we continued to, from there on.
But it was all so hollow.
The night after we put down the riots, I visited Nora and her son. We renamed him Kazin after the Twelfth Chief of the Children, Zedra’s great-grandson. Pashang had insisted we keep Nora close because she could speak and read every language. I also wondered if she could still bloodwrite and soulshift, but now wasn’t the time to test that.
Poor girl was still in grief — to her, the deaths of her family and tribe had just happened. She sat on her bed and stared at the ceiling while her son cried in his crib. Of course, she couldn’t remember ever becoming a mother, either. But Pashang had told me she’d helped raise her sisters, one of whom was still alive, somewhere. I’d instructed some clerks to find out where the slavers had sold her, perchance we could reunite them.
Celene wheeled me to the base of Nora’s bed and went to quiet the baby. I could hardly believe this girl wasn’t Zedra. Those dark, marble eyes seemed less intense, and she kept her curly hair to the back rather than the sides. Still, something about her…one day, she went into the garden and gathered a fistful of red tulips, which Zedra always loved. I also saw her twirl, the way Zedra would when happy. She even liked the ice bath.
“Is it supper time?” she asked. Her accent was as slanted as mine when I first a
rrived in the harem, whereas Zedra spoke Paramic like she’d invented it.
“It’s always supper time if you want it to be,” I said with a smile.
But Nora only squirmed. Seemed I intimidated her.
“Can I go in the garden?”
“Of course. I’ll call your escort.” I had ten Jotrids guarding her at all times. I assumed intrigues would soon target her and her son, and so had to keep vigilant.
Before she left the room, I took her hand and clasped it. By Lat, we shared the exact hand size. I’d not held Zedra’s hand before, so never noticed. I recalled the day I discovered the blood handprint in the steam chamber, which happened to fit me perfectly. How far I’d come from that crying girl, who could hardly stomach Hadrith’s intrigues, let alone those of an angel.
The next day, Pashang and Gokberk and I gathered in one of the smaller, more intimate meeting rooms to discuss our missive to the Imperator of Crucis.
“Are we going to ally with heathens?” Gokberk said. Half his face was a scar, starting from where a bear had pulled off his ear. “To kill heretics?”
Pashang had taken to the palace’s rose wine and so always clutched a goblet, though he never seemed drunk. “Heretics. Heathens. Your vocabulary is like a four-year-old, Gokberk…”
In the end, we requested Crucian guns, bombards, and engineers in exchange for Celene. When I told her about it, she shrugged and said, “You can try to send me home, but the Archangel has decreed I die here, in the east, in your service.”
How nice to have my very own sycophant. But if given the choice, I knew she would go home. Once we’d forged an agreement with the Imperator, she’d have to.
Speaking of sycophants: I won’t lie, I found Wafiq strange. He had those almond-shaped Silklander eyes, a patchy beard, and the most scholarly demeanor. He was second only to Grand Philosopher Litani, it seemed, and so knew much. Too much. People who know things tend to be indispensable, and he made himself so at our gatherings.
He would hold daily lectures about the true Path of the Children, filling the room with those who sought to be missionaries, or Lightgivers, as he liked to call them.
“The Padishah of the Final Hour is coming,” he would say. “We will prepare for his arrival, as best we know how — by being righteous Latians. By honing all we do toward one purpose — the Faith. But our weapons are honed by knowledge, and so seek knowledge, even if you must travel to the Silklands…”
I wondered if, one day, we’d have to strangle him too, like we’d do for Gokberk. For now, his preaching helped bring purpose to two tribes that hated each other. If only Wafiq knew Lat was likely dead, what would he say, then?
An unexpected visitor graced the great hall as our council took audience the next morning: Ruhi, clad in her black, all-covering veil. We’d sent the Disciples a missive days ago — the Archers of the Eye had vacated the city, so it traveled by horse — demanding they recognize our authority, renounce the Path of the Saints, and embrace the Path of the Children.
“We are here to give reply to your message,” Ruhi said, standing with four other Disciples, all whom I recognized from that humiliating interrogation in Zelthuriya. “The Disciples of Chisti consider this palace stolen, and its current occupiers thieves. We encourage you to vacate, turn back to the straight path, and submit to justice, in the sight of Lat and her saints.”
Not unexpected. To my right and left, beneath the golden divan, sat the Council of Seven, as we now officially called ourselves. All grumbled at Ruhi’s words, whereas I smiled.
“Thank you for your answer,” I said. I recalled Wafiq’s lectures. “We hone all we do toward one purpose — the Faith. Our weapons are knowledge. Holy Zelthuriya was once the seat of learning, where Chisti and his Children taught mankind righteousness, truthfulness, and godliness.” I wheeled myself forward, a few arm spans from Ruhi. “Tell the Disciples that the light of the Children will shine there, once more, very soon.”
Of course, we couldn’t hold Alanya without Zelthuriya. The Disciples wouldn’t give it up without a battle, one we’d have to begin planning.
Ruhi shook her head. “I knew you were a rotten date. But I didn’t expect…this. Truly, Cyra, turn back. The straight path is always there. It’s never too late.”
I spread my arms out. “This is the straight path. The only straight path. Best you get on it before it’s too late.”
That night, Pashang bedded me. Finally. He had to be gentle because my bones had barely healed. It hurt at first, but it was quite nice by the end. Afterward, we sat on the balcony and took reports from a Jotrid scout — apples, wine, and a midnight breeze our comforts.
“Kyars’ army makes its way to Merva. The magus, Kevah, and his lady are among them, as well as a third companion known to be a Crucian spy. Khizr Khaz, however, was not sighted there, and neither was gholam commander Kato.”
So that was where they’d gone. I assumed Kevah would return to Zelthuriya, but it seemed he had some other plan. Sheikh Khizr might be in the holy city, though. Kato, I could only hope, was a puddle of blood in the desert.
Pashang downed his rose wine, then refilled his goblet. “Mansur’s children…one is a true…true man in my own image. He won’t let Kyars just walk into Merva, especially after what he did to his father.”
The thought of someone else squashing Kyars for us seemed too good to be true. “But if they do join their hosts, and if Barkam marches on us, too…” I spilled my wine on the floor.
“That’s precious treasure, don’t waste it!” Pashang said, snapping his fingers at a eunuch to clean my spill. “Let’s do the clever thing. We’ll send spies into both camps, light some fires, make them think they’re attacking each other. I don’t think it’ll be so hard.”
“What about Zelthuriya? Should we not focus on that? Can you imagine how stunned the world would be if we took the center of the Faith?”
“Stunned enough for all the Latian kingdoms to unite against us?”
We planned and plotted until I fell into a wine stupor.
The next night, he finally came to see me. Eshe. Seemed I’d sent the message that without his guidance, I was doomed to inflict the horrors he’d warned about.
But I was wrong. That wasn’t why he’d come.
Celene wheeled me into the garden, then left us alone. A waning crescent hung in the sky, milky and bright. Fireflies fluttered about — not the green ones. Heavy dew moistened the air and glowed on the buds of red tulips.
“I made a mistake,” he said, “that day when I risked my life to carry you to Zelthuriya. I should have let you die. If only I’d known.”
Hearing those words, I cried for the first time in days. “I don’t regret saving you, and I never will.”
He’d become…gaunt. Had he been eating? The bags under his eyes made clear he hadn’t been sleeping, either. But in that, we were alike.
“You chose, Cyra, but you chose wrong. And now everyone has to suffer.” He shook his head, as if shaking off his rage. “No, I chose wrong. It was my test, and I let my feelings for you poison me.”
Was I really so evil? But I never wanted this. Fate had thrust it upon me, cruelly. “I’m sorry,” I said, as if I were apologizing for spilling wine.
“I came to tell you that I’ll be devoting my time to stopping the blood plague. Stopping its spread, so it doesn’t engulf our country like it did to Himyar. Regardless of who rules, that’s something no one wants.”
Hopeful words. So, he wasn’t shunning me entirely. He needed me. “Of course, Eshe. That’s what I want, too. I’ll support you in every way I can.”
He snickered and smiled, the saddest smile I’d ever seen. Tears streamed into his beard. “You think you can sin and then just be forgiven because you’re sorry? Have you asked each and every person you made suffer, and each of their families, for forgiveness, too? You think you can sin and be forgiven without justice? There’s no forgiveness for what you’ve done, for what you’re doing, to this country, every day.”<
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But truly, was I so different from Tamaz? Unlike him, I wasn’t hiding behind the Jotrids, letting them soak the blood so my floor could sparkle. Didn’t Eshe see that at least I wasn’t a hypocrite?
A gust rustled the palms and added a chill to my tongue. “The truth is, Eshe…the thing is you never asked Ruhi for forgiveness, either. Because you believed you served the greater good, despite the suffering you caused her. But the truth is, if you don’t value a single human life, you don’t value any of them. And I did what I had to do. I was given an awful choice, but at least I made it. I didn’t leave it to someone else. I’m the one soaking in blood, bearing the sins, because that’s what it takes to rule Alanya.”
Eshe turned his back, as if too disgusted to look at me. “Justify it, like all the others, then. I never claimed I was a good person, but I hoped you were. That’s why it hurts so much.”
“I never claimed that, either. I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you tried to steer me right…but if I had to choose, I’d do it again. I’m done trying to walk the straight path. I’m done trying to be good.”
“I couldn’t steer you right…because I don’t know right in the first place. I was relieved when you saved us. I was only too happy to keep breathing, at the cost of everything. The truth is, I hate what I am, and I hate that you’re as lost as me.”
“Don’t you see, Eshe? We all are. The blind can’t lead the blind!”
At that, he walked away, leaving me alone amid the red tulips and fireflies.
Celene wheeled me to my room, to the balcony with its soothing breeze. I looked upon Qandbajar — how peaceful it finally seemed. And yet…how hollow. This wasn’t how home was supposed to feel. This wasn’t a place of hope. No more Eshe, Zedra, Kyars, Tamaz, Ozar, Mirima, Sambal, Vera, Hadrith. They’d been replaced by strange names: Pashang, Wafiq, Gokberk, Nora, Celene. Was my home merely a city named Qandbajar? An ordered pile of mud, brick, and stone? Or was it the familiar names that made it home?
