‘After the month of reflection before the spring. Duxzam is forbidden in the fasting days marking Prophet Nuh’s departure from the ark. Perhaps you can plead to the Divine to save you.’ His grin widens like the expression of a soon-to-be rich man. His eyes remind me of the leopards I once spied roaming the Ghaznian mountains in the silvery nights, snapping the necks of white hares slinking along the trails.
Staggering back, the blood loss finally creeps in. I fall to my knees, unsure if my dizziness is from injury or the frenzy of a hare backed into a corner.
‘We must bandage your leg,’ a Qabl medic tells me.
I support my arm on the window. The infirmary is attached to the monastery, with embossed schemes of greens and bronze, mosaics ofpaintings showing horned creatures treated by sages. My eyes dart upwards at the stars, living, flickering things against the black.
I imagine the cosmic light is my strength and if I so choose, I can light the dark world at the snap of my fingers; I can follow that light’s path to home. The fantasy is gone too soon at the reminder of the Duxzam: the key that returns me to my clan or the one that locks my chains in this city.
After the healer ties the bandage, she places at my floor-bed a tray of figs, mulberries and a bowl of yakhni floating with a film of milk fat and lamb bones before leaving. No-Name crawls to it and dips a finger tentatively into the bowl, then brings it to her mouth.
‘It tastes odd,’ she murmurs. She turns to the mulberries, and after licking one, her black eyes grow huge. ‘This is good!’ She dives into the bowl, but the mulberries fall past her tongue, unable to be swallowed by her immaterial form.
‘Stop that,’ I snap before rolling over in my wool quilt.
‘I’m hungry,’ No-Name cries, as I wonder how my students are faring in the other rooms.
As if thought brings them into existence, a flurry of footsteps rouses me. ‘Master,’ a voice hisses. ‘Are you awake?’
I sit up. ‘I don’t have a choice it seems...’ My voice trails off at seeing Arezu and the other students shepherded in by Katayoun.
She sighs. ‘They ruined my sleep and forced me to bring them to you.’ With a raised hand, Katayoun leaves quickly.
Arezu’s cheeks are bruised, a sleepy Yahya on her back. Sohrab’s arm is in a splint, and beside him, Yasaman looks well except for bandages around her fingers.
‘You should be resting.’
They exchange glances. I wonder how they do that, speaking silently in their own understanding.
‘We are,’ Arezu eventually answers before they slip on to my bedding.
Yahya throws himself across me, and the breath knocks out of my chest.
‘A-at ease,’ I sputter.
‘Order them to leave,’ No-Name says as she tries to snag a mulberry. Over the bowl, our eyes meet.It is only one night. Her expression furrows. ‘Hungry,’ she murmurs again.
Yahya snores into my chest and, gradually, after shoves and snatchedblankets, the other students quiet into light dozes. Except Arezu – she clutches her stomach, curling in beside me.
‘Were you injured during the Marka?’ I glance down at her.
‘I was only wounded on my arms. So why is my,’ her voice drops, almost mortified,‘stomach sore?’
After a moment, I ask, ‘Have you ever bled?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ve heard the other pazktab girls speak of it, but I’ve never had it.’
I study her, dumbfounded. At sixteen, Arezu has not had her bleeding-cycle? And is it not the duty of a parent to tell her about these matters? A curiosity ensnares me, but I bat it away.
I cannot fathom being a parent; children are fat whining pigs. Who would willingly choose to have them?
More aggressively than perhaps I should, I grit out, ‘When it happens, come to me, then.’
She pauses, not expecting my offer. ‘Something has changed within you. I-I am still waiting... for a scolding, for disobeying you in the Marka.’
‘You are not a babe nor that young. I am only a few years older.’ But I feel much older.
‘Yahya was almost hurt.’
