A hero to one and a monster to another. But I think about the Azadnian villagers who came to help me on the night of the raid – they were my heroes too. Tonight is a night of contradictions.
‘You should have that warrior train you,’ I say lightly.
She bends her head. ‘I embarrassed myself before them. In Khor, each time that I’d see the warrior, I’d follow them, clinging to their cloak, until they would sit me down with kahvah to silence me. They warned me of Za’skar and its schools. But because of my stubbornness, the warrior agreed to bring me here, despite my family’s protests. I do not see the warrior often, but sometimes, when they return, they greet me with kahvah and rose faloodeh.’
I almost crack a smile. ‘Faloodeh?’
She flushes. ‘Who doesn’t like faloodeh? But that’s not my point. All of us are here, fighting to be warriors. You are no different.’
My right knee tucks into my chest. How can I explain to her this wrangling conflict between the desires caught in the past and the desires of the present?
‘While in training, you assumed I felt nothing,’ I say. ‘But in truth, all I feel is anger. Not loud anger, but the gentle, simmering kind, liketea above a slow-burning fire. The kind that does not leave, even in prayer. I fear that is all I will feel until my last breath is anger.’
‘Well, is ityouranger?’
I cannot meet her eyes. ‘Go rest.’
I only wish the anger were mine.
Throughout the night, I watch the children slumber. Yahya rolls here and there, pressing his cheek against my chest. Something rises through the curve of my throat; I am unused to this kind of contact. I cannot recall ever doing this with Uma. But pressing against my discomfort is a fierce urge to take hold of him and promise to protect him, wielding my blade. Are not all warriors maternal in how they defend?
As the changing hues of dawn shimmer through a stained-glass window like strokes of paint against the canvas of the students’ skin, my hand reaches out, wishing I had the courage to brush their hair as an uma might do. Is this how it feels to have a child? To hope for their best, even against the cruelty of empires and warring men? Was this my uma’s world? I never understood her, not even her death, but right now, I think I understand more than I ever did before.
‘I am hungry,’ No-Name whimpers again, taking my hand into her mouth trying to eat it. Her eyes are no longer upon the bowl of mulberries. They are on the children.
A growl rustles me awake. I must have fallen asleep.
‘Take her into the exorcism ward!’ The distant shout of a Qabl monk.
I struggle to my feet and peer out of the room. Across the hall, above the bone-stone archway, it reads:
SPECIAL SECOND BUREAU OF EAJIZ JINN POSSESSION AND EXORCISMS.
I recognise Sister Umairah and two junior monks dragging a young woman between their arms.
‘She arrived today?’ Umairah asks, her robed form obscuring my view of another figure.
‘She broke her contract with Heaven. The pressure of the siege made her crack.’ I hold my breath at hearing the Sepahbad’s low voice. ‘The fool attempted the Gates technique and her bonds corrupted, attracting the jinn. I suppose you know the feeling of jinn possession well.’
She sighs. ‘Given her past as a prisoner in Azadniabad, she’s more vulnerable than most. It’s always the youngest who become a Corruption.’ Umairah clutches her prayer beads. ‘Beware, my Sepahbad, jinn possession increases in your ranks.
The possessed woman rends her nails against her own neck until her scaly flesh peels into ribbons. She growls, spittle foaming at her lips. Her black eyes dart up, down, and then –to me.
My head pounds, a flurry of memories squirming out of the bloodied sinews of my mind. I stagger forward. That cannot be. This is—
The possessed woman from my childhood.
I cower against the vaulted wall, suddenly in the past, seeing a young woman surrounded by cawing birds in the meadow, throwing me down, teeth bloodied, before Older Brother struck her unconscious with an exorcism.
My head shakes.No. I must be mistaken. It was years ago; I cannot remember her features well. I assumed that woman had died. How is she in Sajamistan years later?
Something tugs within my chest.
Impossibly, the space between the woman and me shimmers. A gold silky line – a Heavenly bond – connects the warrior’s spasming body to mine, but it vanishes just as quickly.
‘Take her.’ The junior monks drag the girl into the exorcism ward, carrying the scent of blessed olive and black seed oils. The Sepahbad rakes a hand through his hair and pauses at seeing me against the wall. I flee back into the room.
25
