A week passes until my leg is healed enough to return to classes and trifecta training.
On the steps of the Easkaria, Katayoun halts me. ‘Avoid Cemil. He has not nursed his wounds well.’
‘I will.’
She works her jaw, as if it hurts her to say this. ‘Perhaps your ambitions were not misplaced. You’ve wounded their pride. For that, win your foolish Duxzam. If any warrior can demand even the Heavens for an impossible victory, it is you.’
My tongue fumbles at this. ‘I... I will. And I was being honest, in the Wadiq tests. I prefer your silence over Cemil’s company.’
‘Wouldn’t anyone?’ She holds out her hand expectantly. I hand over a pouch clinking with my monthly stipend.
We step through the corridors, as straggling low-ranks eye us. Upon entering the martial history halqa, a long line indents Scholar Mufasa’s forehead, from dismay or approval, I cannot guess. Dozens of Zero-Slashes stare coldly at Katayoun and me.
The scholar stands from his rahle. ‘I declare your Marka victory an embarrassment.’
My head bows, hands curling in.
‘However, pride does not win battles. You used the resources around you – unbecoming as they were – cleverly. And for that,’ his voices loses its edge, ‘we bestow you this.’
He unsheathes from velvet my khanjar and Katayoun’s khanjar, each with one ivory slash scouring the marbled hilts. ‘You are hereby acknowledged as warriors of First-Slash ranking.’
The days bend into a new routine. In one week, Yabghu is to depart for a military rotation up north; we will merge with another trifecta until his return. He increases the vigour of our trifecta training on the monastery, particularly challenging Katayoun after the Marka. A stone-faced Cemil and I avoid speaking to each other.
Outside of trifecta training, to prepare for my duel, I apply myself to martial arts. I posit various questions to Sister Umairah, until she tires of me.
‘If Captain Fayez is a master at iron-bone, I cannot beat him,’ I tell her, thinking of the Sepahbad and his iron-hard fingers, precise and dense.
The grandmaster considers my words. ‘Fayez understands the conditions of reaching enlightenment in battle. I only see veils inside you.’
I startle back. The veils the monks speak of exist most persistently between me and the memories of my past; between myself and my emperor’s demands.
‘I was like you, I desired strength – until it nearly cost my bonds to the Heavens.’ The grandmaster crouches on the cushion before me. ‘Answer me, what does it mean to become the best warrior?’
‘Victory.’
She squints. ‘What do you desire?’
‘To be knowledgeable in all.’
She smiles and I feel gifted with something precious. ‘Any being of desire must suffer adversity. That is Qabl. One must be pulverised into dust particles, one must become nothing until they are asked their name and replynothing. Ironically, slave of the Heavens, you are a liar when claiming to seek truth, for when you think you long for honesty, you instead ache for the cover of lies, aware that any shred of honesty requires sacrifice. With sacrifice does knowledge choose to reveal itself. Do you know who you are?’ She nudges and I scowl.
‘You do not heed her; you ignore the truth.’ Fear ripples in No-Name’s gaze.
The questions seep feverishly into my bloodstream, like a slow poison.Who am I?My identities wrap like silk binds. I am a daughter of the Zahr emperor; I am a nomad of Usur-Khan from the Azadnian borderlands; I am an Eajiz of Za’skar in the Sajamistan Empire.
And I am Khamilla.
But that truth seems so far away, so irrelevant. Because names are undeniably vast and powerful but so utterly meaningless.
Instead of seeking further help, I back away from Umairah’s knowing smile.
After the Marka, the dynamics in my classes change. Word of my duel spreads, leading to other First-Slashes seeking me out in the evenings by Katayoun’s urging, to spar, instead of ignoring me as I expected. To prepare, I train in the wild woodlands behind the barracks, and practise my stretch kicks and stances, so by the time they join me, I am nimble and ready to go. Combat manoeuvres are reduced to the same mathematical formula: strategy plus brute force and power will equal victory.
At the end of the first week, after finishing a spar against Gulnaz and then Aizere, I remain seated on the sandy fields, struggling to massage blessed black seed oil into my weak leg.
A shadow bends across the packed sand.
‘Khamilla,’ Cemil says in greeting – the first words we’ve spoken all week.
