Later, as a Qabl medic tends to me, my anger muffles the pain.
They will regret this. Cemil, Fayez, Sajamistan – all of them. My hands fist, the rage another bandage binding my wounds tightly.
No-Name crawls from the corner to my side, laughing. ‘I warned you. I warned you not to battle him. Clay-beings always seek an excuse for violence. He claims victim, you claim victim, and then you fight, drawing blood until it ends with no victor.’
My skin fissures from the blood caking it. I curl into myself. ‘You cannot erase human brutality. Not when it exists inside of us, as innate to the body as air.’
26
My eyes open to Arezu’s looming face.
‘You are awake!’ she cries, jolting Sohrab.
‘What are you doing here?’ My voice scratches out.
‘Your battle was mortifying, master. You could have done better,’ Sohrab says as my jaw clenches. ‘Well?’
I keep my voice level. ‘Your words are frustratingly logical. I have nothing to say.’
‘Good.’ Arezu smiles. ‘If it is any relief, during mealtime the low-ranks said Cemil’s been brutally flogged; it’s all they’re talking about. And apparently he’s been disciplined for the rest of winter.’
I notice purple splotches on her arm. Shame flushes through me. ‘Thank you for intervening in my fight. Butneverdo it again. He was in a high because of Heavenly Energy and could’ve killed you.’ I point to the door. ‘Get lost, please.’
The students sigh, exchange looks, bow and get lost.
Alone in the room, Sohrab’s words smart. I dreamt of being the vizier of my clan, swiftly cutting Sajamistan by collecting intelligence against them.
Pointless. The word rises sinisterly, and I see the emperor walk to the corner of the room, raking his hand through his hair, looking out at Za’skar’s grandeur.
‘I am sorry,’ I say, and my fingers grip the woollen quilt. ‘You named me but I could never bear its burden.’ Grasping hope is like cupping water, only for it to stream through your fingers. The harder you try, the deeper your failures.
As a child, I knew this. I was so weak. But my father reclaimed us. It was a folktale: a great emperor whisking a lone mother and wide-eyed daughter to his rich courts. He became my master. He made me.
I vowed to be worthy of him, broken though I was. Even a shattered porcelain plate can be pieced back together, shards and all.
If I lose the duel, for years I will be trapped in my ranking. Discovering my identity, the Sepahbad will torture me before this city, and worse. I imagine his tranquil features, his amusement while I scream.
My eyes burn, but, like always, no tears flow forth. To become stronger in a matter of two months, I must destroy my assumptions and my body – limbs torn, muscles shredded, mind wiped – before rebuilding, restitched piece by piece with blood and bone.
Glancing at No-Name, I know what I must do.
I hike to the woodland behind the barracks, the dregs of the stream dribbling against the riverbank. I prepare myself for what I must do, peering at its surface. The panoply of stars streams into the Simorgh’s constellation, the sister of my power, alike in its omen.
There lies my answer. ‘No-Name.’
She appears behind me, standing amongst a copse of pistachio trees. She has changed, taking to the moonlight as stardust; her white hair curls long, her pale skin shimmers, and her eyes dampen like spilled black ink, swallowing the hint of white. A discomfort itches through me. Her face structure has softened. Her features are mine.
A good believer would feel there is something unnatural in my intention; it defies the iron-rod conviction of belief to the Divine who rules over the Heavens and clay. But my eyes betray my faith by drifting to No-Name, fraying my will like worn yarn.
‘Change,’ I whisper.
No-Name morphs into Cemil, eyes blazing in hate. It awes me. It terrifies me. I bestow a rare smile. No-Name returns it. The Divine’s bountiful gift to me is my mind, and my mind is a cave of degradation. I can compress months of training into mere days, for No-Name can be anyone and anything, and she can hurt me in ways no one else can.
At my command, Cemil-No-Name moves with a jinn’s force, blades skinning my torso, spinning me to the dirt before I can even blink.
‘Azadnians are the enemy,’ Cemil-No-Name says, leering. ‘Heretics, the killers of the Heavenly Birds.’ Pinning me, he digs his blade beneath my wrist until the skin splits opens, red gushing down. His hand muffles my scream as the skin peels like pink ribbons until he reaches bone. His voice becomes soothing like Uma’s, explaining howSajamistanis hate me, how they will kill me. My hips buck him off, and he vanishes with the immaterial movement of jinn-folk.
Then... my wounds disappear. Only shallow cuts remain. I do not know what to make of this. My stomach flips and I bend over, hurling the contents of my stomach all over the wild weeds. After I smear the sick from my lips, the smell curdling, I simply hiss, ‘Again.’
