My pazktab students run into the tunnel behind me as I near the stairs leading down to the sand pit. Wearing unnerved expressions, they mutter prayers. Their weak faith in me makes it hard to swallow.
‘Take this,’ Arezu says after I remove my sandals, feet cool against packed sand. She unclasps her necklace, animal bones jangling and ugly.
‘This I don’t need.’ I back away uneasily.
She scowls and rounds me before forcibly knotting it behind my neck. ‘Yasaman carved it for me. But I give it to you, master. When they say you don’t belong in Za’skar, they will see, you have a part of this empire upon you now.’
My quivering fingers hook around the bones, tempted to rip it off... but I cannot. It’s her gift.
Slowly, I descend the stairs into the womb of the amphitheatre and the crowd hushes. My gaze roams through them as I peek out from the bottom, catching on a bruised Cemil seated beside Squadron One. In the middle are scholars and monks, Mufasa and Sister Umairah on the bottom row with a group of pazktab students.
The amphitheatre’s pit is expansive, peppered with bedrock and date palms. I remove my robes, to reveal a white bare-sleeved tunic with an amber waist cord and dark trousers. I wrap my joints in mocpic cloth before flicking my left earring, the only reminder I have of my parents. I count the throwing knives and khanjars on my belt. Dabbing the rose attar seven times on my arm, the incense waffles the air, warding away lurking jinn from my bonds but also solidifying my Heavenly Contract. The rose pervades my soul as if it originates inside me rather than from the external world.
Rage rinses away the fear. Months of pain, sacrifice, disorder, all leading to ten minutes that will determine my fate. The blade is my sacred art, and now, it must be my extension.
Fayez and I walk to our respective sides. My gold-threading glows beneath the lanterns blazing with smokeless firelight, and his blue-threading shimmers and ripples, as if our duel is between empires, not people. Above, the Keeper blows a shimmering Veil upon the arena, ensconcing a plane of the Unseen in the material world.
‘The stakes of this holy battle are scribed and seen by Heaven’s witnesses,’ the parî announces from above. ‘There bears many costs to breaking your Duxzam gamble: an alms-tax of a quarter of your wealth, fasting thirty days and paying the toll of an orphan’s upbringing. If you are unable to fulfil these terms, the clergy’s courts shall dictate what means of charitable labour you will undertake. And of course, you will become a Corruption, falling to jinn possession and curses. The Divine knows your intentions; no man can break a Heavenly Oath.’
I nod, queasy at the firm warning.
‘My warriors, come to attention and greet peace.’
‘My foot.’ Fayez spits on the ground.
‘Fine. Here is my peace.’ I raise my palm and slit it with the khanjar, letting crimson patter to the sand.
‘What is this?’
‘A blood oath,’ I say, but not of my own. The blood of my clansmen wronged by his empire.
Fayez smooths into a stance, right hand poised before his neck, eyes narrowed, legs wide. He unsheathes his blade, the vibration a song of steel and fury before it drops out of sight for a conceal and slash tactic. He speaks serenely. ‘Let us see if holy light makes a holy warrior.’
I enjoy his words as I splay one leg back, my foregrip angling the khanjar perpendicular to my neck. ‘With pleasure.’
‘And those pazktab students will be next.’
My muscles tense. ‘You lay a finger upon any of them, I will rip your tongue out and skewer it so far up your backside, you will find it right back in your filthy mouth.’ Then I drop into first stance, shoving the hilt of a second khanjar into my mouth, sliding a third into my free hand. I recall my clan’s oath:
Forged by blood, bound by duty, I offer my soul by the white blade.The enemy who wrongs one will face the Zahrs’ wrath.
My wrists remain loose, ideal for direction change; my grip is reversed, to slash as my primary attack and thrust as secondary. My awareness of the psychospiritual realm increases. The seventy-seven bonds interweave in a pulsing gold, each thread throbbing in mirror to our heartbeats, reminding me that I can only summon twelve bonds while he can access three times more.
Tension stretches thin like thread to be spun. One instant we stare, and the next, the daf echoes, and the thread snaps, breaking our stillness.
We pounce, clashing together in snarls and flickers of light.
Fayez’s blade slashes forward, then cuts low, but I sidestep, breaking the linear direction and spinning around him, feet planting against his back. Like stairs, I shoot high in the air.
Arching, both hands slam my nur-drenched khanjar down.
At the last second, he whirls inwards, his right arm swooping up in a feint before his left hand snakes into a lancing palm strike, knifed fingers paring my torso.
With a grunt, I sail back, landing on my left foot.
Everything was fast – too fast to process.
‘Is that all you have, rukh?’ grins Fayez.
