My brows knitted. Out of the corner of my eyes, the darkness of the room stirred, the fabric of space inhaling. Gooseflesh puckered down my arms. The shadow I witnessed on the cusp of death appeared behind the emperor, waiting as it had by the grave.
I did not wish to die. But a persistent keenness kneaded through me, an urge that made me feel as if I was observing the microcosm of this moment from afar. Somehow, from the shadow’s presence, I knew that if I made the wrong move, I would be killed. I was afraid to even blink.
‘I-I can learn,’ I said, daring to look at the emperor.
‘Anyone can learn.’
I had nur, and that made me valuable. But perhaps the emperor would find a child he could not control as equal a threat as the foes at his borders. Perhaps he feared one day I might turn against him. What did he want?
‘I am nothing,’ I answered, kneeling. ‘I am unlearned. I do not know my letters. I am blank. But a blank canvas can be written according to its scriber. My destiny is in the hands of the Divine who has led me back to you. So write me as you please, Dada.’
He inclined his head, satisfied. ‘Tell me how the raid on your tribe made you feel?’
‘Helpless,’ I spoke softly. ‘I thought the khan was mighty, but he fell quickly, like a struck boar, and they impaled his skull on a stake. We were surrounded.’
It hurt to say. Though recently there had been raids, famine – ill mares, elders scooping tough stool from our bottoms, mouths that tasted of ash – there had also been the quietude of the valley, our steady drowsy movements through the gorges, the hunting birds, the stories of Babshah, the gold-threading from Uma and the khan. There was a miserable kind of happiness in those memories. I missed it.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. Dada brushed a thumb under my eye and examined the moisture impassively. ‘You weep.’
‘Yes. I-I am remembering.’
He crouched until we were level. ‘You must forget. These memories, they will weigh against you, as a sin burdens the soul.’
‘Forget? But Babshah... Usur Khan, milk-brother Haj... the dead? Babshah said a folkteller must carry the history and sorrows of our home—’
‘Home?’ He swept away the tears. ‘This is your home. You were a Zahr from birth.’
‘A Zahr?’
‘My clan,’ he explained plainly. ‘Now it isourclan. Just as the original Azadnian clan united clansmen into a circle under the throne, swearing to protect these lands... we, the Zahrs, now rule and protect Azadniabad. From enemies like the ones who raided you. We carry the Heavenly Crane’s mandate.’
‘How many enemies?’ I choked out.
‘Other kingdoms exist, other empires, other rulers. Sajamistan Empire is encroaching at our borderlands, but they are one of many. Do you wish to be protected?’
Without a doubt.
He pulled me close and the shock of the embrace heaved a gasp through my lips. ‘I can protect you. But you must forget the past.’
Forget, I heard the whisper.Yes, I can forget.
‘Forgo your tribe. Their reminder will bring you pain. Here, you will no longer be alone. My monks will train you as an Eajiz. But you must never breathe a word about your nur to anyone else – not your cousins, not the clan. That you wield nur is a threat to my wives and heirs’ power in the courts. When you are older – stronger –thenwe will reveal your Heavenly affinity,’ the emperor explained. ‘The only ones who will know are my advisers here: one is my eldest son, and the other is my brother – your uncle Hyat.’ He swept a hand to the young adviser, and then the older-looking man flanking his low throne. ‘This is our secret. Can you keep a secret? It’s my first task for you.’
I nodded feebly.
‘I ask in return that you must swear to protect Azadniabad just as I shall protect you.’ He pulled back. ‘Here you will bring glory to our clan.’
Without my dada, I would be nothing. I would be made to return to the steppes, and Uma and I would die as nothing, alone. Worse than death was living without a legacy to carve upon the world. Bowing my head, I vowed to gain his approval.
The emperor raised his palm.
‘Last night, I dreamt my court’s crane flew to my fist, looking tothe Heavens with its right eye. My Chief Dream-Interpreter,’ the emperor pointed to his son, ‘is a monk. He interpreted that when an emperor has a dream of his courtly bird in such a way, it presages a disturbance in the realm’s affairs: a good or bad omen. It’s no coincidence that you arrived at my doorsteps the very next day. You are the fulfilment of that dream. Let us see what you prove to be.’
Behind him, a crane fluttered in the brass gilded cage, creaking a broken tune.
The emperor held out his hand to me. ‘When I strike my sword, what shall you be?’
‘Your blade,’ I answered.
