My left hand curls. With no Heavenly Energy inside me, I have to rely on pure martial arts to end this with the risky Ifrit’s Strike.
My hand lashes around Fayez’s blood-slick throat, pinning him to the Veiled wall. Above me, officers and warriors – who bet on Fayez – rush down to us, but the Veil does not break.
With my broken right hand, I claw three fingers before stabbing one finger after the other in successive strikes into his abdomen. Yabghu said to use three-fold strikes, a way of dispersing energy to attack the opponent from the inside of their soul against pathways of bonds, rather than inflicting physical damage outside first.
Fayez’s bleary gaze widens, a fellow martial artist understanding the danger of this predicament. My internal energy paralyses his movements.
He is a tree,I chant.And I, the martial pupil, must drill a hole.
At the third multiple, his knees scramble to jam upwards. With convulsing fingers, I begin another multiple, daring myself to reach twenty-one. Faster and faster I jab, recalling how the Sepahbad used this on me. My hand cracks at the twentieth count and when his left foot sneaks to shift balance, I spin, curling my broken fingers.
Now or never. I stab below his heart, reaching the twenty-first multiple and disabling his strongest bond.
My finger snaps from the pressure, a wave of pain rushing in. Fayez collapses, squirming like a spider. My eyes catch on the bone-pendantat his throat that he’s always toyed with. It’s small, as if belonging to a child. I yank it forward.
A loud mewl spills from his mouth.
I take the string and snap it. Then I crush the bone, to snap his will too.
Backing away, I hack blood. My head leans down.
‘This is the natural order that you speak of. I am the Azadnian standing atop you. I have made you bleed. And I savoured every second of it.’ My tongue tastes copper. Whose blood, I do not know. I smile, realising I am only capable of grinning in the thoroughfare of destruction.
My foot rolls him over and I pretend he crawls like a dog; I pretend I am his master. For once, I maintain a semblance of control, and though it is control over one man, the power crashes in intoxicating waves. Even the blood slithering about him is fascinating.
‘Warrior,’ the parî hisses. ‘The Duxzam is finished.’
‘But he did not concede,’ I say, a little disappointed that he is alive.
The Veil falls. My hands drop. The amphitheatre is silent.
I did not know I was capable of this, not the battle, not the power.
Nobles of clanhouses descend on to the sand pit, staring after Fayez as healers lift his body in disgrace. From the astonished faces of advisers and warriors, including Yabghu, nobody predicted this. Even my pazktab pupils are stunned. But I have won against a high-rank. It pleases me in a sick way to bask in their begrudging validation.
‘Rise,’ a voice rings out. Sister Umairah steps down from her row and raises the flat end of her khanjar to her forehead.
Slowly, with a scowl, Scholar Mufasa lifts his blade. Then Yabghu, and Katayoun. Great warriors around the amphitheatre, thousands upon thousands, raise their khanjars and bow. Only Cemil does not. He stands with an unreadable expression, and I realise this enmity has not ended; it has simply grown, for his potential as a martial warrior far exceeds Fayez’s.
But the other warriors’ gazes do not hold the anger I presumed. Instead, I sense an unexpected acknowledgement, bonds built on spilt blood.
I study the deep callouses on my palms. These warriors understand the hold of power. When it is thrown into your lap, you refuse to let go. The line between virtue and evil has always been fine. How often have I crossed it?
Staring at their lifted khanjars, empires and clans fall away, until what remains is a warrior acknowledging another warrior. I take the khanjar that the vizier bestowed to me and raise my blade back, slamming it to my forehead.
‘The bond to Heaven is forged in war,’ Sister Umairah declares.
‘The bond to Heaven is forged in war,’ I repeat back.
My only hope: that I haven’t yet crossed beyond the possibility of mercy. Someday, evil might devour me. If it does, it would be a fool’s dream to long for return, because I would be no different from the ones I call my enemies.
Uma once said humans are made from the dirt of our graves, thus all clay-beings have sown in them a part of death. I think of what the emperor taught me, a part of me sown in violence. And I, the child, always to return to the true womb: death.
‘Go on, warrior.’ Sister Umairah nods to the tunnels, and I realise I must walk on my own. I must leave the duel on both feet.
My gaze moves to the pazktab students. Only Arezu’s lips break into a smile, and a warmth shoots through me, bringing me down from the high of victory.
The pain hits me. How many bones have been shattered, I cannot tell. But the pain is engraved in my soul. My vision tilts, my legs quake.Go, I urge myself, lungs rattling as I limp, dragging my left leg. I know I won’t make it. Yabghu rushes down the amphitheatre, Katayoun beside him.
