As darkness blotches my vision, delirium takes over. I see a young man in monastic robes, and a girl beside him.
‘Eliyas...’ I blubber. My hand grasps, trailing his jaw; and then I see Yun instead of my traitorous brother. To his left a girl, no longer Katayoun, but instead my sister. ‘Zhasna.’ My voice catches. ‘You are alive.’
Their hands surround me, pushing me onward. ‘You must walk alone. To fall is to show them weakness.’ The voice wavers between the present and my past.
‘Yes, Older Brother,’ I speak through bloodied teeth. The vision fades as I walk past notables and scholars. I no longer have my siblings. That was simply Yabghu and Katayoun.No, our enemies, I remind myself.
Staggering through the tunnels and sand fields, the monastery looms ahead, and just as I reach the staircase, I collapse. With a cry, I see the skin on my forearms tug and pull. Something crawls beneath.
‘Come now,’ a warm arm lifts me up, ‘you are almost there, Usur-Khan.’
‘I do not understand.’ I try to speak but my tongue spasms.
‘Bring forth the olive oil, and incense.’ The cold voice floats above before he glances down at me. ‘The shaking you feel are shai’tain attempting to possess you, to break your Heavenly Contract. In the duel, you overused your soul. Your vulnerability allowed the jinn to attack you.’ His calm gaze meets mine. ‘Meditate through it.’
The monks swarm me with oils and blown words of script. A growl emits from my mouth, not belonging to me, but to something worse.
As a child, I vowed never to become this. My hand scrubs the flaking blood upon my cheek. Before me, No-Name grows taller, her smile as raw as an open wound.But of course this is our only path now.
Part Three
The Gates of Heaven
The burial of Adam’s son was guided by the raven who scratched the dirt. The healing after the flood carried by the crane. The wisdom of humanity preserved by the simorgh. Our tribe stands between the Heavenly Birds but that is our downfall.
As Qabil said, Woe to me, for a raven showed me how to bury my brother; this creature is wiser than the haste of man.
Verily the ones with knowledge have a gift and a curse, for they can foresee the patterns of the future, but no one shall believe them.
—ORAL TALES OF CHIEF FOLKTELLER BABSHAH KHATUN, USUR CLAN, YEAR 498, ERA OF THE HEAVENLY BIRDS
28
A red and ivory domed sandstone ziggurat rises from the arid dirt, ivory columns reaching upwards over the west quarters of the city. Yabghu waves at it, as I limp alongside him.
‘White-Pillar is the administrative structure of Za’skar’s military affairs and postings,’ he explains. ‘Beware. It’s guarded by the ganj from curfew until sunrise, in imitation of the serpents guarding the royal treasuries. Only assigned warriors are permitted to be inside.’
As if to make this point, we shiver past a leathery serpent coiled around the copper gates.
One week has passed since the Duxzam. Fayez was demoted to Fourth-Slash, no longer captain. Yabghu’s khanjar glistens with five marks – now a Fifth-Slash. As we cross into White-Pillar, different warriors greet Yabghu, including Adam, Lukhman and Dil-e-Jannah. Strangely, instead of skipping past me, they nod, clawed hand up, with sayings of death and peace. I halt.
‘What’s the matter?’ Yabghu turns.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter, but the shock of their greetings sweeps through me; it should not please me.
Yabghu drops me at a wide gold hall with a bone-stone vaulted plaque that reads:
BUREAU OF SPECIAL ASSIGNMENTS.
Inside the administrative chamber, my body throbs from the toll of the spiritual cleanse I had that morning at the hands of Qabl monks. The officer nods to me and I sit on my knees before her floor-desk. My eyes stray to the corner. The fabric of space ripples. A shadow writhes and eyes glow—
‘Usur-Khan.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was saying, you are going to bleed upon my parchments.’
‘Forgive me,’ I murmur, and lean back, touching the bandage around my temple.
