On the left, he captures more, but I’ve the tact to stall on the right. I check his territory, finishing a conquer. I look up to see his gaze studying my face, perhaps to find a crack in the smooth surface, anything to give me away. I hope he enjoys trying.
His fingers drum the kilim like a warning. The board becomes muddier and the air shifts, the end nearing. All I must do is fake my final move.
A sudden light flashes the courtyard and warriors gasp, pointing up. My surroundings surrender to a glow of silver as if enclosed in smoke from a pipe, obscuring all but the spectacle above.
The sky blazes in the Simorgh’s constellation. Celestials scorch through golden hour, the Sepahbad’s eyes reflecting the thousands ofshooting stars streaking their wills like convictions yearning to be seen. For a moment, it’s as if the sky is water to him – a thirsted man deprived of light and only able to drink his fill under the cosmic phenomenon. For that unnerving second, he reminds me of the shadows whirring in the corners of my vision.
His raven caws to Heaven, but the Sepahbad no longer bothers to look to the sky, as if something in the board game intrigues him more. ‘How ironic. The Simorgh and its nur, in a shower of stars.’
I return to the board. ‘Indeed.’
‘In the scriptures, angels cause the running stars by dipping celestial rock in fire before throwing it across the cosmos against eavesdropping jinn.’
Now I look up coldly.
‘Still, it’s Heaven’s beautiful light thwarting darkness.’ And though he speaks of the skies, he stares at me.
‘Then take the omen before you. The Simorgh and her nur promise a new era.’ I recite this like an ode but with none of the voice that should inspire it.
Then my fingers push a marble piece, cementing my loss in the game.
The Sepahbad’s thumb traces his brass before he switches tactics, shifting to the right. In my peripheral vision, his lips tease up.
‘My vizier, you could have taken my territory.’
‘And you, my lesser, could have connected around my last row of brass. It seems we both made incongruous errors.’
But a master tactician would never make an offhanded mistake like that.
Testing him, I leave an opening for capture, but he does not take it. I watch his expression as he leans forward, sliding another brass, before again, our gazes lock closer. This whole game, my strategy was toseemlike I wanted to win, because naturally, it’s what any opponent in a board game would expect. I stalled long enough, curious about his strategy in saktab. But this is the Sepahbad that I face; trying to win would expose my tactics. All along, I have been staging my own loss.
If he realises it – well, the game would be concluded. Winning in saktab is not how you best the Sepahbad; victory lies in throwing him off his own predictions. My brother once used this stratagem to prove a point to me, before his betrayal, saying he’d rather bite a loss to winthe greater battle. It was working, but something has changed. There are three territories on the board, I realise.
I decide to speak plainly to provoke him. ‘You wish to read something from our game.’
He does not so much as blink.
‘You came here, regarded my gameboard and did not take my opening. I then left three as a test for you to have the win, and you rejected it.’ As if to prove this, I take. Then his brass takes. I take. Three more moves and it becomes clear what has happened.
I inhale sharply. ‘This is a loop.’
He does not look alarmed nor apologetic, which is worse. His answer echoes from afar. ‘Pieces are sacrificed to set larger strategies in motion, because some concessions must be made to obtain the bigger victory. Victory for some is unpredictability. You sought to lose.’ He smiles. ‘As always, your masochism is breathtaking to witness.’
I blink twice. Somehow the Sepahbad read my intent and contrived a stalemate by devising an infinite loop with no established winner.
We both straighten from the board. ‘A stalemate, how good.’
Bemused, he stands. ‘Flattery. It seems unlike you.’
I crunch the dirt, which stings beneath my nail beds. ‘Sepahbad, what did you require from me? I submit to my masters.’
The Sepahbad only tosses his brass to the board, the stars dimming in his eyes. ‘Shepherd girl, did we not establish an understanding? Having choice makes the difference. And, I think I have learnt what I wished to know.’ He bows and retreats toward the inner courtyard.
Did he defeat me after all?
The question remains with me until the pazktab students arrive with the scholars. My eyes rake over their new garments, donated from some noblewomen. Red and emerald robes to their ankles, belted by amber hemp cords, the hems clinking with bone-shells, and hair woven with headdresses of animal bones. Sohrab wears a well-stitched robe over a dark tunic.
Yahya trips over his long crimson robe. I straighten it. ‘You all look...’ But there is no word to describe them because I have never used such words to describe anyone – the closest emotion that stirs is how I feel seeing fledgling birds. I think I would offend them if I called them baby buzzards.
