‘My own half-siblings would hurt me?’ I glance through the partition in disbelief.
‘These are Azadnian clans. They use the bounties of nature and clay – both in healing and in weapons – like flora, herbs, plants...poisons. TheDivine only knows how many times the emperor’s siblings attempted to assassinate him when his mother favoured him for the throne. Seeing how you act now... his wives would not hesitate to kill you.’
A faint nausea takes hold of me. This is normal to them all. Death. Deception. My chest clenches, a fierce longing for the routine under Babshah—
I tear myself from the thoughts. ‘Worry not,’ I tell my attendant. ‘In these three days, the emperor trained me himself in poison tests. He told me it’s the weapon of his courts.’
Without replying, the attendant turns toward the lattice gaps in the partition, watching the court procession. It passes long and slow. A weekly ritual, which many nobility join for. I struggle to make sense of it, grasping only that subjects from far and wide petition the Zahr clan’s elders, the emperor’s being the highest court for the most pressing petitions. He waits and listens, and his scribes write furiously into bunches of rolled papyrus. It ends with a long prayer and the court gates shut behind the last subject with a creak.
At last, the emperor orders, ‘My Zahrs, at attention.’
The attendant drags us from around the partition, toward another light blue archway into the throne room, so low, in fact, it forces people to bow their heads as they enter. The attendant informs me this was intentional on the emperor’s part – and in case of an attack.
We walk toward the centre of the court, into a gathering of women who are wearing nearly identical clothing to Uma. These must be the emperor’s other wives.
Now out from behind the partition, I see the familiar throne room. Unlike felt yurts, the surroundings are hard walls. Above us, looping cobalt domes refract dapples of waning sunlight. Below the ceiling are thatches of thorned vines and blue wildflowers that crawl along the cupola niches of the great hall’s ivory walls toward the throne, as if the plants are living creatures.
Dark shapes move against the branches.Birds.Diminutive chirping blue tits, fluttering black francolins and ivory myna, and delicate halcyon birds perched upon the branches of olive trees breaking from the brambly throne. I do not see a source of dirt nor water, as if magick courses from the crane throne to the quivering roots.
The court is filled with the gathering of notables, lounging on rich white felt rugs and divans under the olive trees, drinking rose tea frompalm-sized glasses. Some hold long sticks of lavish hand fans, fashioned from blue parchment decorated in coins; and others speak with scribes, small doves perched on their shoulders.
The interior flings rays of setting sunlight. My reflection refracts in the stained glass, the radiant blue like a vast lake from Nuh’s flood, and my lips curve up.
Gooseflesh rises up my arm, for in my reflection my lips do not move. In the reflection looking back at me, my eyes grow darker and, I swear to the Divine I see a familiar shadow behind me. At once, I move back, tripping over my feet.
‘D-did you see that?’ I hurry toward my attendant.
‘Pay attention,’ Andaleeb snaps, turning me to face the throne.
The emperor steps around a divan supporting a cage of courtly cranes. In the reflection of the emperor’s heavy black eyes, the trees and flora around the dais shimmer.
‘Peace unto the daughter of my fourth wife, third child of the Usur tribe, who has returned to Azadniabad at my order. After thwarting Sajamistani invaders at the Tezmi’a pastures, and protecting our borderlands, the child has proven worthy of the Zahrs.’ The emperor turns to appraise me and pauses in disbelief. Murmurs spread amongst the court.
‘One of us?’ speaks a grasping woman standing beside Uma. ‘The girl is dressed like her people instead.’ Another voice to my left asks, ‘Might she be confused about her loyalties? Her place?’
The emperor’s eyes, like sodden ink, stare at me. ‘She knows her place well, Dunya.’ But his gaze sweeps over the animal-skin vest, then my hawk-feathered braids before settling on my face in a silent rage.
I must appear so odd to the clan ruling these palaces, a creature who does not belong. In the cold pastures of the Camel Road, our stitches were simply the product of our hunts, and a lesson in necessity. Whatever staved off frostbite the best, whatever was best suited for hunting – dyed camel skin stuffed with feathers, humble leathers, tawny and crimson hides. Here and there, we’d trade for textiles, but not as bright or fine as even the garb of these palace servants.
Looking back at the cool stares of the court, I do not flinch, accepting my pathetic effort.
A woman steps forward and the other wives part to allow her. The emperor called her Dunya. She appears as pure and pale clothed as acrane. Her face is concealed by a white veil and a headdress covers her hair trimmed by teal glass beads. A velvet sash is tight around her round waist.
She lifts her sleeves to her face, and laughs behind them, the sound devoid of warmth. Beside her, Uma shoots me a warning.
Dunya beckons me forward. From her arm, she unsheathes an ivory blade and uses the edge to tap my hat. ‘There’s no need for the fur hat of the khan’s tribe,’ a subtle tap at the threading upon my arms, ‘and you bear the gold-threading of the steppe-peoples. It’s charming, but conflicting loyalties in an emperor’s daughter are a dangerous thing,’ a tap at my braids, ‘and you do not look like a Zahr. Even your hair bears the scent of the pastures. In fact, you might as well be one of our enemies from Sajamistan with the way you reject the symbols of your father’s empire. Child, were you forced upon us?’
I glance at the emperor but he remains quiet. Uma is silent too. My body flushes as the clan stares ahead blankly. At the back, head bowed, my attendant has a knowing glimmer to her eyes, sending more heat shooting through me. The khan once declared I am between two worlds.I must make a choice, I realise.
‘To celebrate this daughter’s arrival,’ Dunya declares, ‘we will feast after the fast is broken.’ The clan murmurs in agreement, and at the wave of her hand, stands. As the court disperses, Dunya tugs at my sleeve. ‘Go to my daughter Zhasna. You will eat in our circle tonight.’ Her smile of triumph is not directed toward me, but at Uma.
The dining quarters are a strange affair. The room is long with several circular low-tables. All the nobility are sat at different circles, with my father at the far end. Zhasna, who had introduced herself after her uma’s invitation, guides me to the centre of the carpeted room, to a low-table layered in extravagant red linens. I pass by the cross-legged forms of other clansmen. Zhasna points out cousins and half-siblings. There’s Yun, the second-eldest son of Dunya; Azra, another heir; then cousins upon cousins. Jirjis, Nahid and Belzzar. I lose count.
Zhasna waves at a row of advisers, and a visiting warlord from a western prefecture. I recognise Hyat Uncle. The advisers glance at me curiously. But the warlord seems to stare and stare.
‘Why does he look at me like that?’ I shiver.
Zhasna glances at him quickly, lips twisted in distaste. ‘It’s best you avoid that warlord. He is Akashun, Wolf of the Khajak prefecture.’
