‘The truth is, in war, no judgement is correct. But the point is not about correctness, it’s about compromise. You are an underling, leaving no room for hesitation.’
‘I understand,’ I say, but I speak too fast because his eyes darken.
‘Do you, shepherd girl?’ He prods. ‘Two soldiers, from the Dawjad nomads, proclaimed allegiance to their brethren. The third seemed loyal to Emperor Akashun. If we spent our time looking at the details of every soldier’s philosophy outside the colour of their uniform, well...’ His lips curl. ‘It wouldn’t be a war at all, now, would it? You would fall for false sympathies. In battle, that would kill our warriors. You had sympathy because. an enemy was nostalgic of the vast pastures you hail from?’
‘It was a mistake – a foolish, emotional mistake. But,’ the words are desperate, clawing to the part of him that perhaps understands; is he not from their tribe, ‘they never chose this.’
‘Would you like to be a peaceful warrior?’ A dark amusement weaves through his question and my disappointment bruises me. ‘She is stillnot certain when the truth is before her eyes. If you saw these soldiers guarding Mitra, would you recite the same defences? These people cling to their history like a ruse of impartiality in war. And now, you sought a charity by letting those soldiers take their own lives. They spoke of freedom, so, naturally, death would become theirs.’
‘Because it was.’ My throat cinches. I see there is no victory when two empires are at each other’s throats fighting over land; no way to be the in-between. The Camel Road is a borderland, the grey amongst the black.
Before the Sepahbad departs, he brushes one of the corpses with his foot. ‘What people forget when they worship their history is that, as beautiful as the idea of a revolution is, all revolutions begin and end with war. All revolution is war. War is what we fight.’
For my disobedience, he informs me my overseer will dole out a punishment on my return to Za’skar. Then he departs, but the raven remains.
It perches on a branch and watches me slowly bury the corpses. For I see myself in them. After I am done, the raven claws its talons across the dirt and I chuckle bitterly. ‘Thank you, Rasha,’ I whisper as it soars back to its master, who let it stay for the burials.
Like my father, Warlord Akashun is a symbol of strength for a people who’ve lived in terror of the other empires, people who are weak. Their worship does not make them foolish; it only proves their vulnerability. But heroes are nothing in this world. They fatten by feeding on the helpless because we seek something larger than ourselves. They are illusory symbols, and like all illusions, they can break.
If I must defeat him... I need to remember this. I cannot merely kill him – I must kill the symbol of him, the hope he gives them. Perhaps it would do the world good to have no heroes at all. We like to be ordered. We need fear.
I loved it. Perhaps the world will love it too, I muse to myself.
35
I decide to wait before defecting to Azadniabad’s capital. Given its central location in the empire, it’s more strategic to maintain my cover as a Za’skar warrior and join Sajamistan’s troops moving westward along the Camel Road. Therefore, after the melee, I am sent back to Za’skar to convene with my assigned squadron. Upon journeying there, an unexpected longing swells up my throat. No-Name understands my intent. ‘After today, you will never see the pazktab students again.’
‘You sound pleased.’
‘Because I feel sick when you see them.’ She spits as I hasten up the hills toward Little Paradise gardens.
It’s predawn, the heavens a dim blue. Trifectas trickle across the sand dunes for training; others stretch on the slanting roofs of the glimmering monastery suspended in the mountainside above the clouds; Qabl sages sweep away dirt from sandstone edifices around jinn-blown glass temples. But a tension wrings the air from the impending war.
I wind up the hills, sighting pazktab students stance training on the grass.
‘Master?’ Yahya cries.
And the snotty thing throws himself into my arms. The lump in my throat disappears as the weight of him knocks away my breath.
‘Yahya,’ I say, but it takes a miserable will not to cry out his name. Sohrab comes up grinning and pauses at the sight of me. Yasaman drops her parchments and reed pens, pressing her hands to her face.
Only Arezu watches with a narrow gaze. ‘A foolish love.’
‘You are the foolish one,’ Sohrab snaps. I choke back a dark laugh at the wordlove.
Arezu smiles. ‘We know war has broken out across the Camel Road.Za’skar is emptying out its warriors. Our master is leaving, to be chewed apart by enemies.’
‘Arezu,’ I warn. ‘Do not say this before the others.’
She continues as if I am not there at all, eyes as flat as the salt plains surrounding us. ‘In war, they will not let our master die slowly. They will mutilate her.’
‘Arezu.’
‘Master die?’ Yahya murmurs.
‘I...’ My voice trails off. No child –none– should have bloodshed as a worldly perspective.
Even if I do not die, by defecting to kill Akashun, I can never return. But how does one explain death to younglings? Was this Uma’s duty? To crouch and smooth my cheeks, to look me in the eye and admit that I must learn to kill with a bow and arrow before I may speak, that I must learn to hide before I may roam free in the pastures, I must be old before I am young. How does one tell a child this? But children are no longer children in war; their dreams vanish, and they simply become monsters.
