‘This is the holy eighth gate of obedience, in the Central Ziggurat, reserved for attendants and bureaucrats,’ a female guard explains before nodding me in.
Inside, on the left side of the corridor, the emperor is before the gates of the throne room, walking in with his advisers.
‘Dada,’ I call out, tripping over the cape of my qaftan.
He pauses at the low entrance but does not face me.
‘My Emperor, please. Bless me with another chance.’ I reach for his hand but he bats it away.
‘You broke your first promise. Why should I believe you?’
‘I did not understand before. But I understand now.’
Poison was the court’s weapon. Yet there were more frightful things than envious children and sadistic wives. I recall the enemy’s sword poised above Uma. The raider pinning me to the dirt, pawing his hands all over me. The famine that dwindled us into a shell of our glory. The aftermath of a pillaged tribe. I shake those reminders away.
‘Test me, my Emperor,’ I croak. ‘I made myself anew.’
His head inclines slightly, taking in my clan attire.
Without pause, the emperor turns and summons the attendants for food from the palace kitchens. They return with a tray of soups, and flatbreads stuffed to the brim with minced meat and potato. It smells enticing. A test.
Inside the throne room, we bow and fold on to kilim, the brass tray of food between us on the rug. A cage of cranes rustles behind the emperor.
On the tray, his calloused hands slice the crescent-shaped flatbread into fourths. He passes me one piece.
Poison. This is a better, kinder enemy, I accept. So I take the bread.
My tongue prods at it before I have a bite. Chewing, I study the emperor. His brows are drawn together with crease lines on his sandy skin, earned from years of rule. The tense posture of his body is a taut bow, eager for release. I roll the bread over my tongue, reducing it to mush, recalling the poisons I’d studied for three days under the emperor.
His patience worn thin with my silence, he opens his mouth.
‘Wait!’ I plead. ‘I think I’ve figured it out.’
Clenching his jaw, his gaze touches mine briefly. ‘You think, or you know?’
His words are a test. I must choose my next ones carefully. ‘I know, Emperor.’
Bending forward on the kilim, the frayed sunburst of threads providing a slight buffer against the cold stone of the floor, he assesses me. An unmasking gaze chipping away at any strength.
‘Choose as if it’s a matter of life or death, daughter.’
Choice, a fickle concept; an illusion served on a golden platter. Sweat pools against my neck despite the chill. Thin slivers of red, raised skin from raking my nails across my skin are etched against the column of my neck.
Blood trickling down your chest; bile searing your tongue mixed with buckleberry poison, your limbs slackening—
My neck quivers at the memory. My fingers ache to itch my scabs. But no victory is achieved without pain, I know this well.
‘Choose,’ the emperor snaps, the past and present winding into his tone.
I spit the bread on to the tray. ‘There is barley, millet and rock salt.’ I pause.
He waits.
‘But there is also knapweed ground with red scorpion poison.’
Outside the wind roars, rattling the throne room, as if Brother-Nature is warning me not to provoke the emperor’s wrath. For a tense moment, he stares, aloof. His obsidian eyes suck any courage from my soul. He’s watching for any hesitation – any weakness – to reprimand. A heartbeat passes before his face suddenly breaks.
‘Correct.’
