I hold the first text, calledZa’skar City, the Magicians’ Study of Jinn-Poisons. These are texts on the Unseen world of the jinn and on the oldest human civilisations before those nations were destroyed by the Divine in the Great Flood.
I skim through the parchment, covered in faded symbols.Aged olive oil, two azhdahak winged serpent’s feathers, a drop of goat’s blood, ground apricot seeds, Black Mountain snake scales...
Bile sears my throat. This poison causes limb paralysis before changing the human skin into the scales of an azhdahak. Then you die miserably. There is also an antidote.Aged olive oil, black cumin blessed with the Divine’s seventy-seven names, the soot of frankincense.
More bile. I swallow it. ‘Perfect,’ I breathe.
In the apothecary, after grinding the ingredients in a coppery mortar, I extract a fraction of the poison’s amount to begin exposure.
I lift my right hand and mentally recite a remembrance of the Divine, manifesting a Heavenly bond from my finger. On it, nur splinters like gold glass through the room’s copper lanterns. Using its pale light, I kneel on the divan, wind chill pricking my skin from the slightly ajar window shutters. Gritting my teeth, I use my left hand to drag the tip of my ivory khanjar down my right forearm. The skin peels back like a ripened pear, crimson pooling into the cup containing the poison. It takes six counts before the blood blackens. For this first taste, it’s a test of exposure, not ingestion.
I arrange the extracted poison on the brass tray beside kumis; the fermented lamb milk will help my mouth hold in the poison. After I bless the antidote, I lay out my indigo shawl to muffle any sounds.
Sloshing the clay cup, I contemplate which method to use to take it. Will it be too bitter to gargle? Or shall I swish it around inside my cheeks to make note of its taste?
I settle on the latter and braid my hair back with a tassel.
Nameless.The emperor’s sneer penetrates my mind his obsidian gaze coating my thoughts in black. Lifting the cup, I throw back the poison, holding it in my mouth. A burnt bitter flavour bursts on to my tongue, stinging my gums before the kumis soothes the pain. I shove the shawl over my mouth, stray tawny threads piercing my flaky lips.
Immediately, a blinding pain spears my gut. A choked sound gets wrangled in my mouth. A drop of the poison slides down my throat and I panic.
The spasms reverberate up my spine, and I struggle to remain upright. Cold sweat drenches my qaftan, but the heat slithering through my blood makes it feel as if my body is boiling.
The heat rises and I cry out into the shawl, hoping the noise doesn’t rouse any attendants. At my feet, the shadow that has always followed at my heels grows into a crooked shape, staring hungrily at me.
My skin intensifies from pink to a red hue, and I spit out the poison, my shawl absorbing it. My fingernails claw into the rugs as I grope around for the antidote, but my vision blurs.
I blink furiously. I cannot see.You will die here, the product of your own failures. The emperor will find your body, black and red with feathers, blood clogged into tar—
My limbs numb to a prickly sensation. I collapse face first into the tray, spilling the contents.O, Divine, I beg. Desperately, my mouth opens, and I dip my tongue into the spilled antidote.
The spicy tang of black cumin revives my senses and I swallow, a wheeze creaking through my lips. The antidote works sluggishly through my body. I do not know how long I lie there until movement returns to my limbs.
Greased in a film of my own sweat, I gulp down more kumis. Somehow, I am alive. From the success, a laugh bubbles in my chest – that is, until vomit erupts from my mouth.
Eliyas is wrong. I am an emperor’s daughter. Iamworthy. I am his claws. Except I do not scream the words aloud, I swaddle them close to my chest, for the emperor prefers it when I keep my protests silent; when I keep myself cold and sharp.
Then I do it again.
The next day, after circles of knowledge under my grandmasters, I resolve to follow Eliyas, to find out his connection to the warlords after his nearly treasonous words.
Between my poison training, for the first few days, I slip into an old repository dug beside the meditation quarters, watching through the lattice partition between dusty rolled-up kilim rugs. I observe Eliyas entering the meditation room in the evenings, teaching classes to peasants, secluding himself in remembrance or distributing charity with novice monks.
Finally, on Thursday, when Eliyas enters the meditation room after sunset, as he always does, he burns barks of oud to perfume the room.
‘Peace,’ I hear a familiar voice mutter as the gates of the room swing open.
Warlord Akashun enters silently, sitting cross-legged beside Eliyas.
They exchange rapid murmurs and I press my ear to the partition to discern their words.
Eliyas’s tone is harsh. ‘My report of the poisons will be sent via the messenger. But I’ve summoned you here to question your intentions with me. What game are you playing? Why risk mentioning our letters to my sister? I see the suspicion in her eyes.’
‘Your reluctance to tell her has forced my hand. Fear not. Your sister has been raised under your care; she is loyal to you more than anyone else in your accursed clan.’
Eliyas stares at the kilim lining the ground, impassive. ‘She has a will of her own.’
‘She is nameless; she has no soul nor will, except what you mould of her.’
