The foul feeling only grows when we head to the bazaar, a bittersweet affair, in the eastern quarters of the spring capital, surrounding the marshes near the palace walls. Yun leads us down dirt-paved paths along the wetlands. We walk against a startling wind, dour with such wetness that my cheeks feel damp, the din of trade coalescing the air.
After reaching the main quarters – and half-heartedly eating halva – I break away from the rest of my clansmen to search for Eliyas. It isn’t until I turn the corner that I spot him at a distance. Old habit kicks in. My lips part open to call out before halting. His strides are hasty, moving away from the bazaar. My insides prickle in foreboding. I watch him trudge up the path, the end of his robes disappearing around a stall corner.
Once again, I follow Eliyas.
He walks most of the way to the eastern gates of the bazaar beforeswerving suddenly along the shell-rock walls. Navia City differs from the winter capital: here the bazaar is surrounded by seven great gates. Eliyas takes another turn next to one of the gates, ducking into an arch outside a small temple looming like a dim creature at the end of the market. I crouch nearby against a closed shop and creep forward.
Eliyas circles the temple entrance, tucking a piece of tied parchment behind a loose wooden panel below a frieze of an ark. My brows knit as he glances up as if muttering a prayer, and then steps back. He moves in a practised way, as if he’s done this many times – as if he’s been doing it for years.
The sweet tang of sugar in my mouth becomes bitter. After Eliyas disappears, I jump forward, loosen the panel and snatch the scroll of parchment. I unravel the hemp rope.
His words are a scratch of indiscernible glyphs, in a code I do not recognise. He’s a scholar, more well read than I. But one symbol stands out to me, a glyph for the huma feather, and then the seal for Warlord Akashun. My fingers tremble. He must be reporting to Akashun on the jinn-poisons I train against.
How do I protect my clan when it’s our very own who threatens them? Am I capable of betrayinghim?
My grip against the papyrus causes the edges to tear. I search the other panels but find no other letters. The temple walls are engraved in friezes that show a circle of Zahr thrones below the Heavenly Crane. My eyes widen at the jagged lines where locals have scratched out the imperial seal.
I back away, tucking the parchment into my velvet waist-sash. Ducking my head, I shoulder through the crowds of the bazaar, searching for my siblings.
‘Little bird!’ Yun’s voice breaks through my daze. He stands between Azra and a threader, gesturing me over.
If Eliyas could be a traitor, does that mean Yun is next?
Reluctantly, I follow them through alleyways brimming with shouting sellers competing for buyers, in densely pressed-together stalls draped in beryl and yellow curtains, lit by oil lamps. Perfumed ash drifts with the current. But there are only half the number of merchants than I normally see. Artisans grab at my arms, insistent on inking henna. Yun bats them away and orders the threader toadd more blue-threading to our arms in spheres of cranes. I cannot muster any feeling nor smile, even as the blue overlays some of my old gold-threading.
Just as I wonder how to confront Eliyas, a hand encircles my arm, wrenching me from Zhasna, Azra and Yun and throwing me up as if I am a little girl once again.
‘Eliyas?’
He braces my weight easily on to his back.Older Brother, I remind myself, wrapping my arms around his warm neck, the sensation easing the stiffness in my chest. If I tell Yun or Zhasna about Eliyas, am I betraying my own brother?
‘Try to catch up,’ Eliyas calls out to our brethren.
‘Wait a moment—’ Yun protests.
‘Go!’ Zhasna bellows.
‘Hold on tight.’ Eliyas sprints forward, robes flapping behind him, carrying me along as though I am the child he first met years ago. But in this, he is wrong. Perhaps that is why he has not confided in me. To him, I will always be a little bird.
Eliyas dodges merchants balancing stacks of millet breads atop their head, shouting about special deals.
‘Watch it,’ one yelps.
I bow my chin in greeting as Eliyas barrels past familiar monks, and merchants with all kinds of wares, even leaping over drops of manure left by grunting cattle led by shepherds.
‘There,’ Eliyas gasps out when we face the central quarters filled with families, dressed-up children giggling. He finally drops me. ‘We made it in time for the travelling poets.’
Is this another scheme? To use the cover of night to hide his deception? I wonder if visiting the bazaar with his siblings was simply an excuse.
An older man passes around a pouch filled with gold sultanas, dried figs and sugared pistachios to snack on. Robed poets stand upon large stones. As I sit, the crowd begins to gasp at the Heavens, fiery stars streaking violently across the sky.
‘Praise be to the Creator of the Heavens and clay!’ the poets begin. ‘He who alights the sky in celestial light. It’s the constellation of the Simorgh. A rare sight, and an omen.’
My other siblings catch up to us. Yun is too stunned at the displayabove to berate Eliyas. The burning stars smatter in the shape of a white firebird. It’s as if the bird is corporeal, shining in nur. The poets use the opportunity to begin a rapid ode about Azadnian folk-heroes.
‘In the heart of the Mist Mountains rested a mighty firebird, the Simorgh – the third Heavenly Bird – training the warrior clans for a great era,’ one begins.
I recall this tale from my lessons.
