Pious folk like his kind in the monasteries always preached to break violence, to deter the thirst for revenge. But that piety is naïve. They do not understand. They do not understand what it is like to always have your future torn from you like a dagger through a tapestry. To never have a home to belong to.
Shall I turn the other cheek? I cannot. I may be a follower of Prophet Nuh and the lost scriptures, but to find forgiveness in me, well, that can only happen after my enemies are dead. Then I will happily forgive Sajamistan.
‘We’ve sent spies before. Only two returned from an exchange with the Sepahbad,’ Hyat adds. ‘Sajamistan’s soldiers are paranoid about any Azadnian; they will sabotage you so you remain in the lowest ranks of their army. Your words, your accent and the symbols upon your arms will all make clear that you descend from an Azadnian clan. But you are a smart girl, a quality your father might have neglected to use, but finally you can.’
‘Will I be the only Azadnian in their army?’
‘No. There are others – very few though. Sajamistan accepts Eajiz from almost any clan because Eajiz are far between and few in number. But that does not mean your masters in that army will be kind. The Sepahbad will be doubtful of you – but do not thwart the suspicion. Accept it boldly and then replace it.’
‘The Sepahbad.’ I taste my enemy’s title. The only sign of my rage is in the rattle of my teacup. ‘It was the Sepahbad that allied with Warlord Akashun, murdered the emperor and caused the death of Uma.’
Hyat lowers his teacup and dark kahvah sloshes over the rim. ‘Yes. But her right-hand soldier has challenged her. Our informants tell us he has become the new Sepahbad-vizier. He is young, ruthless and deeply distrustful,’ my uncle warns as my mind flashes to the masked warrior with dark hair, ‘dismissing almost every high-ranked warrior, who they call the Alif, under the former Sepahbad. If we still ruled, you would have trained to be the Sepahbad’s rival and equal in all as a martial-vizier. Ironic that fate has given you another chance to seize it.’ He pauses. ‘Enlistment will not be an easy task. The tests are gruelling and you will have to prove yourself. Prepare yourself to journey to the borderlands of Sajamistan.’
‘So be it. I have never made any decision of my own choosing, but in this, I am firm. I refuse to return without intelligence against our enemies.’ My body shakes. For Hyat, this is about gathering leverage against the empire. For me, only revenge. One leads to the other, with the same end: Sajamistan’s demise. ‘I will show you. By the Divine, I vow to kill them.Every single one in their armies will die.’
Hyat Uncle’s brown eyes look grim. And I remember, he, too, has lost a brother. He shifts on to his knees. ‘Let us bow, left-hand of the fallen emperor.’
The wizened warrior of Zahr bows and presses the flat of his blade against his temple. The shadow gapes behind him as I lift my ivory dagger to my own head. It nicks my skin but the blood dribbling down my face tastes sweet against my lips.
After that, things move quickly. That same eve, fearful of more informants in our ranks, we decide against telling the Zahrs about the plan.
‘She will be at my side in exile, in Izur,’ my uncle lies to my brother.
A look of panic crosses Yun’s face before he yanks me behind him. ‘My sister must stay with me in Arsduq; it’s safest. Azra is dead; I’ve lost Zhasna to Akashun’s court; I cannot lose another too.’
‘I’m having you return to another sister. After the attack on Arsduq, your elder sister has feigned neutrality, as she recovers from her wounds, but of course Akashun will never trust her. She cannot risk sheltering me. That would be an open declaration of war, but you – her brother – she can,’ Hyat explains calmly. ‘I need an heir’s eyes in that prefecture.’
Yun’s lips tug into a snarl before reproaching me. ‘You are silent, tongueless girl.’ But I do not move. ‘Tell him not to separate us.’
My uncle approves of my silence. ‘She has hardly spoken. She has lost the clan’s trust.’
To that, my brother simply places a hand on my head. He says no farewell, or peace, nor kind words, but when he leans his head forward, his harsh words are only for my ears. ‘You will be isolated from the clan, with no one to shield you. Be wary. Like the emperor, do not be alone with Hyat for long.’
I glance behind Yun. I do not see my brother. I see only a spindly shadow gawking at me from his heels. At last, I speak. ‘I am forever the emperor’s blade. A blade does not leave its holder’s side. Wherever he walks, he will know I always follow.’
9
year 514 after nuh’s great flood, era of the heavenly birds
Ghaznia Province, Sajamistan Empire
Prepare yourself, my uncle had said. Prepare we do, for my enlistment. Anger wraps around my heart like gold-threading. It smoulders in me through the long journey to Sajamistan; through stowing myself in Hyat’s hovel in the mountainside; through throwing myself into his training of manuscripts and dialects, until the days bleed together and two years pass in a blink. But that is my anger; it robs one of time and sorrow. It throws my body into dark paths of fury – where I am at its mercy to accept it, of course.
Until finally, the week arrives for my enlistment in Sajamistan’s army.
On that day, the black winter drops sudden, a marrow-deep damp that steals the breath of its inhabitants in cold huffs and lays a dusting of bone-white, virgin frost. As the wind whistles through the mountains of Ghaznia province tucked in the northern borderlands of Sajamistan, I shiver in my furs, watching my uncle in the dimly lit tearoom of our stone hovel.
He tests me about our story, front and backward, one last time. ‘Your papers are ready,’ he says, reclining against the divan of sheepskin. ‘Tomorrow you will enlist in the army. Sajamistan’s capital will be strange and different to you, but if there is anything the emperor and Eliyas trained you well in, it is your resilience.’
At hearing this mention, I ground my palms into the frozen floorboards, and they groan beneath me. I shut my eyes. ‘Not that monk,’ I force out.
‘But then there is this weakness of yours to consider: your memory.’ My uncle sighs. ‘When I mention a word of your traitorous brother, your maternal tribe – anything of your past – your mind dissolves. You twist dates and time and memories.’
‘I will be fine,’ I mutter, but doubt creeps through my thoughts. Hyat calls them time-blanks. At first, I thought my uncle was lying to instil self-doubt, but I soon realised my memorydoestwist time in roundabout ways, mixing events. I assumed it to be the effects of poison training – but the memorisation required of me during my studies has not been poor. All the while, my subconscious laughs in glee. Hyat claims my mixing of memories must have slowly begun when I’d made myself forget memories of my uma’s tribe. But in truth, the time-blanks have progressed since the execution of my traitorous brother.
He tuts his tongue. ‘I must go to retrieve your parchments. Remember your cover. Shepherd the cattle down the mountain. Pretend to be an Azadnian servant buying salve for your ill master. We must maintain this routine. This is your last day before you walk into the arms of the enemy.’
Nodding, I draw forward, my shaky breaths fanning white in the cold air, laboured out like birth itself. Outside the wooden shutters, our mountain yaks and goats sound deep grunts, chewing on wisps of stubble and winter fodder.
