Yabghu mistakes my fear for awe and crosses his arms.
‘By the Divine, this is Za’skar: where the first standing army in the history of the world rose and resisted their conquerors.’ His lips pull back into a sneer. ‘Not a place for mundane mortals.’
Mist rolls from the abrupt collision of oases and hot air, tickling my skin like the strokes of an ink brush. Za’skar pulses like night and day, one end alive with wild gardens and monuments, and the other a bluesalt desert, a sand-dappled vista, buckling beneath the sun’s zenith. The city breathes power...
For an empire so undeserving.
Yabghu begins to tell me small facts about the city as we walk through the gate. ‘Za’skar possesses an elite force of almost thirty thousand Eajiz. At any given moment, ten thousand reside here in the city; the rest are stationed in outposts. Some are advisers and senior officers, or generals employed under powerful clanhouses, not counting retired warriors. We’re a small battalion but efficient—’
A sudden bell tolls through the air, ringing seven times, and Yabghu’s pride bleeds away.
‘That signal.’ His voice tightens.
‘What signal?’
Without answering, he pulls at my sleeve. The dark shadow follows in my direction. Around us, flurrying warriors rush down dunes and through fig gardens.
‘You will see,’ he replies grimly but his eyes catch on my forearm. ‘Cover your threading.’ He hastens his pace until we are running.
My eyes try to fill in my surroundings, but cries of orders and rough voices overtake the air.
‘Keep up,’ Yabghu barks as we delve into a maze of sandy avenues and quarters surrounded by pale sandstone and sandblasted complexes. Glistening ochre domes and stained-glass mausoleums with polygonal chambers decorated in green-hued geometrics lead to a bone-stone cemetery of martyrs.
‘There,’ Yabghu says, pointing to a tall amphitheatre enclosing a deep sand pit, adjacent to the cemetery.
‘Lines!’ officers yell and soldiers kneel in trios, forming long rows on the hard-packed balconies of the amphitheatre.
My gaze returns forward and—
I slam into a hard chest. A firm hand steadies my shoulder. ‘At ease,’ a smooth voice says from above. I glance up at an imposing warrior, dressed in a tunic identical to Yabghu’s but ochre and crimson. His features are elegant from a hard jaw, sharp grey eyes and narrow nose -all of it pleasingly symmetrical.
He steps back and crosses his bulging arms, revealing gold-threading like mine along his sandy skin, a custom from the nomadic borderlands. But of course, the symbols are motifs of ravens; his tribe fromSajamistan’s slice of the Camel Road. His dark hair is tied into a small topknot with raven feathers, a tawny shawl tied around his chest, like Yabghu. When we lock gazes, he cants his head as if unsure what to make of me before his eyes drop to my arms.
‘Who is this?’ A girl steps from behind him.
‘This is the Azadnian initiate.’ Overseer Yabghu waves them toward me, while using his other hand to yank down my sleeves. ‘Surround her. Do not let the others see her yet.’
‘But why—’ I start, finding my voice again.
‘Quiet,’ Yabghu orders in a low snap, ‘unless you have a death wish before you’ve become a proper initiate.’ He faces the two warriors. ‘Move quickly, Katayoun and Cemil.’
Katayoun must be the girl. She’s shorter than me, but her muscles are thicker and corded, her skin a rich, dark brown. Her henna-stained copper hair is pulled into a braid at her waist, tasselled by bone-pendants. She wears a similar tunic to Yabghu’s – except hers flows to her calves – and is fitted under a russet vest embroidered in gold swirls akin to Heavenly bonds. Her joints are covered in mocpic martial wrappings. At her collar, a necklace of raven feathers and lamb-horn bones glistens in the sunlight.
‘Is it wise to shield an Azadnian?’ Cemil presses.
Yabghu uses his dagger to scratch at his neck. ‘I hope you are not so arrogant as to question an overseer’s orders.’ His calm tone is enough to silence Cemil. ‘Might I remind you, she is a comrade. In our trifecta.’ He pauses with his dagger in his grip. ‘Flank her. Now.’
The young warriors jump and hustle to either side of me. Still, Cemil’s lips peel back. ‘Coddling a rukh on her first day. Her accent and dialect are a dead giveaway.’
‘Enough,’ Katayoun hisses at him.
Yabghu gestures to the three of us but looks only at me, now using his khanjar to scratch his dark turban. ‘Our last rukh died – rather tragic – but we have you to replace her.’
I just stare at him. Their last recruit died?
‘An accident, really. Exhaustion from the rukhs’ classes at the institute made her slip up during squadron training and a blunt arrow found its home in her eye. Anyway,’ he claps, ‘in our trifecta, Cemil has been in the army for almost two years, Katayoun only one, and you have none. Each trifecta is balanced this way, like the Three-HeadedRaven.’ Overseer Yabghu then kneels, taking his spot in front of us, facing forward. ‘Do not speak. Watch below.’
Two senior officers enter through a narrow sand-packed tunnel into the pit, dragging two chained bodies to the centre. Instinctively I look away, but Yabghu smacks my head.
