Yabghu returns shortly with a wooden staff in hand and...
‘Is that a bird’s corpse?’
He raises a pile of animal bones and severed wings. ‘These ababil birds passed naturally. But they left relics of their corpses—no, stop gagging.’ But my horror is difficult to tuck away, the disgrace of it all.
‘Because she’s incapable of leaving behind what she knows of Azadniabad,’ Cemil says, lifting a skeletal wing indifferently between his stances.
I take the severed wings. ‘No, I can do this.’
Yabghu rakes his gaze unforgivingly over me. ‘In knife fighting, we ease you into mastering the foundational nine stances. We meditate on the remembrance of death, for an Eajiz is a twin to the grave. Our connection to Heaven means we have one step in the psychospiritual world and one step in the temporal, mortal world. To die in battle is the highest honour.’
Cemil and Katayoun hold marble khanjars while Yabghu shoves a palm-sized onyx training knife aggressively into my hand as if I’m a babe. I almost curse at the insult of it.
Yabghu chuckles. ‘O rukh, whatever clan you crawled from, they knew nothing of the marriage between true Eajizi and martial arts. And you,’ he examines me, ‘look frail. What use is building on a weak foundation? Now repeat my stances.’
My scowl deepens, prompting another of his laughs, but at least he is no Cemil nor Captain Fayez. He is patient with me as we stoop low in the stance and breathe and recite the names of the Divine whilecontemplating death over the ababil corpse, the rancid scent making me gag again. Eventually, after the first exercise, it settles into my bones.
A smaller, darker thought wanders into my contemplations. If death is a mangle of bones and rot, is this what Uma preferred to become – primed to take her own life at a moment’s notice?
‘What else had she lived for,’ No-Name says from behind my stance, startling me. Her pale bony body crawls across the glistening tiles – stooping to run the hole that is supposed to be her nose along the bird.
‘Stop that,’ I hiss at her.
‘Stop what?’ Yabghu lifts his staff. ‘Have you quit meditating so soon?’ In a blink, he strikes my swelling left leg, the weaker one, and I topple sideways, sliding down the slanted terrace. The tiles scrape sharply against my cheek before my fingers manage to scrape for purchase.
‘Careful, rukh,’ Yabghu dares to warn while I crawl to regain my spot.
‘You did that on purpose,’ I accuse, but his staff swings to my shoulder. My legs brace for it, stance balanced.
‘I did?’ He feigns.
I grit out another remembrance before saying, ‘I am not the only rukh.’
‘Of course.’ The bastard thwacks Katayoun before he grins. Meanwhile, Cemil eases into each stance without trouble, the Second-Slash that he is.
Eventually, like in any meditative state, my seventy-seven bonds materialise through points on my body, gold lines stretching to the Heavens. With each breath, they thicken like shimmering roots, pulsing with Heavenly Energy.
‘At each remembrance, focus on your Heavenly bonds like a muscle. Only then can you strengthen the spiritual muscle of your soul, called the ruh, and each bond within it. Breathe conservatively, to gather kinetic energy and transmit it in small doses, until, outside of training, you subconsciously save energy even while sleeping. A true Za’skar martial artist masters how to move merely by shifting their weight rather than using muscles that are not needed; the best fighters never lift their feet.’
Yabghu’s hands move like the soft aches of the breeze, pushing upwards to the Heavens before clasping downwards at the end. Someare variations of common martial stances even in Azadniabad, and others are new... and strange. Like an awkward-limbed child, I follow along while breathing in the reeking, stale bird bones.
Yabghu cocks his head. ‘You are not a complete novice.’ I straighten at his thin compliment and note Cemil’s watchful gaze on me. ‘What is this style?’ He puts down the staff. ‘Like water flowing through roots.’
The blood drains from my cheeks. It’s the Seven Gentle Paths of Dawjad.
‘You’ve trained in martial arts for how long?’
Hyat Uncle advised me to accept any suspicions boldly. Better to speak less; only liars speak often. ‘For years. It’s common for servants to learn with the children of their masters.’
He unties the black muslin of his turban, wiping sweat from his temple. ‘Here, we follow Eajiz arts. We’ll improve how you summon Heavenly bonds in due time.’
Throughout the day, my muscles quiver and when I pause to catch my breath, Yabghu slams his foot into my back, sneering, ‘I did not order rest. Repeat it, twice as long.’
He circles us, his staff batting Katayoun, Cemil and me if we dare slouch. Until midday, we sweep our arms and recite the sound, channelling into the movement of our forward-facing palms. We carve X shapes in the air, or trace loops. We do nothing else but this – five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred – almost eight hundred times.
After two hours of aching movements, he assigns stretches to practise in the evenings, for no martial artist is adept without flexibility. With an amused expression, he hands me an iron whisk to beat myself morning and night.
‘This will develop your corporeal form into the martial phenomenon ofiron-bone. Tap lightly but rapidly in striking motions.’ He points to Katayoun, who demonstrates by brushing a whisk across the length of her arm in an upwards motion. ‘Emphasise the collarbone because it’s the easiest bone to break but the hardest to heal. The iron whisk bruises skin and raises welts, but it causes the body’s tissue to become dense without increasing muscle mass. Your bones will be as tough as iron.It will hurt. But pain yields great reward.’
