I hardly manifest a glimmer of nur before my cheek slams into the dirt, Cemil’s blade digs under my neck, and his lips hiss against my ear, ‘And you are dead.’
My heart is a pathetic flutter. Heperception-blitzed my senses.
‘How?’ I demand face down in the dirt, sandy grits of it in my back teeth. His arm eases and my neck cranes to face him, still pinned. For a moment, a deep-seeded fear crawls under my skin, seeing him towering over me in a raven mask, an echo of a forgotten past.
‘My affinity,’ he answers simply before climbing off me.
I hadn’t had an instant to use my Heavenly Energy – I did notseehim.
‘His affinity is a virtue of diligence,’ Captain Fayez explains from across the gardens while his thick scarred fingers toy with a bone-pendant. ‘It’s a Messenger affinity; he marks a spot before battle and uses an activated Heavenly bond on his limb to arrive there first, at the speed of a jinn, by travelling through the Veil of the psychospiritual realm. He simply needs to write a glyph upon his target; he can use water, blood, ink –anything. And the mark remains there unless he swaps it for a new target.’ He nods at Cemil, satisfied. ‘Good work.’
‘We are not finished.’ I lift my blade. ‘Again.’
That morning, I spar with Cemil many times, but it is of no use – as a Second-Slash, he disables my attacks, leaving me in the dregs of his affinity.
It isn’t until our eleventh spar that I manage to snake my arm up, but he grapples me to the ground through an ankle lock. He lifts his khanjar and—
A burst of pain explodes down my arm. My vision goes black, for a breath. I squirm on the ground and hear asquelch.
‘Eight Gates of Hells,’ I gasp out.
Through my blurry gaze, Cemil is frozen in place.
I dare a look down, a bout of nausea in my throat.
His blade has crucified my forearm to the dirt, skewered like a slab of meat, tearing right through the gold-threading. Every movement shoots agony up my arm.
‘No good, no good,’ No-Name continues repeating from behind me.
‘You are so helpful!’ I snap at her, but Cemil seems to think I am addressing him.
His mouth opens and closes, smirk gone, eyes wide. He kneels, hand reaching out toward the khanjar.
‘Do not touch me—’ I lurch away, forgetting that I cannot move, making me choke on my words as the blade wiggles against my penetrated arm.
Another test. Another failure, the emperor tuts inside my head. My eyes shut and I curl up, counting up and down to calm my breath, but his voice only grows louder. I’ve failed the scholars’ tests, and, now, the sparrings.
‘Khamilla.’ I feel Cemil’s hands on my shoulders and my neck muscles spasm. ‘Be still and breathe, or the wound will worsen.’
‘Was injuring me intentional, so the captain does not select me for the Marka?’ I breathe out.
His eyes, dark with remorse, search me before he nods toward the khanjar. ‘Don’t be difficult. Let me unpin the blade.’
‘That’s the last spar, the both of you!’ Overseer Yabghu, who was sparring with Katayoun, begins to run over, ripping the arak root from his mouth and tossing it away.
‘I’ve got this, Overseer,’ Cemil throws out. He holds down my wrist. I bite on my other arm, refusing to cry out. He yanks out the khanjar and the pain nearly makes me pass out.
‘We must take you to the Qabl medics.’
I cradle my arm. ‘My overseer will take me,’ I say coldly.
We both glance at Yabghu, who is searching for his arak root. He pauses and straightens. ‘Of course.’
Yabghu reaches me and uses his martial wrappings to staunch the wound, before helping me away from the gardens, blood blotchedthrough my tunic. I catch Cemil staring after the crimson trail on the grass, jaw clenched.
No-Name follows us while we head past sand dunes full of other trifectas training under the punishing sun. It is not until we climb the sandstone steps of the monastery, toward the healing quarters on its third tier, that my voice breaks the terse silence.
‘He is more powerful. Surely, there must be a limit to the targets Cemil can use in battle.’
