My overseer tilts his head. ‘Cemil’s limit is three in any given battle, unless he swaps it for another mark. As he grows stronger, that may increase. There could be other weaknesses. The Divine can bestow the same affinity to more than one mortal, and yet an affinity adapts itself differently to its wielder’s soul – based on their Heavenly Contract, bonds, morals and, of course, creativity. Past warriors with the Messenger affinity marked their targets differently. But Cemil uses his contract with Heaven in this method – by writing upon his targets.’
‘He uses it well,’ I admit and my overseer does not soothe my fears. ‘Captain Fayez will pick Cemil over me for the Marka.’
Yabghu reads my gaze. ‘As you ask about his progress, he pesters me about you.’
‘Why?’ I face him, fighting the quaver in my tone. ‘He has no need to worry. My path leads to a life of the lowest ranks. Scholar Mufasa swore to never let failed students participate in the Marka; to always make them remain a Zero-Slash.’
‘That old bastard.’ His lips twitch up. ‘As for Cemil, a good warrior never underestimates their rivals, low as they are.’
‘I could hear you, Overseer.’ Cemil’s voice rings out and we turn to see him panting slightly at the bottom, as if he had run across Za’skar. ‘Telling her about the weakness in my affinity.’
Yabghu shrugs. ‘You injured her. It’s only fair. I ought to flog you.’
‘Why did you follow us?’ I break in.
Cemil steps upwards and his eyes drop to my cradled arm.
‘I assume to check if your blade pierced me deep enough?’ I press.
He continues walking forward.
‘To ensure I cannot train and—’
He reaches our step and my voice falters.
‘Overseer, you may leave,’ Cemil says. ‘I can accompany her the rest of the way.’ Then he addresses me. ‘I’m not desperate enough tointentionally injure you before the Marka. If I wanted to, then on your first day as an initiate, I would not have shattered the poisoned teacup.’ Yabghu observes us, deft eyes narrowed as if perceiving something.
Cemil presses a finger between my shoulders. ‘Let’s go, before you bleed all over the steps.’
‘I am fine.’ I shake off his arm and step through the monastery’s wrought-copper doors. Above me, a vegetally patterned plaque greets followers with death and peace, in illuminated calligraphy. For me, it’s only a bitter remembrance.
There are as many bonds to the Divine as there are breaths in man before death.
A junior healer spots my bloodied arm, pushing me toward the infirmary, but before the door shuts, I catch Yabghu thwacking Cemil’s head and dragging him away for a flogging.
In the infirmary, I stare at my marred arm in disbelief. I believed I could succeed in this city, but now it felt like climbing up a mountain only to see you’d merely reached the path’s end and had yet to graze the peak. Both Cemil and I have affinities effective in short-range battle but the chasm between our strengths is irrefutable.
Across from my floor-bed, No-Name balances on the beryl ledge of a medicinal shelf. Her skin is less pale and her features have altered, eyes wide and green.
My breath escapes my lungs. ‘You... look almost like Uma. Why?’
She touches her face before dropping her hands. ‘I suppose you wish me to be.’
I turn away, curling into the bedding. But my aches do not subside. I miss them. My clansmen. My brother Yun. My slain sister Azra. The easy nature of Zhasna. And Uma, most of all. I miss her gentle hands. I miss her salted chai with two sugar cubes under my tongue. I miss her wet, broken eyes that calmed when my fingers touched her cheek, weak though mine were.
I miss Uma.In her short life, I could do nothing to save her. And still in her death – I raise my bandaged arm – I havethisto offer her.
My eyes shut, hearing Uma.The Sajamistanis surround you like vultures as you flee across the Tezmi’a Mountains,she says.Their arrows sink into your back; they delight in your screams. Your whimpers become the music of a well-tuned lute as the Sepahbad takes your hand lovingly in his ownbefore pressing his khanjar against your thumb. You continue screaming. He slices it slowly. And then he slices the next finger, and the next—
My eyes reopen and dart to my side. Suddenly, it’s notmyhead conjuring terrifying reminders for myself – it’s No-Name on the bedding beside me, wrapping her arms around my waist, voice slipping into the forlorn tune of Uma, saying the grotesque thoughts. Her face has shifted until she’s undeniably my mother.
The horror makes me straighten. No-Name flinches. The answer hits me.
‘Change to who I need.’ I speak the command.
Uma disappears. No-Name’s skin becomes a smooth olive tone, head thick with black curls, an elegant crane-feathered qaftan flowing to her calves, until she is the emperor in the flesh. Stricken for a moment, I cannot help the bubble of hysteria in my chest, wondering why I had not thought of this idea before. What else propelled me to master jinn-poisons in a feat of masochism, day after day?
All I need is the emperor to remind me – no, tocommandme – that it is okay to become a living, breathing Sajamistani to rise in this army. If I can deceive my brain, I will not time-blank. I can pass.
