Questions are wrong.
Sister Umairah frowns at me, levelling a stern gaze. ‘Remain steadfast, pupil. The bountiful rain falls, flooding the valley, yet rather than sowing and reaping, all you do is watch.’
Every second is ideological warfare, but a warrior must love it, must become obsessed with it. Between martial classes, the school and the monastery, my trifecta trains relentlessly. We continue a peaceful routine, wedged into the violent crevices of our soul, until we are stitched into a tapestry of contradictions. We are good at that. Humans like to take peace and make it a symbol of war.
We recite every text. We protest nothing. We bow and grovel. We answer ridiculous questions and, most of all, we listen. When the scholars and monks insult us, we thank them; when they praise us, we remain silent; when they remain quiet, still we bow our heads in shame as if we committed a wrong. We willingly become everyone’s pathetic pupils, hoping to become extraordinary masters.
After several weeks, close to the Marka tournament, Cemil tells me I am ready. It is time to try my hand again in Scholar Mufasa’sclass. Tentatively, I enter the martial halqa, the chambers pluming in frankincense.
‘Do you have a death wish?’ The scholar begins with no greeting. I catch Katayoun’s eyes, seated between Aina, Sharra and Aizere. To my surprise, Katayoun nods to me, and that acknowledgement makes me step further in. Other students notice and murmurs of disquiet cause my heart to flutter like moths against torchlight.
I loosen a breath. ‘Scholar, when I am wrong, you must correct me. Are you and I not alike, both students of knowledge?’
‘A student is an easy name to claim. Whether you are one or not is a different question.’ He snorts hard, flicking off my flattery. Even his wrinkles fold upon themselves like pruned grapes.
He snatches his copied parchments of the Jazatah annals. He jams a finger into the middle of the codex and begins reading. ‘... The Jazatah magicians did not believe in the natural cycle of death. Eajiz believe in bonds representing...’
I know this section, as well as my tongue knows the inside of my cheek. ‘– our resurrection. Eajiz must shred mind, body and soul before rebuilding it, the way the soul is made by the Divine, killed and resurrected. The first magicians neglected this relationship.’
Mufasa licks his thumb before unrolling a parchment closer to the beginning. ‘Ancient Jazatah civilisations travelled to the City of God’s Gates, in ancient Za’skar. This city was the first metropolis after Adam had passed. A wicked empire, the birthplace of black magick—’
I remain quiet, in thought. This scholarship is about the Jinn Wars.
Around us, the low-ranks stare, some in open fascination and others in terror. Katayoun bends her head as if she senses I am one mistake away from bearing the violence of the scholar’s staff.
A memory of Emirhan punished on my first day flashes through my head, trousers saturated in his own piss.That will be you, Khamilla.I fear not the pain, but the disappointment. I replace the scholar’s face with my father.They both are the same, I chant inwardly. It recalls the memory.
‘They,’I put out, ‘held an asymmetry of power through black magick. Using the dark arts, the magicians invoked all types of jinn-folk who soothsaid in their favour. They committed infanticide by magicking wombs to produce stillborn babies, sacrificing souls to feed their power.’
The scholar’s finger lifts, quieting me. The class looks on in equal surprise. No-Name treks down the kilim rugs before coming to a stop behind the scholar. Her shape appears like a younger version of the emperor, cross-legged at the low desk, touching parchment and reed pens as if writing letters. My eyes follow her movements.
‘I am not done with my test,’ the scholar grunts as he rifles through the manuscripts again. But I miss nothing, quoting by heart.
At the end of the hour, the scholar finally places the last codex down, speaking in a thick voice. ‘You think memorising is intelligence. Anyone can learn modes of reasoning, but intelligence – true intelligence – is to seize the material, dissect each line, rearrange it and make it one’s own. Indeed, you have demonstrated that you are a puppet, spitting the words required of you.’
I flinch and No-Name looks up from the desk, smiling at his words.
Then Scholar Mufasa waves at the other rukhs and I almost miss the gleam in his eyes. ‘But I am a man of my word. You have studied the foundation, and you might even perform passingly in the yearly examinations. So go on.’ His nostrils flare. ‘Before I change my mind.’
19
In the chilly night, dozens of trifectas crowd around the gates of Za’skar to depart for the Festival of Lights in the Sixteen-Gated Grand Bazaar. Apparently, Captain Fayez intends to announce his squadron tonight.
‘I find it a Divine miracle that you’ve left the libraries,’ Yabghu tells me as he knots a raven-feathered shawl under his armpits. ‘This is your first outing into Al-Haut?’
‘Yes.’ My tone is short.Do not expect it again, I want to tell him.
‘Her expression says she would rather be studying,’ Cemil remarks from my left. Tonight, he wears a dark muslin kerchief round his temple, making the grey in his eyes appear black.
‘Because the examinations are in three weeks and the Easkaria scholars would like to fail me.’
Yabghu smirks. ‘But you came, anyway.’
‘Cemil made me swear an oath.’
My overseer glances between us. ‘An oath? How did he manage that?’ Cemil has the decency to be truthful, but a sardonic smile plays at his lips. ‘Bribery. I agreed to help her in her studies if she came.’
‘Finally, you realised the use in bribery,’ Katayoun mutters.
