It takes another moment to distribute their rationed water into twenty-four cups. One by one, I place bowls on their shoulders, upon their wobbling thighs and lastly, their parallel elbows. With my cold nur, I light the longest incense stick on the wooden coaster, placing it on the ground.
‘What is this?’ Arezu whispers but panic edges into her question. The truth hits them at once and I grin.They cannot move.
‘Training,’ I reply. ‘The rules are simple. I have lit an incense stick. You are to remain in horse-stance until the incense burns to ash. The branch attached to your spine will maintain your form. You will feel pain, embrace it. Your bones will crack, ignore them. If you disobey my instructions, naturally there is a cost. The cups containing your rationed water will topple from your limbs. The dirt will lap up the scarce moisture and there will be no way to earn it back, leaving you without rations. At each instance that a cup falls, I will refill it with more of your water. Now pray to the Divine for a miracle.’
‘You tricked us!’ Arezu accuses me, but from the force of speaking, her arms jitter and the teacup upon her left elbow crashes to the ground.
‘Enough mewling,’ I intone. ‘One cup of water is gone. I would save my energy.’
‘This is impossible!’ Yasaman joins her.
‘An Eajiz’s power can only grow through pain. A linear relationship. In the pazktab, the scholars read beloved martial tales, warriors accomplishing impossible feats at high adrenaline but desperate moments. Saving your water serves as an incentive.’
‘But the incense will take an hour to finish! This is not—’
‘Just?’ I offer Sohrab, stripping my voice of any emotion. ‘Where is the morality in this army? If you wish to be a Za’skar warrior, it demands a high cost.’
The memory of the Sepahbad flashes in my head, his quick-witted movements making me helpless; my captain, the stern scholars, their cruelty.
‘I am giving you a taste of what the future holds. I am preparing you for the vices of Za’skar City.’
For the next hour, No-Name and I observe the students maintaining horse-stance. I chew on neem and clove-scented root to do away with my boredom. At the half-hour mark, the children’s cries rebound through the clearing in an uncomfortable din, Yahya’s the loudest.
‘Breathe in the direction the remembrance shapes your teeth and tongue,’ I add unhelpfully.
Yahya pleads the loudest. ‘Master!’
Shame braids through me but I fling it away. His posture drops like a sodden blanket and his features pinch together, eyes rounding into a glassy sheen. Silent sobs wrench through him and my spine shudders as if they are carving through me too. For a wavering moment, No-Name reaches out to the pained child but at a second blink, she’s vanished.
I blame that sound for my foot moving forward on pure instinct, stopping only at the last moment. The teacup rolls off Yahya’s right shoulder. I let it fall.
‘I am to teach my students, not rock you in my arms like a wailing babe.’
Only Arezu does not complain. She merely blinks open an eye. ‘You do not care.’
‘Not at all, no.’
More teacups topple, but I muster past the students’ whines until the hour flounders by and the incense is reduced to a blackened stub.
‘Good work.’ I untie the staffs. Immediately, the students curl up, groaning and rolling in the tall grass. It’s eerily silent. Clouds have crept in, brushing the tail of the rising sun. All four passed the exercise with at least one bowl of water intact.
I crawl into a copse of citrus trees, where I hid my supply of water. To the group’s surprise, in exchange for succeeding in my test, I portion my rations to recuperate their losses.
‘What would happen if we failed?’ Sohrab asks between gulps.
Arezu meets my eyes. I don’t answer. Instead, I order, ‘Tomorrow, you do it again.’
After three days of repeating horse-stance, the students graduate to affinity summoning. I’ve not the time to wait for children to learn slowly. Instead, I need a squadron to squeeze its merit’s worth. And as young things, I discover their motivation.
Sohrab carries a jostling bundle of nuts and fruits. My eyes drop to slits. ‘What is that?’
‘Food swiped from the kitchens for... Yahya... and me.’
‘I see,’ I say, snatching it before he can blink. I shell a pistachio and toss the green nugget into my mouth. ‘Are you upset? Would you like to spar with me?’
Sohrab shifts his feet at the unlikely outcome. ‘No,’ he croaks.
‘Then begin stance training.’
