‘In a raid, I saw enemies take a babe as small as Yahya, all jiggly with rolls. And they stretched him apart until he burst. Children are the easiest prey.’
I hurry forward. ‘Arezu.’ I take her by the arm. ‘You are scaring them.’
I begin to drag her to the side as she struggles in my grip. ‘I am only preparing them.’
She is one of the oldest amongst them but, I’d forgotten, still a child. And though I do not understand children – hardly recall being one myself – I understand this, the need to speak your fear out of existence, pretending it does not matter. To share the burden of those scars. I know how to deal with the beginnings of a monster.
‘I see why you warn them,’ I reassure her.
Her fingers tuck into the necklace of bones around her throat, but I catch the tremors. ‘I have seen battles before; I have seen good warriors die. And we are not even good.’
‘The Marka does not allow for murder.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I mean wounds! Those other warriors hate us. Their violence will prove it.’
Before I can think further, my fingers slip out the melted Zahr khanjar, flipping the handle to show Arezu. ‘See this? My dada gifted me this blade after I passed a test.’ A part of me despairs in mentioning him, sharing such a private memory, but she is staring at me so intently, I swallow the cowardice. ‘Before he’d gifted it, I’d failed many tests. I choked. The blade felt unworthy.’
‘You failed?’
‘Between us... many times. But that is our secret. Every warrior has a weakness that manifests in our lowest moments. But the true test is if it manifests in your battles. For me, my weakness is memories. At times, I stop thinking. I am caught in the past. For you, your fear from what you’ve seen in your childhood will burden you.’
She frowns but does not dispute it. ‘Then I am weak.’
I shake my head. ‘Weak? No, Arezu. This anger you carry, it’s a strength. It’s why I sought you for this squadron. While you are here pretending not to be miserable, I understand. I understand why you trained in solitude before you allowed me to be your master.’
Her green eyes flit up, wary. Curiosity stretches between us, the sparks of friction snuffing for once.
‘You desire power. You crave the rush like me, and you are angry. I do not know why, and in truth, I do not care.’ I hope Arezu cannot hear my own fleeting resolve. These are the words my father would tell me, a conviction for me to cling to. ‘You may only master your power if your conviction bears the weight of its burden. So, tell me, the moment you improved your affinity, was it not the best feeling? The thrill of knowing no one could hurt you, no one could stop you just for a moment?’
Her lips twitch, as she regains her bearings. ‘It felt good.’
‘Remember it.’ I gesture at her hand. ‘You have your strength.’ I lift my blade. ‘And I have mine, always,’ I promise.
I return to my squadron. If only these students were not wallowing in their own hysteria. But they would not have survived for so long in Za’skar if they had not faced terrors inside the city’s gates. I need only to remind them of this.
‘Squadron Six,’ I bark, dragging Yahya alongside me. ‘Lines.’
The seventeen students stand in stern order, with Katayoun at my side, Aina and Sharra behind us.
‘Our opponents laugh because they smell our terror,’ I begin. ‘But they are ignorant of one fact: that you have faced greater enemies. If you can accomplish the pain of stance training, if you can handleme, or the abuses of ruthless pazktab masters, nothing is worse. Today you are warriors.’ My tongue burns from the magnitude of the lie while Katayoun fights to keep a neutral expression. The students straighten. ‘Answer your captain: how will you fight during an enemy’s ambush?’
‘Stab the khanjar in the enemy’s toes,’ the young squadron shouts in unison.
‘How deep?’
‘You bury the blade to the hilt to pin them,’ they drone louder.
‘Excellent,’ I murmur. ‘At the parî’s signal, the Marka begins. Focus on your tasks.’
I do not know my soldiers well, but I try for an encouraging look. From the horror in their gazes, my attempt is more awkward than comforting.
A sudden light illuminates the desert planes before a great parî soars above the salt flats. It’s the Keeper of the Great Library.
He lifts a clawed hand, huffs of silver power rippling into a Veil. My ears pop and my mouth dries. Through the murky haze of the Veil, I can make out the shadowed forms of thousands of soldiers, scholars, officers and bureaucrats observing from atop the mountainous cliffs enclosing the desert. The back of my neck crawls. I trained for this my entire life: to defeat opponents who outmatch me, for is that not Azadniabad under Sajamistan? If I fail this, I do not deserve to be martial-vizier of my clan.
The Keeper bows his head. ‘May the pain of this battle bestow upon you the bond of the Heavens. Begin!’
We sprint in different directions, each Zero-Slash leading a division of the pazktab students. Yasaman and Yahya flank me on the left of the saline oases. At the first tree, I snag a branch from the ground. We fasten the stick at the centre of our territory, supported by a boulder. The banner of our territory is a calf-skin flag located along ridges of red and white sediment.
