Becoming .
Babshah Khatun, Usur Khan, Hawah, Haj, Sheeth, Mehmet, Ayslan, Habil—
The names blurred in my mind along with memories: of arriving in darkness after endless days of walking; the exchange of murmured words between my uma and a figure at a garrison; a dry room and a bowl of poultices.
After days of travel with Uma, I had risen in a daze – barely registering the horses, or arriving at a gated city – before a swarm of guards led us to a quiet room of gold walls, the calm suddenly shattered by a partition sliding open, a voice from a servant announcing, ‘His Blessed awaits you.’
‘Get up,’ Uma hissed. I rocked on the kilim rug, gazing at the gold-threading dyed along my forearms.
Babshah Khatun, Usur Khan, Hawah, Haj, Sheeth, Mehmet, Ayslan, Habil—
‘Up now, child.’ Uma’s calloused hands gripped me.
I suddenly remembered to breathe. ‘Help me,’ I gasped out and my words careened through the small room. ‘My head, it hurts. W-who will tell their stories, Uma? I cannot forget the names of the dead. Please, I can hear their voices, their stories – I-I must go to Babshah. To finish the folktale—’
Uma wretched me upwards in a bruising grip. Her glassy eyes like knobs of jade mirrored my own. ‘Enough. You are stronger than the dead.’
I pressed my palms to my cheeks. ‘No, no, Uma, I’m not. We must return to Tezmi’a! Babshah Khatun is waiting!’
Her fingers dug harder. ‘Babshah is dead! The lands of the Camel Road are not our home! Not anymore.’
I stilled. Behind her, a palace servant watched us stiffly from the entrance of the small administrative room.
‘We have journeyed too far into the heart of Azadniabad to turn back. We will have one chance,’ her voice wavered, ‘for the emperor is never in the business of mercy to give more. The emperor does not know about your affinity gifted from the Heavens. But when he does, he will give us refuge. Please.’ Her voice hitched.
‘You have yearned to meet your dada. Today he can finally name you.’
From the doorway, the servant cleared her throat.
We followed her down a long corridor. At any other time, I would have marvelled at the illuminated floral paintings, the walls of blue silk tapestries woven through with shimmering garlands, the crane carvings on stelae, the embellished copper lanterns holding firelight, but I could not conjure any feeling, numb like frost.
Dragging my leg behind me, my braids hung like black straw around my face. We passed through a light blue marble archway with a dome at the top, painted cranes at the borders. Inside it were wide copper inner gates that guards swung open into a grand hall.
I fixated on the honey-gold mosaic tiling, smooth beneath my broken clogs otherwise accustomed to uneven mountain terrain.
Two courtly-looking men flanked a circular dais, dressed in extravagant robes the colour of dried clay, with intricate teal threads and brocade waist-sashes.
I’d never seen clothes like this. At the centre of the dais, a man sat cross-legged atop crimson floor cushions with gold tassels. Incense puffed smoke from the corners.
I stumbled back at seeing the man. He looked .
. . like me. His back rested against an odd throne, as if the ivory was a living, breathing creature – vines and flora sprouted from between the niches and carvings, a creation from nature.
A marble slab, dahlia flowers decorating the borders, connected the low throne to the ceiling, carved with stelae commemorating Nuh’s ark.
Blue domes formed a great circumference, gleaming in gold calligraphy.
A carved crane’s head bowed from the middle; the rest of the circle was etched in motifs of humans riding horned karkadann.
‘Look at me, child,’ the man’s low voice ordered.
You are . . . between two worlds. Perhaps one day your difference will be of great worth to us all. The khan’s words returned at once. Tears finally pattered down my cheeks.
Slowly, I shifted my eyes to his. Dada, I mouthed, but dared not say.
The emperor was a tall slender man with a cold face, neither kind nor cruel.
His deep onyx eyes studied me alike. My head tilted.
I had assumed I was Uma’s mirror but I saw little pieces of myself in him – the tall slope of our eyes, the curliness of our hair, the angular face, the hunger in our gazes.
The emperor rested his chin atop his palm, elbow balanced on his knee.
He wore a long honey qaftan and felted waist-sash with floral embroidery, its scented oil wafting through the room.
The ceremonial khanjar strapped to his side was bejewelled in sapphire, while a blue outer robe pooled around his folded ankles.
Crane feathers were stitched across his drooping sleeves.
Covering his temple was a low indigo turban, his short black-blue curls blending into the shadows of the throne room, escaping the headwrap.
His sleeves were rolled up, arms decorated with dyes in blue-threading depicting Nuh’s ark and the crane upon a lotus.
Beside his dais, flurrying in a wide brass cage upon a cushioned divan, were all kinds of birds – black kites, hawks and, finally, four cranes.
The emperor sighed loudly. ‘Aysenor, let us settle this pragmatically.’ Uma stiffened at the mention of her name but did not lift her head.
‘Though you’ve petitioned my court, asking to be sheltered in my palaces, I have decided it’s best to send you to my garrison near Tezmi’a.
Your people were my vassals, so it’s better you return to the mountains.
The garrison will be better for your . .
.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Your lifestyle, your ways. Worry not, my estate is well kept, the warlordess under my thumb. If you remain here, your daughter won’t survive my courts. ’
My head snapped to him. Your daughter. Dada did not claim me as his own.
‘If you wish for anything else, speak now.’
I nudged Uma but she merely stared at the mosaic tiles.
‘Your Blessed, I have not returned to your capital for myself. I return for my daughter. Our enemies at the border grow stronger. The Sajamistan Empire sends their frontier clans on melees. There is nothing in the lands of the Camel Road for us anymore. Here, we can be of help.’
‘Help?’ He perched forward, uncrossing his legs and standing. ‘I wish for your safety, but I will not tolerate foolish suggestions. My servants will escort you to the women’s inner palace. Tomorrow, you depart for my garrison.’
Uma did not move. ‘Look at your daughter.’
His eyes grew impossibly dark. ‘You dare order me?’ He stepped down but I moved in front of Uma, provoking his gaze.
Visibly, he reeled back his anger, swallowing hard.
‘Who are you, child, to stand before me? You shouldn’t even be alive after your soul—’ He paused and shook his head.
‘Leave. The days your uma lived here, she nearly died. It’s for your own good. ’
‘But—’
He turned away and swept a hand. A guard tugged at Uma.
‘Don’t touch her!’ I cried out.
‘And what will you do?’ The guard appraised me.
As I did the day of the raid, I reached into the well of pain inside my heart; I begged the Divine to bestow the affinity once more. My chest unclenched. A gold line sprung out from my palm, and white light expanded through it. It shone around me, making the guard stumble away from us.
The guard lifted her mask. The nūr’s light was reflected in the black of her gaze. She turned to the equally stunned emperor.
‘The girl is an Eajīz,’ the emperor murmured. It was not a question.
I clenched my fist and, with difficulty, the light sputtered and dispersed. Uma’s gaze found the emperor, finally pinning him in place on the dais.
‘You see?’ she said quietly. ‘I returned for her.’
Oh. Uma had bided her time, for this.
Only at her side, could I feel her trembling body.
The emperor’s keen gaze tracked the remnants of light. ‘No, you’ve both returned for me. Come forward, child. Show the nūr.’
Sweat beaded down my face. With difficulty, I churned the light but it sparked listlessly and disappeared, my weak control evident.
He cupped his chin once more and glanced at the second guard, who I realised was not a guard at all but a courtly adviser.
He swept forward. He was young, hair shorn close to his scalp.
He leant toward the emperor and glanced at me, and then, oddly, gestured toward the cage of birds beside the dais.
At last, the adviser stepped back and the emperor bent a stern gaze upon me.
‘I have three wives who I’ve treated equally, bearing me a dozen heirs.
I have seven children much older than you, formidable warriors, with my eldest daughter at twenty years old preparing to progress my clan.
But you wandering thing . . . you are not raised in our ways.
You do not understand my people. And you speak the court’s dialect with difficulty, I hear in your rough accent.
You are merely thirteen years old. What do you offer me? ’
My brows knitted. Out of the corner of my eyes, the darkness of the room stirred, the fabric of space inhaling. Gooseflesh puckered down my arms. The shadow I witnessed on the cusp of death appeared behind the emperor, waiting as it had by the grave.
I did not wish to die. But a persistent keenness kneaded through me, an urge that made me feel as if I was observing the microcosm of this moment from afar. Somehow, from the shadow’s presence, I knew that if I made the wrong move, I would be killed. I was afraid to even blink.
‘I-I can learn,’ I said, daring to look at the emperor.
‘Anyone can learn.’
I had nūr, and that made me valuable. But perhaps the emperor would find a child he could not control as equal a threat as the foes at his borders. Perhaps he feared one day I might turn against him. What did he want?
‘I am nothing,’ I answered, kneeling. ‘I am unlearned. I do not know my letters. I am blank. But a blank canvas can be written according to its scriber. My destiny is in the hands of the Divine who has led me back to you. So write me as you please, Dada.’
He inclined his head, satisfied. ‘Tell me how the raid on your tribe made you feel?’
‘Helpless,’ I spoke softly. ‘I thought the khan was mighty, but he fell quickly, like a struck boar, and they impaled his skull on a stake. We were surrounded.’
It hurt to say. Though recently there had been raids, famine – ill mares, elders scooping tough stool from our bottoms, mouths that tasted of ash – there had also been the quietude of the valley, our steady drowsy movements through the gorges, the hunting birds, the stories of Babshah, the gold-threading from Uma and the khan.
There was a miserable kind of happiness in those memories. I missed it.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. Dada brushed a thumb under my eye and examined the moisture impassively. ‘You weep.’
‘Yes. I-I am remembering.’
He crouched until we were level. ‘You must forget. These memories, they will weigh against you, as a sin burdens the soul.’
‘Forget? But Babshah . . . Usur Khan, milk-brother Haj . . . the dead? Babshah said a folkteller must carry the history and sorrows of our home—’
‘Home?’ He swept away the tears. ‘This is your home. You were a Zahr from birth.’
‘A Zahr?’
‘My clan,’ he explained plainly. ‘Now it is our clan. Just as the original Azadnian clan united clansmen into a circle under the throne, swearing to protect these lands . . . we, the Zahrs, now rule and protect Azadniabad. From enemies like the ones who raided you. We carry the Heavenly Crane’s mandate. ’
‘How many enemies?’ I choked out.
‘Other kingdoms exist, other empires, other rulers. Sajamistan Empire is encroaching at our borderlands, but they are one of many. Do you wish to be protected?’
Without a doubt.
He pulled me close and the shock of the embrace heaved a gasp through my lips. ‘I can protect you. But you must forget the past.’
Forget, I heard the whisper. Yes, I can forget.
‘Forgo your tribe. Their reminder will bring you pain. Here, you will no longer be alone. My monks will train you as an Eajīz. But you must never breathe a word about your nūr to anyone else – not your cousins, not the clan. That you wield nūr is a threat to my wives and heirs’ power in the courts.
When you are older – stronger – then we will reveal your Heavenly affinity,’ the emperor explained.
‘The only ones who will know are my advisers here: one is my eldest son, and the other is my brother – your uncle Hyat.’ He swept a hand to the young adviser, and then the older-looking man flanking his low throne.
‘This is our secret. Can you keep a secret? It’s my first task for you. ’
I nodded feebly.
‘I ask in return that you must swear to protect Azadniabad just as I shall protect you.’ He pulled back. ‘Here you will bring glory to our clan.’
Without my dada, I would be nothing. I would be made to return to the steppes, and Uma and I would die as nothing, alone. Worse than death was living without a legacy to carve upon the world. Bowing my head, I vowed to gain his approval.
The emperor raised his palm.
‘Last night, I dreamt my court’s crane flew to my fist, looking to the Heavens with its right eye.
My Chief Dream-Interpreter,’ the emperor pointed to his son, ‘is a monk. He interpreted that when an emperor has a dream of his courtly bird in such a way, it presages a disturbance in the realm’s affairs: a good or bad omen.
It’s no coincidence that you arrived at my doorsteps the very next day.
You are the fulfilment of that dream. Let us see what you prove to be. ’
Behind him, a crane fluttered in the brass gilded cage, creaking a broken tune.
The emperor held out his hand to me. ‘When I strike my sword, what shall you be?’
‘Your blade,’ I answered.
This would be the only time my dada smiled upon me, for once not an emperor, but a father pleased with his child.