Chapter 3
I return shortly to the apothecary and a physician cleanses me of any residual poisons. Before long, a familiar monk enters and I recognise him as the Chief Dream-Interpreter. And the emperor’s eldest son.
At seventeen years old, he is a tall young man of blunt features and a hard jaw covered in a thin shadow of a beard, with shorn hair like raven-feathers as dark as his stark eyes.
His white and mustard-yellow robes flow to bony ankles, the sleeves hemmed with delicate silver lotus embroidery.
A pale girded waist-sash yanks tight around his long-limbed frame.
A strange brightness exudes from his light brown skin, like Heavenly light. A sign of piety and fasting.
‘Peace, Younger Sister,’ he greets, a circled fist above his belly. I return it. ‘Forgiveness for my uma. She likes her cruelty as much as she favours her poisons.’
I pause halfway in my bow. ‘Y-you are Dunya’s son?’
‘Well, I was her eldest. But as a warrior monk, son to the faith and student to the 1000 Wings of Crane Monastic School, I’ve forgone all material relations of this temporal world.
Now, I remain only the Chief Dream-Interpreter of the court.
’ He bends at the waist slightly, with a grin.
‘And good riddance. Having Dunya as a mother is inviting cruelty.’
I glance around, wondering what ears in the palace will convey his insults. ‘She will hear you.’
‘Let her!’
I decide I like this half-brother of mine. ‘Well, she is cruel,’ I agree carefully.
‘The emperor instructed me to train you in poisons and in your . . .’ he lowers his voice, ‘affinity as an Eajīz. But be careful now, little bird. This palace is a vulture ready to swallow its prey. Fear not. I know Dunya and her tricks well.’
‘I thought I’d train with warriors. But you’re . . . a monk.’
He raises a brow and before I can blink, he’s behind me. A khanjar blade that I hadn’t seen him unsheathe digs into my back. ‘I’ll have you know I was the clan’s most promising martial artist before I abdicated. Besides, the senior monks are great warriors.’
‘Dunya says the senior monks are senile and old,’ I say quietly.
‘Have you no respect for your elders?’ he gasps.
‘N-no, I mean, yes! I respect all elders,’ I protest before I feel his body shake against me in silent laughter.
‘Try to fight back.’ He prods the dagger harder until my back aches.
Instinctively, my hand raises, and I fall into the well of pain resonating from my back, going deeper until I find the hurt, the grief – the fear of losing another place to belong.
My hand shudders before a wisp of nūr materialises at my fingertips. The silver light hardly flickers.
Older Brother chuckles. ‘At least summon the affinity. You cannot even threaten me properly.’ He releases his blade.
‘Even if you know the martial arts, you aren’t an Eajīz. What do you know of affinities?’ I retort.
‘Well, I hadn’t anticipated our first lesson starting so soon. By God, you’re greedy.’
‘First lesson?’
He crosses the room and takes an agarwood incense stick from the burning fumer. Before I can react, he shoves the incense close to my mouth and I choke, ashy smoke clogging my throat, puffing out of my nostrils in a seething burn. Just as quickly, he retracts it.
‘Lift your hand,’ he orders calmly. ‘Breathe the incense inwardly and say any prayer.’
My throat and eyes sting through the smoke. ‘Mad monk, I-I think you need the prayer.’ I cough and sputter.
‘The prayer is not necessary, but for a novice Eajīz like yourself, prayer will focus your attention. Any prayer to the Heavens will suffice; it could be spoken or said silently in your heart. It could be stories, poetry, odes about holy warriors, the Divine’s seventy-seven names or any remembrance of faith. ’ He shrugs.
‘I cannot say a prayer; I can hardly think through this smoke,’ I wheeze out. Instead, I reach desperately into the pain – the fear quickly rising – and my nūr sputters from my fingers.
‘No.’ Older Brother seems to read through my efforts.
‘You are reaching instinctually into pain, again. That’s an unreliable method to summon your affinity, it corrupts the soul.
Think of the Heavenly Crane. To summon, you must nurture your relationship with the Heavens through humility and prayer.
Repeat this simple prayer in your head: Most Abundant, Most Merciful, strengthen my affinity’s bonds with the Heavens. ’
He waits. Reluctantly, my eyes shut. Through the cloud of incense, I obey him.
A pinch in my finger forces my gaze to reopen, revealing a small burst of white Heavenly light: nūr.
I gawk. Then, unexpectedly, a gold line rises out of my finger into a thin shimmering rod. The gold line lifts upwards like a stem, plunging into the apothecary’s ceiling and disappearing, as if immaterial. It seems separate from the nūr.
Everything vanishes – the pain pressing against my throat, the fear, the tightness in my chest, the loudness of my thoughts. It loosens. A strange quietness engulfs my senses like I am beneath water. My hand jerks but the gold line remains above my finger.
‘How do you feel?’ Older Brother asks, almost in wonder at the nūr.
‘Like . . . like my soul is no longer in pain,’ I gasp out, my nerves thrumming as if the Heavens were plucking at the strings of my heart.
‘With prayer, your attention is honed and your emotions at peace, strengthening your Heavenly bonds. That’s how you summon your Eajīz affinity,’ he says.
‘Think of a seed planted in the dirt, it sprouts roots upon roots. Roots carry nutrients to the stem. For every Eajīz, your roots are your bonds with Heaven. The bond carries energy from the Heavens to your soul to summon the affinity. Without bonds, you are not an Eajīz. This is your Heavenly Contract.’
Sweat breaks against my neck from maintaining the nūr. ‘I’m confused. Why did you shove incense down my throat?’
Older Brother gives a secretive smile. ‘You doubted my ability to teach you. Incense and meditation are other forms of prayer to help a novice expand their Heavenly bonds. And I wanted an excuse to poke you with a stick.’
‘Mad monk,’ I mutter.
‘Your affinity is nūr: cosmic light,’ he continues.
‘Every Eajīz has their own affinity, different from each other, depending on how Heaven chooses to bless them. There are seventy-seven total affinities. Every affinity comes from the feathers of the Heavenly Birds, creatures connected to the Heavens. And thus, as an Eajīz, you are bonded to the Heavens and the blessed birds, and therefore to nature.’ He glances at my hand and then away.
‘I wish I could see your Heavenly bonds. I’ve only read ancient codexes, accounting the earliest affinities of Eajīz monks. ’
I reach out to graze the thin gold line, but my fingers pass through the incorporeal bond. Older Brother watches the light on my palm, and a glint – of awe, maybe envy – flashes in his gaze.
‘You cannot see this gold line above my hand?’ I ask.
‘Which line?’ A frown pulls at his lips and his next words come out quickly. ‘Is it your Heavenly bond?’
I close my fist and the white nūr disappears. ‘Nothing.’ I cough out more incense through a glare. He could see my nūr but he cannot see the bond above my hand. Perhaps only other Eajīz can see them.
He does not push the matter and instead whisks the incense stick against my hand, once and twice, sure and fast, as if to remind himself that I am real.
Then with a shake of his head: ‘An Eajīz in the flesh. And she is my sister. The Heavens have truly blessed me.’ His grin seems to grow.
He might be happier about my affinity than I.
Then he crosses his arms, smug even. ‘Still believe the monks are senile fools?’
‘I never said that,’ I mumble. ‘Perhaps they know a little bit.’
His eyes widen along with his smile. ‘Stubborn! I think I like you, Younger Sister. The monks here are the only ones you can trust, for they’ve taken a Heavenly Oath to keep your affinity a secret.
If they break it, their souls are condemned in this life and the next.
And the monks have the ancient texts on the Heavenly Birds memorised.
For instance, if you’d lived here, I would have long ago seen the signs that you are an Eajīz for myself. ’
‘Which signs? I know sometimes birds followed me. And the tribe’s chiefs had strange dreams about my birth. Some thought I was a curse.’
He nods. ‘You aren’t cursed and those signs aren’t special.
Many Eajīz were born with birds flapping about them, trees speaking or the stars reading peace.
It’s a glad-tiding from the Divine. After a few years, the signs cease.
If you’d been raised here in Azadniabad,’ his voice drops with a softness that sounds regretful, ‘the monks would have known quickly. Your maternal tribe didn’t know better .
. . they can’t have had an Eajīz for over two centuries. And now they’re gone.’
I flinch but Older Brother does not notice. ‘You are in good hands here. Several Eajīz warriors have trained under the senior monks.’
‘There are other Eajīz here?’ A sprout of hope blossoms in my chest.
He scratches his head. ‘Well, there are only a handful in our entire empire. Unfortunately, most Eajīz reside in the bordering land of Sajamistan, our fiercest enemies. I know the eldest monk in our spring capital is an Eajīz, long retired from battle almost a century ago. But no, there are none presently here in the winter palace.’
‘A century ago,’ I breathe.
He leads me out of the apothecary as I mull over this information. I ask, ‘Did you tell Dunya about my affinity? Is that why she hates me?’