Chapter 5 #2
The spicy tang of black cumin revives my senses and I swallow, a wheeze creaking through my lips. The antidote works sluggishly through my body. I do not know how long I lie there until movement returns to my limbs.
Greased in a film of my own sweat, I gulp down more kumis. Somehow, I am alive. From the success, a laugh bubbles in my chest – that is, until vomit erupts from my mouth.
Eliyas is wrong. I am an emperor’s daughter. I am worthy. I am his claws. Except I do not scream the words aloud, I swaddle them close to my chest, for the emperor prefers it when I keep my protests silent; when I keep myself cold and sharp.
Then I do it again.
The next day, after circles of knowledge under my grandmasters, I resolve to follow Eliyas, to find out his connection to the warlords after his nearly treasonous words.
Between my poison training, for the first few days, I slip into an old repository dug beside the meditation quarters, watching through the lattice partition between dusty rolled-up kilim rugs.
I observe Eliyas entering the meditation room in the evenings, teaching classes to peasants, secluding himself in remembrance or distributing charity with novice monks.
Finally, on Thursday, when Eliyas enters the meditation room after sunset, as he always does, he burns barks of oud to perfume the room.
‘Peace,’ I hear a familiar voice mutter as the gates of the room swing open.
Warlord Akashun enters silently, sitting cross-legged beside Eliyas.
They exchange rapid murmurs and I press my ear to the partition to discern their words.
Eliyas’s tone is harsh. ‘My report of the poisons will be sent via the messenger. But I’ve summoned you here to question your intentions with me. What game are you playing? Why risk mentioning our letters to my sister? I see the suspicion in her eyes.’
‘Your reluctance to tell her has forced my hand. Fear not. Your sister has been raised under your care; she is loyal to you more than anyone else in your accursed clan.’
Eliyas stares at the kilim lining the ground, impassive. ‘She has a will of her own.’
‘She is nameless; she has no soul nor will, except what you mould of her.’
‘Her namelessness may be her curse. But she has defied it and made her own soul. I’ve advised the emperor about her name.’
The warlord sighs. ‘So be it.’ A knock interrupts Akashun’s next words. He hesitates and places his hand on Eliyas’s shoulder, as paternal as our emperor. ‘The delegation is here. Remember why we do this. Our subjects deserve better.’ He bows his head and walks toward the gated entrance.
My legs quiver and I shove a fist into my mouth to stop a strangled cry from emitting. I do not understand much of what they said but I do know one truth: Eliyas is a spy informing Warlord Akashun about my jinn-poisons. I do not know why the poisons are important. But Eliyas has deceived me.
The gates gasp open like a hung jaw. A tension weighs down the air; sweat pools at my back.
I attempt to move, to lift my feet. But try as I must, my senses do not obey. Something claws over my heart. Fear. The marrow-deep kind.
‘Peace of death,’ a new voice greets as the delegation enters the room.
Somehow, my fingers cling to the wooden engravings of the partition. I manage to peer closer. And I wish I had not. There are three people distinguished as warriors by their martial attire and sharpened khanjars.
Two masked men wear pale beaded tunics with unfamiliar embroidery and baggy dark trousers fitted at the ankle, the waist tied by hemp cords.
They walk with a silent grace on leathery clogs, washed crimson shawls, with raven feathers, tied under their shoulders, down to their hips.
The garb is harsh lines and high collars with odd jewellery of lamb horns and bones, which I’ve never seen before.
A short, sinewy woman, who appears to be the leader, wears layered white linen with drooping sleeves. The bodice is beaded in silver coins, tucked into baggy trousers. Instead of a cap or floral jewellery, she has donned a simple head ornament of curved yak-tail bones and oxidised silver.
She tilts her head and her long braid brushes against her hip, corded by eaves of raven feathers.
In a hushed voice, she begins speaking with Akashun, making it difficult to hear anything.
A strange marking stands out on her forehead, a black and red line.
Around her neck is a pale wolfish mask, adorned with feathers. Unmistakably so their masks—
— of raven feathers reflect the fires blazing around us — the terror on my expression.
Uma screams but the raider drags her away.
My apprentice, an old voice murmurs. She will carry with her the tales of your greatest joys and fears until the end of her days.
I yank myself from the memories, envisioning nūr dissipating it.
These are warriors of the Sajamistan Empire. Our enemies. Why is Eliyas meeting them?
A strangled cry starts to wrench from my throat but I lift my shawl to muffle it. The coursing memories are a flood, breaking past any dam I have built. I touch my cheek under the shawl. I do not recall the last time I ever shed a tear.
At the slight sound, Eliyas pauses mid word and glances toward the partition. Only from knowing him for so long can I read the worry betrayed on his face.
One of the Sajamistani warriors follows this movement; his mask hides his features, except his short black hair and narrowed eyes.
His leader calls out to him. ‘Stay on guard, outside,’ she orders him in a varied dialect.
Pulse thundering, I crawl out of the depository room, stumbling down servant corridors to the outer monastic gardens before running to a cluster of thorny olive and vomiting into the plants. I remain there for a long moment.
‘Little bird?’
I glance up to see Eliyas, rushing down the steps toward me.
‘You shouldn’t be here. Are you mad?’ he snaps quietly, dropping into a crouch.
His betrayal is swept from my mind. ‘E-Eliyas,’ I blubber. ‘I-I saw t-the raven masks . . . m-my tribe . . . I-I c-cannot move—’
His eyes widen. He has never seen me like this: cowering, afraid. He’s never heard me speak of my past. Self-disgust surges against my fear.
Eliyas takes my hands, pressing them to his lips. ‘Breathe. You must leave before anyone sees you. Please. I’ll find you in the eve, when we go to the bazaar.’
He re-tugs the shawl across my face. I stand shakily and step away. My eyes lift.
The young warrior is there at the entrance of the monastery. He stares at us a beat longer, with a studied interest, despite the rest of the Sajamistani delegation remaining inside. Heart in my throat, I turn my veiled face away, fleeing across the courtyard like the coward I am.