Chapter 9
Ghaznia Province, Sajamistan Empire
Prepare yourself, my uncle had said. Prepare we do, for my enlistment.
Anger wraps around my heart like gold-threading.
It smoulders in me through the long journey to Sajamistan; through stowing myself in Hyat’s hovel in the mountainside; through throwing myself into his training of manuscripts and dialects, until the days bleed together and two years pass in a blink.
But that is my anger; it robs one of time and sorrow.
It throws my body into dark paths of fury – where I am at its mercy to accept it, of course.
Until finally, the week arrives for my enlistment in Sajamistan’s army.
On that day, the black winter drops sudden, a marrow-deep damp that steals the breath of its inhabitants in cold huffs and lays a dusting of bone-white, virgin frost. As the wind whistles through the mountains of Ghaznia province tucked in the northern borderlands of Sajamistan, I shiver in my furs, watching my uncle in the dimly lit tearoom of our stone hovel.
He tests me about our story, front and backward, one last time.
‘Your papers are ready,’ he says, reclining against the divan of sheepskin.
‘Tomorrow you will enlist in the army. Sajamistan’s capital will be strange and different to you, but if there is anything the emperor and Eliyas trained you well in, it is your resilience. ’
At hearing this mention, I ground my palms into the frozen floorboards, and they groan beneath me. I shut my eyes. ‘Not that monk,’ I force out.
‘But then there is this weakness of yours to consider: your memory.’ My uncle sighs. ‘When I mention a word of your traitorous brother, your maternal tribe – anything of your past – your mind dissolves. You twist dates and time and memories.’
‘I will be fine,’ I mutter, but doubt creeps through my thoughts.
Hyat calls them time-blanks. At first, I thought my uncle was lying to instil self-doubt, but I soon realised my memory does twist time in roundabout ways, mixing events.
I assumed it to be the effects of poison training – but the memorisation required of me during my studies has not been poor.
All the while, my subconscious laughs in glee.
Hyat claims my mixing of memories must have slowly begun when I’d made myself forget memories of my uma’s tribe.
But in truth, the time-blanks have progressed since the execution of my traitorous brother.
He tuts his tongue. ‘I must go to retrieve your parchments. Remember your cover. Shepherd the cattle down the mountain. Pretend to be an Azadnian servant buying salve for your ill master. We must maintain this routine. This is your last day before you walk into the arms of the enemy.’
Nodding, I draw forward, my shaky breaths fanning white in the cold air, laboured out like birth itself. Outside the wooden shutters, our mountain yaks and goats sound deep grunts, chewing on wisps of stubble and winter fodder.
‘And remember to wrap your arms.’
‘Already done.’ I lift my forearms; my wrapping covers the gold-threading. And there is blue-threading of the crane symbols that I’d done with my half-siblings. Quickly, I blink away those memories.
‘Be discreet. Wealthy clans in these parts of Sajamistan have Azadnian servants, stolen from raids. Worse, there are snatchers around these parts, with villagers disappearing.’
Though other Azadnians live in the Ghaznian borderland, like my uncle – some even venturing here to Sajamistan for richer trade, better pasture – it’s always a risk to wander.
It’s common for tribes to be divided in their loyalties to each empire, or simply uncaring of empire affairs, tucked away in their small villages to survive yet another black winter.
But the garrison soldiers lurk through the borderlands, and they are who I must watch out for.
I stand, wrapping my woollen shawl around my head. The shadow untucks itself from the corner of the room, following at my side.
‘Do you have your blade?’
I tap my waistband, the khanjar tucked down my baggy trousers. Touching it evokes a pang in my chest. ‘Of course.’
The journey to the peripheral hamlet is an hour down the mountainside, in the damp, bitter air of midday, chill puckering my skin in gooseflesh.
The air is rough, freezing the goo in my nostrils so I can no longer inhale.
Deep in the brambles of the blue expanse, cold fingers tickle my spine like that of an old witch woman, the air reeking with warning.
Using my wooden crook, I bat along the goat and yak flock, pointing their henna-dyed heads down as the thick conifer forest unravels and twists.
Eventually, I reach a settlement sprawled down the steep slopes of the mountains, alluvial paths cutting into the rock side, overlooking rooftops of stony hovels and glacial river gorges.
The central bazaar is on the edge of a lake, hosting all sorts of textiles traded from the Camel Road, but also smuggled goods from border townships.
Knots of sleepy husbandry grunt outside the caravanserai, as shepherdesses break fast on sweet halva.
A priest greets the midday crowd at a temple’s gates. He places a lamb bone into an offering pile, making me grimace.
Sajamistan’s odd obsession with death is still as jarring as the first time I saw it.
It’s a custom – animal bones are collected in baskets every eve for the jinn-folk to feast on, though the Unseen creatures are imperceptible to our eyes.
Even the temples are constructed from bone-stone, a masonry chipped from animal bone.
Shivering, I weave my herd past the priest, toward the stalls in front of the three-gated monastery.
A merchant manning one bellows to the crowd, ‘We have pure water from the fiery wells of the Unseen world, said to be used by the jinn’s ancient prophets millennia ago!
’ She waves the jar; shards of bone-pendants and raven feathers woven through her thick braid jingle with her movements.
A sable cap holds her hair in place. All the embellishments to improve a nondescript face.
After securing my animal herd at the nearest apricot tree, I sell yak cheese to a baker for six meagre ingots. Then I wait at the apothecary stall behind a tall cloaked man. He trades for musk before stepping aside to make room for me.
The merchant greets me in the Ghaznian dialect. ‘My sister, may the peace of death be upon you.’
Even speaking with a Sajamistani, a familiar rage presses against my ribs, but I swallow it down. ‘And you,’ I answer.
Two black cats purr around the clustered stall, jewelled and glittering in rich velvets and bone jewellery.
Before the furred creatures, I glance at my peasant garb, a silk kerchief tied around my curls reeking of black seed oil.
The thick calico of my robes, the colour of a weak winter-orange sun, is stained with poisons, and from the way the merchant purses her lips, she notices.
I tighten my shawl to shield my face before lying to the seller: ‘My master is ill and requires preserved black seed in honey.’
‘Ah, yes! Brewed into a tea of phoenix wings, a great salve for longevity—’
‘Just honey,’ I cut in impatiently. Her cats begin to hiss at one of my wayward goats, and I nudge it back toward my flock.
The merchant shakes her head. ‘I insist, our phoenix wings for a discount.’
‘No.’
‘We have the best prices, sister!’
‘I don’t care.’
Beside me, I note the cloaked man’s lips curving into a small smile. The merchant busies herself, wrenching open a glass jar, splashing in black seed oil and raw honey.
I hand the merchant the copper ingots, but she clicks her tongue upon weighing them. ‘This won’t do, sister. This is only three idriq, a third of the price.’
I frown. ‘You must be overselling.’
She grins. ‘No bargaining.’
‘But this is overpriced!’
‘And I want more riches, but we all are hopeless against higher powers, aren’t we,’ she retorts smartly. ‘Border raids! Blame them for the steep price of harvesting honey.’
‘A thief in common clothes,’ I spit, and unfasten my satchel. Arguing would be reckless. She must hear my clumsy Ghaznian accent; knows I am a foreigner, frugal with her master’s coin. Sajamistan’s many dialects have several unvoiced consonants and glottal stops that I’ve yet to master.
As I’m turning, her cats suddenly leap from the stall toward my flock.
Instinct alone makes my arms raise, intercepting them.
Their talons rip into the white bandages around my right forearm, so quickly I hardly feel the pain, but the force makes me stumble back.
It isn’t until a pair of arms catch around my waist that I regain my footing.
‘Are you well?’ a cool voice asks into my ear.
It’s the cloaked man who traded for musk. Ignoring the sting in my forearm, I quickly straighten away.
The mountain yak hardly arouse at the commotion but my goats skitter toward me on the wet path, splashing dirt which streaks across my cheek. I use my crook to bat my flock back into place before glaring at the merchant.
‘Control your feline ruts,’ I snap at the merchant.
Her eyes are curious as they survey my arm. ‘My cats rarely provoke patrons unless they sense you are trouble. If you do not wish to pay, leave, Azadnian.’ She is no longer warm. Unlike my cheeks that heat with fervour.
Scowling, I go to close my satchel—
A hand hovers above my exposed wrist, halting my movements.
‘Will this do, sister?’ the man offers softly. The merchant’s eyes widen at the sight of two silver ingots, as do mine. From my shawl, I steal a glance at his features, making out a hard jaw over his collar, the rest indiscernible for the sheep furs matted around the hood of his cloak.
The merchant snatches at the silver. ‘A wise bargain, my friend.’ She hands him the honey and turns to the next client to cheat.
I stare at the silver and remember to bow, though more for the performativity of gratitude. ‘Is it wise to brandish silver ingots? You will be a target for thieves.’
‘Thieves,’ he repeats before offering me the salve. ‘You are not a native.’
Tension bristles up my neck as he glances at my right forearm. Unmistakably, the peeking of gold- and blue-threading of circular cranes is a clear mark of the empire I hail from.
His voice is cold but contemplative. ‘In these mountains, the land’s offerings are considered a gift from the Divine. The tribes say blessings cannot be owned, they must be shared, so thievery is rare from such communality. I am only extending their generosity, Azadnian.’
A faint nausea floods my throat. My voice unsticks, and I make it as small as possible. ‘I . . . am only a servant.’
The young man considers me and pushes down his hood. ‘There is no need to fear me.’
But that makes it worse; better for the violence to be crude and blunt than the threat to be soft, hidden. I glance about, wary. ‘Then I am in your debt.’
‘Consider this to be my charity toll. It’s Friday, the blessed day of Prophet Adam’s death.’ His small smile is almost self-deprecating as his hand reaches down, scruffing the neck of my wandering goat. ‘And I admire shepherds.’
I blink at the soft words. There is no beard on his clean-shaven jaw, nor even long hair or a felt cap to stave frostbite. Instead, his raven black hair is a short crop of curls. With his tranquil words and bare face, I realise he is from the monastery.
‘Very well. You have my prayers, monk.’
He turns fully, hazel eyes falling upon me.
He is tall; my head comes to the height of his chin.
His angular features are symmetrical and cold, eyes framed by lashes so thick, one would mistake them for sormeh.
His skin is light, the apples of his cheeks faintly flushed, not unlike the local tribes exposed to the cold altitude.
He could be the sole product of the Divine architect, whereby when He divided mercy into one hundred parts, and bestowed a slice to this world – leaving seventy-seven – a portion had been sculpted upon this monk, leaving the infinitesimal leftovers to the rest of humanity.
He is Sajamistani, I marvel, but he is still a monk, and I find monks more tolerable, in their quiet empathy, than any other person.
‘It has been a long while since anyone has prayed for me. I welcome your prayers, shepherd girl.’ His smile grows.
Before my mind can finish the thought, he is a beautiful monk then, the reminder that he is Sajamistani is louder, and the anger dampens the marvel.
He inclines his head and disappears into the bazaar toward a white gelding.
A raven soars to his shoulder, making snug against his neck.
For a wavering instant, my mind recedes into a sharp valley that tastes of wet and grasslands, of hunting buzzards cooing against my neck, but I shake loose the memory.
Then I am back to the present where the late crowd presses against me from all sides like a pilgrimage, the sweet aroma of fresh barley porridge and apricot-oiled flatbreads tempting me forward. My stomach growls but my hands turn over the jar.
There are no prayers in the business of deception. All I have is the blood oath I made to my clan. I hope it’s enough.