Chapter 22
My pazktab students seek me out in the early dawn near the Great Library.
Alone, I linger beneath a pair of wide gold gates obscured by the wings of par? guarding its entrance.
It’s silent, save for the occasional shriek of fiery huma birds curled upon the crumbling stone steps.
The Sepāhbad’s khanjar twists between my fingers as I stare at its naked marbled hilt.
Last eve, Cemil earned another slash for winning the Wadiq tests; he is now Third-Slash.
‘Master.’ Arezu treads up the stairway reluctantly. ‘I did not expect you to have the mind for passing the examinations. You were in third placing.’
‘Third means nothing.’
Yahya pulls at my waist cord. ‘Victor to me,’ he says.
‘I do not wish to be your victor. I wish to be the victor. And don’t touch me.’ I stand with a frown, dusting off my trousers. ‘All the more reason to train in this last week, for we have a Marka tournament to ruin.’
During the predawn before trifecta training, to the students’ delight, I introduce martial stances to complement their Qabl meditations.
We begin with horse-stance, the mother of all stances and the foundation of martial arts.
I demonstrate the basics before they practise it for hours alongside orbital training, the art of circling your limbs through different planes.
For the true challenge, the next day, after rummaging through the vegetation, I produce four sticks.
The children stay silent as I attach the stiff branchlets to straighten their spines and balance their shoulders.
‘Walk,’ I order. To their pain but my pleasure, they hobble, the sticks creasing into the smalls of their backs.
‘We look ridiculous,’ Arezu says after several minutes.
‘Become used to it, because the stick will be your new companion. Go now and fetch your rationed waterskins, teacups and incense sticks.’
They arrive back reluctantly with the requested items.
In the deeper horse-stance, they crouch painfully low with knees out, feet parallel and palms clasped in front of their chests. I tie the stick once more with flax rope.
‘Master.’ Sohrab shifts from toe to toe. ‘We do not train like this in the pazktab.’
‘Quiet,’ I say after I double-knot it. ‘That is the purpose of the stick. Your spine cannot collapse.’
It takes another moment to distribute their rationed water into twenty-four cups. One by one, I place bowls on their shoulders, upon their wobbling thighs and lastly, their parallel elbows. With my cold nūr, I light the longest incense stick on the wooden coaster, placing it on the ground.
‘What is this?’ Arezu whispers but panic edges into her question. The truth hits them at once and I grin. They cannot move.
‘Training,’ I reply. ‘The rules are simple. I have lit an incense stick. You are to remain in horse-stance until the incense burns to ash. The branch attached to your spine will maintain your form. You will feel pain, embrace it. Your bones will crack, ignore them. If you disobey my instructions, naturally there is a cost. The cups containing your rationed water will topple from your limbs. The dirt will lap up the scarce moisture and there will be no way to earn it back, leaving you without rations. At each instance that a cup falls, I will refill it with more of your water. Now pray to the Divine for a miracle.’
‘You tricked us!’ Arezu accuses me, but from the force of speaking, her arms jitter and the teacup upon her left elbow crashes to the ground.
‘Enough mewling,’ I intone. ‘One cup of water is gone. I would save my energy.’
‘This is impossible!’ Yasaman joins her.
‘An Eajīz’s power can only grow through pain. A linear relationship. In the pazktab, the scholars read beloved martial tales, warriors accomplishing impossible feats at high adrenaline but desperate moments. Saving your water serves as an incentive.’
‘But the incense will take an hour to finish! This is not—’
‘Just?’ I offer Sohrab, stripping my voice of any emotion. ‘Where is the morality in this army? If you wish to be a Za’skar warrior, it demands a high cost.’
The memory of the Sepāhbad flashes in my head, his quick-witted movements making me helpless; my captain, the stern scholars, their cruelty.
‘I am giving you a taste of what the future holds. I am preparing you for the vices of Za’skar City.’
For the next hour, No-Name and I observe the students maintaining horse-stance. I chew on neem and clove-scented root to do away with my boredom. At the half-hour mark, the children’s cries rebound through the clearing in an uncomfortable din, Yahya’s the loudest.
‘Breathe in the direction the remembrance shapes your teeth and tongue,’ I add unhelpfully.
Yahya pleads the loudest. ‘Master!’
Shame braids through me but I fling it away.
His posture drops like a sodden blanket and his features pinch together, eyes rounding into a glassy sheen.
Silent sobs wrench through him and my spine shudders as if they are carving through me too.
For a wavering moment, No-Name reaches out to the pained child but at a second blink, she’s vanished.
I blame that sound for my foot moving forward on pure instinct, stopping only at the last moment. The teacup rolls off Yahya’s right shoulder. I let it fall.
‘I am to teach my students, not rock you in my arms like a wailing babe.’
Only Arezu does not complain. She merely blinks open an eye. ‘You do not care.’
‘Not at all, no.’
More teacups topple, but I muster past the students’ whines until the hour flounders by and the incense is reduced to a blackened stub.
‘Good work.’ I untie the staffs. Immediately, the students curl up, groaning and rolling in the tall grass. It’s eerily silent. Clouds have crept in, brushing the tail of the rising sun. All four passed the exercise with at least one bowl of water intact.
I crawl into a copse of citrus trees, where I hid my supply of water. To the group’s surprise, in exchange for succeeding in my test, I portion my rations to recuperate their losses.
‘What would happen if we failed?’ Sohrab asks between gulps.
Arezu meets my eyes. I don’t answer. Instead, I order, ‘Tomorrow, you do it again.’
After three days of repeating horse-stance, the students graduate to affinity summoning. I’ve not the time to wait for children to learn slowly. Instead, I need a squadron to squeeze its merit’s worth. And as young things, I discover their motivation.
Sohrab carries a jostling bundle of nuts and fruits. My eyes drop to slits. ‘What is that?’
‘Food swiped from the kitchens for . . . Yahya . . . and me.’
‘I see,’ I say, snatching it before he can blink. I shell a pistachio and toss the green nugget into my mouth. ‘Are you upset? Would you like to spar with me?’
Sohrab shifts his feet at the unlikely outcome. ‘No,’ he croaks.
‘Then begin stance training.’
Sohrab stretches into a high mountain-stance. A half-hearted effort. Unimpressed, I scoop up pebbles and whip them at his limbs.
‘Ow!’
‘Your stance is so weak, pebbles are unbalancing you. Pathetic.’
‘I’m hungry!’
‘Your stance should be sturdy enough to withstand seventy times your body weight. Success equates to food.’
Arezu is the sharpest in her stances, Yasaman is the fastest, and Sohrab is efficient in his kicks.
‘Better to be a master at one technique than mediocre in all.’ I have Sohrab focus on one kick, repeating it over and over again against the trees.
After the completion of different breath cycles, I toss figs and skinned almonds into their mouths. If they are on the cusp of quitting, I dangle a fig close to their lips before snatching it away. Soon, I force them to meditate with the water bowls while perched atop tree branches.
‘Master, I want to spar,’ Sohrab protests.
‘Sure, imprudent boy.’ I pass his bowl of water to him before pointing up. ‘I will hear no complaints.’
‘I read about this in a martial tale,’ Yasaman says.
I glance at her in amusement. ‘You like many martial tales.’
‘And folktellers,’ she answers and I pale. ‘One day, I will be a scribe for Za’skar, under the Sepāhbad.’
My amusement disappears.
‘The Sepāhbad,’ Sohrab laughs. ‘You would have to be the best of the scholars.’
‘Fools, we need to survive first. If we fall, we could die,’ Arezu points out too sensibly.
‘And?’ I raise a brow.
Arezu smirks. ‘Her kind is cruel to children.’
‘Was this not what you wished, Arezu? To stance train upon the highest tree? You fall, you break your bones. How pitiful. Now begin.’
Arezu spits her date pit into the sand. Then, obediently, they climb up, except Yahya.
‘Why are you still down here?’ I ask.
He holds out his short arms. I sigh and grab him, hoisting him on to my back before climbing up the tree.
Perched upon trees, we meditate through dawn.
At times, they scratch or pick their noses, and I swat them.
Below us, No-Name crouches in the dirt; today, the shape she takes on is akin to my uma.
Her long hair curls down to her velvet waist-sash, wrapped around a pale qaftan.
She does not acknowledge me as she yanks out thin weeds.
Later, we practise summoning. Through her Plague affinity, Yasaman can summon a swarm of the cursed creatures from the scriptures: locusts, scorpions, white beetles, fire ants and rattlesnakes that invaded sinning tribes in the past.
Slowly, Sohrab, with his Clay affinity, is able to manipulate ores from the ground.
But there are limitations in his Heavenly Contract; he cannot yet extract large metals from it.
He requires a pocket of metal on him to work with.
Even with this, he cannot expand it greater than the size of his own body.
When Arezu demonstrates her affinity of Brother-Nature with the virtue of temperance, she manipulates plants and three black dahlias, bending their spindly stems.
At an attempt to produce more flora, her concentration breaks. ‘I told you, my affinity is useless compared to the others.’