Chapter 27
‘Those are not only Za’skar warriors.’ I slow outside the tunnel entrance, gazing up in awe.
From soldiers to scholars, bureaucrats and the great noble clanhouses of the capital, they mill about the eight tiers of the amphitheatre in elegant emerald and gold and crimson brocaded tunics stitched with raven seals.
Their hands glisten with whorled black-threading, an indication of their status.
Some have donned oxidised headdresses and bone-pendant jewelled gauds.
Seated in the topmost row, shadowed against the constellations, chins resting on their palms, I discern advisers and strategists from the royal palaces.
‘Why would noble clanhouses watch a First-Slash duel a high-rank?’
‘This duel is about what you represent as an Azadnian. When man’s pride is wounded, the only path to salvation is vengeance. Why not too the violence of a duel?’ Yabghu answers me.
‘And gambling,’ Katayoun interjects, from the sandstone tunnel. She kicks away from the wall and crosses to me. ‘Our overseer’s honour didn’t allow him to tell you—’
‘Katayoun,’ he says, glowering.
‘– the noble clans make a sizeable fortune from gambling on Duxzams, despite it being outlawed in our faith. They even gamble on the time it takes for a warrior to win.’
My stomach turns at the stale stink of my own fear. ‘I imagine the stakes are low. I cannot imagine anyone gambling on my victory.’
‘To my knowledge, three have.’ She slugs an arm around my shoulders. ‘Make me a wealthy woman tonight, comrade.’
Yabghu glares at her. ‘You use gambling as an excuse. You do care.’
‘You go too far, Overseer.’ She pushes back with reddened cheeks, and I find myself almost smiling at them before I stop myself.
Yabghu straightens his turban and glances up at the sky with a thoughtful look. ‘Though you march into defeat, if I was a sinner, I would gamble on you as well.’
I look to him in surprise. ‘That is your honour speaking.’
A softness enters his gaze. It cools my heart.
Still, I resist any hope. Hope is but a bit of gilding, obscuring the horrors of a ghastly world.
It changes nothing. I remind myself of that before he suddenly pulls me into an embrace.
White clover and jasmine pervade my senses.
In a panic, my eyes dart to Katayoun, who looks on awkwardly.
What is this odd touch? I stave away confusion and try not to shove him.
A part of me wonders: what do I do with my arms?
‘At ease,’ Yabghu whispers into my braids.
My shoulders drop and I stay so very still. With shut eyes, for a wavering breath, I am no longer in Sajamistan but in Azadniabad, with my half-siblings, the scent of firelotus and blue poppy engulfing me.
Yabghu breaks away just as a voice calls out, ‘Fool, you would side with her over Fayez?’
‘She’s still my student.’ Yabghu faces Overseer Negar who leads her trifecta, Aina, Aizere and Dara, near our tunnel.
Overseer Negar shakes her head, henna-stained braids swinging with the momentum. ‘She is an outsider. Whoever dared to let her into our city was a fool—’
‘Then I am the fool,’ a voice adds pleasantly, and I feel someone warm step up beside me. Everyone bows, save for Negar who looks on in surprise before hastily following their lead. But she is not wrong in her distrust.
The Sepāhbad, flanked by an old man, glances at them. His head turns over his shoulder and our gazes meet. He still speaks pleasantly, but his eyes are cold, ‘Shepherd girl.’
Confusion floods me, and with it, a familiar rage. ‘Sepāhbad,’ I force out.
‘Let us pray this is a promising duel.’ The older man hardly spares me a glance.
‘By the Divine, Adviser Arash,’ the Sepāhbad answers as they stride past us, climbing the steps of the amphitheatre.
‘We should go,’ Yabghu says gruffly, but his expression has dimmed.
We walk through the clay-rammed tunnels of the amphitheatre side by side.
My overseer bestows a final lesson. ‘Fayez has nearly mastered the iron-bone. If he reaches the zone of enlightenment,’ his lips press together, ‘the duel will be as good as over for you. But your strength is your durability. And your creative use of the environment. Remember that.’
With that dour advice, he climbs to his seat on the bone-stone rows beside other high-ranks.
‘Master!’
My pazktab students run into the tunnel behind me as I near the stairs leading down to the sand pit. Wearing unnerved expressions, they mutter prayers. Their weak faith in me makes it hard to swallow.
‘Take this,’ Arezu says after I remove my sandals, feet cool against packed sand. She unclasps her necklace, animal bones jangling and ugly.
‘This I don’t need.’ I back away uneasily.
She scowls and rounds me before forcibly knotting it behind my neck. ‘Yasaman carved it for me. But I give it to you, master. When they say you don’t belong in Za’skar, they will see, you have a part of this empire upon you now.’
My quivering fingers hook around the bones, tempted to rip it off . . . but I cannot. It’s her gift.
Slowly, I descend the stairs into the womb of the amphitheatre and the crowd hushes.
My gaze roams through them as I peek out from the bottom, catching on a bruised Cemil seated beside Squadron One.
In the middle are scholars and monks, Mufasa and Sister Umairah on the bottom row with a group of pazktab students.
The amphitheatre’s pit is expansive, peppered with bedrock and date palms. I remove my robes, to reveal a white bare-sleeved tunic with an amber waist cord and dark trousers.
I wrap my joints in mo?pī? cloth before flicking my left earring, the only reminder I have of my parents.
I count the throwing knives and khanjars on my belt.
Dabbing the rose attar seven times on my arm, the incense waffles the air, warding away lurking jinn from my bonds but also solidifying my Heavenly Contract.
The rose pervades my soul as if it originates inside me rather than from the external world.
Rage rinses away the fear. Months of pain, sacrifice, disorder, all leading to ten minutes that will determine my fate. The blade is my sacred art, and now, it must be my extension.
Fayez and I walk to our respective sides.
My gold-threading glows beneath the lanterns blazing with smokeless firelight, and his blue-threading shimmers and ripples, as if our duel is between empires, not people.
Above, the Keeper blows a shimmering Veil upon the arena, ensconcing a plane of the Unseen in the material world.
‘The stakes of this holy battle are scribed and seen by Heaven’s witnesses,’ the par? announces from above.
‘There bears many costs to breaking your Duxzam gamble: an alms-tax of a quarter of your wealth, fasting thirty days and paying the toll of an orphan’s upbringing.
If you are unable to fulfil these terms, the clergy’s courts shall dictate what means of charitable labour you will undertake.
And of course, you will become a Corruption, falling to jinn possession and curses.
The Divine knows your intentions; no man can break a Heavenly Oath. ’
I nod, queasy at the firm warning.
‘My warriors, come to attention and greet peace.’
‘My foot.’ Fayez spits on the ground.
‘Fine. Here is my peace.’ I raise my palm and slit it with the khanjar, letting crimson patter to the sand.
‘What is this?’
‘A blood oath,’ I say, but not of my own. The blood of my clansmen wronged by his empire.
Fayez smooths into a stance, right hand poised before his neck, eyes narrowed, legs wide. He unsheathes his blade, the vibration a song of steel and fury before it drops out of sight for a conceal and slash tactic. He speaks serenely. ‘Let us see if holy light makes a holy warrior.’
I enjoy his words as I splay one leg back, my foregrip angling the khanjar perpendicular to my neck. ‘With pleasure.’
‘And those pazktab students will be next.’
My muscles tense. ‘You lay a finger upon any of them, I will rip your tongue out and skewer it so far up your backside, you will find it right back in your filthy mouth.’ Then I drop into first stance, shoving the hilt of a second khanjar into my mouth, sliding a third into my free hand. I recall my clan’s oath:
Forged by blood, bound by duty, I offer my soul by the white blade. The enemy who wrongs one will face the Zahrs’ wrath.
My wrists remain loose, ideal for direction change; my grip is reversed, to slash as my primary attack and thrust as secondary.
My awareness of the psychospiritual realm increases.
The seventy-seven bonds interweave in a pulsing gold, each thread throbbing in mirror to our heartbeats, reminding me that I can only summon twelve bonds while he can access three times more.
Tension stretches thin like thread to be spun. One instant we stare, and the next, the daf echoes, and the thread snaps, breaking our stillness.
We pounce, clashing together in snarls and flickers of light.
Fayez’s blade slashes forward, then cuts low, but I sidestep, breaking the linear direction and spinning around him, feet planting against his back. Like stairs, I shoot high in the air.
Arching, both hands slam my nūr-drenched khanjar down.
At the last second, he whirls inwards, his right arm swooping up in a feint before his left hand snakes into a lancing palm strike, knifed fingers paring my torso.
With a grunt, I sail back, landing on my left foot.
Everything was fast – too fast to process.
‘Is that all you have, rukh?’ grins Fayez.
Behind the Veil, the crowd is no longer unappreciative; instead, they are stunned that I am holding my own. No longer a one-sided wager, but a full-fledged duel.
I meditate seven breaths, the material world fading until our souls exist in a sea of darkness, buckling with uncontained Heavenly Energy. They dance like birds, bonds contracting and expanding, testing each other. Next, I crack my toes, more bonds expanding.