Epilogue
For hours, I stumble along the cliffs. My skin twitches and my limbs ache.
When night eventually descends like a dark gaping mouth, I collapse before a secluded northern monastery. At this hour, when dusk is nothing more than a thin blanket, I fade to a state close to peace. Perhaps I can imagine it’s a time before humans congested the world and nature was alone.
The silence is primal. It’s blissful. I do not notice when my skin ripples.
The peace crumbles when a monk cries out at the sight of me, hands wrenching my tunic upwards.
‘Prepare the exorcism chambers,’ a senior monk barks, but I cannot see; my vision is black and my body writhes. Incense sticks are brought around me and the ifrit – the most ancient of the jinn – controlling my body huffs a dark laugh.
I yield to the blackness.
For days, monks exorcise many jinn from my body.
I scarcely remember anything but a blur of pealing creatures using my tongue to howl.
Rough female apprentices slather me in blessed olive oil and holy water.
From the monks, I catch snippets of the happenings of the outside world.
The flood had ravaged southern Azadniabad and northern Sajamistan.
Many civilians had been lifted by thousands upon thousands of Heavenly birds, and carried to watch the Divine punishment.
With the flood, landslides ruptured the fertile valleys, bringing mass famine.
Some days, my mind feels empty. Other days, I wonder, what did humanity think as the birds returned them to a ruined homeland?
I giggle at the thought. I do not wish to fight again or take a life. But I giggle at that, too, because I will have to. Unless you take your life now. How many of this continent are hungry, diseased and landless because of the flood? How many despise and how many others revere nūr?
But No-Name – she is a living thing. Worse than even Mitra.
No. I cannot think.
When I awaken again, I see the back of a familiar young man perched on the end of my cot, holding a familiar khanjar. The very one he bestowed upon me. The monks must have put together my uniform tunic and reported my presence. I scramble up.
‘You will hurt yourself if you move so soon—’ The Sepāhbad begins to turn his head.
Even in my weakened state of fever and spasming muscles, I do not wait. I lunge forward, hand wrapping around his throat, sending us crashing to the ground in the small exorcism room.
As my fingers tighten with me over him, our gazes lock. A mistake. I try to cry out but my body is paralysed, his eye bonds flashing outward. My throat twinges as the gold tendrils wrap around my neck, trapping me in place.
‘Y-you are here to fulfil your oath,’ my voice is thin through the choking bonds, ‘t-to kill me with your blade for defecting. I welcome it, Jezakiel.’
At his expression, uncertainty shoots up my spine.
His lips tease up with a knowing smirk, eyes twinkling.
‘Why would I kill you when you’ve executed my plan so flawlessly?
’ Then his next words stop me cold: ‘If you assume I did not know the entire time, well . . . we have your clan to thank. I am here for a simple conversation, Khamilla, eighth child of Emperor Fatih Zahr-zad.’