When we’d first met, he’d called me Easterling. He said that he had heard of me. I was notorious simply because of my blood, because no Nayeni had been Hand of the Emperor before me. My scarred hand, my unusual skill, these only stoked suspicions that Cinder carried deep in his heart. There was no trust between us, and there could be no friendship.
Hand Alabaster was no better company. I grew exhausted by his endless melancholy over his distant betrothed. Worse, I began to suspect that he did nothing all day but compose verse for her. As Minister of Culture, he should have been occupied with the creation of An-Zabat’s education system. Yet when I visited his office, I saw only small packages of correspondence, less than a tenth of what I dealt with each morning.
“Is this all you do?” I asked him one evening in the Golden Fortune pavilion while he read and re-read aloud a lovelorn couplet.
“Excuse me?” He peered over the top of his spectacles.
“How is the city’s cultural development?” I said, rising from my seat at the table to loom over him. “How many tutors have you brought to An-Zabat? Which promising students are you considering for the first examinations?”
“What does it matter whether there are examinations in this wretched city?” Alabaster said coldly. “These provincial barbarians will never rival the scholars of Sien.”
“Nayen was once such a province,” I said.
He shrugged and said, “It still is.”
Heat rose in my face, and I clenched my jaw shut. I left without a word. He did not call after me, nor did he ever apologize.
My life became lonesome drudgery. Every day I walked from my rooms to my office and back again, a pattern broken only by the occasional solitary wander through the garden. At times the beauty of the garden cheered me, but more often it only deepened my misery. The effort and resources put into maintaining the citadel gardens might have been used to expand the city’s agricultural production, to weaken the Windcallers’ grip.
An-Zabat would never thrive while ruled from within this poor simulacrum of the Sienese heartland. Alabaster, Cinder, and Rill were fools, willfully ignorant of the city they ruled. Their methods were flawed. I would never distinguish myself by following their example.
“Steward Khin, I wish to go out into the city,” I said one afternoon while the servants cleared away the remnant of my noon meal.
Khin’s impeccable composure faltered. “Your Excellence, I might arrange a palanquin tour through the Sienese Quarter, if you would like,” he said.
“No. I will learn nothing from behind the window of a palanquin.”
“A walking tour, then, under guard—”
“I will go out on my own.”
Khin stared at me for a moment, stiffening while he tried to find the politest way to express his confusion and concern. “That would be highly unusual, Your Excellence,” he said. “And dangerous. There are thieves and beggars, and those who would strike you down simply for being Sienese.”
“I am Nayeni as well,” I said. “Lend me some old work clothes, and I can disguise myself as one of the servants. The An-Zabati do not know my face.”
“There are no Nayeni servants in the citadel.”
“Something else the An-Zabati do not know.”
“Hand Alder, I truly must advise against—”
“If you will not help me, I will muss one of my older suits or fashion a robe from a bed sheet.”
He cringed at the mention of a ruined bed sheet.
“Very well, Your Excellence,” he said at last. “Only promise me you will return before nightfall.”
I promised, intending only to stretch my legs, indulge my curiosity a bit, and clear my head of the sluggish fog that had filled it these past weeks. While I waited for his return, I painted the palm of my left hand with clay. The An-Zabati would not know me, but they would recognize the Imperial tetragram from the banners that fluttered on their minarets. Khin brought me a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a simple caftan.
“Tell no one where I have gone,” I said as he led me to the servants’ gate.
“As you command, Your Excellence,” Khin said sullenly.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said, and slipped out into the city.
Though the An-Zabati would not recognize me, there were Imperial guards who might. Feeling anxious, I ducked into a secluded alleyway to deepen my disguise.
With a breath to steel myself, I wove power with my right hand and passed it over my face. I only thickened my brows and loosened the skin around my mouth and eyes, but it was enough. Not even my own mother would have known me—nor my tutor, who knew me better—and the magic I had worked would leave only the slightest wake.
Though the spell was simple and the changes to my body only slight, I shivered as I fixed them in place. I still had nightmares of the time when I first tried to emulate my grandmother’s sorcery. Stunted, brittle-boned limbs saggy with human skin, pinioned with half-formed feathers. Muscles hunched and knotted and unsure of whether to walk or fly, unable to do either. A mouth hard and jutting, and vocal chords that made no sound but a pitiful hiss.
Shaking off these memories, I left the alleyway and headed toward the Great Oasis and its bazaar.
A cascade of sound washed over me. Raised voices haggled over prices, crowds cheered for performers, carts clattered down the street, all mingled with the low roar of the waterfall pouring from Naphena’s urn. Smells followed—dry-spiced meats, the tang of oil and salt and sugar, of herds and sweat and excrement. It was chaotic, but after weeks of drudgery, chaos was just the tonic I needed.
My mood brightened at once, and I set about exploring the bazaar. I began my immersion into An-Zabati culture with a survey of its food. First, lamb dry-rubbed with black pepper and fire-roasted till juices dripped down the skewer. Then a cup of brined olives that stung my nose. I was working my way through a bag of honey-candied dates when I saw the dancer.
Her silken scarves glimmered in the sun, even brighter than the coins scattered at her feet. She wore a simple jerkin and the loose-fitting trousers common in An-Zabat, with a few stitches of silver embroidery at the cuffs. Her hair bounced in oiled ringlets as she leaped and spun, but no matter how graceful her movements were, she would never rival her scarves.
The Minarets of An-Zabat by Brenda Rodriguez
Ripples of power—faint, but unmistakable—flowed in the wake of those scarves. As her hands spun, they pulled the scarves to-and-fro on strings of sorcery. The backs of her fingers were marked with the spiral tattoos of a Windcaller.
As once I had studied the ripples of my grandmother’s power, now I studied this dancer as she leaped and twirled and coaxed her scarves.
The bazaar began to empty. The sky turned from sapphire blue to deep maroon as the midday heat gave way to the crisp cool of evening, and it slowly dawned on me that I had been watching the dancer for hours. Feeling conspicuous, and remembering Khin’s insistence that I be back by nightfall, I retreated toward the citadel. I was nearly to the servants’ gate when an iron grip wrapped my upper arms, dragged me into an alleyway, and thrust my face against a wall.
“Please,” I stammered. “Take my purse, I’m only a servant!”
I could have fought off my attacker with battle-sorcery, but I would have to explain such an outburst of power to Voice Rill. I doubted he would approve of my sneaking out into the city.
“Do all servants of the Sienese wield magic?”
The voice was feminine, and I realized with a start that no hands touched me, only thick bands of whirling air.
I craned my neck for a glimpse of the dancer. Her hands were splayed wide, no longer coaxing her scarves but sending the wind to grip and hold me.
“I can see the power dripping from you. Some kind of illusion,” she said. “You are a spy.”
“Only a servant,” I insisted. “Please, let
me go, I can explain myself.”
“Explain first.”
“I am Nayeni,” I said. I could not tell her that I was Hand of the Emperor. I doubted she had much love for her conquerors. “The Sienese came to my homeland a generation ago. They outlawed our magic, but my grandmother kept it alive and taught me. I rarely use it, but I wanted to see your city. I disguised myself for fear that someone would recognize me. We are not supposed to leave the citadel.”
She considered my half-truths. “Show me the mark of your power.”
“Here, on my right hand.”
She tightened the bands of wind that held me and stepped forward. I opened my hand to show the scars my grandmother had carved.
“How have you kept this secret?” she said.
“The Sienese never learned our magic,” I said. “I tell them that I hurt myself as a boy, and they believe me.”
“I will not be so easily fooled. Release your spell, Nayeni, and perhaps I will release you.”
A shiver passed through me as my face returned to its natural form, leaving behind only an itch around my eyes. The wind holding my wrists faded. I slumped against the wall. The dancer took a step back. Even standing still, the lines of her body were graceful.
“You saw my power, as I saw yours,” she said. “It is no secret. The Sienese dogs see our Windshaping in the harbor every day. They tried to steal it, once. They will not try so brazenly again. But they are not above deceit. Forgive me for suspecting you.”
“No, you should forgive me,” I said. “I understand my own magic incompletely. I thought, perhaps, that by watching your power I might find some insight into my own.”
Another half-truth, but she seemed to believe. She folded her arms over her breasts and stepped toward me. My breath caught. It came back perfumed. She smelled of honey, and lavender, and salt.
“Do you hate them?” she asked. My eyes snapped up to meet hers. They were dark, but flecked with amber like specks of desert sand.
“They conquered my homeland,” I said, too trapped in her gaze to construct any subtlety. “They destroyed what they could not use.”
She stepped away, nodding slowly. “They will do the same here, Nayeni,” she said. “I am Winddancing Atar. What are you called?”
“The Sienese call me Alder, but my grandmother named me Foolish Cur.”
She stared at me, then grinned, then began to laugh. We were speaking An-Zabati, and I worried for a moment that my Nayeni name did not translate well, or that it held some coarse meaning in her language. I decided it did not matter. My grandmother had meant the name as an insult. And as a reminder.
“I think I will call you Nayeni.” She covered her mouth to hide the last few giggles. “You are the first I have met, perhaps the first of your kind in this city, so it is fitting.”
She glanced at the setting sun. “Nayeni, there is somewhere I must go. You say you hate Sien?”
I nodded, because I knew she wanted me to, and because I sensed an invitation in her voice and did not want to leave her.
“Come with me,” she said and grasped my right wrist. “Maybe you are right. Maybe you can learn something of your magic by learning ours.”
As we left the Great Oasis and the bazaar, An-Zabat became a tangled warren of narrow streets and stunted alleyways. My heart raced as Atar led me by the hand. Her skin was cool, and when the breeze tousled her hair it carried her scent. Honey. Lavender. Salt. I fought off intoxication and tried to count the turns.
Atar led me to a heavy door at the end of an alleyway, then down and into catacombs.
I lost all sense of direction in that maze of branching corridors. The light from Atar’s dim lantern hardly pierced the deep shadows around us. I forgot entirely the excitement of our sudden courtship which now struck me as far too sudden and hardly a proper courtship. Where was she leading me? Had she ever even said? I had been lured by sex, but even more by the promise of secret knowledge. All I could think of now were knives in the dark.
The sudden, mad impulse to escape nearly overwhelmed me. I could easily strike from behind and break free of Atar, but what then? I could conjure flame for light, but in my rising panic I had lost track of our turnings through the labyrinth.
“How much farther?” I grappled with the fear in my voice. “I cannot be gone too long. One of my masters may call for me.”
Without answering she led me to a doorway. I expected a cramped underground room—bedecked, perhaps, in the furniture and instruments of torture, stained with the blood of captured Sienese. Instead the first stars of night and a full moon greeted us. The rhythm of reed-pipe, sitar, and drum echoed up from a sandstone canyon below, where men and women formed a ring around a lone figure who leaped and spun to the music.
“This is the Valley of Rulers.” Atar led me down toward the group. “The old kings of An-Zabat dwell here,” she said, and I saw that the walls of the canyon were speckled with round, handle-less doors of stone too thick for any man to move.
A continual stream of wind flowed through the canyon. I followed it with my eyes and saw the glow of An-Zabat and its tall, silhouetted spires. We were much farther from the city than I had imagined. The panic that had been put to rest by the sight of the sky rose within me again.
What was I going to do? Flee across the open desert? I could never escape these people, who I suspected were all Windcallers of one fashion or another. One avenue of escape lay open. A magic I had only used once, and nearly left myself a twisted horror.
My grandmother could not save me if I failed.
If I succeeded, Voice Rill and the Hands of the Emperor would feel the rippling wake of my power. It was not a simple feat to change from one thing into another, shedding mass and form. They would feel the ripples, and they would know my secret.
Atar smiled at me. Perhaps our whirlwind romance had not been a ploy, if romance it was. The way her eyes sparkled and her dimples creased when she smiled said it must have been, but I knew so little of women.
A man greeted us. His arms were burly and covered in tattoos. A Windcaller, but gray-haired and past his prime.
“What brings you to the circle?” he raised his voice over the beating drums.
“A cool wind promised water,” Atar answered.
He nodded. “All things flow to An-Zabat.” His eyes flicked to me with an unspoken question.
“New feet for the dance,” Atar said.
“He is foreign.”
“He is Nayeni,” she countered. “The Empire crushed his people, as it strives to crush ours. And he has magic of his own to share.”
The Windcaller regarded me again, seeing for the first time that my skin was dark. Not as dark as his, and my hair was straighter and my eyes lighter than any An-Zabati, but dark, still, unlike the conquerors.
“If he dances, he can stay,” the Windcaller said.
“He will dance, Katiz,” Atar assured him.
With a last, lingering stare, he returned to his place in the circle. In its center a woman leaped in a flash of bangles. She cast long shadows in the mingled light of moon and torch.
“Katiz puts on a gruff show for newcomers,” Atar said as she led me, still holding my hand, to an empty place in the gathering where we could see the dancers clearly. “You can dance, can’t you?”
“What if I can’t?” I said with a grin. “This seems like something we should have discussed earlier.”
Whirlwind romance, however, did not give much time for conversations about cultural difference.
Atar tilted her head and smiled. “Are you telling me you can’t?”
In Sien, men did not dance. Dancing was a tool for women, a means by which to seduce a high-ranking husband and secure a stable position. Men drank and composed poetry and painted and sang ballads and argued philosophy and watched women dance.
Fortunately, I was more
than Sienese.
I gestured to myself with an acrobat’s flourish.
“Do I look like a dancer?”
Atar laughed. My heart leaped, and I grinned like a fool.
“Why yes, Nayeni,” she said. “Yes, you do.”
The woman in the center made one final leap, then landed with a jangle of bracelets. She returned to her place in the circle. A lean man of martial bearing stepped out from beside her with a curved sword in hand. He began his dance, a whirling, lashing spin around the edge of the ring.
“She was a merchant,” Atar said. “He is a Blade-of-the-Wind, a warrior Windshaper.”
“They are not all Windshapers?” I said, still wrapping my head around that term. There was only one word for An-Zabati magic in Sienese, for only one use of that magic mattered to the Empire.
Atar shook her head. “Many are. Most are not. Everyone has their dance, Nayeni, for the wind moves us all. Those who can guide the wind lead the dance, but there are as many dances as there are walks of life.” There was a proud tilt to her chin. “It is my task to know them all.”
The Blade-of-the-Wind leaped high, then landed with a low sweep of his sword. He changed places with the next dancer, a young woman whom Atar identified as a housekeeper. She was followed by a shepherdess, then a farmer—a rare and respected trade in An-Zabat—then a Windcaller from a ship at harbor, and so on. Each dance was unique. Atar told me that each had been passed down for generations, and that once, before the Sienese had come, every person among the An-Zabati knew their dance and knew their place in the world.
“So few come to the dances, now,” she said while a young scribe leaped and spun and kicked in rapid, precise arcs. “So many care only for the wealth the Sienese have brought, or the liquors.”
“But you are wealthier now, under their rule.” The scribe returned to his place in the circle, dangerously near to me. My heart began to pound and my stomach churned. Soon my time would come.
Atar shrugged. “Some say so, and the wealth has moved to different hands, but An-Zabat is an old city. I am sure it has seen richer years.” The next dancer dove out onto the sand, then tucked and rolled, then sprung off his toes and dove again like a porpoise leaping from wave to wave.