Barid's Story Read online

  Boulos didn’t hide his disappointment when I gave him my father’s ring. He held it in his palm as if it were something dead. I knew then that I thoroughly disliked the man.

  Just as we had practiced the bindings at the Tabaqa, Boulos pricked our thumbs and added a single drop of our blood to a goblet filled with a green liquid. But this potion was darker and thicker and more difficult to swallow than the ones we’d drunk before.

  After insisting that Noor and I empty the goblet, Boulos said, ‘You’ll be very sick for the next few days. I’d avoid time in the training yard.’

  I wanted to tell Boulos that we weren’t stupid, that our trips to his house were timed to coincide with our free periods and that, for the next three days, we’d be spending time with our second-skill masters. I wanted to say so with the same contempt he had for my father’s ring, but the urge to regurgitate the bitter and viscous potion made talking impossible.

  ‘It’s best you leave now,’ Boulos said, shepherding us toward the door, ‘before you stain my valuable rugs. Keep down as much as you can for the next hour so that the binding lasts its full term.’

  22

  I woke the next morning having slept on my side. When I opened my eyes, however, the first thing I saw was the dormitory’s vaulted ceiling instead of the cot next to mine. My nose, my forehead and my ears felt cold, which was how they always felt first thing. But then a hand I couldn’t see rubbed my face.

  That was how I woke each morning. Sometimes it was a gradual dawning, and other times it was the abrupt awareness that my body was no longer subject to sensations solely mine. Since Noor was always the first to rise, I was never able to enjoy my own thoughts.

  Boulos was right: we were very sick for the first two days. A binding was supposed to last no more than a half-day’s march to safety, and it often involved one of the bound being unconscious. Distance eased any discomfort, but it also reduced the binding’s effectiveness, so it was necessary for the warriors to remain close. Only death—which occasionally traumatised the survivor—and a magus could break the binding. Since Noor and I experienced each other’s nausea, we kept as much distance between ourselves as we could for those first few days.

  As the sickness eased, I was overcome by a sensation that Boulos hadn’t warned us about. Now I can appreciate that it was a natural reaction to such an unnatural state.

  Over the next fortnight, my discomfort developed into irritation as I struggled to come to terms with the idea that Noor and I had fused into one person dwelling in two skins. But, for me, that irritation quickly turned to anger. Noor’s thoughts filled my skull, causing me to muddle his with mine. An itch that I scratched continued to itch because it wasn’t mine and it didn’t bother Noor. Three years earlier, I’d been the one to follow Noor around the Tabaqa. Now I wanted to punch him again—this time because he wouldn’t leave me alone.

  A week after the binding, Waitimu found me in the training yard and told me how worried he was. The day before, I’d shoulder-checked an older aspirant because I’d refused to step out of his way. By being disrespectful to a brother, I’d broken a Tabaqa rule. I didn’t care. I did, however, feel terrible when Waitimu told me that he and the rest of the intake had used some of what little of their allowance remained to stop the aspirant from lodging a complaint against me.

  After Waitimu left the yard, I went looking for Noor.

  We had done our best to avoid each other and hadn’t spoken since drinking Boulos’s potion. But now there was something I needed to ask him, and I wasn’t prepared to fish around inside his head for the answer.

  I found him on his own, working in his father’s potting shed.

  ‘How come you aren’t feeling angry?’ I asked him.

  He looked up from the cutting he held. ‘Because I choose not to,’ he replied. He placed the cutting back into a pot filled with a brown liquid, careful to avoid brushing its thin pale roots against the rim.

  I was about to ask him what he meant when he let me experience memories from his early years, years spent tailing his father around the Tabaqa, too young to be enrolled but old enough to know that he was being silently watched by the masters. Standing close to Noor in that shed, I felt how, at such a young age, his doubt had burdened him. I experienced the harsh unfairness of Master Sanna’s expectations, but I also heard the wisdom of the words he’d say each night when he put his son to bed: ‘Remember, Noor, there’s no greatness in battle. A warrior’s greatness comes from how he chooses to face the battle.’

  I experienced Noor’s doubt when, at the end of a day’s training, we returned to the dormitory to wash. Except for him, we were all growing leaner and gaining bulk. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was undone. But until then, he’d persist, his only choice being to push aside his doubt. And that’s how it was with his anger, or rather my anger. He carried my anger, having ignored his, and in doing so, he’d halved the load. And while my anger festered, he’d never once complained.

  Standing among the rows of cuttings, I saw the Noor I already knew, but I also saw another. This other Noor was formidable but compassionate, and capable of surpassing his father’s expectations. I looked past his physical frailty and saw the man he could one day be, a leader whom I’d gladly follow, a man so easy to love that it was impossible to explain why.

  I knew then—and I know now—that Noor experienced what I’d felt. I saw gratitude in his eyes and happiness in his smile. Nothing further needed saying.

  That was the day our binding became a blessing.

  23

  Being bound was challenging, but also experiencing adolescence, and the whirl of unpredictable emotions it stirred in me, often resulted in bad situations getting worse. While working in the forge, I’d get impatient with the other apprentices. I’d mutter, just loud enough for them to hear, that they were taking too long with a tool I wanted, which resulted in angry stares or an argument whenever Nibras was busy in the storeroom next door. And if I wasn’t upset with others, I’d get angry with myself. Finding a dent or a nick in my work, I’d throw it on the floor—causing further damage—then storm out of the forge. As punishment for such behaviour, Nibras made me clean and oil the forge’s already-cleaned and -oiled tools in my free time, which added to my near-constant grumpiness.

  Mornings were also difficult, because I found it hard to wake up. Even though Noor’s cot was next to mine and he was awake, it took him and another aspirant to shake me and rouse me. Things were no different after a day of desert survival training. That evening, we’d lie next to each other, our partner’s body heat and a flimsy blanket the only means of staying warm during the desert’s chilly night. One morning, however, Noor woke to find himself caught in and unable to escape my vise-like embrace. To avoid future embarrassment and the intake’s teasing, Noor insisted on partnering with another aspirant whenever we had such training.

  That first night Noor shared blankets with Waitimu, I found myself overcome by an anger that churned my insides. Three months later, during a lecture, I discovered why I’d hardly slept that night and so wanted to beat Waitimu until he bled.

  24

  Isah Tawfeek was a sultanate spy. Having just returned from living in Tun Bistdo and fighting as one of the Dragonfolk on the east-facing slopes of the Sinkian Range, Tawfeek had been invited to give a lecture on the differences between manoeuvre warfare and attrition warfare.

  Masters, aspirants and those warriors not on duty in the Tabaqa filled the city’s auditorium, which was normally used during public holidays and for official functions. Since Noor and I had study hall that afternoon, we were able to leave the Tabaqa early and secure seats in the row immediately behind those occupied by the masters. Our almost-central position gave Noor and me a perfect view of the charts Tawfeek presented and of Tawfeek herself.

  Her hair was cut short and parted at the side. She wore baggy trousers and a shirt with square-cut sleeves and neckline. Both were gathered at the waist by a tight sash. A curved but na
rrow sword hung from the sash.

  Her lecture started with a demonstration of a sword exercise or kata, as she later called it.

  ‘The Dragonfolk are a mixed race of Humans and celestial beings, Dragons,’ Tawfeek said. ‘Except for a Dragon’s slanting eyes, they are identical to humans. However, the Dragons are formidable in battle. A Dragon dressed as I am, and with nothing more than a sword, could kill a hundred of our warriors before he sustained a scratch.’ She paused for effect. I saw the masters sit up and heard the warriors lining the walls exchange whispers. ‘The Humans who follow them,’ Tawfeek continued, ‘once imbued with a Dragon’s strength and stamina, can withstand twenty of our warriors and up to thirty of the Empire’s elite Guard before falling.’

  Like Noor, I found myself leaning forward, intrigued and startled by her claims.

  Tawfeek approached a chart: the Sinkian Range in the middle of it, the Empire’s tuns on the right in pink, and the free tuns in green on the left side. North, above the pink and in green, was Tun Do, our home, isolated, a lone tun against the Empire.

  ‘For almost sixty years, the might of the Empire has waged a war of attrition against the Dragonfolk. And throughout that time, not a single Empire guardsman has made it through the mountains.’ She ran a finger along a thin line that bisected the mountain range. ‘Throughout that time, and even today, the Dragonfolk have used manoeuvre warfare to guard the pass and the mountains’ slopes. They fight in units, harrying the Empire’s army, cutting off supplies, launching surprise raids on their encampments at the base of the slopes, making it difficult for the Empire to launch a concerted assault and use the size of its army to its advantage.’

  Tawfeek stepped away from the chart and toward the front of the stage. She placed her hands behind her back. ‘The Empire wishes to expand. The Dragonfolk of Tun Bistdo have no wish to be part of it. For now, the Empire’s attention is trained on the west. And for now, and so long as we continue to trade with the Empire and the stalemate along the Sinkian Range persists, Tun Do is safe. But for how long? While there’s still time, we must learn more about the Dragonfolk’s ways and their style of warfare. Our natural barrier is the desert, and we must decide how to turn it to our advantage, just as the Dragonfolk have done with their mountain range.’ Tawfeek took a step back and bowed. She looked from left to right. ‘You may ask questions.’

  Hands shot up, including Noor’s.

  Each time Tawfeek answered a question, Noor’s hand went up again. I felt his eagerness, but I also felt something else. I couldn’t see through his eyes, the binding didn’t work that way, but I experienced what Noor felt as a consequence of what he saw.

  I felt Noor’s pleasure, which started just below his navel and spread down to his groin. Since he was staring at Tawfeek, it had to be her that was the source, the cause of such pleasure. But why?

  Knowing that she had his complete attention, I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts on his. I quickly opened them when I discovered what it was he was doing.

  That moment of realisation left me clutching the edge of the bench we sat on. I needed to steady myself, to control the anger that seethed inside me. It was Tawfeek’s tightly wound sash, its snugness accentuating her hips and her breasts. I couldn’t see what Noor’s imagination conjured, but I felt the part of him that unwound that sash and wondered excitedly what it was he’d find beneath those garments.

  ‘You,’ Tawfeek said. ‘The aspirant.’

  I looked up and saw Tawfeek pointing at me. My heart doubled its beat and caught in my throat—that was, until I realised that it wasn’t my heart but Noor’s that was beating so fast. Tawfeek wasn’t pointing at me but fielding a question from Noor.

  Noor rose from the bench. ‘Will you be returning to the Sinkian Range to fight alongside the Dragonfolk?’ When he sat down, he shot me a withering stare.

  Tawfeek smiled and shook her head. ‘Dragons can hear our thoughts. I learned a technique the other Humans used to veil them, but it requires considerable concentration. During a skirmish, about to be overwhelmed by Empire forces and thinking I was about to die, I thought about Tun Do, my parents, the home I would never see again. The Dragon fighting alongside me heard those thoughts. Knowing who I really was, he nevertheless saved me.’ Tawfeek bowed her head and took a deep breath. ‘That same day, I was given supplies, allowed to keep my sword and asked to leave. Only those who believe in their cause can fight alongside the Dragonfolk, I was told. If we wish to learn from them, or about them, we need only ask. There’s no need for us to spy on them.’

  The auditorium was silent, all of us—no doubt—either imagining the other powers these Dragons might have, or if Sultan Subhan would have been so lenient towards a spy in our midst.

  ‘That wasn’t my question,’ Noor whispered. ‘That question I just asked was yours.’ He picked the perfect spot between my ribs to discreetly ram his elbow.

  I yelped, the pain blurring my vision and making me double up. When I looked up, I saw the glares of the three masters sitting in front of us.

  ‘It’s something he ate,’ Noor said.

  ‘Then get him out of here,’ a master whispered through gritted teeth.

  Outside the auditorium, I stopped Noor from elbowing me again.

  ‘What were you doing in there?’ he said. ‘Why did you make me ask such a question?’ His eyes widened before I could think of a reply. I wished then that Tawfeek had explained how she’d hidden her thoughts from the Dragons. ‘You’re jealous,’ Noor said. ‘You’re jealous of her.’

  ‘So, you did like her,’ I said, countering. When I saw him blush, I didn’t let up. ‘You were undressing her with your mind.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Noor squinted, then shook his head. ‘Didn’t you see how the other aspirants looked at her? She’s beautiful, Barid. Or were you the only one who hadn’t noticed?’

  I had no idea if I was the only one, but he was right: I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Barid?’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Why are you jealous?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m not. I felt what you were thinking and it annoyed me, because…’

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Because what she had to say was important.’ I straightened, puffed my chest in the knowledge that—luckily—I’d hit upon an idea that would shift my shame onto Noor. ‘What she had to say was really important. It affects the sultanate and every El’ Zamu. You and the rest of the intake should have been paying more attention to what Isah Tawfeek was saying and not how she looked.’ When I saw Noor’s shoulders slump, I sniffed and shook my head.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘We should go back inside.’

  I shook my head again. ‘I have a bad stomach. Remember.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’

  I turned and started walking. ‘I’m going back to the dormitory. I’ll see you later.’ I didn’t look back.

  25

  Halfway to the Tabaqa, I stopped in a narrow residential lane. It was empty except for a cat sunning itself on a doorstep. I crossed my arms and gripped my sides. Noor was right. I was jealous. I’d read stories and poems about a warrior’s love for his brothers and the sacrifices made because of such love. But I knew enough to realise that such love wasn’t the reason for the jealousy I’d felt toward Waitimu and Isah Tawfeek. The love I felt was of an entirely different kind. It was selfish, one of the masters had explained. And it was also wrong. Such love served its own ends, and it would eventually undo the bond between brothers. Therefore, it was punishable if discovered, resulting in the expulsion of both parties from the Tabaqa and the El’ Zamu.

  It wasn’t enough that I was bound to Noor. I was developing feelings for him, feelings that were wrong and compounded the danger we were already in.

  Standing in that narrow street, I vowed to myself that, for Noor’s sake, I would find as many ways as I could to suppress such feelings. I would love him, but I would love him in the same
way I’d love my fellow brothers. It would be difficult, but nothing compared to the difficulties we’d encounter if my true feelings were discovered. Noor already had so much to endure. I wasn’t going to add to his problems.

  26

  Another year passed, and the binding held. The training grew more strenuous, more sustained, and it took its toll on me. At the end of most days, I’d have to go lie down because my body felt as if it had completed two days of training instead of one. Then Noor would bring me dinner from the refectory. I’m not ashamed to say that when we were alone in the dormitory, the relentless exhaustion made me cry. His embrace calmed me, and I’d soon stop, especially when I experienced his guilt.

  The effect of the binding was not all one-sided. Noor changed. He smiled more, and although every fibre of him remained taut with discipline, he was more relaxed around the rest of the intake. Grateful to them for funding the binding, he went out of his way to show it. He tutored the aspirants who struggled with their studies. He was an excellent horseman and often, later, demonstrated for some of us what the master had failed to adequately explain. Other times, he offered a friendly reminder or some advice that made life for an aspirant a little easier.

  Those last two years at the Tabaqa were tough, but the closeness I felt to Noor made them my happiest.

  And so it was, with a mixture of reluctance and relief on my part, the day before we’d receive our horse and become El’ Zamu, that Noor, Waitimu and I strolled across the city to the house of Wallid Boulos.

  Although it had been two years since I’d last seen him, I’d not forgotten my dislike of Boulos. By the end of our meeting, that dislike would turn to hatred.