The air felt different the next morning. The apprentices and even elderly scholars murmured and speculated around every corner. It was the most excitement I had ever seen in the Tower.

And yet why could I not join them in this feeling?

It would be the first day of the meeting of the Interpretations.

Servants ran to and fro past me in the halls carrying trays of sweet pitha and cha’a to the committee.

When I reached the calligraphy hall, the men were already huddled in the center of the room speaking in reverent tones.

“Fifty years!” Yusuf exclaimed. “My grandfather told me of the last one, when he was here. I was five years old at the time and I still remember.”

“Do you think they’ll recognize me if I go in dressed as one of the kitchen boys just to witness them at work?” Bilal said.

“I cannot tell if you are joking, you fool,” Sulayman said.

“Maybe not,” Bilal smirked.

“You want to be in the dungeons?”

“Ah, don’t be so serious, Sulayman,” Bilal laughed.

“I think we could do it,” Mahmud considered it, tapping his pen on his chin.

“I, for one, will be glad when all this is over,” Sayed spoke up from his page without looking up. He was listening after all, but he was the only one working, closely focused on his ink. “You can barely get a cup of tea downstairs without the servants digging daggers at you with their eyes for disrupting their supplying of drinks up to the Light Scholars.”

“Why do you have to ruin things, Sayed?” Bilal frowned.

But all I could think of was Ardashir. What would this man do when he saw me here? And would Master Farhan have the kind of power over him as he had with the previous Highmaster? I doubted it. He was the Chief of Ifsharan himself, by the Creator.

When the afternoon light was dwindling away in the calligraphy room, the door opened and Master Farhan emerged.

His robes swishing into the room, he hobbled with his walking stick to his desk. “My calligraphers, it is time for you to apply your skills for what you’ve truly been trained for.”

An excited murmur ran through the hall. For a moment, I forgot my worries about the new Highmaster. I was going to be part of the compilation of the Tenth.

“The Highmaster Ardashir has declared we will begin the Tenth Interpretations,” Master Farhan announced with a light smile I rarely saw upon his face.

“What a blessing I was born at the right time, I tell you,” Bilal exclaimed. “To witness this.”

“We’ll be the first to inscribe it,” Mahmud said in a hushed voice.

“But, there is more,” Master Farhan said, taking his seat at the desk and folding his thin fingers together. “A special copy of the Tenth Interpretations will be sent to the Orasani region first. They are finalizing the treaty, and this will be an exchange of art and knowledge, if you will.”

“This is greater than I ever dreamed of. They’ll be singing our names up there in Orasan, I tell you,” Bilal exclaimed to Sulayman.

“I doubt that, Bilal,” Sulayman muttered.

“Do you think they’ll recognize me if I go in dressed as a servant just to witness the Light Scholars at work?” Bilal said.

“Don’t speak such foolishness, Bilal,” Master Farhan said. “Abide by your own work. What we do is just as great as the Light Scholars, if not more—”

The doors opened, and the Highmaster Ardashir strode into the room. Master Farhan hobbled up to stand, and the rest of us rose with a scattering of chairs. My heart quickened. Would he know I had been watching him?

“Salaam, Highmaster Ardashir, welcome to our royal studio,” Master Farhan said.

We all murmured our salaams, and Ardashir declared, “Peace, calligraphers.” A cool, firm voice. He looked about at the hall. “A humble place you have here.”

Master Farhan cleared his throat. “Well, yes, as I told you when we met, it has been a century since our calligraphers were funded so lavishly. No longer are we a hundred, but we —”

Ardashir shook his head. “No, no, forgive me, that is not what I mean. It is a beautiful hall. Indeed, it is not the hall that matters, as I am sure your calligraphers do great work.”

Master Farhan paused. “Indeed they do."

His silver robes brushing the stone, Ardashir walked towards our line of desks, studying each of us in turn. His eyes slid towards me, yet they were not what I had expected, or even feared. He merely furrowed his brows curiously, tilting his head as if I was a peculiar specimen to be examined. But he said nothing, nodding down the line to the others.

“A great honor, Highmaster. We are very glad to have you here,” Yusuf stuttered out as he bowed his head. “This important treaty has been finalized, then, I understand, Highmaster?” He added, flinching.

Sulayman guffawed in the back. Yusuf glared at him.

“You perceive the significance of this treaty then, young man?” Ardashir said. “Good, good.”

“One would be a traitor not to, Highmaster Ardashir,” Yusuf said the words in a rush, as if honored that Ardashir had spoken to him.

“Yet,” Ardashir said, hands folded behind his back as he turned to face all of us together. “It is quite a sad thing, you see. For there are those who resist our advances for good in the realm.”

“What do you mean, Highmaster Ardashir?” Bilal asked.

“The riots outside did not give you a clue?” Sulayman muttered back.

“This treaty will gain us allies against the Altharin, who have besieged us for too long. And the Orasani will help us in ousting the rebels which the Deceiver still breeds, dividing our people.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

He began to pace down the aisle. “The treaty will be sealed with this exchange of art and Holy Language, with the Tenth.”

Ardashir turned to Master Farhan. “Master Farhan. The introduction sections must be in Thuluth. Your work is of great renown across Khardin. I am eager to see your great work in person myself for the first time.”

“Ah, that, yes,” Master Farhan said. “I have decided to no longer contribute to crucial commissions such as these. My vision, you see, is eroding away, to tell you the truth, by the Creator.” I was surprised to hear this from Master Farhan — for he had never uttered this out loud, but it seemed he was beginning to accept it.

“Ah,” a glint of frustration grew in Ardashir’s eyes. “How unfortunate. Very, very unfortunate indeed. You…plan to stay here as Master Calligrapher regardless?”

An uncomfortable silence rose. “Yes,” Master Farhan cleared his throat. “I do. I still guide my calligraphers. I am still capable.”

“Intriguing,” Ardashir said.

Perhaps I had been wrong to worry for myself — when it may be Master Farhan I should be worrying for.

“Alright then,” Ardashir declared, clapping his hands together. “Whose Thuluth calligraphy is the closest to your own? I need someone for the Introductions and the first illuminated pages.”

“That would be Hisham,” Master Farhan replied. “But he just left last season to Mazandran’s Tower…he said they pay better,” Master Farhan muttered the last words under his breath. “Besides that, it would be Suryan.”

I cursed to myself. But perhaps this would be a chance at sealing my position with Ardashir.

“And that is, which of you?” Ardashir surveyed us.

I stepped forward. “Rahena Ansary, Highmaster.”

“Very intriguing indeed,” Ardashir smiled, but it was a cool one, as if he was looking upon a pleasant scenery.

Yusuf was furrowing his brows, a blush rising to his cheeks. “My family comes from a long line of royal calligraphers expert in Thuluth. I am the only logical candidate for such a position, Master Farhan, how could you suggest Suryan?”

Master Farhan cleared his throat. “Well, yes, your family is an expert but Suryan —”

The color in Yusuf’s face rose higher.

“There is no need for bitterness, calligraphers,” Master Farhan finally said. “I have never liked these rivals between my calligraphers, it never ends well.”

Ardashir raised a hand and smiled at Yusuf. “Let us see your work. Both of you — Bil-Qadi, and — what was your name, good woman —Suryan, yes. Meet me tomorrow to begin the introduction pages. Bil-Qadi, you can take the first session, and Suryan the second.” He turned to the other calligraphers. “The rest of you will take up the latter sections as the Light Scholars complete them.”

Master Farhan scoffed. “So long as that Haitham gives my calligraphers due credit.”

“Why would he not?” Ardashir smiled, turning to stride out of the hall. He nodded and murmured a “Peace,” before disappearing out of the door.

Master Farhan muttered to himself, “They may be producing the Interpretations, but we’re the ones inscribing them. We do important work too.”

The calligraphers burst into conversation.

I returned to my desk feeling an odd pit in my stomach. But why should I? The Highmaster was not the man I had thought him to be — this should be good. Then why did I feel as if the ground was shifting away from me?

Because all I could hear were Nanu Salima's words: This treaty will devastate us.

“You heard the man,” Master Farhan announced. “There is work to be done.” When the hall still did not silence, he bellowed, “Are you all deafer than an old man? Get back to work!”

***

All week long, servants ran to and fro carrying trays of sweet pitha and cha’a to the committee. Through the nights, they supplied the scholars with endless rounds of tea and coffee and halwa.

“If there’s one thing you must remember, Zakariyyah,” Highmaster Ardashir said. “It is that people are easily fooled.” He stood gazing out of the window from where shouts could be heard in the distance.

The protesters in the square had returned, and they’d been growing larger and moving down the roads; as evening fell and their chants grew closer, the shouts had become a constant muffled rhythm against the beat of our work. It was said that even city shopkeepers and craftswomen had begun to join the farmers and merchants.

We sat amidst piles of papers and ink bottles sprawled along the desks for the evening session, and Ardashir had ordered his son Zakariyyah to take part in the meetings.

Flickering candlelight lit the southern end of the calligraphy hall. It was empty now besides the three of us, as I prepared the Introduction dictated by Ardashir.

Ardashir, still facing the window, said, “The Traitor has been feeding them lies.”

“I have not heard of the Traitor of Khardin’s reappearance,” Zakariyyah said.

“The evidence is right outside the window, son,” Ardashir said, sitting down heavily upon his chair and rubbing his temples.

“Do they not have the right to voice their concerns while their homes are being ransacked every day?” I said.

He studied me, narrowing his eyes. Perhaps I had said too much. But my hands wrote out these words as I listened to him, and I needed to utter something.

Across from me, Zakariyyah’s head rose from his page as he stared at me. His hand was poised upon the paper, but he’d stopped writing.

“The Deceiver has seeped into your head, I am not surprised, for one such as you.” He leaned back in his chair and nodded towards me. “Now, calligrapher Rahena, please read me again the end of the Introduction.”

I turned to the page I’d just finished inscribing from his dictation. “The Interpretations are an act of the holy voice,” I began. “The ways of the scholars of old, passed down through generations, the torch of the Elders of the First Age.”

Ardashir nodded, and I went on: “In the five decades since the Ninth Interpretation, our realm has endured many trials and tribulations given us by the Creator. Our faiths have been tested by the Altharin enemy invasions from the north, which brought us the dark plague. Our faiths have been tested by one of our own, the Deceiver, the traitor Imraan al-Hunayn who seeks to sow discord and lies into our realm and threaten the power of the gracious Emir Salman. The Tenth Interpretations are a reminder of our strength to endure these trials, to overcome. There may be many Traitors who will test you in the years ahead, and you shall hold on to these words as reminders against them. This is the guide from your Creator.”

I held up my pen ready to revise this concluding section yet again as I’d already done with the rest of the sections.

“What do you think, Zakariyyah?” Ardashir asked, his hands folded together beneath his chin, without looking at his son.

Zakariyyah cleared his throat. “Sounds good to me, father.”

“You will become the Head Light Scholar, perhaps even the Chief of Ifsharan one day if you train as a warrior too like I keep telling you. You must speak with more confidence than that, Zakariyyah.”

Zakariyyah did not respond, but a shadow fell over his eyes.

A gust of wind shuttering through the slats of the windows blew into the study, shuttering the candlelight, leaving us in the dark. The next second they flickered back up, and I saw Zakariyyah’s hard gaze staring at the light without a word.

Ardashir nodded. “The Royal Ministrels can begin announcing the Tenth Interpretations across the realm with this Introduction once we complete the work. Make another copy for the book.”

I finalized notes and wrapped up the papers.

The muffled drove of protesters had moved away. In the silence of the dark outside, a low hooting of nightowls came from somewhere in the eastern forest beyond the Tower.

“Suryan,” Ardashir said, folding his fingers together on the table. “Did you truly arrive from the borders of Ifsharan, from the Sakkar towns, as you told Master Farhan?”

My hands froze upon the papers. “Yes. What is this about, Highmaster?”

Ardashir leaned back, his eyes still on me. “During his session with me, Yusuf mentioned you are not from where you say you are. That you are a liar.”

“Ah.” Curse that Yusuf. But it seemed I was already beginning to curse myself, with my own complicity.

“He is acting out of some infantile envy, I am aware. But —” Ardashir’s eyes caught mine. His voice grew lean, smooth. “You are not of the royal families. A woman.”

I set down the papers and tried to gather the words, my lies. “My father apprenticed for Master Khalil, and I learned from him.”

“And what does he think, of your station here in a world of men?”

“I don’t know, Highmaster. I lost my father.”

Ardashir said nothing. He turned into the flickering candle. “He must have been a great calligrapher, your father.”

“Yes,” I said. I bound up the pages with cord without looking at him. I realized I was holding my breath for fear that if he looked too closely, he would know the truth.

“Zakariyyah, you barely remember your grandfather, do you?” Ardashir said to his son. Zakariyyah’s eyes flickered to his father’s but he said nothing. “If you had met him, then perhaps he could have made you more of a man.”

I saw the lines of Zakariyyah’s jaw tighten, and a vein pulsing at the side of his head. But, calm as ever, he did not belie his emotions to his father.

I rose, collecting the papers and ink. “I will leave you, Master Ardashir. Good night, scholar Zakariyyah.”

Zakariyyah nodded to me, murmuring, “Good night, calligrapher Suryan.”