Chapter 3

The courtroom glimmered with tapestries hanging down across the wall; golden etchings of regal patterns flowed across the fabric. On either side of the throne two pillars loomed over the staircase; porcelain shimmering against the deep scarlett tones.

In the middle the King sat in his throne; the golden rings fitted around his bruised knuckles. A deep ruby gem embedded on his index finger catches the light. 

He moved slowly, unfolding his leg and regarded the three below him. The whole room was rife with tension; chatter slowly rose and fell as he moved, following him like an orchestra.

As he moved his hands away, light bounced off something against his palm. From afar it was hard to make out the shape—a small wing he toyed with.

The king rose off the throne, moving lithely below and stood facing Glasses.

Underneath the calm mask of his features, something flickered as he looked the King in the eye, holding tightly onto a book. The title is hard to decipher, the front dripping down like ink; spine cracked from years of being read over as a child. 

The king fiddled with the broken wing, and closed his fist on it. Moments later dust trickled down his fingers like sand. His hands twisted against a golden ring, but his movement was sluggish—smile unhinged as he threw it to the floor. 

The ring spun like a coin across the floor, splitting the crowd below as it landed. 

“What will you do?” The king cracked his neck, placing his hand against his skin. He reached his arm out, stepping into the space between him and Glasses. 

“I knew you weren’t one to talk, but facing me?” 

Glasses regarded him silently. He analysed the harsh lines of the King’s movement. By now he’d fully understood the way he reacts—the positions which he carried himself during fights. The silence cracked with the ring of metal as the King unsheathed a knife from his belt.

The sharp point aligned straight towards Glasses.  

Dark clouds stirred in the sky, making the stained-glass window pour down a murky pool of iridescent, muted light between them. 

Glasses threw the book down and removed his glasses, tucking them into his shirt. 

Light made prisms against the floor, bouncing off the blade. 

“Let’s finish our conversation after this.” Each angle of his arms and hip aligned as Glasses fell into the position of a fighting stance. 

Then, metal and movement became fluid. Bursts of silver flashed, but the rigid, grounded grip of Glasses’ hand tightened against his throat. 

He dragged the king forward, slamming him to the ground with a punch. Metal rang as it hit the floors, swivelling down the staircase.

Glasses grabbed his wrist, wincing with the cuts laced across his skin and took a step back. He looked over his shoulder, watching three other people emerge. San stepped beside him, crouching towards the king and twisted a card between his fingers. The King glared, lying across the floor and saw the faint outline of the joker.

“Let me ask you something.” The golden flicker in his eye that everyone knew him by was dulling.

The king turned his face, looking away. “How does it feel now?” Everyone fell silent, and the king fiddled with a ring on his thumb.

The king ignored him, jolting. This time his gait shifted and a shadow fell across his face, as if a weight was revealing itself over his shoulders.

“You used to care—” The king cut him off.

“I’m the only one that cares.” 

They all used to look up to him. When he read all those books, about wanting to do something great. Then, it was wanting to be someone great. 

The small seed grew, watered by the shift in his growth. Eventually it took too much space. 

Glasses crouched down to the dust of the wing, pressing his finger down. 

“You don’t really remember yourself, do you?” Pity curled around each word as he spoke, facing the King. As he towered over him now, the harsh light of the jewels embedded in his crown strained his vision; all traded for glory. 

“I’m proud of who I am.” The king’s eyes paled like a dim fire, and everyone took a cautious step back except for Glasses, slowly rising off the floor. 

“This doesn’t sound like you.” Tension ripples through the air. 

San inches closer to the table and picks up a glass but doesn’t drink from it, and instead looks towards the window.

A gnarled branch scratched the surface, sprouting thorns so thick the petals of every rose fell off. 

Again, the King and Glasses clashed a second time.

When he looks up the king’s face is shadowed, a diagonal fold of light across his eyes and the crown steadily tipped to one side. He couldn’t move, paralysed in one spot, and felt all his limbs tangled underneath the pressure of his gaze.

“Still speechless?” Dark tendrils of smoke curled around the top of his crown, tilting on his head. 

San stepped in between them, helping Glasses up and dragged his arm over his shoulder. 

At the bottom of the stairs Blue weaved through, carrying his bow and raised it above his head. 

“Move.” They both understood his tone, looking back at the King with a pitiful gaze before parting towards the side. 

This wasn’t their fight anymore.  

Blue’s hands trembled as he lowered the bow to eye level, calming his breathing. 

The king didn’t move, eyes still and feet rooted to the ground. 

Blue waited a few moments, easing into the draw. The string deepend against his skin as he pulled it back. 

The crown hung above the throne, dangling over the weight of the arrow.

Again, I struggle to reach over to tug the stirrup off, until my foot slips out and I slam into the ground with a jolt. The sound of Melati’s galloping becomes distant, and I let out a long sigh, staring ahead at all the students, distraught.

What had I done wrong? The girth had been tied, I pulled at her rein, but she didn’t listen. 

Exhausted, I buried my face into the ground, slightly moving my shoulder but a sharp pain struck through.

Great, now I’d have to return home with a broken bone and friendship, mum definitely wasn’t going to take any of it well. 

The sound of footsteps neared, and the instructor crouched beside me, roughly patting my back.

“Get up, you’ll be fine.” He says, “Just move slowly.” 

I do as he says, but swore when another sharp pain struck through my shoulder.

“How bad does it hurt?” He says. I refrain from moving, watching him signal to another student to help Melati. I know her, Alayna. She’s a senior who was always acting in demonstrations.

What an embarrassment. The top student representing us seeing me like this. 

I slowly get up, wincing from the pain. 

“I’m fine.” My teeth grit as I ignore the ache, stretching out my arm. Immediately, I wince, biting my tongue from the sting.

“What happened?” The instructor says. 

“I don’t know, my foot slipped.” I say, hoping to keep the explanation minimal.

I remember tying it, placing the halter correctly but his steely gaze made me shudder as if I’d done something wrong.

“If your saddle was tied properly, then it wouldn’t have slipped. What about your horse? Did you wait for her to lick and chew, or did you just force the halter over her?” I look over his shoulder towards Alayna, now steadily walking Melati but her ears are still up like before–totally spooked.

“She was calm when I approached her, so I placed it over her.” I say, and feel a nervous flutter inside, knowing I’ve messed up. 

“You think she was okay with that, but you could’ve been a danger to someone else here instead of yourself.” He says. “Not only were you impatient, but you didn’t apply any of the lessons we instilled since the beginning of the term.”  I try to block out his words, but all the lessons on sabr rattle my thoughts. Yikes.

Sabr meant a lot of things in Islam, but mostly endurance in any kind of situation like when you were faced with something tough.

Sabr also meant learning to take our time whenever we did anything, and most importantly recognise our intention behind it so we didn’t lose focus of the goal ahead. Both those two things were heavily emphasised in horsemanship but today I had neither.

I glanced at the students still holding onto the rein of their horse, some of them hadn’t even mounted yet, striding across the field to ease the horse into their presence.

Silence spreads thin. I stare at the floor, unable to own up to my mistake. 

“How’s your torba?”

“It’s fine, my arrows are always close together.” I say, hopeful that torba is the one thing that I don’t screw up out of every other activity today. It was usually done in sets of three. The closer your arrows were together, the better your focus.

We are near the end of the field where several targets are lined up, punctured with arrows by students. 

Their intense gaze and unwithering stance completely aligned with the target. One of them lets go, piercing the target with a precision that makes me envious. 

“Show me.” He passes a bow to me, the weight of wood and sinew makes me wince as a slight ache spreads along my shoulder. I shrug it off and pluck an arrow from the basket.

As I face the target, my weight unevenly shifts between my feet. It’s no good, tension builds up inside because I hold onto it for too long before shooting. 

The arrow lands too far from the target.

I glance back at the instructor, waiting for him to comment but nothing. Upright, and stoic like always.

The second time I try, it lands the same as before. 

My confidence drops, doubtful I’ll achieve I set.  After too many unsuccessful attempts, I drop the bow.

“Tell me what happened.” I have no answer for him,  rolling my shoe against the grass.

I was perfect with torba, and I’d never gone through this many arrows without getting at least one set.

“Yaseen, answer my question and look at me.” He snaps, but I stutter, unsure how to explain.

If he knew that I’d broken my best friend’s space shuttle and made a mess in the library then he’d make me do kepaze all over again–or worse, put me with the younger kids to learn everything from scratch.

“Just having a bad day.” 

“Try again, just breathe.” It sounds simple enough, but my arms tremble when I pick up the bow again and draw another arrow back. “You’re not breathing, lower your bow.” He nit-picks on everything I do, but instead of arguing, I focus.  

But I know this time I wait too long, and Aarif’s shuttle breaks in front of me a dozen different ways. 

A court filled with the stained glass windows snakes through my vision making everything dark. 

Numb, I look away from the target and take slow, steady breaths, wishing to feel light. I take a few steps closer to the target, raising my bow again.

One arrow lands. 

Then two. 

Finally, a set. 

I feel a weight lift off my shoulder, and turn towards the instructor but he’s nonchalant until I reach all three sets. By the end of the lesson, most of the students have left, leaving us to clear the fields off the targets inside the shed. 

Sunlight glides along the grass, a coppery glow flowing over the field and the remaining horses bathe underneath its warmth.

At first, I’d been scared of him, but now I was sort of okay that he called me out. Torba forced me to clear my head, set aside all the anxiety about school. I’d face everything later, when I was in the right headspace.

I push a target inside the shed with my hands and lean my head against the wall, exhausted. The instructor pulls out a key from his pocket, gesturing to me to leave. “Can I ask you something?” I say. 

“If I know the answer, then yes.” He says, but I don’t know if I should tell him about breaking Aarif’s shuttle. But I didn’t want to lose my best friend, there was no way I could let our friendship dissolve like this. Not without trying. “Yaseen?” 

“How do you say sorry to someone? Like your best friend.” I try to keep the details out, doing my best to keep things vague, expecting a dismissive look but he speaks in that same, precise and calm manner like before. 

“Accept what you did was wrong, then ask them to forgive you.” He says but I don’t know where to begin with Aarif and imagine the scene going terribly over and over in my head. Aarif wasn’t confrontational, but knowing he’d be in complete silence and not reply seemed worse than him yelling back. 

“You’re right.” I say, and throw my bag over my shoulder, heading off but he stops me. 

“I’m right? Or that’s right?”

“What’s the difference?”

Silence…“I heard there’s some great material on the top floor. Try looking there. Maybe you’ll find something that will help.”