Now, you’ve got the option to see for yourself as to why.
Somaiya Daud is a rare talent.
A smart, romantic, exciting debut.
Credit: Derek Simeone
Praise has also come in from the likes of Margaret Stohl, Roshani Choksi, and Kat Howard.
Miragewill be published on Aug. 28.
Get in on the hype by checking out the cover and an excerpt below, and pre-order the bookhere.
Flatiron Books
They say this makes him ideal; no traditional markings on his face to identify him should he die.
No way to trace him back to his family.
He is young, not yet fifteen, too young for the daan ceremony.
This is what she says to him when she comes to choose him.
That he is young and that he is skilled and that he is steady.
This, she says, is all that matters.
He does not feel young.
The crowd is silent, but then the crowds at these events are always silent.
They are here because they must be here.
It is a wonder any of them are Andalaan; they all look Vathek now.
They have accepted Vathek rule.
They would not dress so, not if they truly were Andalaan in their hearts.
He thinks of his younger sister as he moves through the crowd.
Dead for two summers now, her stomach bloated from hunger.
His father, long gone, too weak to support them, to stay.
He has one sister left, and a brother besides, and his mother.
All to be taken care of after this.
A husband for Dunya.
Away from everything they know, but a chance for a new life.
He has trained for this, he is ready, but he has never taken a life.
The blood never dies, he remembers.
The blood never forgets.
This is for a higher purpose one more important than his life, more important than any life.
These things must be done, he thinks.
In the name of Andala.
In the name of freedom.
He has heard the stories, knows that these things are often twisted through the telling.
But his life, the lives of his siblings and neighbors, bear witness to some truth.
The occupation is cruel.
Its heirs crueler still.
The sun flashes against the silver metal of his blaster.
He lifts it, aims, fires.
The box was old, its wood worn of any trace of design or paint.
It smelled of saffron and cinnamon, sharp and sweet.
I crept into my parents room often when I was small, always to peek into the box.
And its mystique only increased in my eyes when my mother began to hide it from me.
The feather fascinated me.
A five-year-old had no use for a ring or a flower or fabric.
But the feather of a magical, extinct bird?
Like all things from the old order, it called to me.
The feather was black, made up of a hundred dark, jewel shades.
When Dihya wanted to give you a sign He slipped the feather into your hand.
When He wanted to command you to a calling, to take action, He sent the bird itself.
It was a holy and high calling, and not to be taken lightly.
War, pilgrimage, the fate of nations: this was what the tesleet called a person for.
My grandfather had received a tesleet, though my mother never talked about why or even who he was.
A foolhardy man who died grieving all he did not accomplish, shed said to me once.
I stared into the old box, my eyes unfocused, my gaze turned inward.
The sun would set soon, and I didnt have time to waste by staring at an old feather.
There were no tesleet left on Cadiz or our mother planet, Andala.
Like many things from my mothers childhood, they had left, or been spent, or were extinguished.
All we had were relics, traces of what once was and would likely never be again.
I jumped when my mother cleared her throat in the doorway.
Amani, was all she said, one eyebrow raised.
But my mother said nothing, only smiled and came forward, hand outstretched.
did your father give you the feather?
I asked at last, and handed the box over.
Her eyes widened a little.
For a moment, I thought she wouldnt answer.
No, she said softly, closing the boxs lid.
I found it a little while after the bird had gone.
In a moment of weakness in some shrubbery.
Shed survived two wars: the civil war, and then the Vathek invasion and following occupation.
She was hard, with a spine of steel, unbendable, unbindable, and unbreakable.
What was your moment of weakness?
I wouldnt get a response.
But my mother surprised me and smiled.
I was running from love, she said.
Your father, to be specific.
My mouth dropped to her amusement.
You are meant to be getting ready for tonight.
I didnt know how to explain it, so I just shook my head and shrugged.
I just I love it.
I suppose I wanted to see it again.
She came forward and tilted my chin up.
I was full grown, and my mother still towered over me by a full head.
I know this week has been difficult, she said at last.
More difficult than most.
But it will pass, as they all do.
I bit my tongue rather than say what I thought.
We shouldnt have to wait for them to pass.
They should never be in the first place.
But my mother surprised me into silence a second time, and set the box back in my hand.
I think this should pass to you, she said, her voice soft again.
Hope is a younger girls game, and you find more comfort in it than I do.
I opened then closed my mouth, wordless with shock.
I said at last.
Really, she repeated and kissed my forehead.
My mother left me alone in her room, the box still clasped to my chest.
The sun was setting truly now, and I hurried to put it away, and find my things.
Khadija would be waiting, and I hated to hear her skewer me for my tardiness.
Outside, the village was quiet.
There were no fields left, not after the fire the Imperial Garda set last week.
Rebels or, more likely, starving thieves had taken shelter in one of the gate houses.
Rather than looking through each one, the Garda had set fire to the fields.
Wed heard the rebels screaming from as far away as the village square.
What would I want my own feather, my own sign, for?
In the wake of this of life I had no need for a sign.
I wanted something else, something more tangible and immediate.
I wanted the world.
But theyd poisoned their own atmosphere, and were forced to relocate to an orbiting moon.
A stopgap measure, with an exploding population and a lack of resources.
Some said it was inevitable that they chose to expand to other systems.
There were moments when I glimpsed the world as it was before the occupation of the Vath.
The bones of our old ways of life were there, barely traceable, and I wanted them back.
I wanted all of us to remember what wed been, how strong we were.
I could want until I was dead and nothing would come to pass.
Wanting never solved anything.
*
In the kitchen, I packed away the last of the food we were taking with us.
We were celebrating my majority night.
I turned to see Husnain, my brother, standing in the doorway.
My parents had three children: Aziz, the eldest of us, more than ten years my senior.
Myself, the youngest, and Husnain, fifteen months older than I was.
He had all the foolhardiness and fire of a second son, rarely tempered but for me.
I brought something for you, he said when I sat down.
I grinned and held out my hands.
Give it to me.
I did so, but kept my hands outstretched.
A moment later a wide, thin object was folded into my hands.
It was too expensive to even consider purchasing it, and besides, most religious poetry was outlawed.
It had been used too often as a rallying point for the rebels during the occupation.
My hands shook as I reached for the collection.
You took a huge risk
Never you mind the risk, he said.
It belongs to you now, and thats all that matters.
I was afraid to grin or to touch them.
I could hardly believe it.
Id never owned a collection of poetry before.
I would have to transcribe them to holosheets or put them in a database or some such.
And I would have to hide them, or risk them being confiscated by the magistrates.
Our souls will return home, we will return, the first poem read.
We will set our feet in the rose of the citadel.
I closed my eyes, seeing the imagined citadel, no doubt now turned to dust.
The pain on the page was palpable everyone had a citadel.
Thank you, I said at last, and threw my arms around him.
You have no idea
I have some, he laughed, and kissed my forehead.
You are my favorite person in the the world, Amani.
Im glad to give you this.
Dihya, are you crying?
But I could feel the lump in my throat, ready to dissolve into tears at any minute.
Id been so afraid, so nervous about tonight.
And in the end, it was a night of joy.
Maybe now youll write some of your own, he said, a little softer.
I snorted out a laugh.
Youre good, he insisted.
You should write more.
I flushed, hungry for praise.
In another world, I said, and clutched the poetry to my chest.
Our souls will return home, we will return.
I looked up, and smiled at my brother, the other half of my heart.
But not this one.
In this one, these poems are enough.
