After they came to Fazhali, after their Uncle became their new parent -- not father, children, patron -- Rostam used to walk his sister to the madrasa. Iskanda was the smart one, even then. She could read within a year, where Rostam was still struggling to come to grips with how to hold a pen. But she was small, and Rostam was big. Gangly, as they turned the corner past that first growth spurt. There was food to eat in the home of Sajek Marzani, and Rostam grew.
Sometimes he came out from studies to find Iskanda waiting for him, ready to be walked home. Once, however, he came out to find her on the ground, two boys kicking at her. Being boys, the kicks were probably inaccurate, vicious in intent rather than effect. Every child in the madrasa knew the story, the two sad orphans from the dirt farm, the two survivors. The big dumb one and the little weird one. She was always praying. He never spoke, just watched. She sang. He hummed.
And someone was kicking his sister.
Afterward, after the older children had gathered round and chanted, after the tutors had broken it up and caned him, after his uncle's majordomo had caned him again, he was summoned. He was nine years old. He was summoned to his uncle's office. He's going to send me back.
He didn't get sent back.
He was handed a stick, and introduced to a new tutor, an older man with a face full of scars. He was told that if he couldn't be civilized, he'd be taught to be disciplined in his savagery.
And smile more. It can't hurt.