Two Students, One Sentence
For reasons I couldn't explain, everything felt too smooth.
The carpet in the study hall was a deep red, its fibers tightly woven. Your feet sank slightly as you stepped on it. The air carried two scents: the heavy sweetness of oud and the sharp residue of lapis lazuli ink.
In the front row, I—Arash—listened to the scratch of my classmates' qalams against Samarkand paper. The sound was like a thousand crickets. Before me lay the Zīj—the astronomical tables of al-Khwarizmi—open wide. The numbers were absolute. The sky was a machine already mapped.
Above us, the high domed ceiling reflected sound like a vast bowl. Every cough sounded polite. Every brush of fabric was audible.
My star tables were neat. Clean lines. No corrections. I didn't study here to look orderly. I studied because the sky never lies—and the Persian morning air felt calm. Too calm for an examination day.
Through the lattice windows, slanted daylight spilled in. The city looked pale, dusty, and beautiful—like gold that doesn't need polishing to shine. Towers, flat roofs, narrow alleys. Everything was quiet, but not lazy.
I realized something was wrong when the hall doors opened and a student from Silla (신라) entered without waiting for permission.
A young man stepped in. His hair was tied up in a neat sangtu, fastened with a thin silver pin typical of Silla nobility. His robe was folded without a crease, his belt knot worn low.
He stood in the gongsu position—right hand clasping the left before his navel—a rigid yet dignified gesture of respect. He bowed briefly to the seniors, not out of fear, but because he knew exactly where he stood in the world's order.
"He's from the Far East," my friend whispered.
"A land that builds stone towers just to stare at the stars."
His hard leather shoes struck the carpet—one sharp tap, impolite by our standards. Unlike us, who wore soft soles so as not to damage the floor.
My chest tightened. This wasn't new hatred. It was more like an old allergy.
"Him again," someone behind me murmured.
I said nothing. I waited for him to make a mistake.
At the front, Sheikh Farid entered without haste. His robe was the color of sand. His eyes were calm, yet everyone straightened at once. He placed an astrolabe on the table—old metal, its engraved lines fine as prayer.
"Astronomy," Sheikh Farid said quietly,
"is not about who is right. It is about when you are ready to admit you are wrong."
"And if you come here merely to win debates," he continued,
"you are in the wrong place."
I suppressed a smile. I came to win. Everyone did.
He looked at us one by one, then paused—briefly on Haneul, longer on me.
"Arash. Read your calculations."
I stood. The thin paper trembled. I read out the sun's altitude, shadow length, seasonal corrections. A few students nodded. I felt satisfied.
Sheikh Farid nodded.
"Good."
Then he turned to Haneul.
"You," he said,
"what inclination of the ecliptic did you find from last week's observations?"
Haneul stood. He carried no stack of manuscripts. Instead, he held a small wooden board, a string, and a weighted stone. Other students looked at him as if he'd brought a carpenter's tools into a scholar's hall.
The fabric of his sleeve brushed softly. The string swayed gently between his fingers.
I wanted to laugh. Such crude instruments—here, in Bayt al-Fikr.
"The value changes, Sheikh," Haneul said.
"Not much—but enough to shift the calendar by two days in a single season."
The hall fell silent. Two days was not a small number.
Two days meant mistimed planting. Mistimed planting meant empty granaries. I let out a small laugh—unintended. The kind born of nerves and arrogance.
I spoke before Sheikh Farid could.
"Two days—from where?" I said.
"Our tables are not wrong."
Haneul looked at me. Not challenging. Not condescending. Just calm. That was what irritated me.
"From the sky," Haneul replied flatly, his voice cutting the silence like cold steel.
"Your tables lag behind the sky's breath. Regulus has shifted, but you're still calculating it with coordinates from a decade ago."
I hissed softly and stood, blood rushing to my temples.
"That is an insult to the Great Masters, Haneul. These tables are law. Mathematics does not betray!"
Haneul met my gaze, his eyes as deep as an old well in Gyeongju. He didn't slam the table. He merely adjusted the wide sleeve of his robe—a reflexive Silla gesture before delivering a lethal argument.
"The sky owes no explanation to your tables, Arash," he said evenly.
"Mathematics does not betray—but time does. The sky keeps breathing, while the hands that copy numbers often stop."
Sheikh Farid tapped his bronze astrolabe. Ting. The sound echoed.
"Arash believes in the eternity of manuscripts. Haneul believes in perpetual motion," he said.
"But the people in the southwest don't need your debate. They need water."
He drew a breath and pulled a scroll from his sleeve. The seal was red. The stamp was not Persian.
"That land requests assistance," Sheikh Farid said.
"Famine. A misaligned planting calendar. Water is declining. They await an answer from those who can read the sky."
The room seemed to shift—like the temperature dropping half a degree. He looked at us both at once, as though the decision had been made long ago.
"They offer wages sufficient to fill a library," Sheikh Farid continued.
I nearly exhaled in relief—until he added:
"And punishment sufficient to silence you forever."
The hall froze.
The oil lamp wick trembled, hissing softly.
My throat went dry—not from fear of death, but from fear of dying wrong.
"How soon?" someone asked.
"One week," Sheikh Farid replied.
"They will begin planting then. If they plant on the wrong day, they lose the season. If they lose the season, they lose the people. And if they lose the people… they will need a scapegoat."
He looked at us again.
"The easiest scapegoats are two foreign students. One Persian. One Silla."
I swallowed.
"This is madness," I whispered.
Sheikh Farid rested his palms on the table.
"You are rivals here," he said.
"Fine. But out there, hunger does not care about academic pride."
He looked at me.
"Arash, you will go—because you understand Persian land and our methods."
Then at Haneul.
"Haneul, you will go—because you see what others do not."
I was about to protest. The words rose to my throat. Sheikh Farid raised one hand. A single gesture.
"Do not speak of pride," he said quietly.
"Speak of people."
Haneul bowed slightly. I saw his jaw tighten, as if he swallowed anger with precision.
The room stayed silent. Then someone cleared their throat.
"I'll go," he said.
My voice followed too quickly.
"I will too."
I hated how it sounded like defeat. But the reason I said yes wasn't defeat. There were children in that land. Mothers. Elders with no time for table debates.
Sheikh Farid nodded.
"Good," he said.
"From now on, you do not debate to win. You debate to live."
He handed us the astrolabe—not as a gift, but as a burden.
"And remember," he said,
"the sky chooses no Kingdom. It chooses those who listen."
As we left the hall, Haneul spoke without looking at me, gazing at the stars through the window.
"Arash," he said quietly,
"In my land, there is a stone tower called Cheomseongdae. But here, you compress the entire sky into a metal disk you can hold in your hand. Efficient—and frightening."
I fell silent.
"If we die," he added, almost inaudibly,
"make sure the last number we write is the correct one. Let history be ashamed of the rest."
I almost laughed. Almost.
"Here," I replied,
"mistakes are often defended far too long—even when the numbers are obvious."
Haneul answered flatly, like filing a report:
"Then I must be more careful."
It was the first humor between us that felt human.
***
The Famine Land
The wind there was dry—dry in a way unlike Persia. Dust clung like fine flour to eyebrows and fingernails. The ground cracked into patterns like aged skin.
We were taken to a small fortress. Not luxurious, but heavily guarded. The soldiers' swords were clean. That was a sign: they were waiting for a reason to use them.
Below, the fields looked like badly folded cloth—not green, not wet brown. Just dull lines.
In the distance, the river had shrunk to a thin ribbon. Children walked along its banks carrying jars too large for their hands.
The smell of hot earth rose like breath from the ground. A slow nausea settled in my stomach—not from travel, but from seeing people wait on the sky as one waits for mercy.
At the fortress, Haneul didn't begin calculating. He crouched, touched the cracked earth with his fingertips, then smelled the dust. Not the act of a scientist—of a hermit.
"Why do you do that?" I asked.
"This land is crying, Arash. You cannot calculate the sky's help unless you know how deep the earth's wound is," he replied without turning.
I was silent. In Persia, we calculate from high towers. In Silla, it seems they calculate from the heartbeat of the soil.
I took out my silver astrolabe, adjusting the rete to that night's sky.
"Spica says we must plant now," I said,
"or the roots will burn before they can drink."
An official approached. His robe was simple, but he stood like someone used to commanding the hungry.
"You are the students of Sheikh Farid?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over us—faces, hands, bags, tools.
"I am Arash," I said.
"Haneul," said Haneul.
The official nodded thinly.
"Four days remain," he said sharply.
"We await your answer. After that, we cannot wait."
He did not mention heads. He didn't need to. Two soldiers stood behind him, their swords too clean for a starving land.
The gate keys clashed—click. Final. My stomach tightened. This was not poetic threat. It was procedure.
"We understand," I said.
Haneul bowed once. When lives are involved, he spoke little. Very Silla. Precise.
That first night, we climbed to the fortress roof. The sky was clean, stars sharp as needles. The astrolabe felt cold in my palm. Haneul hung his string and weight, waiting for the sway to stop.
I opened the Persian zīj. Thick paper. Tested numbers.
Haneul watched the horizon. He did not open my tables. He observed.
The wind slipped through stone gaps, carrying the scent of dry earth. I was irritated by how calm he looked—as if this were just another classroom test.
"You don't trust the tables?" I asked.
"I do," he said.
"But I don't trust those who copy without fear."
I turned the astrolabe.
"In Persia, we fear," I said.
"Because we calculate for irrigation. For qanats. For fields."
Haneul nodded.
"In my land, we fear because when we are wrong, people don't blame the sky. They blame whoever stands closest."
I held my tongue. Too accurate.
We calculated. I measured stellar heights. Haneul measured shadows and night wind direction. I wanted to mock his simple tools—but our numbers began to align.
Until one point.
"According to the tables, planting is on the third day," I said.
"According to observation, it must be the first," Haneul replied.
Two days apart. Two days that kill a season.
I stared at my tables. I trusted them. Haneul stared at the sky, as if speaking directly to the source.
The Kingdom's calendar followed old tables—two days late. In a dry season, two days are the difference between living seed and dead seed.
I pointed to a line.
"If we shift planting two days earlier," I said,
"they enter the root phase before the soil hardens."
Haneul looked at the sky, then the shrinking river.
"And they must hold water early," he said.
"Not wait for rain. Store water now."
His fingernail scraped the wooden board—dry sound. Panic rose, but my face had to remain steady.
"You're sure?" I asked.
"I am," he said.
"I am too," I replied.
We fell silent—a dangerous silence. Below, the sound of seed grinding carried up. They were preparing already.
I went down to fetch the Kingdom's old records. The official handed over their planting scrolls. Marginal notes faded. Numbers are overwritten again and again.
Haneul read quickly, then stopped at one line.
"This," he said.
"What?"
"The person who copied this used star positions from twenty years ago," Haneul said.
"No correction."
I held my breath. Twenty years isn't long for a lazy man—but it is long for the sky.
I checked. He was right.
A thought surfaced—ugly but honest: if we were wrong, the Silla would be blamed first. This land could say, the foreigner deceived us. I could go home. He could not.
The thought made me sick.
Cold sweat formed on my back despite the heat. Shame followed—but shame doesn't save lives.
"We could say—" the words nearly escaped.
Haneul looked at me sharply. Not angry. Warning.
I shut my mouth and changed course.
"We recheck. Now," I said.
We recalculated. Faster. No flair. No display. Haneul sketched simple lines—when to hold water, when to plant. I wrote table corrections: shift two days earlier.
On the second morning, the people gathered. Seeds laid on cloth. Their faces blank, their eyes clinging to us.
The official stood before them. The soldiers behind him did not move.
"What is your decision?" he asked.
I stepped forward.
"The first day," I said.
"Plant today."
A murmur rippled. Shock. Fear. Relief.
"Your proof?" the official asked.
Haneul didn't speak for long. He placed his board on the ground, measured shadows, pointed directions, indicated the flawed records. I raised the astrolabe, showed last night's star positions, corrected tables, explained briefly. Short sentences. Clear. No poetry.
The official studied us.
"You realize," he said,
"if you are wrong, you will not see a third night."
"I realize," I said.
Haneul bowed once. That was his answer.
The official nodded to the farmers.
"Plant," he ordered.
They moved—slow at first, then fast, as if afraid the decision would vanish if delayed.
Back inside, I wrote planting and water instructions. Haneul added simple sketches. At the bottom was space for names.
My hand instinctively wanted to write: Arash.
Haneul looked at the space.
Ink gleamed at my pen's tip, a single drop suspended.
I wanted to be remembered. I also didn't want blood attached to a name.
"Our names?" I asked quietly.
Haneul looked at me. This time, he spoke like someone who understood politics.
"If they need a name," he said,
"they will choose one. Then our kingdoms will argue over it again."
I exhaled.
"And if there is no name?"
"Then they only have a season," he replied.
"That is more useful."
I lowered the pen.
I did not write my name. Neither did Haneul.
We handed the paper to the official. He read it quickly, folded it, and stored it without looking at us. He whispered to an aide.
"You will be given provisions and letters of passage," he said.
We left the fortress as the sun tilted. Outside, the sound of worked soil rose like new breath.
On the road, Haneul tightened his bag. The knot was… Persian. I didn't recall teaching him. It warmed my chest in an unsettling way.
The strap rubbed softly—like folded paper. A loss not yet happened, already felt.
"Arash," Haneul said without turning,
"when you return… don't say this was your idea."
I laughed shortly—absurd laughter. We'd nearly been beheaded, and he worried about credit.
"At the academy," I said,
"you don't say it was yours either."
He half-turned, expression unchanged.
"Then," he said,
"we are both safe. No one can sue us."
Cold Silla humor. Perfectly logical.
A few steps later, I stopped and opened my pocket. Inside was a copy of the planting guide—nameless. But something I hadn't noticed before caught my eye.
In the lower corner, very small, was a scratched mark—not Persian letters. Not numbers.
A simple symbol. Like someone quietly claiming ownership.
My finger traced it, rough under skin. My chest dropped. If this land needed a scapegoat, they now had a handle.
"Did you mean to… or forget?" I whispered.
Haneul laughed softly. A small letter lay folded beside it, bearing Sheikh Farid's seal.
The threat was never meant to be carried out, it read.
Sometimes a few heads must be 'risked' so that two minds will finally sit at the same table.
I looked at Haneul.
"You knew?"
He shrugged, a thin smile appearing—not relief, but understanding.
"I suspected," he said.
"A good teacher rarely truly wants his students dead."
I folded the letter with the guide—but my eyes fixed on Sheikh Farid's seal. One small detail I'd missed: a tiny cross beneath the crescent.
"This isn't a copying error, Haneul," I whispered.
"This is sabotage. Someone poisoned the calendar so famine would happen."
Haneul stopped. He studied the mark, eyes narrowing.
"That seal belongs to a shadow faction in the Southwest court," he murmured.
"They don't want people fed. They want famine—so rebellion has a reason."
I swallowed.
"So Sheikh Farid didn't just send us to read stars?"
Haneul wasn't surprised. He adjusted his sleeve calmly.
"Then our task isn't finished. There are many star towers along the Silk Road that may carry the same poison."
I didn't laugh this time. I tightened my bag.
We walked side by side, leaving the fortress behind, toward a horizon that had just opened.
— The End —