“Asha.”
Ashallah raised her brow yet her eyes remained closed. She grinned.
“Asha.”
She opened her eyes. Above, the sky was a velvet canvas, with sparse diamonds on it, twinkling.
For a moment, she felt the way she did as a girl, years before she sought her training with the midnight warriors. When her mother would wake her with the casual mention of her name. No, not her name, but her mother’s name for her, one that she alone used. A time when she was innocent, not knowing the evils of the world.
The moment did not last. Reality returned to her thoughts.
“Asha.”
Ashallah sat up. To her right, the hazel-eyed stood, dressed in shades of rose red and maroon. Behind her, the other one still wore the hermit’s mask but had changed clothes to resemble a beggar, with trousers, a shirt and a cloak of patched burlap and rough wool.
Ashallah sprang to her feet. She shuffled back, almost stepping on the gray coals and embers of the fire.
“What is the matter?” the hazel-eyed one asked.
Ashallah grabbed a large rock from the fire ring. She cocked her arm, ready to throw it. “How do you know my name?” she demanded.
“The guards. At the arena. They recorded your name in their register.”
“You lie! You didn’t learn my name from them.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“No one calls me Asha. Only my . . .”
Ashallah’s voice trailed off. The hazel-eyed stared at her. To the untrained, her look would have appeared as one curious and naïve to such accusations. However, Ashallah saw differently. The edge of her eyes twinkled, with an air that one has when her true motivation is discovered not by chance but by design.
“I ventured to call you Asha,” the hazel-eyed began, “because I thought it was a common abbreviation. I did not know it carried such personal meaning for you. You have my apology, Ashallah, of the midnight warriors.”
She wants to continue this ruse, Ashallah thought. Before she was able to call her out once more, a shepherd heralded his approach. Others emerged from their tents and within moments, villagers surrounded the three, wanting to prepare breakfast.
“Are you hungry?” asked the hazel-eyed.
“No,” Ashallah lied.
“Then we should go.”
The hazel-eyed went up to the village women she had befriended to thank them for their hospitality. The women pleaded for her to stay, but she declined politely. Nonetheless, they insisted that she and her party take a sack of supplies for their journey, which the hazel-eyed accepted and handed to the masked one. After many farewells, Ashallah and her two traveling companions made their way from the village in the pre-dawn light.
“Where are we headed?” Ashallah finally ventured to ask, once she knew the village was far behind them.
The hazel-eyed stopped. “You tell us. We’re following you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“This game has gone on long enough.” Ashallah, who had stayed close to the masked one, unsheathed its curved karambits knife. She held the blade’s edge to its neck. “Tell me who you are and what you want from me.”
“Would you kill the one who saved you?” asked the hazel-eyed. “To spite us and find answers?”
“By the Five Doors of Hell, I will do it.”
“And with that same fire in your soul, will you seek out those who wronged you?”
“Yes.”
“Those who killed your family?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then my brother and I did well to rescue you.” She nodded to her kin. “Go ahead. Take it off.”
The figure removed his mask. Ashallah stepped away, seemingly not aware of her actions as she looked at the one who had saved her from the arena, and realized what he was.
Turquoise. He is one of them. Wait, they are siblings. They are both . . .
The reason for the mask was obvious: to hide his eyes, which glimmered with a shade of blue Ashallah had never seen. Even the finest sapphires paled in comparison.
The rest of his face was white, much like that of the northern islanders Ashallah would see in the brothels. With angular features, he appeared chiseled, especially his cheekbones and chin. His hair, blond and cut short, lacked the musk or odor she often encountered when around the men of Yasem. By any standard, the man before her was quite handsome, a fact that would have made Ashallah blush if she found his gender attractive.
“You could pass for a regular man,” Ashallah noted. “If not for your eyes.”
“And other things,” the hazel-eyed added. At that mention, her brother pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal turquoise-colored stripes against his otherwise white skin.
Ashallah studied the stripes on his skin, having never seen a turquoise up close. “Is he one of the Firstborne?” she asked. The thought of the first generation of children from the jinn tingled her senses and heightened her curiosity.
“No,” answered the hazel-eyed, politely. “He is several generations past the Firstborne.”
A diluted bloodline, then, Ashallah thought. Less powerful. Perhaps with only one or two special skills. “Does he speak?” Ashallah inquired.
“Like a poet,” answered her brother.
“Good. Then I can question both of you.”
“Yes, you are curious as to who we are,” said the brother.
“And why we saved you,” added his sister. “I am Darya. This is my brother, Rahim. We need your help.”
Ashallah awoke to find herself on the ground, the afternoon sun blazing above her. Rahim stepped before her, casting a shadow over her face. Darya followed his lead.
“What happened?” Ashallah asked as her head throbbed.
“She doesn’t remember,” Rahim said.
“The dreamscape is much to take in, especially all that I tried to show her,” Darya commented.
“She looks weak.”
“The skin that the villagers gave you. Wine or water?”
Rahim dug into the sack hanging from his neck. He withdrew a wineskin to taste its contents. He nodded.
“Water, thank Jaha.”
He handed it to Darya, who cradled Ashallah’s head in her hand as she offered some to her.
“I can do it myself,” Ashallah insisted. She took the skin from Darya but found her arms unusually heavy. When she tried to lift the opening to her mouth, they went slack.
Darya ripped the skin from her grasp. “Hold still,” she insisted as she held the end over Ashallah’s mouth. The coolness broke away to meet Ashallah’s lips, drop by drop.
“Better?” Darya asked.
Ashallah nodded.
“Good. On your feet then.”
Darya and Rahim assisted Ashallah as she rose. Ashallah found her legs as unsteady as her arms so that she leaned heavily on both of them for support. Her limbs were not sore or fatigued. Rather, it was as though there was just less of them, in terms of muscle and size. An unfamiliar feeling it was. Ashallah felt the need to question her new condition further. No sooner had she opened her mouth to speak, though, when she felt the tip of Darya’s finger on her lips, quieting her. In any other circumstance, she would have taken such an action as an affront. Not then, however, for reasons Ashallah could not explain. Not then.
“If she is to learn more,” Rahim began. “She will need to rest.”
“Yes,” Darya agreed. “But where?”
“The Canyonlands.”
“No!” Ashallah exclaimed.
“Why not?” Darya asked.
“The Canyonlands is the first place the Court will search. Where they will send their jinn. Their soldiers. The midnight warriors.”
“But they are so vast. We can hide,” insisted Rahim.
“They are not that vast,” Ashallah replied. “The Court. That vizier. He will scour every crevasse and inlet. I know it.”
“I fear she is right,” Darya added. “But if not there, then where?”
Ashallah pointed to the west. “There is a slight dip in the land. Over there.”
“I see it,” Rahim said.
“A dry riverbed. We go there, follow it south. It will take us to a gathering of, of . . .”
The ground beneath her shook. As did the sky. Or at least what Ashallah thought was the sky and ground. Her body quaked along with all of it as her mind flooded with thousands upon thousands of experiences and memories. Many not her own.
Ashallah parted her eyes. The sun had dimmed as the sky had tinted a soft orange. A breeze stirred her hair, as it did to the branches above.
The soft wind also danced with the flames of the nearby fire. Ashallah turned her head to find Rahim adding sticks to it.
“Good evening,” he said.
Ashallah felt a damp, cool cloth on her forehead. She looked up to find Darya’s hazel-eyes staring down at her and her niqab hanging limp. Ashallah thought she saw her lips through the veil, but she could not be sure.
“Will you stay with us this time?” Darya asked.
Ashallah nodded. Darya helped her to sit. Ashallah propped herself on one arm, finding it stronger than it had been earlier in the day.
She looked around to find herself and her companions under the shade of a lowland acacia tree. Several straddled either side of the dry riverbed, as did other scrubs and bushes.
“Truthfully,” Ashallah began. “What happened to me?”
“You asked who we are and why we saved you,” Darya began.
“I remember.”
“I took a chance,” Darya continued. “And I put my fingers to your temple like this.” Darya brushed the side of Ashallah’s face. Her touch was warm and comforting, like a soft woolskin. Not unlike her mother’s. “Then I tried to share with you my thoughts, my experiences. That you may know all about us, my brother and I. Although Rahim has some reservations, I want to allow you to see my mind, so that there are no secrets between us. So that you may trust us.
“The dreamscape, the memories, and stories we impart to others, are powerful. They require a great amount of energy.”
“I’ll say,” Rahim chimed. He nodded to Darya. “That never happened in your dreamscape sessions with me.”
“For some, the power manifests itself as motion.”
“Of earth and air, you mean.”
“At times.”
Ashallah turned to Rahim. “You felt that too?”
Rahim smirked. “We all did. I assume you most of all.”
“It felt like my head would burst open,” Ashallah admitted.
“I am sorry that we . . . that I tried to tell you as much as I did,” Darya confessed.
“Do you remember any of it?” Rahim asked of Ashallah.
Ashallah took a deep breath. Flashes of memories not her own flooded her mind. Of wars she had not fought. Of gold and jewels she did not own. Of palaces. Harems. Jinn. Turquoise. Along with the faces of thousands. Both men and women. Executed. Slain. All in the name of one.
So much for Ashallah to consider. But altogether, it made no sense.
The pained expression of not being able to put her thoughts into words must have been apparent to Darya. She put her hand on Ashallah’s shoulder. “Come. Eat,” she urged.
Ashallah made her way to the fire. There, on two skewers, Rahim was roasting hares. Fat dripped from their carcasses onto the fire to sizzle. “They are almost ready,” he said. He held out a strip of acacia bark, on top of which lied the dates and olives the villagers had given them. “Eat,” he offered.
Ashallah ate a few bites as Darya took a seat next to her.
“Better?” Darya asked.
“A little,” Ashallah replied. She felt so sheepish for being so weak. All her pride as a midnight warrior had faded, leaving her to wonder if it would ever return.
“Your recent experience of humility aside, do you feel you can talk now?”
How does she know that? “I will try.”
“Just focus on your first memory. The one you feel is not yours. We’ll begin there.”
“Very well. I see . . . The remnants of a battle. Vultures pick at the dead. The enemy, they loot and take the spoils of war. On a rise, women subdue a man. He is important, by the looks of his cloths. A general. Maybe royalty. The women around him . . . They are like midnight warriors. Without veils. Only it is day. Moreover, men look upon them. Not with disdain. With respect. And fear.” Ashallah turned to Darya. “This is not my memory.”
“No, it is not.”
“Then whose?”
“Inci. Leader of the Syniad. The last sultana.”
“A woman a sultan?”
“Do not look so surprised. You of all should know a woman can best a man at anything. Even in court or in battle.”
“Her memories . . . how did I . . .”
“We turquoise have gifts beyond killing. Thank Jaha,” Rahim interjected. “Our talents are inherited from our forefathers.”
“The jinn?” Ashallah assumed.
“Yes.”
“You know our kind, the turquoise, mostly as fighters,” Darya continued. “That is due to the Court of the Grand Sultan breeding women with those jinn who specialized in combat. However, a few of us continued the bloodline of jinn with other talents. Some were born with skills in painting or sculpture or music. Others were great builders. Or mathematicians.”
“Or tellers of fortune,” added Rahim. “And keepers of stories and histories. Such rare turquoise are recipients of memories from those that they - or their forefathers - had literally touched. Like my sister.”
“Touched?” Ashallah said. “So you can see another’s thoughts, experience a person’s emotions, their pain or joy . . . just by touching them?”
“I can,” Darya replied. “And not only in their present circumstances, but also their past and their future. That is my gift. And curse.”
“So . . . Those images, of fallen soldiers. What do they mean? And why show them to me?”
Rahim and Darya looked at each other before Rahim turned his attention to Ashallah. “Those images in your mind are from a battle two thousand years ago. Back then, Dyli was ruled by a dynasty in peril, in danger of losing their seat of power. The Sultan of the Dylians was a powerful man. The one named Kiyan.”
Ashallah recognized the name just as anyone in Dyli. From his mention during the calls to prayer. From the Scrolls of Jaha. The father of the tribe of the Grand Sultan.
“As you know from the teachings of your imams,” Rahim continued. “Kiyan gave his life for his son, Jalal. That he may live.”
“I remember the mention of him, that passage from the Scrolls. It was repeated to us day and night during my training with the midnight warriors.”
“In the version told to you and every other Dylian, Kiyan and his son Jalal, who would become the Grand Sultan, are said to have battled an army of enchantresses, who commanded legions of serpents sent to devour the tribes of men. Kiyan and Jalal rallied the bravest warriors among men to battle these serpents. At the battle’s climax, Kiyan threw himself before a striking cobra – just as it was about to lunge at Jalal – to take the venom and save his son. At that moment, Jaha parted the heavens and delivered his power unto Jalal. Against the odds, Jalal rose to defeat the serpents, breaking the threshold of power the enchantresses had established. He went on to unite the tribes of men on behalf of Jaha. In the process, he also became a learned man, a scribe who wrote down the testament of our god in the Scrolls of Jaha, so that the Court could impose the Law on all the land.
“The truth of Kiyan’s final battle, however, is what you saw in the dreamscape, the images my sister was able to impart upon you. There were no serpents or enchantresses. Only women skilled in the discipline of battle. Much like yourself.
“Kiyan’s half-sister, Inci, had grown tired of being a pawn for the interests of men. With the help of the viziers, Inci had raised Kiyan to power, hoping to gain favor with him. But when a plague claimed their father and Kiyan was exalted as sultan, one of his first official acts was to betroth Inci to a rival tribe to secure more sway for his court. Inci, feeling betrayed, killed her betrothed in a fit of rage before running off to the Canyonlands.
“That act was a blemish to Kiyan’s reputation. Murmurs and whispers as to his ability to control his court began to fester. Kiyan – with a stern hand – was able to subdue most of his critics. That is until Inci resurfaced as sultana of the Syniad. In exile, she had wed the eldest effendi of the Syniad’s sultan. Soon after, she was elevated as their leader when both men died under mysterious conditions. From the first day of her reign, she started building alliances and garnering resources for conquest. Many of Kiyan’s supporters were lured away by gifts and promises, ones Kiyan was unable to match. Inci’s power grew as Kiyan’s dwindled.
“In an act of desperation, Kiyan mustered the last of his court and military on an expedition that would decide the fate of his people. One of his viziers had advised of a race of beings so powerful that no army of men or women could stand against the one who controlled them. The jinn. Kiyan took all that he had and spent it on his quest to find them. Guides and seers were paid. Officials bribed. Supplies and feed stolen. Months of searching led to dead ends that flustered Kiyan and disappointed his advisors.
“Finally, a story from a blind beggar gave Kiyan hope. He made one last quest into the desert. By then, his enemies both at home and abroad had grown tired of his antics. Three tribes banded together to mount a campaign against him, led by Inci. A battle ensued, one in which the sultana emerged victoriously.
“I wager you saw the corpses. In addition to the image of a lone man, surrounded by female warriors, who chained him. That man was Jalal, after his father had lost the battle to Inci, just before he was led into slavery.”
“You mean to tell me that the Grand Sultan was a slave?” Ashallah said.
Rahim nodded. As did Darya. Ashallah stared back at the two of them and laughed.
“You expect me to believe that the most powerful man in Greater Dyli, the right hand and prophet of Jaha, was a slave?”
“Why is that so hard?” Darya retorted. “As a warrior, you must know that in order to lead you must serve.”
“But a slave?”
“Calm yourself, Asha. I know it is a grand tale. But never forget, we did free you. It is not in our nature to go to such lengths unless we were certain of all we believe.”
Ashallah quieted her disbelief. Suddenly, she felt sheepish, then perturbed.
“Fine. Say you are right, about the leader of our nation being a former slave. That still fails to explain what that has to do with you. Or me.”
Darya and Rahim looked at each other once more. Both looked like they were about to speak, until Darya raised her hand, motioning for quiet.
The three paused to listen. Before any spoke, Darya turned to the sand, writing a foreign script. Ashallah understood none of it, but Rahim’s eyes shifted as he read. He stood and ran north, retracing his steps. Darya rose as well, but to lead Ashallah in the opposite direction.
“What is it?” Ashallah whispered.
“Scouts.”154Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT03vdstXcC
