Wisps of smoke danced with one another as they rose and faded. Three floated toward Ashallah, disbanding as they drew closer, leaving only the trace of their scent. No, Ashallah thought. Not scent. Scents can be pleasant at times. This is different. It is a stench. Yes, that is the word. Stench.
Ashallah peered through the haze to find the source of her disgust: her royal commander, Shaheen.
Linen shirt and trousers, soiled by days or even weeks of sweat and grime, laid in folds over his body as he reclined in his seat. Over that, Shaheen wore a breastplate and bracers of boiled leather, armor so worn and cracked that Ashallah doubted they afforded much protection. Just a show of force, she thought. For when he collects his bribes and visits his whores.
Although dusk had yet to settle into night, the two oil lamps on Shaheen’s table burned. The glow they cast on Shaheen, coupled with the soft light that still poured in from the windows behind him, made every one of his flaws stand out to Ashallah. His arms, which were at one time strong but now flabby, rested at his sides. His gut created a small hill from under the leather scales of his breastplate. His matted hair was coarse and greasy, as though it had not felt a comb in days. Worst of all was his teeth. Jagged monstrosities stained black and brown, the product of years of shisha tobacco.
A cloud of smoke wafted toward Ashallah. Shaheen blew another one toward her. Then another. His lips parted after every blow to reveal his crooked smile. At my expense no doubt, she told herself. He mocks me. He is having fun with this. Ashallah shifted her weight. Not out of discomfort from Shaheen’s stares, but to feel the dagger holster that hung from her shoulder. If I could only slit his throat . . .
With that, Shaheen cleared his. “You’ll excuse my long silence, I hope.” He coughed a bit. “You came early and caught me off guard.”
Here I thought that the royal commanders were always on guard, she wanted to say. Instead, she responded curtly. “My apologies.”
Shaheen pushed his chair away to stand and stretch. His small gut protruded from under his shirt and breastplate to reveal the small, black hairs on his belly. Ashallah fought the urge to turn away as Shaheen scratched his gut. “Your last assignment took a while.”
Because of you. “Intelligence had to be gathered. The target was not where we expected when we arrived. Nor did we know his true appearance.”
“Trivial details I accounted for when assigning the task. You still spent too long in the field.”
You miserable swine. “I saw the mission through the end.”
“Yes, you did. Thankfully, my superiors were not in any rush to see results. Otherwise, you and your fellow warriors would have suffered the wrath of the Court.”
Not before you suffered mine. “I see.”
Shaheen studied Ashallah up and down, the way she had seen other men do to concubines who sold themselves outside their brothels. Her stomach turned at the thought of what Shaheen wanted to do to her. “My next assignment. Has it been issued?”
“It has,” Shaheen replied.
“And you know it?” As if you know anything.
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me?” Before I open your gut.
Shaheen reached into the side pocket of his trousers. He pulled a small roll of parchment. “Read for yourself,” he said as he tossed the paper on the table before her.
Ashallah saw the seal of the Court of the Grand Sultan, which consisted of two crossed kilij swords over a date palm tree, pressed into velvet wax. The open parchment had split the seal in two, but it was still recognizable. Ashallah opened the rolled letter to find the directive.
She managed to scan a few words and understand its intent when a familiar emotion, a type of instinct, struck her. The thin hairs on her neck rose. She straightened. Her gaze sharpened. All this happened with the realization that something was not right.
Ashallah pulled a dagger from her holster. She swung around to find Shaheen approaching her from behind. Her blade, deft in her hand, found the soft flesh of his neck. The whole of her steel should have run red with his blood. His body should have slumped to the ground like so many countless other she had felled. Instead, Shaheen stood, holding his breath. Ashallah’s blade rested against his neck, impressed against his flesh, as close as a dagger could come without drawing blood.
Shaheen quivered with dread while Ashallah remained as stone. She fought back the urge to smirk, even when the thought of him wetting himself crossed her mind.
“You, you will pay for this . . .”
Ashallah rounded the tip of her dagger to the front of his neck. “Poor choice of words.”
“You know better,” Shaheen started again. “The Court will flay and hang you for killing a superior officer.”
“Superior? You think yourself better than me?”
“No. I mean, my status . . . I simply mean that I outrank you.”
“Yes, I know.” Ashallah pressed the tip of her dagger forward so that a drop of blood emerged. “Tell me: my sisters-in-arms, how many have you turned to whores with your lecherous deeds?”
“I, I . . .”
“Tell me?!”
“Five. I’ve had five.”
Ashallah considered. Five of her midnight warriors laid with this beast. Five women she fought with in battle. Five she drank with, conversed with and sharpened her knives alongside. Some may have even been those she slept with.
Am I that surprised? she asked herself. Not all midnight warriors were as choice as she was, fortunate enough to train from an early age. Some started their development later on in life, after having worked other professions. A few were even former concubines. Many had laid with men, both willingly and against their will.
Shaheen’s labored breathing on her hand broke her trance. She turned her full attention to his eyes. His beady, black eyes. She stared into them, her full hatred meeting his cowardice.
Ashallah pulled her dagger from his neck. Shaheen lowered his head and shoulders in relief as he sucked in the smoky air of his den.
She would have loved nothing more than to gut her commander. The sight of his corpse would have brought her immense satisfaction. She had had so many opportunities before. Such an action would have also had dire consequences. She would face arrest and the execution Shaheen had threatened. Even worse, her family would have suffered, first eviction, then begging followed by starvation.
Still, Ashallah could not forgive her commander for having five of her sisters.
She swung her dagger across his face. The tip found his right cheek, cutting a line straight through it. A thin one to be sure. A mark deep enough to scar.
Her commander cried out and grabbed his cheek, more out of shock than in pain. Only then did Ashallah allow herself the pleasure to smirk.
“Five is all you shall have. No more. Understand?”
Shaheen nodded.
She moved past him to the door, with the letter from the Court in her hand.
Ashallah returned home to find her mother and sister asleep. Dark had settled by then, and Ashallah knew only four hours remained until the night was theirs. She settled into her bed, content to only close her eyes and meditate. Her body, however, relented, subject to the toll of her recent travels. When she awakened the imam’s voice was once again reverberating through the walls of her home.
This time, though, Ashallah was content to hear his chant. For it was the last one of the day, the one that signaled only minutes before the midnight hour.
Ashallah rose and slipped out of her shirt and trousers. She threw them to the floor in a heap as she opened her trunk. She rummaged through her daytime clothes – bland and ordinary wear with little color – until she came across the orange, jade and yellow hues of her silks and finely spun wools. She settled on her kameez and snake duster, which she flung on as she left her room.
As she expected, her mother and sister were already gone. No doubt, they expected her to sleep through the night as she had just returned from an assignment. Little did they know that another one had been issued, that this was her last chance to enjoy Yasem before setting off once more.
For that, she was glad for their absence because she knew she would have to argue about her sudden departure all over once more. Ashallah tired of such conversation. They all occurred in the same manner with similar results. Niyusha would pace the room, throwing her hands in the air every minute or two, asking Jaha why her daughter chose the life she did. She would point to the fact that most midnight warriors retired from service after two or three years, while Ashallah was approaching her seventh. All the while, Orzala would stand aside with those big eyes of hers. She would not so much as glare in anger as she would look on with pity, which Ashallah hated. When their ommah would pause to catch her breath, Orzala would chime in to say that Ashallah had done her duty and it was time to move on with her life. Orzala would add other empty words of wisdom, such as “It is meant to be,” or “This is what Jaha wills.”
In such moments, Ashallah would humor them, perhaps listening to every other word. However, her heart never swayed. Her mind never changed. For she was who she was. A soldier of the dark. A midnight warrior.
Ashallah stepped lightly through the hall and down the stairs to the street to meet a few straggling women. Most still wore their long-flowing hijab head coverings and abaya dresses. Some even chose to keep on their niqab veils until they entered the safety and comfort of the main bazaar.
By comparison, Ashallah was nearly naked. Her kameez shirt hung loosely on her shoulders, with a deep V-neck cut that went down between her breasts, exposing her cleavage. Unlike the older women she passed on the road, she wore no shalwar trousers underneath. Exposed, her legs stretched to the fringe of her kameez, which barely managed to cover the top half of her thighs as she walked. As for the snake duster shawl, it was little more than a long but thin length of silk that draped her shoulders and the length of her back. Ashallah knew such clothing invited some stares as she approached the bazaar but she did not care. For once at the bazaar, the world would be open to her.
The sounds of the market greeted her first. The beats of drums and the melodies of flutes echoed through the alleys, as did the songs from performers. As Ashallah neared, the stringed accompaniment from lutes and the calling of female vendors followed. The cries from silversand canaries and violet howler monkeys pierced the air, as though the pets were doing the job of their sellers. Ashallah even caught the low growl of a leopard, from the Kalcahtic region she assumed, judging from the comments of onlookers of its spotted coat.
Then there were the smells. Dozens of aromas from curries and smoke from open barbeques filled her nostrils. By the time she turned the corner to come upon the main street of the bazaar, Ashallah was salivating. Not for the food nor the music. For the freedom, the glorious freedom, she tasted.
The main street was awash in color. Women and girls of all ages and ethnicities swarmed the bazaar. Their abaya robes and shalwar kameez clothing was an array of hues and tones, ranging from deep violets and indigos to jade and pink pastels to pale crème. Young and old wore a variety of makeup on the cheeks, lips, and brows. Gold and black lines curved around noses and eyes, with multi-colored patterns so elaborate it was hard to believe they would be washed clean before daybreak. Combs and hairpins were in abundance as well, showing off carvings adorned with feathers and beads. Indeed, it was truly a feast for the eyes.
Ashallah walked through the crowd, soaking in all of it. With the experience was the added relief of knowing there was no judgment of man here, no stale tradition to thwart any of their desires and passions. As had been the custom in Yasem for centuries, following the last call to prayer, the men had retreated to settle in for the night. That left the streets open for women to do what they pleased. Although the whole of Yasem was free to them, the women preferred to congregate in those areas where they resided. That included the south end of the main boulevard of Yasem, where widows and the unmarried tended to live. So come midnight, the first full hour of their nighttime freedom, the women of the city would arrange their stands and stages to sell and barter, laugh and mingle.
That was the way of Yasem. All accepted the staunch reality. That underlying truth, that liberty made the bazaar all the more exciting for Ashallah. She was equal parts thirsty for drink and hungry for food, curious to watch the dancers and jugglers and longing to her the percussions and stringed instrument of her sisters. Nevertheless, she passed by it all. She found her legs taking her to the northeast end of the bazaar, the section that held the one thing that could satisfy her strongest and most primal of desires.
Within moments, Ashallah was upon the torched-lined alleyway of brothels.
Concubines and whores draped the doorways, windows, and steps of the flats. All were dressed at least as provocatively as Ashallah. Many more so. While the shops and vendors of the main street presented spices, meats, fabrics and other wares to their potential customers, in this part of the city flesh was on display.
Legs and shoulder were bare, except for the hint of palm or olive oil they applied, which added a sheen by the light of the torches. Exposed hips and navels tempted Ashallah, along with breasts from those desperate for a customer. Accompanying the sights were the fragrances of perfumes and oils, pressed from lotus flowers or papyrus, and the seductive voices of women promising to fulfill every carnal fantasy.
The temptations were enough to slow Ashallah’s steps. Her eyes lingered from one woman to another. She spotted a Nasian woman leaning out a second-story window, with her arm across her bare chest, her ebony skin as inviting as her wide smile. Then there was the Yasemi female slouched against the wall, a voluptuous young woman with beige skin and soft legs that she caressed with her hands. Beyond her, two patrons haggled over a blond-haired, blue-eyed concubine with skin the tone of camel milk.
Many women vied for Ashallah’s attention, so much so that Ashallah became wet with desire. Tempted though she was, she continued onward, not bothering to stop until she came to a three-story flat with whitewashed walls and indigo silk banners.
She entered the flat through beaded curtains to find it awash in incense and perfume. Smoke from sticks of cedar and sage rose from various end tables throughout the receiving room. Jeweled goblets and stained glass cups laid throughout, many only half full as their owners turned to the concubines and harlots to further satisfy their thirsts. The patrons were women ranging in age from twenty to sixty, all eager to indulge in desires they could not acknowledge during the day. For their part, the women that enticed them appeared eager to serve them well. All the concubines were dressed in lavish silks and jewels, all delicate items that hung to their bodies by thin straps and cords. Ashallah knew from experience that any one of their pieces of clothing could be ripped off in a second, revealing the not-so-secret treasures underneath.
From this vision of hedonism emerged the madam of the brothel, Parivash. Ashallah had always believed the title of madam to be deceiving, for the woman who approached her was still shy of forty and had yet to show any wrinkle. It was said that in her younger years, Parivash had maintained the face of an adolescent girl, which made her a wanted commodity among her male and female patrons. Even as mature as she was, Parivash’s looks remained enticing, accented by the turquoise silk dress cut straight down the middle, with nothing but an ivory clasp to hold it together.
“My dear Ashallah,” Parivash purred. “How lovely you are this evening.”
Parivash slipped her hand into Ashallah’s. Her fingertips ran the length of her wrist. So smooth they were. Ashallah pursed her lips in anticipation.
“I am travel-worn,” Ashallah replied.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. However, you have come to the right place.” Parivash wrapped her arm around the small of her back. “Come. Relax. Enjoy yourself.”
Parivash guided Ashallah through the receiving room. Flesh, silk, and more flesh greeted her, heightening her desire. She nearly made it to the other side of the room, where a line of five girls rested on a long parlor sofa, when she paused.
“Is something the matter?” Parivash cooed.
“Mina. Where is she?”
“Ah, so you desire your favorite?”
“Is she free?”
“She was asleep last time I checked.”
“So early?”
“My sweet Ashallah. Have you forgotten where you are? This house never closes. Mina worked earlier today. She served many of Yasem’s finest.”
Ashallah cringed at the thought of the concubine she desired having worked during the day when only men frequented houses of pleasure.
Parivash noted her mix of disappointment and disgust. “I would be willing to offer you any of my other girls at a discount. A splendid price.”
Ashallah considered. At any other time, such an offer would have tempted her into action. Now it was too late. Her mood had soured. “Perhaps another time.”
She turned to leave. She only took a few steps when she felt the warm embrace on her shoulder as Parivash came up behind her. “Wait,” Parivash whispered in her ear. “Let me wake her.”
“You don’t have to . . .”
“I want you to stay.” Parivash slid her hands down Ashallah’s arms to her hips, then her thighs. “Just a moment.”
Parivash kissed the back of her neck before leaving for the staircase. Ashallah breathed, allowing the sweet aromas of the room to fill her, as she considered the treasure that awaited her upstairs. Her legs, and the valley between them, brimmed with moisture when only moments before the night air had cooled them. Ashallah, not wanting to be aroused further, stared into the flame of a nearby oil lamp to avoid the harlots around her. The yellow and orange tongue of fire swayed, throwing up a wisp of smoke every few seconds. The flame ignored the laughs of the patrons and the seductive words of their escorts, much more so than Ashallah. Still, Ashallah kept her focus on the flicker lest her desire drove her to a woman in the room instead of her prize upstairs.
Beyond the flicker, Ashallah glimpsed an oddity in a brothel: a veiled woman, dressed from head to toe in shades of dark and light blue. Not unlike a Shadya, but in patterns and tones that were altogether distinctive. With her back to her, Ashallah could see only the hijab that covered her head, and when she turned to the left or right, the veil that covered her face. Her skin on either side of her face was smooth, and Ashallah thought she caught the hint of green in her eyes, although due to the low light of the brothel she could not be sure.
“My sweet.”
Ashallah raised her head. On the stairs above, Parivash waved her forward.
“She waits,” Parivash offered.
Finally, Ashallah thought.
Ashallah did not want to seem too eager as she ascended. Although dressed in her kameez and shawl, she was still a midnight warrior, a truth transparent to the other patrons. Just as in other houses of pleasure, the concubines liked to talk, both to their customers and with others about their customers. While Ashallah never spoke of her work while in bed, her slender and muscular build gave her away. Even as she went up the stairs, she was conscious of her gait, which was more of a march than a casual walk. Years of training and battle could not be undone in a single night, no matter how much wine or how many women she enjoyed. Even more reason why I must keep up appearances, Ashallah told herself. Soldiers do not excite easily.
Parivash leaned in as Ashallah moved past. “Be gentle with her,” Parivash whispered in her ear. “She’s had a long day.” She pulled away from Ashallah, but not before her index finger stroked her navel. That moment of arousal was enough to give Ashallah pause on the stairs. Her hips turned slightly as she wanted to look after Parivash, to watch her backside as she glided down to the receiving room. Still, she was within view of the others. Desperation, Ashallah chastised herself. Best not to lose stature here. Not now.
Ashallah continued up the stairs to the hall. Rooms lined both sides with doors of palm wood awash in patterns of silver, maroon and jade green paint. She passed by the first set, behind which emanated gasps and moans. With no one around to see her, Ashallah allowed herself the pleasure of grinning. The same was true of the second set of doors, then the third. Not until she reached the fourth set did silence greet her from the door on the right. Therefore, Ashallah entered.
There was no aroma or incense to greet her as there had been below. The brisk air of night wafted through the open windows, along with the light of ten thousand stars and two crescent moons. Simple end tables stood at each corner of the room and sported oil lamps that burned red flames, casting a soft glow throughout. A washbasin and a bowl of fruit laid on the long table opposite the bed, which sported four bedposts and silk curtains the hue of pink seashells.
A breeze parted the curtains and drew Ashallah’s attention. She nearly made for the bed, expecting to find her concubine there. Instead, she paused. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mina slouched in a cushioned chair.
“My dear,” Mina said.
Ashallah looked over her right shoulder. “Parivash woke you, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
“I told her not to.”
Mina arched her back as she stretched. She wore only a white linen robe with navy blue trim. Ashallah admired how her breasts protruded from under the robe, shapely mounds that put her own to shame.
Her stare was hardly subtle. Mina giggled as rose from the chair. “You missed me.”
“I wanted to come sooner.”
“But you didn’t.” Mina sauntered over to her. “You left me alone with all my other patrons.”
That last comment vexed Ashallah. Moreover, Mina knew it. Just as with Parivash, Ashallah did not like considering that she had to share Mina with others. That jealousy became apparent on her fourth visit when another woman had barged in demanding to start her session early. For that insolence, Ashallah had broken her nose. Since then, Mina took a special satisfaction in knowing that she was Ashallah’s favorite.
Mina placed her hands on Ashallah’s shoulder and pecked her on the cheek. She is playing coy with me, Ashallah told herself as Mina’s doe eyes met hers.
“Did your travels turn out well?”
“I suppose.” Ashallah lied, knowing that Mina had no real interest in the work she did.
“Good.” Mina turned to the long table at the other side of the room. She approached the bowl of fruit to pick up a red pear. “I still have some pears left over from my last patron. I know how you like them . . .”
The temptation . . . The game . . . The waiting . . . was more than Ashallah could bear. She rushed to Mina’s backside. Her lips found the curve of Mina’s neck. She tasted her sweet flesh, nearly biting into it. Mina craned her neck upward. She gasped as Ashallah’s tongue swept over her skin.
The fragrance of the essence of honeysuckle, ever so slight from Mina, further stirred Ashallah’s passion. Her hands found the sash of the linen robe. She pulled it apart to feel Mina’s hips underneath. They swept upwards to her breasts. There they played the dance between caressing the luscious hills of flesh while removing what bit of robe still clung to Mina’s body.
Finally, the cloth collapsed to the floor. Ashallah opened her eyes for a moment. Before her, all of Mina’s glory laid bare. Her skin the tone of olive wood. Her black hair as lush and full as her body. The curves of her shoulders. Her hips. Her legs.
Ashallah let her shawl fall as she pulled her kameez over her head. She rammed her body against Mina’s. Mina gasped once more as she bent over. She braced the table as Ashallah ran her hands from her breasts down to her not-so-forbidden valley. There, her fingers found the fold, tender and moist. Mina moaned as Ashallah entered.
Mina kissed the small of her back. Ashallah leaned up on her elbows to look back at her.
“Was I too much for you?” Ashallah asked, knowing the answer she wanted to hear.
“A little,” Mina replied.
Good, Ashallah thought with a wry grin. That is close enough to a yes.
Mina continued to caress Ashallah’s back with her lips. “Your hands were more callous than usual,” Mina noted between kisses.
“You could tell?”
“They were inside me, weren’t they?”
“You know I work with my hands. I travel far. I have to hunt for food, make camp, start fires . . .”
“. . . end lives.”
Ashallah leaned on her elbow to find Mina gazing back at her. Her emerald eyes were all the more entrancing as the soft light of the oil lamps shone in them. Ashallah had spent so much time in the past using Mina for her pleasure she had scarcely taken the time to appreciate them. Doing so suddenly made Ashallah blush, a feeling she had not experienced since she was a young girl. Ashallah turned away from Mina, suddenly embarrassed.
“What is it?” Mina asked.
“Nothing.”
“What is what I said?” Mina slid over to place her chin on the curve of Ashallah’s hip. “You can tell me.”
“No.”
“I do love your hands.”
“No.”
“But I do.”
“You shouldn’t.” Ashallah rolled over to her back as Mina placed her head on her stomach. “You are right. They are rougher. And so am I.”
“It’s not your fault you work so much, so hard.”
Is it? Ashallah asked herself. She was not so certain anymore.
Mina stroked the tip of her finger around Ashallah’s breast. “What are you thinking?”
Ashallah opened her mouth to speak. However, she paused. She stared down into Mina’s eyes. Yes, jewels they were. Polished and clean. And innocent. So innocent.
She does not know how to understand the answer to her question, Ashallah realized. She is so chaste when it comes to the outside world. Yes, she pleases me, and other women. Even men. She has had her share of promiscuity and desire. Her suitors may talk and tell her things as they have their way with her. That alone does not make her an adult. Look at her. Such a child. With the face of lamb. She does not know . . . Nor could she imagine . . . The blood that has crusted on my hands. Or the hold of a blade. Or the screams of warriors . . . As the life drains from them.
Mina poked her breasts. “Tell me,” she urged Ashallah.
Ashallah stroked strands of hair from Mina’s forehead, half-tempted to give her the answer she asked for, when a cry from outside draws their attention. Mina rose to her knees to pull the sheet up to her chin.
“That cry!” she exclaimed. “How horrible!”
Ashallah sat up on her elbow. She cocked her head to the open window to listen.
“Do not worry,” Ashallah replied as one cry turned to a few more.
“But . . .”
“They are not sounds of danger. They are wailing.”
“Are you sure?”
“If you listen closely, you can hear muffled voices and weeping.”
Curious, Mina rose to stroll to the window. She dropped her sheet as she left the bed, allowing Ashallah the view of her young, soft backside. Ashallah’s valley started to moisten again as she watched Mina stand naked before the open window.
“You’re right,” Mina stated. “I can hear the crying now. It sounds like an old woman.”
“And many others.”
Mina reached for the shutters.
“Don’t,” Ashallah protested. She laid back on the bed and stretched. “I love the cool breeze.”
“But the cries . . .”
“. . . are going away. The mourners are being escorted. Probably to wash the body and wrap it in kafan sheets.”
Mina’s hands lingered on the shutters as she continued to hang her head and listen.
“What’s the matter?” Ashallah asked, only half-wanting to know the answer.
“It’s just so sad.”
Ashallah rested her head on her pillow and frowned. I did not come to this house of pleasure to listen to her feelings, she thought. She is a concubine. To please me. Yet she still talks.
Wanting to continue her evening, Ashallah asked the question she dreaded the answer to, the one she knew would lead to pitiable conversation. “Why?”
“The death. The mourning. All of it.”
Ashallah glanced at her own hands, wondering how many she had taken. “Death happens.”
“I’m not the child you think I am.”
Ashallah perked up. She leaned on her elbow to face Mina. Her harlot stood before the open window, her hands on her hips, suddenly looking perturbed.
“I know that people die, especially in these brothel quarters,” Mina continued. “But lately, it has been happening more often.”
Ashallah, growing more curious, rose from the bed to saunter over to Mina. “Go on.”
“My daytime suitors, the men, they have been talking. More women seek to defy them. Their shops are going unattended. Their meals unprepared. Their laundry unwashed.”
Ashallah tilted her head back and laughed. “A few marital problems amongst spoiled men. That is hardly new.”
“No, it is their workers - their female help - that are doing such things. And it is not just that. Some are withholding their offering from the sanctuary. Others refuse the call to prayer.”
Ashallah found the last statement most surprising, for any citizen of Yasem or Greater Dyli caught in the open not observing the call to prayer stood to face stern discipline. Punishment for such a crime ranged from banishment to public flogging – or in some cases – even death.
“These men who say such things . . .” Ashallah probed. “Do you believe them?”
“I know a few to exaggerate. But the rest, yes, I trust their words.”
“And your other suitors. The ones you serve at night. What do they have to say?”
Mina turned away from Ashallah. “I should not say.”
Although the night air was not yet chilled, Ashallah saw that she shivered. Ashallah placed her hands on Mina’s shoulders to find them smooth and comforting to touch. “You can tell me,” Ashallah said as she came up behind her. “You know you can.” She wrapped her arms around Mina in a supportive embrace, all the while kissing her neck.
Mina leaned back to allow Ashallah to cradle her. “All right.”
“The women. What do they say?”
“They talk much. Of how they will band together. First at night. In small groups. Wherever they can find others who lean towards their cause. Then they intend to grow, to gather themselves under the guidance of the Shadya . . .”
“The Shadya?”
Mina straightened and swung around to face Ashallah. “What?” Mina asked.
“The Shadya? Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“It’s just, well . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don’t know . . . I mean . . .”
Ashallah felt the overwhelming need to dress and leave. She wanted to search the streets. The alleys. The bazaar. The rooftops and flats. What is the matter with me? she asked herself. Orzala is fine. She must be. So why should I be concerned? This is not me. I do not worry. I do not become anxious. I do not.
Suddenly, Mina’s lips met her own. For once, Mina was forceful, her usual submission replaced by aggression. Her tongue found Ashallah’s as her hand swept around to the small of her back. Ashallah, not one for surprises, gave in to her desires. She closed her eyes as Mina pulled her closer.
When she withdrew her lips, Ashallah opened her eyes to meet the emeralds of Mina.
“What was that for?” Ashallah asked, astonished.
“You worry far too much,” Mina replied. “About your travels. Your work. Now, the Shadya.”
“I do?”
“Not aloud. Not when you are awake. But at night, during the past few months that you have visited, you have drifted off to sleep. That is when you murmur and speak. About your dreams.”
Ashallah stepped back and looked aside, avoiding Mina’s gaze. She could scarcely believe Mina’s words. Never had she considered herself the kind of woman to be unsettled, disturbed. Especially at night. She had no memory of the things Mina was telling her. Nevertheless, Mina was so certain, Ashallah told herself. Could it be true?
She knew she must have looked deep in thought, for Mina took her head in her hands.
“It’s fine,” Mina assured her. “Here, come back to bed.”
“I mustn’t.”
“Oh, but you should.” Mina, with Ashallah’s hands in her own, guided her back onto the sheets. Ashallah leaned her head back on the pillow as Mina laid next to her and ran her fingers down the length of her torso.
“There, there,” Mina cooed. “Rest, my sweet. Let me take care of you.”
Mina’s fingers caressed the dip of her navel before making their way down to her valley. Ashallah gasped as the skin of her wet crease parted. One fingertip led the way, followed by another. Unlike Ashallah, Mina made sure that her entrance was smooth and gentle.
Then Ashallah felt Mina’s fingers withdraw. She scarcely had time to lift her head and find the top of Mina’s when she felt her wetness meet her lover’s. Ashallah fell back into the pillow as she extended her hands down to guide Mina’s head between her legs. She felt Mina inside her once again, her tongue seemingly making its way through every wall and crevice of her valley. Ashallah gripped the sheets, her hands squeezing tighter with every moan she emitted. She finally cried out as she thrust her hips forward and her wetness flooded out, resulting in an ecstasy unmatched by any battle she had been in, any foe she had faced.198Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYxQqP68APc
