“Let go of me! I mean it!”
Her grip persisted.
“Hands off!”
Her fingers dug deeper.
“Stop it!”
She continued dragging the reluctant one forward.
“Ashallah!”
Orzala planted her feet in the middle of the street. She sunk to the ground, hoping that her sudden, dead weight would lessen her sister’s hold on her. Despite her resistance, Ashallah kept her hand clamped around Orzala’s arm.
“Get up, you spoiled brat! I said get up!” Ashallah commanded.
“No! You can’t make me.”
Ashallah probably would have laughed at any other time. At her sister’s insolence. At her childlike innocence. But not with the rising sun close at hand. Within minutes, the city’s men would emerge. The sentries would open Yasem’s gates. The guards would begin their morning patrol and the merchants would load their carts. The time of men was near.
“That’s it!”
With one swoop, Ashallah slung her sister over her shoulder. Orzala kicked and protested yet Ashallah continued the rest of the five blocks back to their flat, not dropping her once. Even though she wanted to do so.
Only when they reached the steps leading up to their flat did Ashallah set her down. “Go!” Ashallah insisted. “I’m not carrying your ungrateful hide up the stairs.”
“Ungrateful?” Orzala exclaimed, nearly beside herself. “Me? For what?”
Ashallah nearly came upon Orzala, forcing her sister to backpedal onto the stairs. “I saved you from that mob. That fire. That whole scene. Don’t you understand?”
“You pulled me from a crowd of onlookers, where I was standing at a safe distance. I wasn’t in harm’s way.”
“All because of a fire I started, to disperse the mob. To save you and the rest of those delusional women from those in black.”
“The Shadya are my sisters,” Orzala stated as she planted her feet firmly, midway up the stairs. “They fight for a voice amongst the viziers, the merchants . . . and the imams.”
“Is that so?” Ashallah jeered. “Those whores can command an audience with the holy men of the city?”
“Don’t call them whores!” Orzala pouted. “They’re nothing like the women you frequent.”
The quick air. The snap of skin against skin. The rush of blood to her hand. Ashallah’s slap was swift and powerful. Although her hand throbbed, she knew it hurt her sister much more than it pained her. However, Orzala did not raise a hand to her cheek as Ashallah thought she would. Nor did she cry, as her eyes remained free of tears. No glare followed nor an expression of contempt or malice. Just a blank stare from the brown eyes of innocence and idealism set in a cream-colored face.
Ashallah watched as her sister turned and proceeded up the steps. Her black hair swayed as she ascended. Ashallah had seen this sight so many other times before. From the back, Orzala looked just as she did when she was twelve. Now, there was something different about her. A distinction Ashallah knew but could not put into words. Perhaps her gait was different, she considered, for her steps had more purpose. Or maybe her shoulders, which seemed higher, or her back, which appeared straighter. Where is the young sister I knew? Ashallah asked herself. Where is the girl I have known? Who is this woman before me?
She wanted to ask these questions of her sister as she trailed her up the stairs. She longed to inquire about how she discovered the Shadya and ventured to her quarters. She desired to know what her sister was thinking.
Rather, Ashallah kept her mouth shut. She had always been direct with her sister. Along with her mother. As well as all others. Except when it came to the feelings within. The dark crevices of one’s soul. Emotions. That territory was so foreign to Ashallah. She thought better of questioning her sister about such matters. For it required a sensitivity she lacked, one she did not want.
Orzala kept ahead of Ashallah all the way up the stairs, down the hall and into their flat. Ashallah followed at a brisk pace, one that led her crashing into Orzala when she halted only a few steps beyond the doorway.
“Orzala!” Ashallah yelled as she knocked into her. “What in the Five Doors of . . .”
Ashallah caught the remainder of her words mid-sentence. In the receiving room, her mother sat on the ground, before a single oil lamp. Her makeup kit had spilled out onto the floor, with its various powders and creams strewed about. Around her were three women, each leaning against a different wall. Although the shutters of the flat were closed and the lamplight was faint, Ashallah knew the three that hid in the shadows. For they were her midnight warriors.
Badra, the shortest of the three, leaned on the wall directly across from the door. Her eyes, even in low light, dazzled. Like sapphires, they dazzled. Too bad the rest of her was not as comely, Ashallah thought. Her face was rather square, as were her shoulders. With her hair cropped short, one could mistake Badra for a man by her backside alone. She had the mannerisms of a man too, as she dug her teeth into an apple she had helped herself to from their pantry, chewing loudly. I am shocked I did not hear her from down the hall, Ashallah thought.
Thwayya, to her left, had more beauty than most. Or at least that would have been the case had the past three battles gone her way. She still bore the bruises on her right cheek and eye from their last battle. Accompanying that was a thick scar running from the left side of her jaw down her neck and to her collarbone, which had been shattered. That wound spoke of a hack from a broad blade that nearly took Thwayya’s life. Still, there she stood, having endured the battles of night thus far.
Off to Ashallah’s right, the third warrior cleared her throat. Ashallah did not bother to look to her side. For she knew who was there: Vega.
Vega sauntered over to Niyusha, her gaze fixed on Ashallah. “You’re late.”
“I didn’t realize that I had a curfew.”
“Not a curfew. A responsibility.”
Ashallah sighed a little. She knew where this conversation was going. “What are the orders?” she asked obligatorily.
“We march on the Tirkhan.”
Ashallah nearly scoffed. “The last time the jinni spotted the Tirkhan they were more than three hundred miles from here.”
“Not anymore,” Thwayya added. “The last flight of the jinni missed a band of Tirkhan in the Canyonlands.”
To that news, Ashallah raised a brow. Another mistake by one of the Grand Sultan’s trusted jinn, she thought. They are becoming more frequent. Their errors are carrying heavier consequences.
Vega reached for Niyusha’s hair to twirl a strand between her fingers. “Are we going to keep on jabbering? Or are we going to march?” Vega patted Niyusha on her head. Niyusha twitched a bit but dared not move much, for she saw that Vega’s other hand still rested on her sheathed dagger.
Ashallah stepped up to Vega to grab her hand. Vega drew her dagger as Ashallah took out her hidden blade.
Orzala screamed. Niyusha shot to her feet. “No!” she demanded and begged at once, a hand outstretched to each of them. Shocked, Ashallah stopped. As did Vega.
Ashallah studied Badra and Thwayya. Both watched their midnight sisters with anticipation, shock painted across their faces, neither not knowing how to act. Badra held her apple before her chin, unsure of whether to continue eating. Thwayya turned from Vega to Ashallah, not sure whom to support or trust. Neither had their hands on their blade hilts. Because in all truth, who could they strike?
Vega’s stare still held all the rage of a thousand fires. That was all the confirmation Ashallah needed. Tonight I command the army, she knew. The whole of Yasem’s midnight warriors.
Ashallah placed her small blade within the hidden sheath of her kameez. She grabbed the apple from Badra’s hand, not waiting for any of the three as she made her way to the door, knowing they would follow her and finally leave her family in peace. 181Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡymloZKQVxh
“We march,” she declared, as three sets of footsteps faintly echoed behind her.181Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡigsddqdxwR
