It was the hour of women. Ashallah’s body always knew the time when she was able to cast aside her niqab and stroll the streets of Yasem unfettered. Her face would tingle. Her arms and legs would itch. Her valley would moisten, wanting to feel the wet tip of another woman’s tongue.
All those longings returned to her. Yet she was not able to satisfy her needs. Nor was she able to put aside her desires in the name of her craft.
Instead, she was restricted to a cave, with Darya at her side. Waiting for a male to come to their rescue.
Darya had led them further south through the dry riverbed until it emptied into a floodplain. Surrounded by mountains on either side, she had elected to go east. They reached the base of a small range at sunset. By nightfall, Darya and Ashallah had come upon a small grotto.
That was hours before. The two had taken turns at watch, scanning the recess before them for any sign of movement, whether from Rahim or others. Thankfully, Ashallah’s vision had adjusted to the darkness. Every stone, ridge, and dip in the landscape was clear to her. Along with all movement. She caught sight of a herd of addax antelope, some twenty strong, along with the desert cheetah that was tracking them. There was also a lone fennec fox, several horned vipers and cobras, as well as more dung beetles than she could count. Though no men nor women, nor jinn nor turquoise. For all manner of beings that could hurt them, Ashallah saw none.
“How is your strength?”
Ashallah looked over her shoulder to find Darya staring at her.
“It is not yet your shift,” Ashallah replied as she turned back to continue her watch.
“That’s not the answer I was seeking.”
“I’m well enough. You need your rest too.”
“Come here.”
Instinctively, Ashallah raised her brow, at once thankful that her back was to Darya so she could not notice. She knew that Darya meant no flirtation, but the idea of such still excited Ashallah. She rose to stride over to Darya, who sat on a rock and beckoned her to sit.
“Let me look at you,” Darya said.
Ashallah complied as Darya studied her face. In the low light of the half-moon, Ashallah was able to study her eyes in return. Just her eyes. If only I could see under that veil, Ashallah wished.
Darya lifted her hand to Ashallah’s face as if to turn it. Ashallah nearly let her make contact before grabbing her hand suddenly.
“Are you . . .” Ashallah started. “What are your intentions?”
“Intentions?”
“Will you read my thoughts? Will I enter your dreamscape? Or fall into a deep sleep again?”
“No, I only meant to, to feel your forehead. For a fever.”
“Oh . . .”
“The dreamscape - now that your mind is sharp again - do you remember any more of it?”
Ashallah considered. She reflected on her newfound memory, one not truly her own, but that of another.
“Darya.”
“Yes?”
“That memory I have, of the day of the battle. You said that it belonged to Inci, a sultana.”
“That’s true. It is one of hers.”
“Why Inci? How is it that I, and you, can see her memories? How is it that you, or your forefathers, touched her?”
Darya rose, she sauntered to the mouth of the cave. Ashallah followed.
“Won’t you tell me?” Ashallah asked, feeling a bit dismissed.
“I will, but the story may run long, and we still need to keep watch.”
Darya sat cross-legged at the mouth of the cave as Ashallah joined her. Darya stared out into the night for a long while before she ventured to explain.
“To understand what happened to Inci, you must first know what happened to Jalal,” Darya said. “That is, what Inci did after forcing him into slavery.
“Back in those times, a royal captive could expect to be treated as a member of the court. The discord between Inci and Kiyan, though, sealed Jalal’s fate for the worse. His time as a slave was brutal and hard. For years, Jalal labored on Inci’s projects, helping to build monuments in her name. He split rocks in her quarries, carried stones up her ramps and chiseled her praises until his hands throbbed with pain. Every night, he would close his eyes, wishing for two outcomes: either never to wake again or to rise and wipe his feet on her grave.
“Then one day, chance gave Jalal the opportunity for the latter. A slave revolt in his camp allowed him to escape. Freed, Jalal entered the wide expanse of the Hal-e-la Desert, a sea of sand so vast and directionless no wise person dared to enter it. His tormenters, finding him absent from camp and having discovered the direction of his escape, expected nothing less than for him to bake and wither under Jaha’s scorching sun.
“But he still remembered the marks on the last maps his father had shown him, the spot of their intended destination. His father had Jalal commit those images to memory before burning the maps in their braziers, so that only he and his son may know where to go.
“Five years of hard labor had reduced Jalal’s once-proud body to sinew and bone. The desert trek would have killed another in any other season. Again, chance was on Jalal’s side. Rains broke a century-long drought, providing pools to nourish the effendi-turned-sultan. After weeks of marching, the son of Kiyan finally found the cave he had been longing to discover, the mark to the map in his mind. The home of the jinn.
“An opening no larger than a grain silo door led to a cavern deeper and taller than any ever known. Jalal entered it, expecting to find an abyss, only to encounter vaulted ceilings and pillars lit by pools that shimmered light from their surface. Veins of gold shone from the stone walls. And everywhere, in open tombs ringed by oil lamps that burned without end, laid the jinn.
“It is written in the Scrolls that the jinn were angels of Jaha, beings that once lived amongst people at the dawn of our time. The jinn, seeing that people soon won the favor of Jaha, became jealous and fearful. Wars between the two ensued, ones that nearly claimed all men and women. Jaha, in his wrath, subdued the jinn and made a covenant forever binding the jinn to the service of men and women. He relegated the remaining jinn to the cave Jalal ultimately discovered, that the one who found them would be able to use their powers for the benefit of mankind.
“Unfortunately for the people of Jalal’s time, their savior was a proud, ambitious man obsessed with vengeance. Having been taught Shaha, the original language of the jinn, as an effendi in his father’s court, Jalal was able to read the script carved into the tombs of the jinn. The script told of the history of the jinn, but more importantly, it gave direction on how to command them.
“Jalal read the script of every tomb, seventy-seven in all. Wanting to confirm their power, he raised them. He issued commands to have the jinn wreak havoc on the three nations that had dared to oppose his family’s position.
“Not all the jinn rose, however. Only forty-four. Jaha, wise in his folly to grant such power to men, had taught the other thirty-three jinn different dialects, languages that had branched off from the mother tongue, the Shaha. Though the written language was the same, the pronunciation was vastly different. Jalal’s reading of the tomb script caused those thirty-three to scatter.
“Though disappointed and enraged though he was at their disobedience, Jalal still had forty-four jinn at his command, making him more powerful than any other, man or woman. He decided to keep the other thirty-three entombed, that he may summon them when he had learned how to speak their dialects. So with the other jinn – the forty-four - he turned his sights to his enemies.
“From the cavern, the nearest adversary and the first to suffer their fate were the El Fayir. The jinn raided the Canyonlands, filling every cave and grotto with fire and heat so scorching that it burned those who could not escape down to their bones. The El Fayir people – the Sands and Winds - who did make it out of their enclaves alive fared little better. Jalal, with a cruel sense of irony, had the jinn use the very creations of Nature that the El Fayir worshipped against them. In a night and a day, the jinn stirred the desert winds to make a sandstorm so destructive it buried all the El Fayir people and their cities, wiping them from existence.
“Jalal then turned his jinn to the Shoahan, setting his sights on destroying their entire maritime heritage. First, his jinn poisoned the seas, so that the Shoahan were robbed of their bounty of food. Tainted fish washed ashore, seals and waterfowl left their coasts. Then, Jalal silenced the winds, preventing all seafaring vessels from visiting ports. With their lifelines to each other cut, the islands of the Shoahan soon suffered famine and disease. In his final act of punishment, Jalal then had the jinn burn the fleets of ships in the Shoahan harbors, that all their peoples may witness their source of livelihood be destroyed once and for all. Stranded on their islands without provisions or a means of escape, the Shoahan perished soon afterward.
“As torturous as those fates were, Jalal made sure that he saved his worst acts for the Syniad, where Inci had taken her seat of power. He turned first to the outlying forests of the Lowland Zajire, to the home of their famous cedars, the pride of the Syniad. There, the jinn choked the land of rain, to start a drought. Then, Jalal had them send the black waves. Plague after plague of beetles descended on their trees, rotting them from the core. Once the trees were with thirst and without strength, the jinn descended on them with thunder and lightning. Firestorms swelled the land so quickly many of the Syniad people did not escape.
“In their dire condition, the Syniad people of the outer regions fled to the cities at the center of the empire. Refugees poured in, straining resources and bringing with them disease and crime. Riots followed. Inci, the mighty sultana who only years earlier had celebrated victory on the battlefield, now saw her power and influence crumbling at her feet.
“But that demise was not enough to satisfy Jalal’s hunger for perverse retribution. He wanted the legacy of Inci’s actions to echo through the ages. Therefore, he created his own brand of law, a form of justice that he and he alone could influence. He rebuilt the capital city of his father’s dynasty at Rilah and proclaimed himself the Grand Sultan. He established his Court, whose expressed intention was to ensure that the Law of Jaha was enforced on all the land. Never mind that the true Law – as dictated by Jaha to Jalal – guaranteed life and respect to all genders. Jalal, with his scribes at hand, translated his interpretation of the Scrolls of Jaha, one that exalted men over women and robbed any woman of her own will or voice. Few questioned his translations. In truth, who could oppose him? Jalal had the jinn at his disposal and a slew of victories under his belt. His charisma swayed most men of power, and that was enough to secure his power for good.
“Under Jalal’s reign, the Syniad were soon subdued. With wagons and ships of grain, he won over the rest. Inci fled her palace, but not long after she found herself betrayed and caught. In chains in her own arena, Inci had to watch as Jalal rode in triumphantly, her people showering him with praise and rose petals. There, before his entourage and all the Syniad, Jalal issued this decree, one that rung through the ages, even to today: The sins of Inci, sultana of the Syniad, will never be truly forgotten. While her name will fade from the histories, her legacy will endure. No woman will ever attain her level of prestige again. All women will be subjugated before men. Their voices will be silenced.
“And so it has been since that decree. Jalal’s court, with all his viziers, has come and gone. Jalal, through the power of the jinn he discovered, has lived on, as has his divine word.”
Ashallah leaned against the wall of the cave, opposite of Darya. “With Inci, how is it that you came to know her thoughts. The dreamscape you speak of.”
“My father. He, well, he . . .” Darya’s voice trailed off as she looked at the ground. All the confidence she had possessed since their meeting suddenly faded, replaced by a façade of shame. Ashallah sensed her troubles but did not know how to comfort her. For there were no words to offer, to assuage her feelings.
Ashallah thought she would remain silent. Then without provocation or warning, Darya spoke again. “In the end, at the arena for all to see, Jalal directed seven of his jinn to execute Inci. With their bare hands. One of those seven . . . was my father.”
Darya’s eyes watered, becoming like emerald-colored pools beneath shimmering crystal. They flashed in the moonlight before she cupped her hand over the eye slit of her niqab veil. She sniffled and cried, her sobs echoing through the cavern.
Ashallah looked upon her. She felt a stirring within her, an unknown emotion. It was far different from the times she witnessed her midnight sistersin mourning or pain following a battle or the loss of a fellow soldier. The wound she witnessed was not fresh. It was a scar. One that would not heal. A pain from the past, one that would continue to hurt long after the night had passed.
Ashallah crossed the cave to sit next to Darya. She stared at her first, and then placed her had on her knee. Darya turned into Ashallah to dig her face into her shoulder. Startled, Ashallah remained frozen. Besides her sister and mother, no other woman had ever confided in her as Darya did just then. Her tears wetted the skin of her shoulder. Ashallah did not mind. She felt oddly comforted as well, somehow won over by Darya’s vulnerability.
She lifted Darya’s head from her shoulder. She gazed into her eyes. Bright green they were, they dazzled. Ashallah raised a hand to her veil, to tug at it.
Darya’s hand met hers. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“It is not right.”
“I am not a man. I can look upon you. It is acceptable.”
“What you, what we want, is not acceptable.”
“By whose authority? You said so yourself. The Law of Jaha is of men, not us.”
Ashallah pressed her lips against Darya’s niqab, to feel her underneath. Her breath, much like her scent, was sweet.
“But you don’t . . . understand,” Darya started.
“Tell me.”
“I am not even . . . Like you. I am like my brother. I am a turquoise.”
“And I am midnight,” Ashallah responded. “Like no one.”
Ashallah leaned in again but stopped when Darya stood. Ashallah was about to press her further when the steps of one on gravel caught her attention. She straightened but Darya rose her hand. Rahim, dappled with sweat, turned the corner into the cave.
“Brother!” Darya exclaimed. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine. But we must leave.”
“Questions later.”
Rahim took his sister by the hand to draw her from the cave. Ashallah, in haste, followed.
“What is the matter?” Darya asked.
“The scouts. They were closer than we thought. We need to hurry.”
“How long ago did they . . .”
“I spotted them north of the dry riverbed. A band of scouts trying to track us. I hurried back to our fire, and then ran east, making sure my tracks were easy to follow. I made it to a rocky slope, where I went north, to make them think that we had turned back. I then hid until they passed, before coming here. But then . . .”
Rahim glanced back at Ashallah. Ashallah caught his gaze in hers. His look was not to ensure that she was still following. It had a pained expression.
Rahim looked away.
“What?” Ashallah asked.
“Just keep up,” Rahim insisted.
“Something happened.”
“It is nothing.”
“After you thought you lost them. Something happened. You were off your guard.”
Rahim released his sister’s hand. He swung around to face Ashallah, his eyes ablaze like blue flames. “Are you deaf? I said stop!”
“Rahim!” Darya exclaimed.
Rahim stared at Ashallah. Ashallah, never one to be intimidated, stared back at him. Never mind that he was turquoise. In her mind, he was also a male and Ashallah refused to show any fear before one – turquoise, man or otherwise.
Then it dawned on Ashallah. Not necessarily due to Rahim’s behavior, but because of the hour.
“Only a chosen few could track you at this time of night. Either a janissary, which is unlikely as the nearest ones went off to protect the vizier. Perhaps one of my sisters-in-arms. A midnight warrior.”
Rahim remained stoic. He did not flinch.
“How many?”
“Asha . . .” Darya said.
“Do not call me that!” Ashallah fired back. She turned to Rahim again. “One?”
Rahim lowered his gaze.
“Two?”
Again, Rahim averted his eyes.
“Three? Four?”
Rahim looked up at her.
Four, Ashallah realized. He killed four of my midnight warriors.
Ashallah’s mind raced with the possibilities. He is skilled in combat. Superior to me in every fighting art and weapons mastery. The code of midnight demands I avenge my sisters. But he saved me. He needs me. For what? I still do not know.
Her thoughts were but an instant. They ceased, coming to a sudden end, with a touch upon her temple. Soft fingers they were, their caress everlasting. Ashallah, at once light-headed, turned to find Darya’s hazel eyes staring back at her. Followed by a curtain of darkness.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWaCl0pBJ5t
