Rahim looked so young.
He stood shoulder to shoulder with others like him. Line upon line of turquoise. Many had the sapphire-colored eyes Rahim did. Only a few had his blonde hair or the blue-colored streaks across his chest. More had skin of blue hues throughout their bodies. Even more had dark features. Only those toward the front, where it seemed the most seasoned stood, had the grotesque features Ashallah had seen in the catacombs. Teeth like razors. Fingernails sharpened like blades. As well as scars all along their bodies, each a testament to either intense training sessions or past engagements.
Seven lines of eleven males stood at attention, their eyes forward, and their backs straight. Seventy-seven in all.
A horn sounded. Then from the shadows of the cliff before them, a call rang out. It was in an ancient tongue, one spoken in a firm tone.
The seventy-seven responded. In unison, they swung their arms and bent their knees. They all took on a defensive stance, before raising their rear legs and stepping forward to punch. A flurry of kicks and hand strikes followed. Along with blocking motions and stances. Back and forth they moved. Then side to side. Each movement was precise, the result of months of discipline. Every motion was in unison, reflecting not only practice but also a bond between them all.
Before the seventy-seven, on the precipice that overlooked their training yard, sat a jinni. Even seated he was nearly eye-level to those males and females around him. His skin was black, not like ash, but polished, as if a prized piece of ebony. Script –written calligraphy more beautiful than one could ever imagine – ran down the length of his arms, across his back and torso, even a few phrases on his cheeks. All the lettering glowed bright, a golden hue that was pleasing to study.
The majority of the crowd around the jinni was regal in appearance, dressed in fine silks and jewels, with each dignitary accompanied by a handful of janissaries. Had they been any others, they might have displayed approval or awe at the display of seventy-seven turquoise. However, as royalty, they carried an air of the superfluous, so that no sight or spectacle seemed worthy of their praise or admiration. Still, they looked on, watching the exercises of the turquoise with feigned interest.
None in the audience around the jinni was extraordinary. Except one. A girl, an adolescent. Unlike the other women and girls, her clothing was practical – a simple beige abaya dress, with a black niqab veil covering the lower part of her face. Only her eyes were noteworthy, as they were green, nearly glowing.
More importantly, the girl stood apart from the crowd not for her garb but for her proximity. She remained at the side of the jinni from the start of the fighting display. The jinni, for his part, sat unfazed, his face as much as stone as the lion statues that ringed the yard below. Though for all his cold-hearted presence, the girl seemed oddly at ease around him. She took turns watching the yard below and glancing at the jinni. Her eyes scanned the script on his arms, and with each of her gazes, the calligraphy on his body shone a little brighter.
The exercises ended, the finality marked by the bows of the seventy-seven to the jinni. The regal audience responded with polite applause and nods before dispersing, leaving the jinni and the adolescent beside him. Whether or not the performance pleased the jinni could not be ascertained, for he continued sitting, his gaze unflinching. It was not until the turquoise in the yard left that he finally rose, towering over the girl by his side by more than three lengths.
The girl craned her neck to look up at the creature, her green eyes wide and full of anticipation. Then, unexpectedly, she reached for his hand.
“Quasim,” the girl whispered.
Ashallah awoke to faint flute music. She sat up and made to rise, but her feet were without balance. As soon as they reached the floor, she fell.
Ashallah turned on her back. Her head spun, not from the fall, but from her sleep. A deep sleep, one she did not remember laying down to take. Then she recalled her last memory before her slumber.
“Darya,” she said aloud.
She lifted herself onto her elbow before reaching for the bed. She propped herself up to scan her surroundings. Aside from the bed, there was a chamber pot and an oil lamp on an end table. A lone window across from her opened to the exterior of another building. From the street below, music continued to stream into her room, the singular feature that told Ashallah that others were near.
Ashallah gripped the bedpost to rise. She stood for several minutes, shifting her weight from one foot to the next until she felt confident enough to move. With slight trepidation, she walked from her bed to the door, which opened to a narrow staircase.
By the time Ashallah made it downstairs, enough of her strength had returned so that she no longer felt the need for support. She stepped into the street to find a chill in the air, as well as the sights and sounds of a midnight bazaar.
Ashallah meandered past the street vendors and pedestrians of this unknown village, searching for some indication of where she was. All those she encountered spoke in tongues she was unfamiliar with and wore nomadic garb, suggesting they were visitors here themselves. In fact, aside from the building she had exited and a few she had passed, the whole town appeared to be a series of tents and pavilions. Their conditions ranged from dusty patches sewn together to grand palatial structures of finely spun clothe complete with awnings, braziers and other seemingly permanent accommodations.
Although no men walked the streets, the women Ashallah saw wore abaya dresses and many covered their hair. All were conservative in dress and nature, hardly her type. Nonetheless, Ashallah found herself desiring several of them, as days had passed since she had laid with a woman. She continued to weave her way through the narrow passageways of this tent village until finally more alluring attractions caught her attention. Women in loincloths, with shawls draped over their breasts. Painted eyelids and lips. Bejeweled ears. Oiled skin, that glistened in torchlight, appearing alluring and seductive. None of it went unnoticed by Ashallah. She desired it all.
Amidst this hedonistic display, Ashallah found the unexpected: Darya.
Dressed in her same niqab veil and abaya dress, Darya appeared out of place in the sea of flesh. Ashallah ducked under the canvas awning of a pleasure tent, before peering out to study her. Darya seemed not to have seen Ashallah.
Ashallah watched as Darya approached a few harlots. For a moment, a sense of jealousy welled in Ashallah, coupled with dread. Both feelings passed, however, when the harlots caressed Darya’s arms. Darya stared at their fingers, seeming annoyed rather than aroused, and then continued to talk to them. The harlots, taken aback, looked at each other before moving on to more promising pedestrians and potential clientele. Darya, undeterred, approached yet another set of harlots, then others.
She is questioning them, Ashallah realized, as Darya turned to scan the rows of tents. Darya peeked inside a select few, in search of something. Or someone.
As Darya continued down the street, Ashallah approached the two harlots she had turned away.
“What is your desire?” one of the women cooed.
“To know what that veiled woman asked you,” Ashallah replied.
“Oh, her. I think you will find her a difficult prospect.”
“We, on the other hand, are more cooperating,” said the other harlot as she brushed Ashallah’s forearm.
“If she didn’t desire your services, then what did she want?” Ashallah pressed.
“She was looking for one of our clients, I believe,” responded the first. “Her brother.”
Ashallah nodded, not waiting for them to say more before she went on after Darya. Rahim, a warrior, here? The thought puzzled her. Why? Does he have the same desires I do? Is he satisfied with visits to pleasure tents? He is a warrior, after all.
She pressed on through the lines of tents, searching for Darya’s abaya dress. She turned a corner, thinking that she had spotted her. Only when she looked, the hazel-eyed was not there. Ashallah then ducked into another tent. Incense and hookah smoke hit her nose instantly, as laughs and raucous conversation struck her ears. She scanned the hazy interior, finding a sea of hedonism, but no Darya.
“You!”
Ashallah swung around to find Rahim in a loincloth, bare-chested as he emerged from the arms of two harlots. Unsteady on his feet, he appeared inebriated though somehow remained focused on Ashallah. The turquoise strips across his torso seemed inflamed, not from disease but from rage.
“I have some words for you,” Rahim yelled.
Other patrons in the pleasure tent prodded him. Ashallah, having not forgotten their last conversation, was in no mood for antics. “Your sister is looking for you,” was all she said.
“Let her look. She’ll soon find me here, with you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“After what you did, can you blame me?”
“What I did? Do you forget yourself?”
“Not likely. I’m standing right here.”
That last comment elicited roars of laughter from the tent crowd. Embarrassed, Ashallah reached for Rahim’s arm. “We are leaving.”
“Are we now? We’re going to have some fun, aren’t we?”
“You’re not my type.”
“Why? Because I have a cock? Because if you were with me, you’d actually have to lie on your back and enjoy it? Tell me, what is it? Do you even know? Do you have a type? What about her?” Rahim pointed to a black-haired concubine. “Or her? That brown-eyed one? Or my sister? You desire her?”
“Enough!” Ashallah grabbed his bicep and held it hard, to make certain that he could not pull away. Although he tried. After two attempts, Rahim drew his curved knife. He held the edge to Ashallah’s throat.
“I’ll do it!” Rahim threatened.
“Go on,” Ashallah taunted him.
“Rahim!”
Rahim glanced to his side to find his sister, having just ducked beneath the tent flap. Others had gathered from outside too, so that the crowd within had grown. The additional people seemed to thicken the already hazy air, so that Ashallah felt as though fingers were closing in on her neck. She remained defiant, though, not wanting to show any discomfort or weakness before Rahim.
Rahim, for his part, seemed unconcerned with putting on airs and graces. Beads of sweat had collected to stream down his brow. In the presence of his sister, his eyes darted. He swallowed his breath. His drunken stupor continued to make him unsteady. These are not the actions of a soldier or warrior, Ashallah told herself. This is not who Rahim is. Darya was searching for him for a reason. Something is wrong.
Ashallah, in an uncharacteristic move, stepped away from Rahim. It was an action not of fear or pity. She did it not for Rahim. It was a concession for Darya.
Rahim studied Ashallah, staring into her eyes, suspecting that Ashallah’s motion was not one he should take lightly. He lowered his blade before looking over his shoulder at Darya.
“She is a mistake.” Rahim turned back to Ashallah. “You aren’t worth the sacrifice. We could have escaped, into the darkness, had you not been dead weight, a mere mortal.”
Rahim threw his curved knife past Ashallah. It struck the tent pole behind her. Ashallah grimaced. She leaned to step up to Rahim, but her eyes fell to Darya first.
Darya’s expression carried the same sense of sadness and hurt that Rahim did. It was subtle. Almost too much for anyone else to notice.
Ashallah relented.
Rahim, seeing that no one was moving as all were watching him, stormed out of the tent.
“Are you going after him?” Ashallah asked.
“In a minute,” Darya replied. “I’m just glad I found him for now, and that he is safe.”
Ashallah pulled his curved blade from the wood of the tent pole. “What troubles him? Or you? And do not respond by putting me to sleep. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
Darya’s eyes perked. She is smiling beneath that veil, Ashallah knew. The same way Ommah or Orzala would.
“Your questions and concerns are fair,” Darya said. “I was hoping that Rahim and I would be able to tell you together. It doesn’t appear that will happen, though.” Darya ushered Ashallah out of the pleasure tent. “Come.”
The two weaved their way through the narrow corridors of the tents until the rows of canvas and animal hides began to thin. Once the ranks of temporary shelter lessened, Darya led Ashallah towards a small rise outside the town. A goat herder’s path weaved up the hill, to a clearing of mountain grass.
“Will you join me?” Darya asked when they had found a patch of short grass.
Ashallah’s heart leaped before she realized Darya was only asking her to sit. “Yes,” was all that she replied.
Darya settled on the dew-covered blades. “Take a long look at all before you,” Darya said. “Tell me what you see. What it means to you.”
Ashallah stared down at the sea of tents. Flames – from torches, braziers, cook fires and rings – cast light on all of it. Hues of orange and yellow danced, as did the shadows. Deeper shades – the violets, blues, and greens of daylight – appeared so dark as to be mistaken for blacks or grays. Lighter tones blended well with the soft light though, creating a feast of colors present only at that moment, midnight. As if to shine in approval of the dance of light below, the stars shined brighter than Ashallah had ever seen them before.
“I see . . .” Ashallah began. “A city of nomads. A familiar sight of an unfamiliar place.”
“Yes, I would imagine you’ve never seen this city before. In fact, I know it.”
Ashallah felt a strong urge in her gut. More of a connection. To Darya. “When you touch me, and I can see your thoughts or those of your forefathers, you can see mine, can’t you? All of them?”
“I can.”
“You know my curiosities and questions, even before I do?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what I want to know now.”
Darya sighed. “We are on the northern fringes of the empire, where Greater Dyli stretches into the Barrens. This town before you is Yago, a seasonal one that rises after the rains have watered these parts and the wild grasses and grains have grown. The fertile period of this area is near its end. In a few weeks’ time, the nomads will move on until next year, leaving only a handful of permanent citizens who stay amongst the dust and sand, waiting for the days to pass.
“As to why we’re here, well, that will also explain why Rahim . . . why we are so stricken.” Darya paused a moment to compose herself, fighting back tears. “You know we are turquoise, sons and daughters of jinn. We are strong, with our own powers. However, in times of distress, we still find need of the jinn. Whether they be fathers, uncles, or other family. We rely on the few of them still in the good graces of Jaha.
“I speak of the thirty-three who were not bound by the first commands of Jalal. Those that escaped that cavern of lamps, who fled to the four corners of the earth. Despite their flight, Jalal – with the power of forty-four jinn to do his will – pursued them relentlessly. Many of the thirty-three were apprehended within a few years of their escape. More were subdued in the decades and centuries that followed. In our time, only a handful remained free. You met one of them on the battlefield, a jinni who the Tirkhan thought they had tamed. In truth, they had only enough knowledge of his script to keep him as their own for a little while. The rest of their directives, poorly translated, drove him back to the largest collection of his kind: what we know as the Royal Palace of Rilah. Now he, like nearly all the others, is a slave to the will of the Grand Sultan.”
Darya paused, as though forgetting her place. Ashallah studied her. Her eyes reflected a focus, a sense of intelligence she had never witnessed before. She had seen similar looks in the faces of the imams of Yasem, or while calligraphers wrote on their scrolls in the bazaars. However, Darya’s was something more. It was concentration. It was deep reflection. At its finest. By a woman.
Darya breathed deeply. “My brother,” she continued. “After he struck down those scouts in the desert – your fellow midnight warriors – others followed, despite our best attempts to evade them. They alerted more soldiers. The Court even sent some of their janissaries to lead the chase. Janissaries who had at their disposal turquoise. These were not just any turquoise, such as those in dungeons or at wayward fortresses. Those who could travel far. Those who could fight. Perhaps even some better skilled than my brother.
“With our capture imminent - and with you in a weakened state, in no position to fight nor run - my brother and I had no choice. We had to summon a jinni.”
Darya reached beneath her abaya dress. She withdrew a small horn that had been tucked in her waistband. It was stunning for its craftsmanship and beauty, despite being so small. Ashallah reached out to touch it, her fingers caressing the carved calligraphy. She knew not the language, but she imagined its elegance when spoken.
“It is antique cedar,” Darya said. “Passed down the generations to my brother from our father, to be used only when we are in danger. At one point in our history, blowing this horn would summon a dozen jinn to our aid.
“In our peril that night, we blew this horn and no one answered. The call gave away our position. My brother carried you over his shoulder as we hurried from our enemies. We retreated to a gathering of boulders, where Rahim set you down and blew the horn again. No answer.
“By then the sun had risen, and the armed men of Greater Dyli were upon us. Professional soldiers from your city of Yasem and others had tracked us. Several dozen of Greater Dyli’s fastest drew their weapons to engage. Rahim fought them off. However, more came. In his struggle, I finally took the horn and blew.
“The third call was our salvation. From the horizon, a jinni sped towards us. To mere men and women, his appearance would be as that of a dust storm, a commonality in the desert, nothing more. The children of jinn, however . . . We know better. True dust storms are harsh and brutal. However, jinn travel through the air over expanses and mountains, a whole unit of beauty consisting of smaller parts, like flocks of migrating birds or clouds of mists at sunrise. The desert sands were their birthplace. So it is as the sands that they uniformly travel.
“As he neared, I yelled out to him to take us to safety. The jinni, like all his brothers and sisters as well as myself, had the power of dreamscape. With my finger outstretched towards his, he touched the core of my mind, all my thoughts and fears. In an instant, he knew why I had blown the horn, the reason for my call of distress. In an act of mercy, he swooped in to take us three in his arms. We flew away, like three chicks being rescued by an eagle.
“Our savior intended to take as far as possible, to safety, beyond the reach of the Grand Sultan and the grasp of those in his service. Our flight was short, though. As we neared this place, the jinni’s power began to fade. I felt his strength vanish. He set us down just in time, because only seconds later . . . he disappeared in a flash of smoke and flame.
“The horn I blew, the tool of our salvation, was the jinni’s demise. The Grand Sultan has trained a select few of his turquoise stationed at his palace to hear the sounds of such ancient relics. Day and night, their only task is to listen for sounds near and far. They heard my horn blow on that fateful night. I know they did. I also know they alerted the Grand Sultan. Through the power of his subdued jinn – by their sorcery and magic - the Grand Sultan recalled our savior and our friend to punish his sedition. As we speak, the jinni that helped us is probably suffering, enduring torture beyond our imagination.”
On quivering lips, Darya’s pained words came to a stop. Having never been a sensitive soul, Ashallah still took note of her distress. And yet, though Ashallah knew the moment to be too fresh in Darya’s mind, her curiosity prompted her to lean in, to ask the question that was burning in her thoughts. “Darya,” Ashallah ventured. “That jinni . . . was he your father?”
“Sadly, no. Though like my father, he is no doubt suffering the same fate. You see, after years of doing the Grand Sultan’s bidding, some of the jinn began to resist his commands. They saw how he used their powers, not for the good of Jaha’s will, but for the benefit of his gain, sometimes through acts both selfish and evil. A few jinn were even bold enough to provide opposing counsel to the Sultan, in an effort to curb his greed and wants. When their efforts failed, they turned to their children – turquoise like my brother and I – to let us free so that we would not have to do the Sultan’s bidding as they did.
“When the Grand Sultan discovered the loss of his turquoise, he became furious. He bound those jinn who helped him and locked them in his vast dungeons, robbing them of their families until their loyalty to him was restored. In his zeal, the Grand Sultan also commissioned more turquoise to be bred. Jinn were paired with more and more concubines to give birth to a plethora of sons and daughters. Such efforts did not result in the transference of power that the Sultan had hoped. Unlike men and women, with each offspring, jinn pass along less and less of their power, thereby diluting their bloodline. Each generation of turquoise grows the Sultan’s army, but also pushes the boundaries of survival, a result of overbreeding. You saw the consequences of such in the catacombs. Less than desirable turquoise – those that do not show promise of being loyal or great assets to the Sultan’s cause – are given over to soldiers and the armies of men. Such discarded are mistreated, raised as dogs, for the purposes of men, not of Jaha. Then there are the Unmarked. Those who have some of the gifts of the turquoise, like superior strength or dreamscape, yet none of our limitations or those of our ancestors. They walk the earth, most not knowing their gifts, not bound to anyone, even the Sultan. They could walk right up to him and stab him in the back; such is their lack of restraint.”
Ashallah’s head began to throb. All these facts, and the dire consequences of them, were nearly too much for her. “Why tell me all this?” Ashallah asked.
Darya stared deeply into her eyes. “Because I believe you need to know all this. I believe you are ready.”
“Ready? For what?”
“To know why you are here,” Rahim said. Ashallah turned to find him on a small game trail that wrapped around the rise behind them. “To learn why we chose you. You have already learned about the origins of the Grand Sultan, as well as the story of my sister and me. Now you must discover your own hidden past. Who you are. Why we chose you.”
Ashallah’s skin tingled. Her breathing quickened. Her throat dried. Her heart raced in a way it had never done in battle. For perhaps the first time in her life, she felt a sense of anticipation and nervousness she had never experienced before.
Darya, sensing Ashallah’s change, put her hand on Ashallah’s shoulder.
“Are you prepared for more truth?” Darya asked.
Ashallah swallowed her breath. “Yes,” she replied, not certain if she meant it or not.
Darya’s hand moved down to Ashallah’s. “I know you are. Because you are brave. And strong. You are midnight.”190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlQTsLP2EFo
