Ashallah sat all alone.
Her legs dangled over the cliff edge. She looked down and saw darkness, where the caverns descended into some pit that had no end. The prospect of falling or losing balance would have terrified another. Not Ashallah. However, her absence of fear had nothing to do with her warrior training or her upbringing. It was not due to her courage, her indifference to pain or her discipline.
She was stunned.
Her mind was a fog that had no immediate prospect of clearing, a haze that knew no limits of time. When her deprivation of sense and consciousness began, she could not say, although she suspected that it occurred sometime during her last dreamscape.
The morning after Ashallah had awoken in Yago, Darya and Rahim made preparations for Ashallah’s next dreamscape session. Rahim disappeared during the day to fulfill his part. “He must make sure that the way is safe,” Ashallah remembered Darya telling her. Safe from what or from whom she did not elaborate. However, Ashallah felt she could trust her completely, an unusual emotion that had yet to give her comfort.
For their part, Darya and Ashallah were to go to the daytime bazaar. Darya insisted that they needed provisions, and that it was best to pay for them, lest they attract attention from the magistrates for petty theft. Payment for goods did not bother Ashallah. She did, however, protest the idea of wearing a niqab veil in a foreign city.
“What is the matter with wearing a veil here?” Darya had asked.
“It’s not right,” Ashallah had replied. She had made her peace with her life in Yasem, with all the rules and codes of conduct she had had to follow. But in her dealings abroad, Ashallah had always been a midnight warrior. Although the daylight code of veils was in full force throughout Greater Dyli, Ashallah had done most of her dealings at night, thus allowing her the freedom to roam nearly all other cities without the restrictive curtain she constantly seemed to wear in Yasem.
Her current protest went beyond the serenity that the cloak of night provided her. Ashallah’s brush with death in Yasem’s arena proved to be a catalyst. Before – although she was never enthused by the idea – Ashallah would bite her tongue and follow the commands of men. She would wear her veil during the day. She would bow when magistrates or men of higher standing in the city would pass. She would take her place in the back of public areas along with other women, while men enjoyed the spoils of life first. All because she had been trained as a soldier to follow orders, to do as she was told because she was told.
In Yago, Ashallah no longer felt compelled to follow the commands of men in any respect, even when she reminded herself that night would allow her to be her own woman or that she was wanted for crimes against the Grand Sultan. She told herself that a veil would afford her the anonymity she needed to evade capture. Only now, she did not care. The very thought of concealing her face, her identity, any part of what made her Ashallah, made her nauseous.
Let them take me, she told herself. Chain me. Slay me. So long as I can be all of myself. A woman of midnight. Ashallah.
Ashallah did her best to explain her wants and needs for unconditional exposure to Darya. However, words and wisdom were never her strong points, so that for every argument Ashallah started, Darya ended it.
“Our journey is not yet complete. You will see soon. There will be many times when we will be in the presence of men, possibly during the day,” Darya explained.
“I still do not know what you want of me,” Ashallah retorted. “Until that time comes, I refuse to be another woman parading around like a pawn of men.”
Darya opened her mouth to reply. With a sudden change of heart, she shut it in frustration. She paced around the room they had rented for the next few days, the same one Ashallah had awoken in the day before. “So what are you going to do?” Darya finally said as she threw her arms in the air. “Stay here?”
“I suppose so,” Ashallah replied. Admittedly, the idea seemed childish. She wanted nothing more than to go out and prove to the world that the ideals of men no longer applied to her, even if such an action invited lashes or a public stoning. Yet such a play would have also brought about punishment for Darya or even Rahim for consorting with her. With no other move, Ashallah found herself stagnant.
Darya scanned Ashallah’s face. Her hazel eyes were ablaze. Ashallah had never seen them so alive. “I will be back shortly,” was all she said as she stormed out of the room.
Left alone again, Ashallah stood listening to the background noise of Yago outside. Men voices filtered in from the slits of the shuttered window and through the walls. A small group laughed. Others conversed indiscernibly. A few shouted over the price of goods. Ashallah found interest in none of it. I made the right choice staying inside, she told herself.
Minutes that seemed like hours passed. Ashallah paced the room. She glanced at the bed, but thought better of sitting on it. Thanks to Darya’s touch and subsequent dreamscapes, Ashallah felt she had slept enough. Besides, the day was young. Moreover, the sun seemed strong in Yago, even with the city being so far to the north. Ashallah glanced through the slits of the shutters to see the daylight shine so brightly. Midday, she concluded. Perhaps a day so bright one cannot even look to the sky.
Then the idea occurred to Ashallah.
She opened her shuttered window. Sunlight and noise burst into the room. She chanced and peeked her head out the window.
Rays so dry and strong warmed the top of her head, as though baking her dark brown hair. Ashallah looked down from her second-story window to find the tops of other heads, with not one of them tilting up to look at her. All of the pedestrians were too consumed with snaking through the narrow corridors and short paths to take the time to stare up at the baking sun.
Ashallah climbed onto her windowsill. She reached up to find the lip of a ledge. She lifted herself up and onto the flat roof, where clothesline dangled damp garb that fluttered in the light wind. Ashallah ducked behind drying dresses and shirts in search of others, but no one was there. The roof was hers for the moment.
The rooftop Ashallah stood on was not unlike those of Yasem except that it was not in proximity to others. Yago’s buildings were sparse and far from one another. Wherever there was room, tents, and pavilions crammed in between freestanding structures. The lack of neighboring roofs meant that Ashallah was stranded on her lone, flat island. Such an absence made for a welcome advantage, for as one of the few permanent structures, Ashallah’s rooftop view allowed her to take in the bulk of the tent city.
In daylight, the tents of Yago were as a tapestry of a thousand patches, with each telling a different story. The finer pavilions were a dazzling array of colors. Every one of them vied to be the most luxurious, with those of the richest families being awash in gold and violet, reflecting the most expensive dyes in the empire. Along with their almost careless overuse of rich cloth, the richest of Yago flaunted their wealth in their patterns and lacework, which hung over doors, on banners and tent pole flags. The lesser tribes and clans made their own show of richness, for while they could not afford feet or yards of gold and violet cloth, they did display tassels, borders and flaps of those colors on their mid-sized pavilions. Such accents accompanied rich blues, reds, and greens of various tribes and families, who boasted flags that spoke of seafaring trade, warrior traditions and the mining of metals and jewels. Still lesser families and tribes populated the sea of tents, making their own proud display in needlework. Most sewed patches of varying colors into scenes and reliefs that told stories of distant lands, celebrated marriages and trades passed down from generation to generation. Ashallah spotted tents belonging to shepherds, blacksmiths, farmers, carpenters, and tailors to name a few, each with tents that supported their life stories. So many families and tribes, Ashallah thought. A wealth of history. In cloth.
In looking at the town, Ashallah realized that very few of its inhabitants were warriors or soldiers. Those tents that did display any such heritage in fabric appeared to house retired veterans or small bands of mercenaries, neither of which caused concern to Ashallah. Such a lack of force in a town so large seemed odd to Ashallah until she realized that that was probably the very reason Rahim and Darya chose this location.
“Jaaaaaahaaaaaa! Hear us!”
Ashallah closed her eyes in frustration as the imam chanted over and again. Even here, they observe the call to prayer, she told herself.
Ashallah opened her eyes. She saw the crowds amongst the tents disperse. Many headed to the large white pavilions that bore the sun and seven stars, the symbol of the House of Jaha. Those that did not file into the temples to pray collected outside their tents on prayer mats to face
Rilah. Within moments, all were on their knees, bowing their heads and chanting. Even the women.
“Why do you not pray?”
Ashallah turned to find Darya behind a clothesline, a single sheet between them flapping in the breeze. In her hand, she held her sack, which now bulged with goods. How long she had been there, staring, Ashallah could not say.
“What?” Ashallah asked.
“Why don’t you pray?” Darya repeated. “I understand that Yasem is full of the devout. Even the Shadya, for all their insolent beliefs, stop at midday to pray alongside men.”
“I am neither a man nor Shadya, so I don’t know why you would have any expectation of me to pray.”
“Do you not believe in Jaha, the Creator of All, Master of Heaven and Earth?”
Ashallah chuckled. “Keep speaking like that, and soon you’ll sound like an imam yourself.”
“What would be the matter with that?”
Ashallah gave Darya a queer look. She is as innocent as Orzala. Either that or she is dense.
“You sound ignorant of the Scrolls of Jaha, and the codes of His House. You mustn’t presume to challenge things you know little about.”
Then Ashallah spotted a tinge, a quality foreign to Darya, and an emotion she never expected: anger.
“You are the one who presumes too much,” Darya replied curtly. “I am well-versed in the Scrolls of Jaha, and the codes of how to worship in His temples. ‘From days on end, on mountains high, I will speak praises of Him, I will declare His glory.’”
“You can quote the Scrolls. Good. Then tell me, how is it you can pray to a temple, bow down when an imam tells you, all in the name of a religion and a state that would sooner see you hang than let you speak out against a man?”
Darya raised a brow, but her stare remained on Ashallah. Her eyes failed to blink. “My beliefs in Jaha have never relied on men. Ever. Their sins are their own. I believe in the Master and the Glory because my beliefs are of sound mind and body. Perhaps, in my youth, some forced them upon me. Now I am a woman capable of choice. And I chose to believe.”
“A bold statement,” Ashallah reflected, a bit impressed. “Some of the men down there would say it is too bold. If ever you were to make such a statement before them, you would be stoned to death.”
“I don’t fear them.” Darya strolled to the edge of the roof to watch those below bow and pray. “I don’t even hate them. Such men have my pity.”
“Pity?”
“Yes. Pity. The masses are, shall we say, weak-minded. Like a herd led to slaughter. They are not like you. Or me. So many have been told since birth what to believe. They do not even know why they believe what they do. Just that they should.
“But for all their faults, men do possess the ability to change, to embrace a better way of life. Men even possess the ability to treat women as equals.”
Ashallah gripped her torso as she leaned over and laughed. “I think you’ve spent too much time in that dreamscape of yours.”
“I beg to differ.” Rahim said as he ascended the stairs behind Darya. “Not all of us with a cock between our legs envy those who can bear children.” He turned to Darya. “We’re ready.”
Ashallah looked to Rahim, then Darya. Darya met her look. “We have a way to travel. It would be best if we left now. Without drawing attention to ourselves.”
Ashallah lifted her chin, raising her head higher. “I know you intend to show me more truths. I want you to know my resolve remains. I refuse to dress as a submissive woman.”
Darya frowned. This time, Ashallah noted there was a sense of acceptance in her eyes, even if they retained some frustration.
“Rahim . . .” Darya started.
“I don’t need your gift of dreamscape to know what you’re going to say next.” At that, Rahim removed his shirt, revealing the turquoise stripes across his chest. He tossed it to Ashallah and then reached for the drawstring of his trousers.
“What are you doing?” Ashallah asked.
“If you refuse to dress in a niqab or a burqa or an abaya, then we have no choice than to dress you like a man.”
“Then what will you wear?”
Rahim looked to Darya, who reached into her sack to remove the hermit’s mask. She tossed it to Rahim, followed by her sack, before facing Ashallah. “You are not the only one who knows what it’s like to hide oneself.”
In the hour that followed, Ashallah wove between the tents of Yago, trailing behind Darya and Rahim. They had eventually convinced her to sport a man’s scarf across her face. Ridiculous, she thought, for few men would do so unless a sandstorm were approaching. Nonetheless, Ashallah obliged, with her scarf drawing little attention to herself or their group.
It was not until she spotted the same tent of a camel trader - with its distinct green tassels and banners embroidered with images of white camels - that she stopped.
“We’ve been here before,” she said.
“Yes, Rahim.” Darya said. “I thought you said you knew the way.”
“I do. I did.” Rahim snapped. “It’s that damn scribe. He changes the location of his tent at random, to avoid being targeted. His paranoia will be his downfall.”
“It’ll be ours as well. No one expects a hermit in a mask to be among people for long. Let alone a turquoise. And yet I sense our presence is being noticed. I can feel it.”
So could Ashallah. Perhaps it was her unfamiliarity with Yago, or her powers of observation from years of warrior training, that made her suspicious. No one in particular stuck out in her mind. Still, she could feel her sense of urgency growing.
“Wait!” Rahim exclaimed.
“You found him?” Darya asked.
“No.”
“Then why did you say something?”
“That papyrus trader over there. No scribe would stray far from one. He must be close.”
Although not much further by comparison, the one they sought was hardly close. Another twenty minutes passed before Rahim recognized the banner outside a tent in the northern part of the town. It bore a number of written languages, including Dylian, to read:
Enter those in need of the wisdom of words.
Ashallah scoffed. She thought little of the learned. Some of the midnight warriors of Yasem were women from noble families, who had taught their kin the art of literature. Such academics in her ranks were often the last to join in fighting and the first to die in the field of battle. She had little hope that a man of learning would be able to help their cause. Nonetheless, she ventured into the tent after Darya and Rahim.
The scribe’s pavilion was much more accommodating than the exterior would lead one to imagine. Tent poles supported each of the pavilion’s seven points and held oil lamps that cast a soft glow throughout. Thick rugs lined every inch of the floor, with padded chairs and pillows spread out at intervals. Even more impressive were the piles of scrolls which lined the better part of the canvas wall, numbering several hundred. Rahim removed his mask as Ashallah pulled off her scarf so that the two of them could take in the scent of aged paper.
“You expect us to believe that this tent was moved?” Ashallah asked.
“Well, perhaps,” Rahim replied apprehensively. “I mean, it could be done.”
“Yes, in days. Not hours.”
Rahim’s mouth curled into a wry grin. Darya laughed.
“Just a second,” said a man.
A moment later, from a hidden tent flap, an elderly man appeared. Immaculately trimmed in every way, he had an air of a nobleman rather than a scribe. His green kufi hat, velvet robe, and soft-leather shoes were all spotless, as though purchased that day. His beard was neat and his skin had a light application of oil, helping to give him the look of a man much younger than his gray hair suggested.
The man paused upon seeing Rahim. “You made your way back. With your companions.”
“I apologize for the delay. I lost my way.”
“No need for apologies. The way to my pavilion is difficult for a reason. Although I cannot move my pavilion often, my neighbors have more freedom to do so. I make sure they are well-compensated to move their tents so as to throw off those who may want to find me for less than scrupulous reasons.”
“It makes for a poor way to stay in business,” Ashallah added.
The scribe looked at her, seemingly impressed. “Yes, it would. If I was only a scribe relying on the work of those of Yago.” He extended his hand to the tea table off to the side. “May I offer any of you some tea?”
“For my brother and I, yes.” Darya answered. “We need its spices to stay awake. But for her, no.”
“I will take a drink,” Ashallah countered.
“No, you won’t. You must drink only water with your meal.” Darya nodded to the scribe, who bowed his head and knelt beside his tea table. From underneath, he produced a plate topped with a knife. Darya set it on a large, flat pillow. From her bulging sack, she produced a loaf of black bread, a few strips of salted camel meat, a wheel of aged cheese and a handful of olives.
“Sit and eat,” she insisted.
Ashallah obliged, however, her eyes never left the scribe. He continued looking after her, as did Rahim, as the two sipped their tea.
Ashallah reduced the plate of food to crumbs. Believing she had finished, she made to rise. Darya ushered her to remain seated as she produced two meat pies, a small clay tray of hummus, pickled carrots and candied dates. Ashallah consumed those as well.
“Satisfied?” Darya asked.
“Very,” Ashallah responded. “I’m even a bit uncomfortable.”
“Good. You can pause then. When you have a bit more room in you, let me know so you can eat again.”
“I suspect the food is for my energy later,” Ashallah guessed. “So when will you tell me why I am here? With him?” she asked as she nodded to the scribe.
“He will show us the way to Yago’s catacombs. There, a few tunnels lead to caverns, a vast expanse that provides the town’s water . . . and the necessary spring for your next dreamscape.”
Ashallah emitted a sound something like a moan and a sigh. “Oh, please, not that again.”
“It will not be like before,” Darya promised. “Your first dreamscape was a shock. Your second, admittedly, was too sudden. For that, I hold myself responsible and I am sorry. That is why we are doing all this preparation, to ensure that your third session will be different. It will require much from you, yes, and you will find your body and mind tested. However, when it is over, you will come away from it stronger and wiser, so much more than you could ever imagine.”
“My sister knows what she speaks,” Rahim added. “The first two sessions readied your spirit for what is to come.”
Ashallah knew not what to say. As a warrior, she feared no pain or opponent. The prospect of dismemberment or death had become a constant for her. The dreamscape sessions were an entirely matter altogether though. They altered her sense of reality, complete jarring her memories by infusing others. With such new thoughts from various minds came all their emotions, ranging from bliss to hope to fear to sorrow. The latter were foreign to Ashallah. Although not afraid of the prospect of dreamscape per se, she was wary of the effects another session would have on her.
If the moment of silence betrayed Ashallah’s otherwise stoic demeanor, Rahim and the scribe did not perceive it. Darya, however, brushed the top of Ashallah’s hand ever so slightly. She offered no words. Just a moment – a sympathetic look – from those hazel eyes of hers.
The routine chant of the imam raised all their eyes. The scribe looked to Darya.
“The men and women of Yago will be at prayer within moments,” the scribe said as he readied a pack with quills, inkwells, and rolls of camel skins. “I can expect no visitors. Now is the best possible time.”
Darya stood. She and Rahim stepped to the edge of the pavilion, ushering Ashallah to join them. Ashallah did so as the scribe approached the rear of the tent, disappearing momentarily as he stepped behind a shelf of scrolls. From there, a set of hinges creaked. The scribe peeked his head from behind the shelf, waving. Rahim stepped forward first, followed by Darya then Ashallah.
A two-by-two foot door laid propped open on the floor. One at a time, the four descended into a pitch-black room. Instantaneously, Ashallah’s senses heightened. She felt the puddles and clay beneath her feet. She heard the way her companions’ breathing echoed off the walls, which tipped her that they were of limestone. Her sense of smell and taste alerted her that the underground path she was to travel led to a wellspring, the very lifeblood of Yago.
“Do you need a torch?” asked the scribe.
“No,” Darya answered. “Just lead the way. We will follow.”
The path led through stone-lined walls before the echoes changed. Ashallah smelled a change in the air too and knew that the catacombs were near. By the time they reached walls stacked high with bones, they had waded knee-deep into brackish water. Their journey through the underground caverns of the dead ceased with them waist-deep and shivering. Ashallah could hear the chattering of Darya’s teeth, but neither she nor Rahim nor the scribe made any complaint. They pressed on, so Ashallah followed.
The water they traversed became cooler still. The echoes of their breathing grew faint as the heights above them rose. Soon Ashallah felt steps beneath her feet, lifting her and her companions from the cold. Then she felt land and heat. The air is dry, she realized. We are moving away from the water source. Toward what?
Her eyes had adjusted completely. In the darkness, she saw all. The scribe, although sure-footed, appeared to be moving by memory of a trail he had taken hundreds of time before. Darya moved with confidence as well, inspired by some gift still foreign to Ashallah. Rahim, for his warrior prowess, groped at the darkness with one hand as he held a sash connected to his sister with the other.
Their journey through the underground continued until they came upon an anomaly in their darkness: a single shaft of light. Like a razor of the sun cutting through the black, it shone as a singular white stroke. The scribe paused, his hand extended toward them to stop their progress.
“Is she ready?” he asked.
Through the darkness, Ashallah felt Darya’s hand in her own. She looked down to find Darya cradling her fingers, the way a mother does when about to coax a child.
“She is,” Darya replied.
“I am,” Ashallah added, not knowing whether she spoke the truth or not.
“I will stand by,” the scribe said as he unfurled his pack and began to remove his tools.
“As will I,” said Rahim. “In case you need me, sister.”
“Thank you,” Darya replied. “But Asha and I will be fine.”
With that, their dreamscape began.
All erupted into a blur for Ashallah. Darya reached out to her. Hand in hand, the two strode to the shaft of light, their steps abating as they drew near. Darya, caution spiking, held back. Ashallah, noting her apprehension, offered a firm and comforting squeeze of her hand.
The two of them stopped only feet from the light. Ashallah had never seen such a spectacle before. It reminded her of the tales her ommah would tell of Rilah, of its many palaces of polished limestone that glistened like walls of white diamonds in the sun. Such was the light before her, a venerable glowing column, a ray from the heavens.
Darya dropped Ashallah’s hand as she approached the shaft. She circled it once, studying the shaft as a general reads a battlefield or a captain takes in the sea. She circled it a second time, in which she traced the outline of light on the floor with her foot. At the third circling, she reached toward the line she had traced. Her fingers dug into the sand to find an edge. She struggled to lift it. She found the object failed to budge. Ashallah stood opposite of her to lift the object from the other side. Dense and a few inches thick, the round body was difficult to handle. However, with their combined effort, Ashallah felt the disc move upward. She and Darya tried lifting it again. The second time the disc rose up and stabilized as the hinges beneath it clicked into place. The center of the disc bulged upward, as if a convex shield laid on its back. Ashallah stepped away as she watched the sand on the disc slide to the sides and fall away, revealing the bronze sheen beneath.
It was then, with the parting of the grains, that the brilliance around them was exposed. The shaft of light reflected off the convex disc to illuminate the high walls around them. Rows of calligraphy came to life, stretching to the ceiling thirty feet above, as their black ink reflected a brilliant sheen. While Ashallah did not recognize the written characters, she could not help but stare at them for all their curves and lines. They were hypnotic to look upon, entrancing to consider. She wondered what they said, who wrote them and why.
So much I do not know.
“Asha.”
Ashallah saw that Darya was beside her, extending her hand.
“Are you ready for your next dreamscape?” Darya asked.
Ashallah looked to the calligraphy all around them. The letters, while still a mystery, appeared to move. No, Ashallah thought. They cannot. It is not possible.
She looked back to Darya, who saw the hesitation spread across her face.
“Just stare into my eyes. Take my hand.”
Ashallah, in a rare leap of faith, did just that.
As though granules in a sandstorm, images rushed all around and past Ashallah, each one a memory from distant past brought to life. She caught only glimpses of them, recognizing only the outline of figures in various situations. One image that flashed by showed two opponents locked in swordplay, while another showed a man and woman in a loving embrace. Ashallah could make neither sense nor reason of what she saw. She could only assume that it was all connected.
The rush continued for what seemed like hours. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.
Darkness surrounded Ashallah. The shaft of light, the bronze disc, the calligraphy – all of it was gone. Even Darya’s hand was absent from her own.
“Darya! Darya!”
No one answered.
“Rahim! Anyone?”
“You must go now.”
Ashallah looked around her.
“Who is that?”
“It is the only way.”
“Where are you? Where are you?”
Ashallah instinctively reached for her back, expecting to find her khukuri blades sheathed there, before remembering that she was without. She cursed the heavens under her breath. She knelt down and groped in the dark, hoping against hope for a rock or some object with which to defend herself.
The ground held no such reprieve for Ashallah. Only sand.
“You must leave tonight.”
Ashallah lifted her head. She rose to her feet and clenched her hands into fists as she searched the darkness in vain.
“Who is that? Show yourself!” she demanded.
As if in answer, a pinpoint of light appeared ahead.
Ashallah froze. She watched the point of light – a white, glowing orb – move toward her, growing larger as it approached. Ashallah considered stepping back but thought better of it. After all, she thought, I am in a cave. Where would I go?
The light grew brighter. Stronger. Larger. By the time it reached a diameter similar in height to Ashallah, she could make out the silhouettes of figures within. It continued to draw closer to Ashallah. For all her uncertainty, Ashallah stood firm, defiant in the face of her own doubt.
The orb was nearly upon her when she heard the same voice that had echoed through the darkness.
“A horse will be waiting for you outside the palace gate.”
Ashallah peered into the light. The figures, having been hazy only moments before, became clear.
“Ommah . . .”
Ashallah reached toward the orb. In that instant, it enveloped her.
She found herself surrounded by lattice. Checkered moonlight illuminated the floor. Down the hall, a gathering of women dressed in fine silks sat in a circle, each one brushing the hair of the one in front. Many more women were all around, all talking to each other as they groomed themselves.
I am in a harem, Ashallah realized.
“Where will I go?”
Ashallah swung around. The voice who asked the question - that of a woman - was not the one from the darkness. It seemed familiar, somehow.
“Yasem. You will go to Yasem.”
That voice, that is the one from the black void, Ashallah told herself. She searched around her. Women aplenty there were, but none seemed to be involved in conversation such as the one she had heard. Ashallah marched the length of the hall before turning the corner.
“Yasem?” asked the familiar voice. “What is there?”
“Our sisters. The Shadya,” answered the voice from the darkness. “They will help you to establish your accommodations. After that, you must not speak to them again. Do you understand?”
Ashallah raced down the hall. She turned the corner. This time, she found it empty save for two women. One was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties, dressed in an abaya, her long gray hair flowing over her shoulders.
The other woman, to Ashallah’s amazement, was Niyusha. Her ommah. Only she was much younger, not more than twenty. Her skin appeared soft and showed no signs of the aging Ashallah had known. Her braided hair was dark brown, so rich in color and body that Ashallah could have mistaken it for stained palm wood. Even her eyes were different, not in hue but emotion. Innocent eyes, like that of a doe, lacking the judgment and watchfulness that Ashallah had known her entire life. Still, they were her eyes. Before her, without a doubt, was her ommah.
Niyusha and her acquaintance took no notice of Ashallah, even as she drew near enough to touch them.
“Hello?” Ashallah ventured. “Ommah?”
Niyusha raised her head, but not in response to Ashallah. She glanced at the older woman’s eyes but did not bother to hold a stare. Rather, she shielded her eyes, wiping away her tears. “I understand,” she said, in the familiar voice Ashallah had heard moments before.
“You understand what?” the older one asked, in the voice from the darkness.
“I understand I am to leave this place, never to return. I will go to Yasem, to seek help from the Shadya. I know that in exchange for their help, I will have to take in an unwanted child as my own. Once they have done their part, I will never seek them out again. I will go on to live a widower, a single mother, an outcast of society with no social standing. That will be my place. To be a silent woman. A mother without a husband.”
The gray-haired woman nodded. “I will retrieve you tonight when the time is right. Until then, pack your belongings and rest. The journey to Yasem is long.”
She turned to leave Niyusha to consider her words. Niyusha held her head high, long after the gray-haired had turned the corner and others had filtered into the hall. Other women passed her without so much as a glance or a nod. Niyusha did not seem to mind. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and strolled past them all. Ashallah walked beside her, staring at the younger version of her mother, who did nothing to acknowledge her presence.
“Ommah . . . How can this be? How are you here? In this palace? In a harem? So young and beautiful you are. Why did you leave? Why did you go to Yasem?”
Ashallah pressed these questions to her mother as though she could answer. For Niyusha had never divulged any details of her younger life to her daughters. Any curiosity by Ashallah or Orzala was met with a shrug or a wave. Over the years, what answers Ashallah or her sister could piece together were few and fractured. Neither was certain that any held a bit of truth: Ommah had been abandoned as a child, their father was a soldier killed in battle, a desert flood had wiped away their family’s ancestral home and forced Ommah to flee. Such stories they would share and repeat, in an effort to listen to themselves and hear if one sounded more plausible than another did.
For all their imagination, neither of them would have ventured that their ommah had been a concubine.
Niyusha continued to march. One hall led to a different one, and others beyond. A thick cloud shifted before the moon, darkening the hall. Although night inspired no fear in her and her steps remained certain, Ashallah nonetheless found herself reaching for her ommah. For comfort. For support. When her hand touched nothing, she thought her ommah had vanished. Then the moonlight returned and with it her ommah. Ashallah extended her hand once more. It passed through Niyusha like a veil of fog, a veil unaware of the company in its presence.
Ahead, the lattice ended. The moonlight poured in through the columns onto the doors of a temple. As Ashallah’s eyes adjusted, she noted that the doors were inlaid with lapis lazuli, mother of pearl and gold leaf, all in patterns the finest artisans in all of Yasem could never produce.
“What is this harem?” Ashallah asked as if her ommah could hear her. “The luxury. The richness. The prestige.”
A feeling, as though a stone in her gut, formed. No, Ashallah thought. Not here. She cannot possibly be from that place, the place I suspect.
Niyusha leaned upon the temple door. It parted, the hinges not even whispering a creak. From within, soft light spilled onto the moonlit floor. Rose-colored and inviting, it beckoned both Niyusha and Ashallah forth.
Ashallah stood aghast for a moment as her ommah continued onward. Surely this must be what the heavens are like, Ashallah told herself.
Marble tiles stretched across the floor and up the walls to the ceiling. The columns, of cobalt granite, supported the dome, which held carved reliefs of every creature imaginable. Gazelle and antelope raced in herds as cheetahs and lions chased after them. Estuaries teemed with cranes, heron, duck, and geese. Schools of fish swam in unison, creating a vortex suspended in white stone. Sconces scattered throughout illuminated all, in a glow so soft and soothing as to give comfort to any soul, no matter their faith.
“Beautiful . . .” Ashallah whispered.
“Hello?!”
The echo boomed off the walls, stunning Ashallah. She tilted her gaze down to find Niyusha in the center of the temple, looking all around her.
“Hello,” she repeated. “Is anyone here?”
“I am,” Ashallah replied. She marched to her side, mere inches from being able to touch her. “Ommah!”
Niyusha turned, searching the temple for others as Ashallah’s cries went unheard. Confident that she was alone, Niyusha knelt to the ground and bowed her head. Then she rose to her knees and lifted her head and palms to the dome above.
“Merciful Jaha,” she began. “Father of us all. I beseech you in my greatest time of need. Long have I prayed to you, since my youth, and at every turn, you have provided. Now, I come to you with a problem . . .”
Niyusha’s voice softened. She looked down at her hands, which drifted to her abdomen.
Ashallah opened her mouth, finding her throat dry. “Ommah . . .” she whispered.
“Not a problem,” Niyusha corrected herself. “But a blessing. The world’s greatest.”
Ashallah sank to her knees. She reached out to her mother. Her finger edged against the line of her skin though felt nothing. Still, she kept it suspended there.
“I pray not for myself,” Niyusha continued. “But for my child. May you bless my young one with the chance to rise in this world, to be something more than a servant. If a boy, may he grow to become a man, wise and confident in his abilities. If a girl . . . I pray that you may make her strong. May she never be forced to do a man’s bidding. Make her strong. That she may know no shame in being a woman. May her veil only cover her face, may it never discourage her ambition nor silence her voice nor darken her hope. Make her strong, Jaha. Stronger than any man. Even her father.”
Niyusha bowed her head to the ground. With her forehead pressed to the tiles, she sniffled. When she looked to the heavens again, tears had welled in her eyes.
“Forgive my blasphemy, Jaha. It is not my place to speak against her father nor men. But if I may be so bold, I ask you to consider my pleas for my child nonetheless.”
As if in answer, a crack rang against the mighty walls, sounding like a clap of thunder. Niyusha stood, wiping away her tears, as Ashallah scanned the temple.
The crack echoed again and a third time. From outside the doors, a voice boomed through.
“Cover yourselves,” said a man. “We are about to enter.”
Niyusha fastened her veil across her face as the temple doors parted. The incoming breeze stirred the tongues of the sconces, shifting the soft light in all directions. Two eunuch soldiers entered, the butts of their pikes striking the tiled floor with each of their steps.
“Are you Niyusha, of the tribe Beyut?” asked the shorter of the two eunuchs, his shaved head glistening in the sconce light.
“I am,” she replied.
“The Grand Sultan requests your presence in his chambers.”
Niyusha bowed her head before the eunuchs escorted her from the temple. The three marched out of the sanctuary, all with no mind paid attention to the midnight warrior they left in their wake.
Staring into the abyss, Ashallah could not help but think about those final moments of her dreamscape. She had stood there alone, the eunuchs and her mother having left, contemplating the image of her ommah in her youth, and what her prayers to Jaha had revealed.
“May I join you?”
Ashallah did not even bother to turn as Darya approached from behind.
“Mind your step,” Ashallah warned. “The way down is no doubt long.”
“I will,” Darya responded as she sat cross-legged next to her. “How are you?”
“Ommah never spoke much of our father. Sometimes, after hearing us whine for minutes on end, she would grant us a few words on his character. She would say he was strong. Smart. A great man. Then she would have us clean or run errands in punishment, saying it was never good manners to inquire so much on the dead. I never understood her apprehension.” Ashallah turned to Darya. “The unwanted child that the Shadya gave to Ommah, which she raised as her own?”
“Orzala,” Darya said in assurance.
“And the child she carried?”
Darya stroked the side of Ashallah’s face. “You.”
Ashallah hung her head. Never before had words, especially those she had expected to hear, struck her so hard.
“Ashallah,” Darya started, her face as pained as hers, as though she suddenly felt her anguish. “I know this news is unwelcome. But it is the reason why my brother and I saved you from that arena.”
“No, it can’t be.”
“It is. You are . . .”
“No, I’m not.”
“A child of the Grand Sultan.”
Ashallah sprang to her feet. She moved away from Darya, who stood to approach her.
“Stay away from me!” Ashallah demanded.
Darya froze in place. “Please. We need your help.”
“Why me?”
Darya looked past Ashallah, who in turn swung around. Behind her stood Rahim, his blue eyes seemingly afire in the pitch black of the caverns.
“You saw the dreamscape of our father. You watched as I trained under his watchful eye. All for what? So that I could serve the same sultan who enslaved my kin? I know of your pain, from what happened to your family. I am sorry. My sister and I mourn your loss. But you need to understand; our kind has suffered a thousandfold.
“Jinn like my father are bound to serve the Grand Sultan, to grant him three wishes according to the Scrolls of Jaha. At first, the jinn under his control were enough to conquer his enemies and vanquish his opponents. Nonetheless, as his thirst for power and land has grown, the Grand Sultan has required more minions to do his work. He forced jinn to lay with women, creating turquoise like my sister and I. As offspring without script, we are less gifted than our forefathers, and our talents are usually only one or two in number. However, without words to bind our loyalties, the sultan’s words hold less power over us. Some of us have rebelled against the disciplined life that restricts our brothers and sisters. Darya and I were fortunate enough to escape. Many more turquoise have died trying.
“Meanwhile, our father and those jinn like him suffer unimaginable horrors. The script on their skin dictates their powers and limits them to granting three wishes. The sultan, ever distrustful, teaches his viziers only enough of the jinn’s language to pronounce commands – words they speak but do not fully understand – so that they can carry out his edicts far and wide. You saw evidence of this in Yasem when that vizier commanded a jinni to crush the uprising outside the arena walls. The vizier said the words, but I doubt he knew even half of them. So it is that the viziers themselves can blow their horns and destroy villages and cities, but never possess so much knowledge as to command the jinni the way the Sultan does.
“Yet being the one with full knowledge of the jinn’s language is not enough. For the jinn are limited by the edicts inscribed on their skin, able to grant their master only three wishes. Even after years of biding his time and being mindful of their limitations, the sultan is finally running out of jinn capable of carrying out his commands. The number of wishes he has left dwindles. However, in using his wishes, his desire for more power has grown.
“In his lust, the sultan has attempted to add to their calligraphy. He had his janissaries and even his turquoise engrave characters into the flesh of his jinn, inflicting a pain a thousand fold worse than any cut or stab you or your sisters have experienced. All to expand the hold the Grand Sultan has on his current lot of jinn.
“You witnessed this trend, in the desert, when you fought the Tirkhan. That tribe had the opportunity to raid one of the sultan’s caravans, and in doing so, captured one of his jinn. They used it to secure their position in the Canyonlands. For all their luck, though, they failed to understand the script the Grand Sultan had carved into the jinni’s skin. Unlike the Sultan’s viziers - who themselves only have limited knowledge of the language of the jinn - the Tirkhan rely on oral tradition and are mostly illiterate, save a few of their more curious nomads. That ignorance on their part cost them dearly, a mistake we hope to avoid repeating with our friend here.”
Torchlight invaded the darkness as the scribe turned the corner. His eyes – amber ovals that on the surface appeared alert and pensive – seemed softer in the orange glow, giving the old man a grandfatherly quality.
Ashallah stared at the three, her gaze holding theirs for a time before turning to the next one. Finally, her eyes rested on Darya.
“If I believe you, everything you’ve shown me, then I must find a way to make peace with that.”
“In your own time, I know you will,” Darya replied.
Ashallah turned to Rahim. “You seem skilled with a blade. On your best day, you may even be as good as me. I assume all your efforts to rescue me are because you require another warrior?”
Ashallah expected a wry smile or short remark from Rahim. He did no such thing in response to her jibe. His face was as stone, as serious as she had ever seen him.
“If skill alone were all we required, then we would have no need of you.”
“Rahim,” Darya chastised. “Your manners.”
“It’s fine,” Ashallah said. She had seen this tendency in other warriors before. Her profession was a proud one, and warriors such as Rahim and her were not accustomed to asking for help. When they did, their arrogance and assuredness would often surface.
“My sister is right,” Rahim added. “My apologies.”
“Soldier,” Ashallah addressed him. “What is it you require of me?”
“I can find my way into the Royal Palace of Rilah. I can fend off the janissaries and eunuchs. Even the other turquoise and jinn. But the blood that courses through my veins, the stripes on my skin, prevents me - as it does with every other turquoise and jinni - from accomplishing our mission.”
“Which is?”
“To kill the Grand Sultan.”165Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv7gqt9u3I1
