The cold splashed Ashallah’s face, sending streams down her neck to her back and chest. Over and again, she threw water on herself until she felt shivers down her spine. That sensation lasted but a moment before the sweltering desert air overwhelmed her once again.
Sweat collected on the small of her back within seconds. Along with dust. Along with sand. Itchiness soon followed. Ashallah sighed. Again, she thought.
A cool cloth found her neck. Ashallah swung around to find Darya behind her.
“Allow me,” Darya offered.
“I didn’t even hear you,” Ashallah replied.
“My brother taught me the art of stealth.”
“You only tell me now?”
Darya giggled. “I can sneak up on anybody. Even a midnight warrior. For the sake of the trust between us, I thought it best not to practice it on you.”
“Until now.”
“What more can I say? You looked warm.”
At that, Darya smiled. Struck by her boldness, Ashallah found herself almost as surprised as she was two days before in the cavern. The image of Darya, unveiled, was stunning in and of itself. However, there was something even more striking to Ashallah: the subtlety of the changes she saw in Darya. The quickened step in her stride. The tilt of her head, held higher, even when she remained veiled amongst men in the brightness of day. Even the way she held her stare, a fraction of a moment longer than necessary, when speaking to the Tirkhan that now accompanied them on their journey.
Ashallah studied those around her. Yaromir stood with Rahim, a map between them, as they looked to the horizon. The Firstborne, with their hermit masks cast aside, knelt on the other bank of the oasis pond. They too cleansed themselves vigorously. Behind them congregated the best of the Tirkhan, a force of thirty strong. They busied themselves with unloading their packs, using sashes and belts to secure what weapons and belongings they could for the last leg of their journey. None of the men bothered to look at them directly. A few threw a glance their way. Even then, those that did failed to stare for long, because for all their courage in fight and battle, none felt at ease amongst two women in broad daylight, unveiled.
Three days earlier, their newly banded group had left the tent city for Rilah. Fortunately, their departure did not conjure attention or fanfare, for Yago was a city of nomads and vagabonds. Their caravan was not unusual in size or wares. Overall, the start of their journey was without consequence.
That singularity did not last, as one seemingly innocuous event changed their dynamic. Once their caravan had Yago behind them and nothing but sky and sand ahead, Darya had shed her veil. Her effort was not with hesitation nor was it brazen. Rather, it was nonchalant. She removed as easily as a man takes off a shora. There was no apprehension to see if a man was in her presence, no concern for breaking the Law and facing admonishment. Her move, as slight as it was, was liberating, powerful.
The presence of one more face amongst them would not have garnered attention or generated whispers – had that face been that of a man. However, seeing a woman, unveiled, in broad daylight caused the most hardened of Tirkhan to gossip like elderly widows. Even the Firstborne, not accustomed to being perturbed in either physicality or emotion, raised a brow.
In the face of such boldness, Ashallah had found herself upstaged. It was a position she was not accustomed to, as she was often the strongest and most daring of any group she was in, whether composed of women or men. At first, she felt compelled to match Darya’s action. Ultimately, she decided against it. For such a reaction on the heels of Darya’s blatant exposure would come across as an act of a follower, not a leader.
As hours passed from the time Darya removed her veil, Ashallah felt the urge to do the same. Only then did hesitation – not inspired by Darya, but all her own - set into the recesses of Ashallah’s mind. Memories of her mother chastising her for not being proper flooded her consciousness. As did lessons on female etiquette from the teachers of her youth. Then there were the first lessons she received on the Law, words that passed from the mighty imams of Yasem through the grates and barriers of the temples, where sections of women sat apart from men. Recollections that she had not considered in years suddenly came to her again, and with them, the shame of being a woman.
It was not until the prior night, more than two days after Darya first removed her veil amongst the Tirkhan caravan, that Ashallah removed her own. She did it in the presence of Darya, as the two sat across from each other before a cook fire. Except for a few guards, the men of their group had retired for the night, leaving the two women alone. With no other eyes upon them, Ashallah had stripped her veil from her face.
Darya, through the heat and flames, stared back at her.
She rose to her feet to circle the fire. Ashallah’s heart nearly beat through her chest as she reached down to her hand.
“I’ll take this for you,” Darya had said as she pulled her veil from her fingers. “And return it at the appropriate time.”
“When will that be?” Ashallah asked, her voice cracking.
“When we have to hide ourselves again. For the last time.”
The gurgling and grunts of camels beyond the palms drew Ashallah’s attention. Through the fronds, she spotted a few of the Tirkhan slapping their hindquarters to send them off into the desert.
“Our mounts!” Ashallah exclaimed.
“We won’t need them,” Darya replied.
“But we are still so far. Rilah must be weeks away.”
“By camel, yes.”
Ashallah cocked her head. Do we run the remainder of the way? she considered. She eyed the other Tirkhan who were emptying their packs and choosing only the most essential of items.
Darya met Ashallah’s curious look with her own. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“What?”
“That night, when we were being pursued in the desert, and I blew my horn to summon the jinni. I thought that perhaps the journey we took would have stirred you a little. I suppose you were unconscious throughout.”
Thrown off her guard, Ashallah replied, “If you’re suggesting I had a moment of weakness . . .”
“Now, now,” Darya cooed as she stroked her cheek. “I meant no ill will. I was only expressing my surprise. That is all.”
The touch of Darya’s soft fingers upon her skin soothed Ashallah. She closed her eyes until Darya withdrew them. “The journey, that the jinni . . . when he rescued the three of us, I didn’t think it special,” she admitted. “I mean, I know we traveled far and fast. Truthfully, I don’t recall it.”
“That’s fine. In hindsight, it is understandable.”
“Did we . . . fly?”
Darya grinned, nearly laughing. “Well, I suppose you can say that.”
“Would you say that?”
“I believe not. And as to why, you will soon see for yourself.”
A whistle pierced their exchange. Both turned to find Rahim atop a dune to the south, waving at them to join him. At his side, standing a full head taller, was the same Firstborne who had unmasked in the cavern at Yago, one they came to learn was called Caleb.
The two were conversing as they pointed to the southeast. Ashallah noted that Rahim’s brow furrowed, as though a concern had struck him.
Darya saw it too. “What is the matter?”
Rahim looked at Caleb. “Tell them.”
“The storm we anticipated,” Caleb began. “It is approaching.”
Ashallah and Darya looked to the southeast. Ashallah could see no disturbance on the horizon, just a stretch of cloudless blue sky. By the expression on Darya’s face, she could tell the pending weather was lost on her too. Then again, Caleb had that power as a Firstborne. The gift of seeing far and beyond what any of them could, even turquoise as skilled as Rahim and Darya.
“Neither of you will be able to see it until tomorrow morning,” Caleb said. “But when you do, it’ll stretch from north to south.”
“Caleb thinks it’ll be the strongest storm of the decade,” Rahim added. “One that will sweep from these heights all the way to Rilah.”
“That is good, isn’t it?” Darya asked earnestly. “We were hoping for the cover of a dust storm to conceal the final leg of our trip.”
“Yes, we were,” Caleb confirmed. His eyes narrowed.
“You have reservations,” Ashallah ventured.
“The storm may be too big, too powerful. If we had the supreme power of the jinn, no storm, however mighty, would concern us. But even we Firstborne have limitations.”
“Are we in danger?” Darya asked.
“Always. In regards to this, though, the risk lies not in our journey, for we Firstborne can withstand the wind and sand better than all. The threat will not harm us. Possibly . . . it may affect you.”
Ashallah looked to Rahim and Darya, who appeared as puzzled as she did. “I can handle a storm, no matter the onslaught of sand and wind. My training ensured that. Amongst the midnight sisters, I am one of the finest.”
Caleb lips pursed ever so slightly, as though he was about to smile in amusement. “Do not take offense by my concern. I do not question your strength or skill as a warrior. I question your mortal body. Your flesh. Your bones. Your ability to journey just as Darya said you three did to Yago.”
“Again, with that rescue from the jinni?” Ashallah exclaimed, her frustration mounting over his obtuse speech.
“Ashallah, please,” Darya begged. She turned to face Caleb. “When we traverse the desert, what will be the danger?”
“For you and your brother, your power – as turquoise – will most likely save you. But with so many mortals,” Caleb stared down at Ashallah before glancing in the direction of the Tirkhan. “I cannot guarantee that all will remain with us. Some will steer off course, to settle into the expanse. Others will find their essence ground away like a stone worn by the elements. Alas, as Firstborne, my brethren and I lack the power to encapsulate the lot of you for the entirety of the storm.”
“Some may perish?”
Caleb nodded.
“We should warn the others. I suspect some of the Tirkhan will balk at dying in the wind as opposed to battle.”
“No,” Ashallah protested. “Do not assume such things of the Tirkhan. Yes, to die in battle is a great honor. You are correct to assume that if presented with the option to turn away from the storm, they would take it, though you must realize they would do so only if approached alone. If you decide to ask them in front of each other whether they would like to walk from this danger, none will step forward, and all would be insulted by the question.”
“Then we should decide for them,” Rahim stated.
“It is what a strong commander would do,” Ashallah confirmed. “The Tirkhan would expect nothing less at this juncture.”
“Then let them be,” Caleb affirmed. “Allow them to continue preparing for the journey. For we leave as soon as the sands are upon us.”
Little time had passed before the blue dome above gave way to a blanket of sand and dust. Though expected, it somehow came all of a sudden. At one moment, the storm was miles away. The next, it had rolled over them. Their entire camp at the oasis found themselves caught by surprise, with warriors and turquoise scattered apart from one another as the first waves of sand swept through, bending palm trees and turning the pool of life-giving water to mud.
The wind howled through their hoods and shoras, as particles seeped into every crevice and slit of their bodies. For her part, Ashallah shut her eyes tightly, in the exact way she had been trained to do when faced with inclement weather. Still, even as her lids remained closed throughout the onslaught, the sand found its way into them. As it did into her mouth, her nose, and her lungs. With every orifice it invaded, a stinging pain followed. For all her training as a warrior, for all her experiences in past storms, this was by far the worst for Ashallah.
Then, a hand touched her. With that one motion, all of it stopped.
The howling of wind upon her ears. The granules between lips and teeth. The stinging.
Ashallah ventured to crack open her eyes. She spotted a torrent of sand and dust rushing past her, slightly out of her reach. Millions upon millions of grains. Red, white, black and brown. Bits from a thousand deserts. Blended together to create an endless curtain in motion.
Ashallah looked around. The storm raced behind and over her. It came towards her and sped away. All the while, a radius of the untouched – of which she was a part – grew outward, expanding.
A dome, she said to herself. I am in a clear dome.
The space around her continued to expand, pushing the rapidity further away.
“Ashallah!” cried a muffled voice.
She searched the sea of sand outside her dome.
“Ashallah!”
“I’m here,” Ashallah responded, not caring at that point who or what was speaking.
“A light. A bright spot. Find it.”
Ashallah searched the entirety of her dome. All was clouded above, as was that directly in front of her. Only the granules of white sand outside appeared as light, but even then, they were fleeting.
“Find it! Hurry!”
Ashallah felt the urge to question the urgency of the voice before realizing the space she inhabited had contracted. Ashallah watched the edges of her dome creep slowly inward, reducing her once spacious circle inch by inch.
Panic was not a commonality in her life as a soldier. Though then and there, it was real.
Her heart raced, in a way she had not endured since her early days of military instruction. The breaths she took became more forced. Her brow moistened as her throat dried.
This is not my way, she repeated to herself. I am a warrior. I am midnight.
“You are midnight!” came the muffled voice.
Ashallah searched the curtain of sand beyond her increasingly smaller dome.
“You are a warrior!” said the voice again. “You are a warrior! Now find your light!”
As though eyes she could not spot were watching upon her, Ashallah nodded. She scanned perimeter once more. Once more, she saw nothing.
On a whim, she stroked the dome that had been protecting her. To the touch, it was firm and smooth like glass. It was also thin, as Ashallah could feel the grains of sands rioting on the surface of the other side.
Ashallah’s hands and eyes felt and searched. The same spots they came to, over and again. The only difference in touch or sight was the contraction of the dome, the loss of space.
With her elbows bent and her palms firmly against the invisible barrier, Ashallah fell to one knee.
“I am going to die here,” she said aloud, her hands settling on the ground.
“You are not,” replied the voice. “You are midnight.”
“I am midnight.”
The edge of the dome crept inward, pushing back her finger. Instinctively, Ashallah looked down.
At the curvature, where the edge of the dome met the sand, Ashallah found the invisible barrier moving her finger. Not more than six inches from it, a dot of light radiated.
It was no larger than a granule. Had Ashallah not been searching, she would not have thought twice about it, taking the speck for a grain of white sand.
Yet it was far from that.
For all its size or lack thereof, it was brilliant. Ashallah stared at it deeply. As if the radiance sensed her attention, it glowed brighter and stronger.
Flecks assaulted Ashallah’s face. She raised her eyes to spot cracks in the dome, and the spreading of their veins as sand and wind forced their way inside.
“Ashallah!” the muffled voice strained to scream.
She reached for the light. Upon touching it, she felt not heat nor sand, but flesh.
Her first reaction was to pull back. Out of curiosity and stubbornness, she fought against her judgment – a rarity for her – to place her faith in the voice beyond the dust and sand.
“I found it!” Ashallah shouted. “The light. I have it.”
The dome contracted further. The invisible barrier that up until that moment had been protecting Ashallah now pushed her back. She leaned away from the light, feeling the other side of the dome against her shoulder blades and head. Still, she kept her fingers on the light.
More granules assaulted Ashallah’s skin. The cracks above and around her gave way.
Then the light at the base of dome grew, it radius expanding as it became brighter. Ashallah’s eyes stung from the sudden brilliance of it all. Then, upon feeling a familiar touch, she froze.
Fingers - radiating white light - wrapped around her wrist as the light stretched wider and taller. The dome, as though a tent with a flap, opened to a safe space free from the dust and sand beyond. Before her, Ashallah spotted two figures, one her height and the other much taller, who glowed with such splendor that she shielded her eyes and stared above and around her. Much like the personal covering she had just left behind, this one was spherical though taller and wider. Unlike her small, temporary haven, this one was not clear but opaque, although Ashallah knew the storm remained outside due to the howling of the wind.
The grip on her arm loosened. Ashallah, squinting, saw the shorter of the two step back from her. The taller figure, with hand on the shorter one, guided it back by the shoulder. Both only took a few paces before their radiance faded. White glow turned to flesh so that Ashallah was able to look upon the faces of Darya and Caleb once again.
Caleb looked the same as before, his turquoise exterior having not lost its luster nor his eyes their shimmer. Darya, on the other hand, appeared disheveled. The cloak that had draped her shoulders was torn and unkempt. Her hair, as black as the cavern where Ashallah first saw it, hung in strands, in contrast to the braid she had sported. Then there was her face. Scratches spotted her cheeks and forehead while her hazel eyes held red veins.
Ashallah raised her hand, wanting to comfort Darya with a simple stroke of her fingers. For her wounds, though, Darya was not saddened nor concerned.
“Ashallah!” Darya exclaimed as she reached out to embrace.
Ashallah, never accustomed to touch she had not initiated nor paid for, stiffened. Darya seemed not to care.
“Are you well?” Darya asked after stepping back.
“Yes, I suppose.” Ashallah looked to Darya then to Caleb. “What in the Five Doors of Hell happened?”
“She reached out to you once,” Caleb replied.
“After Caleb had touched me, bestowing on me his power, I set out to find you. A small endeavor, given that moments before we were but feet apart, yet made nearly impossible by the Hand of Jaha. I groped and crawled. Finally, you were close enough. I extended my hand to you. However, the storm was fiercer than I anticipated. My power to protect myself, and you, waned as the wind and sand beat down upon my barrier.”
“So she let go,” Caleb interjected. “That you may be protected while she lay exposed.”
“You should not have done that,” Ashallah admonished her.
“It was the only way,” Darya replied curtly.
“It was not. I have training. I am a warrior. I am midnight.”
“You are a mortal woman,” Caleb offered. “More susceptible to pain and suffering than us. Those wounds you see on Darya’s face, that same storm would have ripped the skin and flesh from your skull had you endured it for even a minute longer.”
“I am stronger than you give me credit for.”
“Aye, you are decent in your strength, I will grant you that. However, with each passing minute, the storm outside worsens.”
Caleb extended his hand to the dome above. The milky white interior cleared, giving way to transparency. Around and over them, sand and debris swam, an ocean of desert floating above.
“Jaha’s wrath is mighty,” Darya whispered.
“It is,” added Caleb. “This storm is the mightiest that Greater Dyli has seen in more than a hundred years.”
“Will we stay here?” Ashallah asked. “Will our cause be delayed?”
“No,” Caleb replied firmly. “A greater threat stirs in Rilah. With each minute that the Grand Sultan sits on his throne, his thirst for power grows. Those few enemies he has at home and the borders will see their entire bloodlines vanish before their eyes, before meeting their demise. Those in lands beyond the deep waters will face a similar fate.” Caleb turned to face Ashallah. “This storm will provide us cover. It is our best chance to travel to Rilah as quickly as possible, without drawing the attention of the Sultan’s many watchers and turquoise sentries. The way will be fraught peril though. Some of your mortal comrades – the Tirkhan – will not make it. You may not make it. The choice is yours.”
Ashallah stared back into his eyes. Not because they mesmerized her, though they were brilliant. Rather, because she could sense Darya looking upon her at that same moment, awaiting her answer. Because she did not want to return her look, and in doing so, appear vulnerable. Because she did not want to admit, that for the first time since she could remember, she truly feared for the safety of another.
She lifted her hand. She nodded.
Caleb turned to Darya. His stare met hers, providing all the affirmation she needed.
Darya stepped close to them. Caleb took her hand before looking back to Ashallah to take hers.
Darya and Ashallah looked to one another. Darya extended her hand.
Ashallah placed her palm in Darya’s. She held it, firmly, as she instinctively shut her eyes.
The dome around them dissolved. The storm swept in, to engulf them. Unlike when it first came, Ashallah did not bear the sting of grains against her skin. Even her eyes held up, her sight unaffected.
Ashallah tilted her head. She looked down.
She felt Darya tug on her hand. “Don’t let go!” she shouted.
Ashallah resisted the temptation. This is not possible, she told herself. No. Not this.
She stared at her legs as sand raced all around. Slowly, they receded, their essence disappearing, as though the grains that brushed against them stole their flesh and bone. Still, she endured no pain, no sensation whatsoever. Even as her toes, then her ankles, shins, knees, and thighs vanished.
She turned to Caleb and Darya. Like herself, the sand decorticated their bodies from their feet upward, the grains unraveling their clothes and turquoise stripes. What pieces left them appeared to turn to sand, and joined the surrounding storm, which continued to swirl with fury.
“Don’t let go!” Ashallah managed to hear through the blast of sand and howl of the wind.
A Tirkhanian shora struck her thigh, suspended there briefly, marked by blotches of blood. As quickly as it had appeared, a shift of the wind blew the head wrap off into the swirl of sand above.
A scream, short and labored, drifted to her ears.
Then there was a squeeze at her hand.
Ashallah turned her attention back to Darya, whose hand still held hers. Her calm demeanor persisted, even as her torso extricated into the cyclonic rage.
Darya parted her lips. She spoke. Ashallah strained to listen yet failed. For Darya, tranquil in her speech, did not struggle to yell or scream. Although mute to her, Ashallah managed to watch her lips, and in doing so, read what words her mouth formed.
“You will not perish. You are strong. You are midnight.”
Then the sands receded her neck, her face. They took Darya. Then Ashallah.
Thrust upward, Ashallah’s instinct was to flail her arms and legs. Though when she looked down, she discovered she had none, finding only granules in the wind where her appendages should have been. She reached for her face, feeling neither her fingers nor her cheeks. Despite the absence of her body, not one of her senses had dulled. In fact, they had heightened. The sand no longer impeded her sight, as she saw everything. The swirling of the sand around her. The upheaval of dunes and mountains. The burying of all structures in the storm’s wake. Her hearing amplified every subtlety of the wind, whether a low pitch or a high howl. Then there was the sand. The touch of a million granules sweeping over her body, to be followed by a million more, along with millions after that.
So it continued, the sensation of heightened consciousness, for hours upon hours. Never before had Ashallah experienced such a loss of control, such freedom from determination. It struck her as both terrifying and soothing, restricting and liberating, as though every activity of her life had been condensed and then released during this storm.
Through it all, Ashallah not once spotted her comrades-in-arms. She suspected they were like her, reduced to grains in the breeze. Once, though, she thought she felt Darya. Not as one feels a female’s touch, but the way one imprints on another a memory, an experience, a bit of personal history. Like déjà vu, Ashallah felt as though the two had shared a moment that could not be expressed or pinpointed. Could she have passed through me? Ashallah asked herself. Her grains of sand intertwining with mine? A kind thought, to be sure, she told herself. I wonder if we were one. Wouldn’t that be brilliant?
Only when the sands changed in hue did Ashallah sense a difference in her being. Ahead, a sphere burned bright, its radiance spreading outward. Every grain from its center glowed white and ignited those they encountered, thereby dispensing their darker earth tones. As the light expanded, growing nearer, Ashallah received its warmth. Only then did she realize . . .
The sun, she thought. The rising sun.
As the sphere grew larger and brighter, the sands at its center thinned and dispersed. The sky opened before her. As did an image in the distance, one with curves and straight edges that seemed to rise from the desert floor as if to challenge the magnificence of the sun.
Rilah.
In the bazaars of Yasem and countless other towns and cities she visited, she had seen merchants selling scrolls with paintings of the Immortal City. The structures and buildings that Rilah boasted were impressive, even on papyrus. Tall, white domes of marble and flattened ivory, stretching over a hundred feet high. Murals of seascapes, mountain vistas, and jungles from lands afar, painted on the brick walls that supported block after block of hanging gardens. Even the homes and flats inspired a sense of awe. For unlike the dust-colored buildings of Yasem and countless other towns across Greater Dyli, nearly all those of Rilah were awash in white or pastel colors, so as to reflect the desert sun and thus cool the interiors.
Whether due to the brightening sun or the dissipating storm, Ashallah began to sense that the power that had propelled her upward was starting to wane. Her bird’s eye view of the Immortal City dropped. Her elevation lessened as the earth below seemed to rise. This time, she did flail, as the sand around her coalesced to regenerate her arms and legs. Ashallah could feel her face being restored, the skin on her cheeks rippling under the pressure of the air. Whatever had shielded her from the wind and sand faded, as both assaulted her body.
This is it, she thought. For her experience of flying had ended, leaving her body to fall. Should I close my eyes? she asked herself. She had always believed that she wanted to die with her eyes open, so that she may stare Death himself in the face. But then again, she had also imagined dying on the battlefield, before a mighty adversary or amongst a cluster of enemy combatants. The concept of a boring end to her life, without the adrenaline of fighting in her veins, in the absence of her blades, had never occurred to her.
Open or closed? she considered again. That is the only choice I have, the only action I can take. A small decision. The last I will ever make.
A scattering of granules in the wind hammered her eyes. Ashallah raised her arms to protect her face a moment too late, thus feeling the sting of sand. She shook her head. She blinked vigorously as she fought back tears of pain.
I will not die crying, she told herself. I will die with my eyes dry. A true warrior.
Her blinking subsided as her vision cleared, in time for her to see the dunes below speeding up towards her. Instinctively, she raised her arms before her face to brace herself for the moment of impact.
Then, it stopped. All of it. Her body from falling. The rush of air over her body. The grains of stinging sand. The dunes approaching her from below.
Ashallah looked all around her. Suspended in the air, she was perhaps no more than a hundred or so feet from the ground. She moved her arms and legs, finding them, along with her body, hanging horizontally. It was as though she was laying on a sheet of air, able to see the dunes, crests, and depressions below.
A ridge, soft and subtle, traversed the arch of her back. It turned inward. Ashallah realized it was the edge of a hand, stroking her.
“Be not afraid,” cooed a familiar voice. Darya, floating, appeared alongside her.
“I’m never afraid,” Ashallah retorted, knowing her words were at least half a lie.
“We will descend now,” Darya assured her. With that declaration, Ashallah felt the air meet her body again. This time it was soft though, and slow. Much like how a mother lowers a babe into a crib.
As they floated towards the ground, Ashallah raised her head. She stared at the walls of Rilah, which even from afar appeared as mighty precipices.
“Their sentries,” Ashallah began. “Their turquoise. Will they see us?”
“The Grand Sultan would not risk his best seers, his top assets, during a storm. Especially the storm of the century. Not when he now has all seventy-seven jinn. We are safe.”
Are we? Ashallah asked herself. Even as their feet touched the sand and they regained their footing, Ashallah could not put the thought out of her mind that they were closer to danger than ever before.
“Caleb!” Darya exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to Ashallah’s inner sense of concern. Ashallah turned to find the Firstborne float down to the sand not more than two dozen feet away. Darya embraced him.
“My child,” Caleb responded. “I am fine.”
“The others. I did not see them descend. You are the first I have spotted. Did we lose them?”
“We did not.” Caleb pointed to a hill far behind them, where a sole figure stood. From such a distance, Ashallah could not tell if it was man or woman, Firstborne or Tirkhan. Yet Caleb continued pointing, confident in his knowing, his sight. “Come,” he beckoned them as he marched toward the lone one. “We should join the others before all the others rise.”
Ashallah thought he was referring to those citizens of Rilah. However, as she trudged on after him, she soon discovered otherwise.
One by one points in the sand shifted. From under stretches of canvas and mounds of displaced desert, all manner of living rose. Ashallah eyed a single camel first, followed by three others. Then a mule. A horse. Finally, a person emerged, albeit slowly. The old man shook the sand from his shora, his cloak, and hair.
“Shouldn’t we cover . . .” Ashallah started.
“Yes,” Darya finished. “We should.”
Ashallah found an abaya thrust in her face. She raised her gaze to discover that Darya had already dressed, with the whole of her covered and veiled. Behind her, Caleb continued to walk, although he too had covered himself with mask and cloth. And shrunk.
“How did he . . .”
“The Firstborne would have never survived so many generations had they not mastered, in full, the art of disguise. Their ability to conceal their true stature and talents can happen at a moment’s notice. Furthermore, they often carry with them coverings to help their allies. Hence my clothing and yours.”
Ashallah had no time to respond before Darya dropped the abaya into her hands. She hurriedly threw it on as others around them emerged from the sands to gather themselves and their belongings. By the time they had reached the lone one on the crest, an army of vagabonds had risen from the desert.
“The storm. It claimed more than we could have anticipated,” stated the Firstborne, who Ashallah could not identify beyond his distinct, booming tone, as he had covered himself as well. She took special note that the Tirkhan warriors were uncovered, as was their custom following a storm, that they may display their courage before Jaha’s might. However, their display of pride and boldness seemed hampered by their lack of numbers. Their numbers had dwindled to but a few. Among them, the broad-chested one was absent.
“The sentries and guards will be opening their shutters and doors soon,” Caleb opined as his comrades rallied around him. “Along with the gates. We should try to move as close as possible to the front . . .”
“Rahim. Where’s Rahim?”
“And Yaromir?” Ashallah asked, almost forgetting about the scribe. “Where are they?”
The Firstborne and remaining Tirkhan, in their haste, had forgotten them as well. All looked over their shoulders and scanned the dunes and mounds. From every direction, pack animals and nomads rose from their caravan lines, further complicating their efforts to find two missing men. Even Caleb, with his gift of seeing great distances, struggled through his search.
“Are they even here?” asked one Tirkhan, whose face had endured several scrapes from the storm. “We lost so many to Jaha’s fury.”
“True,” agreed one Firstborne, who true stature and skin remained concealed.
“They are here. Nearby,” Darya insisted. “I know it.”
The others shared wayward glances and raised brows. Even Ashallah, who in times past would remain the last one to admit when a fellow warrior had been lost, sighed.
Darya would have none of their skepticism though. “Keep looking!” she pleaded and demanded all in one breath. “Keep looking!”
Obliged by honor, they did just that. Their group scattered in every direction, hunting for some hint of a Turquoise warrior and a royal scribe. Ashallah trailed after Darya, who marched towards the main road into Rilah, where the desert wanderers had gathered. Dusty and worn, they formed a snake that extended miles from the city’s main gate. Ashallah stared in awe, wondering how so many travelers could enter one walled city and not overwhelm it. Darya, on the other hand, expressed no sense of reverence, as she walked the line, her eyes eager to spot the familiar.
In their search, Ashallah laid eyes on all manner of people. Dylians formed the bulk of the mass, with their dark hair and eyes, along with their tan skin. Many others dotted the line into the city, including other clans of the Tirkhan, the tribes of Renaika, Vedo-In, and Kitare. Unlike those Ashallah was used to seeing in Yasem, the ones before her were the true nomads. Having traveled hundreds or even thousands of miles, such wanderers bore tattered wool garments patched together or camel skin clothes. Such dress, much of it unwashed due to the scarcity of water in the desert that surrounded Rilah, reeked of stenches common in stables or gutters.
Amongst the grungy and slovenly, there managed to be the cleansed, the women who had taken vows of varied dedication. Dotting the length of the waiting stood pockets of immaculate fabrics, in all variety of hues. The Rosil, in their tones of red roses, kept their eyes forward even as men beckoned them to reveal so much as a hand or an ankle in their direction. The healers in white marched the whole of the line, with the injured crying “Aliya” to attract their attention. Only the Kafan Sisters - in their flowing sky-blue abayas, cloaks, and robes – garnered no consideration save the occasional glance from a curious child.
So many colors, Ashallah considered. All of them.
No, she thought. Black is missing. As is indigo, midnight blue. The colors of the Shadya.
Ashallah scanned the line, squinting as she searched for those colors. They are not here, she told herself. They are absent. Forbidden. For no woman of that sisterhood would dare be allowed into the city of the Grand Sultan.
As she squinted, her gaze falling on the end of the line in the distance, Ashallah’s peripheral vision caught sight of a figure off to her far right. On a dune, it appeared alone and shorter. Not as though it lacked stature, but because it was either hunched over or leaning.
“Darya.”
Darya turned. “Yes.”
However, Ashallah had already left her side. Her legs, drawn to the solitary form, took her away from the road and into the sand. They left light prints in the sand, the product of her instruction, the marks of a soldier trained to move quickly on ground where others would struggle. They carried her over crests and through depressions.
“Wait!” Darya called after her, her voice labored and already far-off. “Ashallah, where are you going?”
Within seconds, Ashallah was able to give an answer to that question.
“To your brother,” she said, not loud enough for anyone but her to hear.
As she neared, she could tell that the sandstorm had taken its toll on Rahim. The vest and trousers he had worn at the oasis stuck to his body in tatters. A blend of dried blood and sand caked his skin, obscuring his turquoise stripes. His blond hair, disheveled, had taken on the tone and texture of the sand. Only his eyes – sapphires in orbs of white – had stayed unscathed.
For all that the turquoise brother had endured, though, the one he hunched over had fared worse.
Ashallah slowed as she neared close enough to recognize the lacerated face. “Yaromir?”
Rahim shook his head. “No longer.”
The quiet, mild-mannered scribe bore all the marks of one mangled by beast or battle. The skin of his face lay shredded, with that not torn enveloped in blood. Long cuts, as if a tiger had clawed him, stretched over his torso, while his legs and arms stretched out at irregular angles.
All broken, Ashallah knew. From his legs to his arms to his ribs. Perhaps more. He is at an end.
Panting, Darya approached. Ashallah looked over her shoulder just in time to catch sight of Darya’s eyes widening.
“The scribe!” she exclaimed as she hurried to him. She fell by his head to cradle his head in her lap. “Do not go! Not yet!”
“Sister, he is gone.”
“But if there is just a little life left in him . . .”
“There is not.”
Ashallah turned from Darya at the sound of others moving in on them. Behind her, Caleb and the others neared, their gazes fixed squarely on Yaromir.
“You are certain?” Caleb asked of Rahim and Darya. “He has passed.”
“He has,” Rahim replied.
“You could not have saved the scribe even if there was breath still in him,” Ashallah assured.
“His life is secondary in my concerns,” Caleb stated. He knelt before Darya. “Did you read any of his thoughts? Could you dreamscape?”
Darya, tears streaming from her eyes, shook her head.
“Very well,” Caleb said. He faced Ashallah. “How much of what he taught do you remember?”
It suddenly occurred to Ashallah the reason for his inquiries. “You want to know if I can read the ancient script. If I can speak the languages of the seventy-seven?”
“Can you?”
“I was hoping for more practice.” She looked down upon Darya. “You showed me his thoughts. His experiences. Can you show me again? Or do all those go away with death?”
“That which I presented to you does not disappear at once with death,” Darya responded. “But it does fade. Never to be reclaimed. Along with the ancient languages . . . They are so hard, so complex in their nature. We do not have room for error in their recitation. For the jinn will know the words misspoken, those said falsely. You saw what that does. Remember? In the Canyonlands? With the Tirkhan warriors?”
“Yes,” Ashallah recalled as she closed her eyes. “I remember.”
“Then you know why we are concerned?”
“But you are Turquoise. What’s more, you are Firstborne. How much knowledge do you have of the language of your forefathers?”
At that, Caleb stared down, in shame.
“The language that commands our fathers is but a mystery to us. We hear it as any man or woman does when listening to a foreign tongue. You could speak it now and mispronounce or speak poorly, and we would be none the wiser. Only the jinn would understand. And judge you for it.”
Ashallah knelt beside Darya, who still held Yaromir’s head in her lap.
“Is there anything more you can teach me? Either from your experience or his?” she asked of Darya.
“Very little. Whatever dreamscapes you and I share going forward . . . They will repeat the lessons already imparted on you. There will be no new information. Only repetition.”
“Then that will have to do.”
Ashallah stood. The Firstborne, all of whom now concealed both their stature and skin, had gathered around, along with the remaining Tirkhan.
“Darya,” Rahim urged. “We must go. The line into the city moves. We must enter with the rest before the gate closes at nightfall.”
“No, no,” Darya insisted. “We can’t leave him.”
“We won’t,” Ashallah assured her. “He is coming with us.”
“I must object,” responded Caleb. “We cannot afford the distraction.”
“The distraction is what we need. So many hidden faces, covered for no apparent reason, may attract unwanted attention.”
Rahim, knowing of Ashallah’s intention, nodded in approval. “I’ll find the Kafan Sisters.”182Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7zGE5c22kh
