“That was quick,” Ashallah said to herself.
The doors of the East Gate laid open, allowing Ashallah to catch a glimpse of the funeral pyres outside. There, only the night before, half a hundred fires had raged. Flickering light cast itself on hundreds of onlookers, the crackling of wood complementing the chants of imams as the flames consumed the dead. Ashallah, Darya and the others of their odyssey had gathered to pay their respects, staying until the roaring fires had subsided to embers. With mostly smoke before them, their group had left last, the doors of the East Gate closing behind.
In the wake of the fires, Ashallah expected to find bone and ash. Though when she looked through the open doors the next morning, she found no hint of the previous night’s funerals. Fresh palm wood and straw marked new pyres, as did a new procession of Kafan Sisters, no doubt preparing for the next wave of the lifeless.
Such is the way of a decoy, Ashallah thought.
Yaromir’s body had proved useful. Rahim had little difficulty convincing the Kafan Sisters for assistance. After all, oaths bound the Women of Eternal Mourning to serve the dead, regardless of the corpse’s allegiance or background. Yaromir’s wounds, from his bloodied face to his torn limbs, had furthered their cause, for they reflected consistency with other unfortunate souls who had perished during the storm. His gashes and lacerations continued to seep blood and fluid even after the Sisters wrapped him in Kafan sheets, resulting in blotches that spoke of the dead man’s demise. Another distraction, Ashallah considered. One that sold any sentry or guard who glanced their way on the plight of the dead and those who mourned him.
A wave of white passed by Ashallah’s line of sight. Aliya. Ashallah watched as the clad women hurried toward a nondescript building with little more than a bleached kerchief hanging from the window. Six in all, they marched through the street, with many pedestrians giving way in respect, knowing that someday they would be in need of their services. It was not until two janissaries approached from the opposite direction that the Aliya changed their gait.
The six in white slowed. They separated, with three stepping to one side of the street as the other three moved to the other. The janissaries, conversing with one another, scarcely noticed the six women in white. The Aliya, in turn, gave the two soldiers little reason to pay attention to them. That is, until one of the Aliya glanced at the shorter sister in white next to her.
Damn, Ashallah thought. Damn, she nearly whispered, wanting to breathe the words into her veil.
The janissaries halted. The one closest to the Aliya who glanced studied the woman for a moment, before turning his sights to the shorter one. Neither Aliya dared to look back.
The janissary came up to the shorter one. Even from her vantage point, Ashallah could tell the smaller Aliya was the most beautiful of the six. The alabaster skin around her eyes was devoid of even one wrinkle or line. The hair of her eyebrows and lashes were a soft brown, complementing the tone of her eyes. Stark white clothing – from the hijab on her head and across her face to the abaya that hung from her shoulders to the base of her ankles – covered the rest, but could not conceal her curves.
“What do you think?” asked the janissary closest to her.
The other soldier looked the woman up and down, then nodded.
The janissary wrapped his fingers around the Aliya’s arm. He turned to the other two.
“We’ll give her back once we’re done,” he stated with a grimace.
The other Aliya stood by silently, looking down at the ground. The one in the janissary’s clutches pulled back instinctively. The janissary, in turn, slapped her. She gasped. The other soldier grabbed her other arm to guide her through the street. With his grip, the Aliya relented, offering no further resistance.
Ashallah watched as they came her way. She turned her back to them and closed her eyes, not wanting them to see her fury. She cracked her knuckles, wishing she still had her khukuri blades.
The janissaries passed. Ashallah heard the shuffling feet of the Aliya between them. She clenched her hands.
I can do this, she told herself. I am midnight.
The normal bustling of the streets resumed. Ashallah opened her eyes. She fought the urge to look in the direction that the janissaries were heading with their spoils or towards the building where the Aliya last stood.
The tavern, she told herself. The tavern.
She headed down the alleyway across from her, to a street bustling with merchants and patrons. Dwarfing the bazaar of Yasem tenfold, Ashallah knew this scene was far from being the main market of the city but stood as one of many that dotted Rilah. Specific to this venue were the spice traders of Greater Dyli, who chose the area for its proximity to the bakeries of the city. Herbs and seasonings of every kind, for every appetite and culinary palette, rested in great heaps along the road. Green sea salt from the Emerald Bay of Atil and blue sugar from the Southern Owaji Isles shone like polished stones. Silver saffron and violet peppercorn attracted stares as well, along with black mustard seeds, burnt vanilla pods, and blood orange chilies. The scents of all wafted into the air with each breeze, further drawing the crowds to the vendors.
Had it been the hour of midnight, Ashallah would have considered indulging in such smells and sights. But the day was still bright; the light continued to shine. All remained the domain of men.
Then she spotted it. A small alcove tucked away from the street in another alley. The sign hung motionless while two patrons beneath scuffled, their drunken brawl spilling into the street.
Ashallah turned her lip in disgust as she reached into her loose sleeve to pull a hermit’s mask from her dishdasha.
Let’s get this over with, she told herself.
The midday heat was at its worst by the time Ashallah emerged on the rooftop. Fortunately, the fortunes of Rilah had left the city well prepared that afternoon - as it had in countless others – by providing shade to its residents in the form of marquees. Wide expanses of dyed wool stretched over roofs. Like kerchiefs, they flapped and waved with the slightest of breezes. Violet and indigo shades rose and fell, as did those of pomegranate red, golden yellow, and pearwood green. Large poles of imported ash, cedar and jasper dotted the roofs of the more prestigious, while lesser poles of palm or driftwood served the purposes of the working class.
Ashallah stared on at the many marquees, which by comparison made those of Yasem look paltry. How can we defeat this city? she asked herself. This leader that supports it? The Grand Sultan? Doubt edged into her mind until she spotted her partners in war seated at the far end of the roof, and with them, Darya.
To hell with my hesitation, Ashallah told herself as she took a seat amongst her comrades.
“What did you discover?” asked Caleb, still bearing the mask of a hermit along with most of the others.
“Only a little, I’m afraid. Those that drank had few details to speak of that did not concern a woman’s valley or mountains. Those that didn’t – and there were few of them – had the sense to sit amongst themselves and speak in whispers.”
“So you learned nothing?”
“No. I found out that workers are in short supply. Many men have been conscripted to the coast, to build and work the Grand Sultan’s fleet. Those here in Rilah command good pay, the kind that attracts the pilgrims we saw lined outside the city. And the Grand Sultan currently has a need for them all. Even the less desired . . . such as the hermits . . . are able to find work.”
“That is good, is it not?” asked Darya.
“It is,” Caleb affirmed. “But our task still proves difficult.”
“Not too difficult, my friend,” Rahim replied behind his mask. He removed it, to reveal the smile that had curled on his lips.
“What makes you so sure?” Ashallah inquired.
“Because the drunks I visited were more helpful than the ones you did.” Rahim rose. “The Sultan is a cautious man, but a proud one. He would not dare travel across the ocean to conquer the coastal empires without the seventy-seven jinn. Or their tombs.
“One of the workers I bought a drink told of how he secured a job as a porter. A menial job and one not deserving mention, except that he kept bragging about seeing the underground lair of the Sultan. He and his cousins, along with a small army of men, had been tasked with carrying a bunch of long, heavy coffins to the palace’s workshop to be fitted on special wagons.”
“But why trust men?” Ashallah interrupted. “Why not have the jinn move their own tombs? Or the turquoise?”
“Because the turquoise and jinn are forbidden from touching the sacred sarcophagi. Only those of true human form, whether man or woman, can touch the tombs. Can read aloud the words etched in the sarcophagi. Can command those of blue skin.”
“This drunk of yours,” Caleb began. “Did he say if his crew is in need of more porters?”
A smile widened on Rahim’s face once again. “Always. For the load of the tombs is heavy and a burden not even the strongest can endure for long. He said that just yesterday, three of his relatives endured injuries while lifting. They are so desperate for men down there that they are even willing to accept less-desired help.”
“Such as women?” Ashallah inquired.
“Such as hermits.”
One, two, three, four . . .
Ashallah lowered her other arm to the roof. Her arms shook under her weight. She felt as strong as ever. However, for some reason, her balance remained off.
“Focus, bitch,” she said, chastising herself under her breath. “Focus.”
She straightened her body into a plank. She shifted her weight to her left side this time, raising her right arm in the process.
One, two, three . . .
Her feet fell to the ground. Ashallah whipped around onto her rear, swinging a fist into the air.
“Damn it to the Five Doors!”
Ashallah scanned her surroundings to make sure her outburst had not garnered attention from other rooftops. She reached for her veil, to ensure it still hung, in case anyone chose to look at her. She found no eyes staring back at her, no gazes, no one watching.
At least I had some time to myself, Ashallah thought as she stood.
She crossed a walkway and skipped over two adjoining roofs to join her comrades once more. Many of the Firstborne, with masks and all their disguises, reclined on pillows as they fanned themselves. The remaining Tirkhan on the roof laid back, snoring. A fine sight. Only Darya remained upright, her legs dangling off the edge of the roof as she nibbled on a blood orange, her veil concealing her chewing.
“That is a rare treat,” Ashallah declared as she plopped beside her.
Darya extended the fruit but recoiled once Ashallah shook her head. “My brother gave it to me. Said he picked it up from one of the stalls.”
“Did he pay for it?”
“Not likely. I rejected it outright, but he insisted. He said he didn’t know if our plan would work, so he wanted me to indulge, to lift my spirits.”
“You have the gift of dreamscape. Certainly, amongst us, there is no one more confident about the future than you.”
“Dreamscape is but an illusion. Like strategy. Like plans. They lead you on the right path to the future. I’ve had the advantage of being right so far regarding events to come. But like everything, the future can change.”
“That is a bold statement. Does your brother share the conviction of your words?”
“He isn’t much of a talker. A little more brutish, if you were to ask me. More of a man of action. He walks the streets now, to track down the porter he met earlier and coax him – or bribe him – for a chance to work in the tombs.”
Ashallah stared down the side of the building, pretending to admire the shutters and window planters below. “I don’t know if I can do it. If I can recite my lessons with certainty. If I’ll be able to read the script of the jinn.”
“I know.”
“And yet we’ll go through with this?”
“We will.”
“Aren’t you . . .”
“I am nothing if not afraid.” Darya threw the fruit and its peel from her hands. “When was the last time you went into battle knowing you weren’t the strongest? The fastest? The best?”
“I, I’m not sure.”
“I am. In my dreamscapes with you, I shared my thoughts, but I also experienced yours. I’ve felt your emotions, your feelings, on the eve of battle. In the moments before your blade met another’s. During the heat of war. In all of it, you were not afraid. Except for once. Your first. Do you remember?”
Ashallah did. It happened only a month after she had completed her basic training, in the bogs of Saltlands. Some fifteen years earlier, her unit had been sent to suppress an uprising of Nasian tribes who had declared autonomy and stopped paying tribute to Dylian tax collectors. The Nasian collective responsible for inflicting the greatest damage on Dylian soldiers and property was an army of female soldiers, brutal in their tactics. They regularly burned villages in front of their kneeling captives before executing them, all while taking the name of Jaha in vain. So incensed was the Grand Sultan at their insolence that he sent every unit of midnight warriors to the south, including green recruits such as Ashallah.
Her contingent was one of the first to arrive on the edge of the Saltlands, where a group of Nasian women warriors had already amassed. With little time to strategize, the directive Ashallah and the others received was simple: advance on the enemy in bull-and-horns formation.
As a newly minted warrior, Ashallah marched within the head of their advance. Those more proven in terms of agility and battlefield experience fanned out from the center. In unison, they moved forward. The enemy beckoned them with taunts and insults. They waved the scalps and heads of their enemies to instill fear.
They succeeded.
Those in front of Ashallah and to her side paused, only to be struck by those behind. A warrior trailing her vomited, the contents of her stomach soiling her greaves and sandals. One even shat herself. Ashallah, remembering her training, remained composed on the outside. All the while though, her nerves gnawed at her confidence, filling the void they created with fear and doubt.
Then Ashallah found herself splattered with blood. Her khukuri blades hung in her hands, dull from overuse. Corpses of her enemies laid at her feet, some hacked beyond any hope of recognition. As did the bodies of her sisters-in-arms. It was over. The battle. Her fear. Her doubt. Any innocence she had left. Gone.
Ashallah’s reflection faded as her mind returned to the present. She stared into Darya’s hazel eyes. “I remember.”
“You ventured into the unknown, into battle,” Darya stated. “You had no experience in what you were tasked to do. Yet you emerged.”
“I did.”
“Victorious.”
“Yes.”
“And up until recently, you were the leader of your sisters-in-arms. You commanded midnight warriors.”
“That is true . . .”
“Yet your doubt remains. Why?”
“In battle, I had the benefit of knowing that even with defeat, all would not be lost. If I was injured, or even killed, the fight would go on. Even if all my sisters fell in battle, another unit would be sent. There was never any conflict or battle I fought in where that was not a possibility.
“Until now. If this mission fails, because of me, if I am unable to perform, to read . . . Who will replace us? Who will avenge my family? Everything I have lost? And you . . .”
Ashallah stopped. Her speech came to an abrupt halt. She stood.
“Ashallah . . .”
“Never mind. Forget my worries.”
She turned to walk away. From Darya. From her foolish thoughts. She took a few steps toward the edge of the roof, expecting to jump across to the next building.
Oooooooohaaaaaaa!
The horn blast jarred the bones in Ashallah’s body. She reached to cover her ears, but before she could do so, the sound broke.
“What in the Five Doors . . .”
The noise erupted again. This interval Ashallah had time to reach for her ears, as the pitch of the horn dropped, the blast elongating.
Rahim burst out of the door and onto the roof. “Quickly.”
He turned and descended. The Firstborne followed fast on his heels. As did the Tirkhan. Along with Darya.
Ashallah’s legs pumped to catch up. She advanced until she was halfway between Rahim and Darya, wanting not to lose either. The whole of them wove between buildings and through alleys, their efforts garnering no attention, for all others moved in the same direction with the same urgency.
Rahim, leading the charge, finally slowed. The rest, including Ashallah, came to a stop beside him.
Amassed before them stood scores of people, from all nations and tribes. The whole of the square teemed with faces from a thousand lands. Black, tan and white. Some with noses and ears pierced. Others with painted faces. Still others wearing masks, while all the women bore veils.
All directed their focus towards the arena, a mighty structure housed within walls five stories high. The doors, of heavy antique cedar, remained closed before the crowd. Before the doors, five rows of soldiers five men deep remained at attention, further barring them from entering. Many of the crowd kept a respectable distance from the armed guards. However, those towards the front hurled insults and jeers, nearly all of which Ashallah could hear.
“You vipers! Let us in!”
“My sister is in there . . . she did no wrong!”
“Is this the Sultan’s justice? To punish wives and mothers? Sisters and daughters?”
“Release them! Release them!”
The last chant caught on with the rest of the crowd. Soon the chorus engulfed the whole of the mass, who beat their fists in the air with every other word.
The soldiers before the gate shared a glance or two with each other. Many tightened the grips on their spears and braced their shields closer to their bodies. The crowd, sensing their unease, edged closer to their lines.
“Release them! Release them! Release . . .”
The first lines of the crowds fell. Suddenly and without warning. From Ashallah’s vantage point, she could not tell why or how. She scanned the whole of her surroundings for but a moment. Her eyes narrowed like those of a hawk.
Then she found it. The slightest glint of metal, peeking out from one of the slits of the arena. In the neighboring slit, she spotted another, as she did in the slit beside that. In fact, from every opening of the arena, from the second story to the top, she caught sight of arrowheads.
The whole mass, which only moments before seemed on the verge of a riot, calmed. In shock and awe, they looked down or craned their heads to catch glimpses of their fallen comrades. Those not dead, with breath still in their bodies, cried out to Jaha for mercy.
In answer to their prayers, the arrowheads delivered.
From the second story came the first wave. From the third came the second fusillade. And so on until the last wave of arrows descended from the top tier. The masses closest to the walls endured the brunt of the assault. In lines they fell. With hands outstretched or grasping their throats. Their cries in mid-scream with mouths left agape. Eyes, staring into the sky, waiting for the angels of salvation that never came.
The untouched survivors fell back on each other as they turned to run. Again, the front endured the worst, with young trampling on old. The stampeded scarcely had time to build momentum when a sole shrill pierced the crowd.
“Look!”
Somehow forgetting their plight, a handful in the mass turned their gazes upward. They froze in the sandals. Almost instantly, others followed suit, including Ashallah.
Snow. That was the first thought to cross her mind. The second? Not again.
A blizzard of ash rose from within the arena. Flakes of the deceased, black and gray, floated over the top wall to waft their way down amongst the crowd. Like feathers, the ash took their time to land. Their leisurely pace ushered a sense of calm and silence amongst the crowd, one that Ashallah did not think would end until a familiar call beckoned from afar.
“Ohhhhh . . . Jaaaaaahaaaaaa! Hear us!”
The flakes of falling ash seemed to shift in response. Those in the mob, with their insolence shattered, looked over their shoulders towards the minaret of the nearest temple, one of many that stood sentry over the entire city. Then, en masse, those who had jeered only moments before sank to their knees and bowed in the direction of the Royal Palace.
Ashallah stared as a sea of abayas, hijabs, and shoras laid out before her. The ash continued to fall, to land on the backs of the crowd, as if to mark them for death. In shock, in horror, she looked on at the grandest act of submission she had ever witnessed. Even in Yasem, when the call from the minaret came, the citizens had the decency to gather their mats and pray with some dignity. Rilah, by comparison, was different by far.
“Ashallah!” Darya beckoned with a harsh whisper. “Kneel and bow!”
Ashallah heard her. However, the words did not resonate. For something had garnered her attention.
At the top of the highest wall of the arena, above the crowd, stood a solitary figure. Taller than any person, man or woman, she had ever seen. Silhouetted by the afternoon sun, it loomed over the bowed backs of those below, tilting its head in an act of supremacy and judgment.
Ashallah thought better of questioning what the creature was. Because she knew. The wisps of black smoke that spiraled told her the truth. As did the gold script on the beast’s body, which pulsed and glowed.
Ashallah considered the possibilities as her eyes glared at the beast. Is he the one? she asked herself. Who did the bidding of the vizier? Who answers to the Grand Sultan and his minions? Who responds to the horn blast like some rabid dog? Ashallah fists flexed and coiled at the thought of the jinni’s victims. Those like her sister. Or her ommah.
Hands grabbed Ashallah by the shoulders. Another set pressed against her waist. Still another pulled at her leg. She fought all of them off, not caring why or who had touched her.
“Ashallah!”
Ashallah looked down. On her knees, staring back at her, was Darya. Her hands on her leg. Her eyes and all the rest of her distraught.
Ashallah looked around.
“Five Doors . . .”
A cardinal sin, she thought. I committed it. All my years of training. For naught. For I have forgotten my surroundings. I did nothing to conceal my exposure. I failed to blend. I am not midnight.
Save her comrades who rose to subdue her, Ashallah realized that she had remained the only one in the square on her feet. The rest, as sheep reacting to a master’s call, had bowed in submission towards the Royal Palace to pray.
Ashallah’s apparent act of defiance had not escaped observation. Several of the devout immediately around her had tilted their heads to peek at her. Ashallah could see the whites of their eyes. Their massive disapproval. Their silent fear for what was to come, the unknown punishment.
For Ashallah, the threat of wrath was far from unknown. In her fragile state- exposed to so many – her senses had heightened. She knew the soldiers’ stares were upon her. Their nocked arrows had her in their sights, with the glint of their arrowheads in her peripheral vision. She could smell the excreted perspiration of those around her, their sweat a product of their nervousness and fear. Nor was the absence of sound lost on her. She imagined that such a moment was what it felt like to be hunted, to be prey.
All the while, the jinni stared down at her. His power subdued, he remained a creature in waiting, his only restraint the command of a vizier or the Grand Sultan himself.
The moment to act had passed. Ashallah could only hope against hope that chaos would save them.
“Caleb!” she said. “In the storm, you protected . . .”
Her words stopped with the loosing of a bowstring. Its vibration - so subtle as to be lost in the wind on any other day – sang a death song. One that screamed a melody of finality in Ashallah’s ear.
Then, as suddenly as it had struck her ears, so did another sound. A clank, much like that of a pebble hitting a window.
Ashallah turned - to find an arrow falling to the ground - as three others flew in her direction. She twisted on the balls of her feet, ready to flee, until the arrows struck an invisible barrier. Like their predecessors, they clanked and bounced back before falling to the sand.
She looked back to Caleb, whose hand extended to her and Darya. The other Firstborne did the same, thereby shielding their comrades.
Caleb, ever stoic in times past, tilted his head to gaze upon his superior at the arena’s edge. His mask, which had been a wall to his feelings and emotions for so long, could not hide the fear in his voice.
“Run . . .”
The jinni stepped off from the arena’s edge. The five-story fall was but a hop for him, as his feet struck the ground and he steadied almost immediately. He extended his arms. With that one motion, the wisps of smoke that had gathered by and around his feet emerged and snaked forward. The lot of them descended upon the Firstborne, moving through their invisible shields uninhibited. The first struck Caleb, who clutched his gut as he recoiled.
“No!” Darya screamed. She sprang forth to her feet, but Ashallah caught her in her arms to pull her back. Others in the mob struggled to their feet. They swirled around. They scurried. They ran. Into each other. Trampling one another.
Caleb’s hermit mask fell from his face, revealing the pained expression Ashallah had seen in so many lesser warriors. Blood trickled from the sides of his mouth as his eyes turned wide.
Ashallah felt a hard push at her back. “Take her!” Rahim urged. “Go!”
With one arm around Darya’s shoulder, Ashallah hurried through the mob. Several ran into her, a few nearly driving her to the ground. Somehow she kept her balance, as did Darya, as they edged their way from the arena square.
Before turning a corner, Ashallah glanced back at Caleb. Having fallen to his knees, he was the last of the Firstborne not sprawled on the ground. She saw him raise his hand once more. With what was perhaps his last bit of energy, he stretched out his palm towards the coils of smoke. As though blown back by a sudden gust, they shot back. They retreated almost to the jinni’s reach.
The jinni watched as the smoke ebbed back to him. With purposeful resolve, he shifted his focus from the black mist at his feet to his torso and the length of his arms. The script on his body burned with a fire from within. His chest heaved as he breathed in and out, over and again. The smoke stretched forward with each exhale and retracted with each inhale. The script glowed brighter with each breath out and dimmed with each breath in. Then, on the third breath, his chest stopped heaving. The columns of smoke flanking the jinni hung in the air, motionless.
Darya looked over her shoulder, her gaze matching Ashallah’s. “Caleb . . .”
The black mist shot forward. As did flame. They consumed Caleb. His skin ignited. He opened his mouth to scream but the roar of the fire deafened his cries. As it did to all of those in its wake.
“No!” Darya shouted. She reached out over Ashallah’s shoulders. Ashallah, with all her strength, lifted her and turned the corner just as the firestorm shot past. Rahim beckoned them forward.
“You must take her,” Rahim demanded.
“Where?” Ashallah asked.
“Anywhere you can hide.”
“But Rahim . . .” Darya protested.
“You must protect yourself,” Rahim insisted as he shook his sister by the shoulders. “You are the only one of us left with the power to defeat the Sultan. Your dreamscapes are the key. You must fight on. I will do everything I can to buy you time.”
Darya opened her mouth, however, Rahim would have none of it. He pushed her into Ashallah’s arms, and with that, he was gone. His strides, long and swift, brought him back to the edge of the square. There, the fire had retreated briefly. He stripped the shora from his head and the cloak from his shoulders. Bare-chested, with the turquoise stripes of his torso in full view for all to see, he stepped out from the behind the cover of the building.
Ashallah looked to Darya, who was too afraid to scream or move. With no other choice, Ashallah bent down to hoist her over her shoulder. She turned into an alleyway and disappeared from the chaos.
The path swerved and turned in all manner of directions. Through it all, Ashallah saw the anguished and frightened faces of many as they passed one residence after another. She heard the shouts of many more, along with the footsteps of the panicked and the shut doors and shutters of the scared. Most of the sounds struck her ears as unintelligible garble or noise, except for a few choice words and phrases.
“Soldiers!”
“They’re coming for us . . .”
“Hide, you damn fools! Hide!”
The last she took to heart. She quickened her pace to turn another corner, only to meet a wall where she had hoped for another path.
At her pause, Darya arched her back and hopped down from her shoulder. She looked to the ground, in shame. “I failed.”
“What?!” Ashallah asked, distracted by her search for a clear escape.
“I should have seen this happen. In my dreamscapes.”
“There is no time for hindsight now. We need to focus on the present.”
“But Rahim . . .”
“Can take care of himself.” Ashallah grabbed Darya by the shoulders. “Now listen. I need your help. If there is any way you, your dreamscapes, can help us? Can they?”
Darya replied not with words but with a solemn stare, one that carried neither hope nor promise. Ashallah felt the urge to yell her name. That is until Darya suddenly closed her eyes and reached for the sides of Ashallah’s head. The moment was brief, almost insignificant, except for the fact that a sudden sense of calm washed over Ashallah.
With that, Darya opened her eyes. “I know what to do,” she pronounced. “Follow me.”
Darya took her hand and led her back down the alleyway. Window after window and door after door were shut. Ahead, the echoes of soldiers’ footsteps on the brick-lined alleyway taunted them, growing louder as ran.
“We’re going in the wrong direction,” Ashallah insisted.
“No, we aren’t. I know the way.”
Ashallah wanted to believe her, but the sight of two columns of soldiers before them stirred uncertainty within. She looked to Darya and her lips parted, on the verge of voicing her skepticism, when Darya reached for the handle of one of the residences. To Ashallah’s surprise, it was unlocked. Darya pulled Ashallah inside before slamming the door shut.
Within, tables of varying lengths and heights lined both sides of a cluttered hallway. On the walls hung tools.
“This is a carpenter’s home.”
“Part of one,” Darya replied. “Here, give me a hand.”
Ashallah helped Darya with a long table of heavy wood. No sooner had they buttressed the door with it than the thumps of soldiers’ staff and fists beat from the other side.
“Now, this way. Come,” motioned Darya.
The two weaved through furniture and wood, through a receiving room and kitchen. From there, a back door opened to a staircase, one that wrapped in circles five stories up to a flat rooftop.
“Which way?” Ashallah asked as she surveyed the surroundings.
“Down!” Darya shouted as she pulled her to the roof.
Ashallah felt the whisk of air by her ear. She knelt to the roof, cursing herself in that briefest of moments.
“An arrow! At my backside! Stupid! Stupid!”
She looked over her shoulder to find a janissary, fifty feet from her, nocking his bow. The muscles in her legs tensed as she turned on the balls of her feet, ready to rush him.
“No, he’s too far,” Darya warned.
“I can kill him.”
“He’s not alone. There are others. Run . . .”
Darya pulled on Ashallah before rising to her feet. Another arrow – from an unknown source – shot past her, missing her by inches.
“Darya!” Ashallah shouted after her, having forgotten her assailant. She rose to chase after her, fully aware she was abandoning her aggression and now on the defensive. A second arrow shot past her, followed by a third and fourth. After each one, Ashallah changed course, her progress over the rooftops a series of fractured, diagonal sprints.
Darya’s actions were much the same. Somehow, for one not a warrior, they were agile and deft. Ashallah marveled as she ducked and leaped, always at the right moment. Arrows flew by, finding wood and clay but not the intended targets of flesh. Soon, two long rooftops stood between her and Ashallah, and with them the clotheslines, baskets and other obstacles.
Not wanting to lose Darya altogether, Ashallah made one, straight dash for her position. A slew of arrows followed in her wake, sending the air around her abuzz. Ashallah crouched and jumped in response, knowing that fortune as much as skill would be her aid at that moment.
Darya peaked from behind the cover of a shed, waving her forward. Ashallah was nearly there, only a few strides away, when the sharpest pain bit at the meat of her left shoulder. She winced but kept forward before another agonizing surge struck her right thigh.
Her strength failed as she fell forward into Darya’s arms. Darya pulled her behind the shed as arrows thudded against its side.
“Your wounds . . .” Darya started.
“Are scratches. Nothing more.” Ashallah managed a distressed smile.
“You can’t run.”
“I don’t need to.” Ashallah pulled the arrow from her shoulder, the barbs ripping flesh from her arm. “Go on. I’ll hold them off . . . while . . . you run.”
“No. You won’t.”
“Rahim was right. You are important. You are needed.”
“But you . . .”
“I am midnight. One of thousands. I can be replaced.”
Darya, stricken by Ashallah’s words, leaned back. Her eyes widened ever so slightly. She appeared on the verge of yelling, of protesting and fighting and screaming at the thought of Ashallah’s sacrifice. Ashallah, seeing her pained and wounded expression, expected no less.
“Come,” was all she said.
Extending her hand to Ashallah, Darya helped her to her feet. Ashallah saw that their corner of the roof was too far for Darya to jump, with the closest building more than twenty feet away. Below, clotheslines crossed over one another, creating a web of twine and fabric.
“Make for the other roof,” Ashallah said as she pointed. “If you keep your head down and sprint, you just might make it.” Ashallah winced as she pulled the other arrow tip from her thigh. “I’ll hold them off.”
“No. You won’t.”
Darya ripped the veil from Ashallah’s face as she lifted her own. She leaned in to kiss Ashallah.
Ashallah’s body tightened as Darya’s lips met her own. Her rigidity lasted but a fraction of a moment as she closed her eyes and melted into the kiss. A thousand concubines and lovers could not have prepared her for that moment. Jarring and soft, unexpected and welcome, the length of the kiss was seconds stretched into years. Years of joy. Of bliss. Possibly of love. Ashallah’s sense of danger and concern disappeared, falling from her soul. Falling . . .
The sting of twine against her back shocked her back to reality. As did the slap of wet cloth. Then another stretch of twine and cloth. Followed by another. Upon opening her eyes, Ashallah saw the blue above and the walls of two buildings rising fast. On the ledge of one stood Darya, staring down at her.
I am falling, falling, falling. The thought echoed through her mind as clotheslines snapped under her weight. One line was particularly thick and cradled her for but an instant before she slid off to resume her descent once more. Ashallah reached for the lines, her arms flailing, desperate and panicked. Before she could grab just one, her cascading stopped.
Pain surged through her back and head. She stretched out her arms and legs slowly. Her fingers found granules, not of sand, but something different.
A set of hands pulled her by the pits of her arms. She struggled against them.
“Don’t fight it,” Rahim commanded.
“I’m fine . . . considering.”
“That pile of sawdust broke your fall.” Rahim stopped to lift Ashallah into his arms.
“Darya . . .” Ashallah pointed to the ledge above. Rahim lifted his head. However, in place of where Darya once stood were three janissaries, pointing their spear tips down at them.
Ashallah tilted her head back. The whole of it throbbed. Her vision blurred. She could hear though, the faint orders of soldiers in the distance. Along with Rahim’s footsteps. Then breathing. Followed by a heartbeat. 157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6wGdEjPo6k
