The burning struck her senses first. Harsh and bitter, like ashes in her nose and mouth. Overwhelmed, Ashallah’s eyes fluttered open as she turned on her side, away from the source of the smoke. With that, a sharp pain shot up her ribs to wrap around the muscles of her back and neck. She sat up.
“Easy, easy,” Rahim whispered.
Pitch darkness surrounded them, except for the small fire at her side.
“Darya? Darya! Where’s Darya?!”
“You know where.”
“We must . . .”
“Rest. You’re no good to either her or me in the state you’re in.”
“Where are we?” she asked.
“The catacombs.”
“The soldiers, the janissaries, they will search this place.”
“Perhaps. Though consider that the underground tombs of the Immortal City are never-ending, a country unto themselves. Within them are sections that make even the janissaries pause.”
“Such as this one.”
“We are in the Forbidden Ward. It served as a prison for Dyli’s enemies during The War of Three Tribes. Thousands died here, including some of the turquoise assigned to guard them. Legend has it that some of those same turquoise - those corrupted by evil, with a thirst for blood – still roam these tunnels.”
“If only we were so lucky. We could have used such forces.”
“Yes, if only.”
“They’re all dead, aren’t they? The Firstborne? The Tirkhan?”
“The Firstborne, yes. The jinni you saw at the arena . . . With fire, he consumed them all. They never stood a chance. For no turquoise - not even a Firstborne – can hurt their ancestors, the jinn. Just like neither turquoise nor jinn alike can draw the blood of the Grand Sultan.
“And the Tirkhan, well, some put up a fight. The soldiers were too many though. Most are dead; the rest lay dying.”
“The soldiers . . . did they hurt . . .”
“They only captured my sister. No blade touched her.”
Ashallah laid back down. Her arms fell to her sides. She stared up into the pitch darkness of the tunnel, seeing no end to the black above her.
The scrape of metal against stone echoed through the cavernous hold. Ashallah need not turn to know that Rahim was sharpening a blade. Had she more interest, she would have asked about it. Such curiosities waned from her mind, as did any other cares she may have had in her previous life.
The scraping continued for hours. Ashallah laid still through it all.
Then, it stopped. “Are you just going to lie there?”
Ashallah opened her eyes, turning not to Rahim, but staring up into the darkness. “I don’t see why not. We were once part of a force. Now we are two.”
“So, that’s it? There is no more fight within you?”
“In the last dreamscape your sister shared with me, I saw your sister’s dealings with others she tried to rally to our mission. The Shadya of Yasem. The Kafan Sisters of every city we visited. The Aliya outside the gates of Rilah. She implored all of them to join our fight.”
Even through the haze of her pain, Ashallah recalled in clear detail the memories Darya had shared. The night she had spotted her in the brothel, Darya had met with both midnight warriors and concubines alike, to convince them to join their quest to Rilah. Darya had been there among the Shadya and Kafan sisters of Yasem that night as well, standing in the crowd as the mother wailed at the loss of her daughter. In her blue garb, she had weaved through the audience, touching those she could to share her own response to the travesties their gender endured.
“Darya spoke to them,” she continued. “She embraced and touched them. She shared her dreamscapes, all to convince them of our cause.”
Ashallah turned as Rahim raised his eyebrows, her words having piqued his interest. “And?”
“That was it. All I saw were your sister’s efforts – and an absence of reactions from all who heard her words and saw her visions. None answered the call.”
“But you must have seen and felt more from her dreams. After all, my sister is particular, especially with those she chooses to kiss.”
Ashallah shot a look of bewilderment towards Rahim. “You know?”
“My sister is more transparent to me than she realizes. As are you. The love you share is new, but it is obvious. And it is worth believing and dreaming and fighting for, as is our cause.”
“You’re right. I saw more. Aside from the images of those women who turned from the cause, however, I can make no sense of it. Blurred memories. Strange combinations of noises and sounds. Above all of them . . . I experienced Darya’s . . . emotions. The strain our journey has taken on her. The sadness at seeing so much suffering. I felt her failing hope. The cause is lost.”
Rahim lifted the sharp tip of his blade to the underside of her chin. Gently, he guided Ashallah’s head up to stare into her eyes, his deep blue irises illuminating far stronger than any ember of the fire beside them.
“I thought that at one time. My father, a jinni, having grown tired of following the Grand Sultan, tried to resist the last of his three wishes. Still, the Sultan’s command, his knowledge of the Shaha, the language of the jinn, was too powerful to ignore. My father did the deed, slaughtering an entire village of enemy soldiers – along with all their families – without mercy, washing the desert in their blood. Despite the command being carried out, the Sultan took insult for his small effort of resistance. My father was the first jinni to suffer the script carved into his skin. Seeing that it did not work, the Grand Sultan banished him to the depths of his deepest crypt.
“All of my father’s warrior offspring, his turquoise warriors, were punished as well. I was banished to the underground prisons of Baul and Indep, where I executed one innocent after another, prisoners like my father who dared to question his ruthlessness.
“But my punishment did not end there. From the prisons, they directed me to the quarries of northern Dyli, where I spent day and night breaking rock from rock, cutting stone with my bare hands until my bones broke, my strength drained.
Rahim held out his hand, which quivered as he recalled the memory.
“I thought I would die there, among the searing heat of sand and stone. Then, one night, the guards entered my cell. It was after a hard day of labor, one that robbed the life from me. They drug me from my cage into the barracks, where I saw my sister . . .”
Rahim’s eyes sprung tears, droplets that rolled down his cheeks to cleanse his face, if only a little.
“She had given herself to those beasts, her body, that they might release me. They did not know who she was, nor who I had been. Those drunken, vile bastards were barely fit to carry a sword. Yet they had had her. Again and again. And she complied. Just to free me.
“Enraged though I was, once we left, she shared her dreamscape with me. It was of her own pain, her longing for family, her struggle to find me. It also showed me her hope, her dreams, even her escape. A paradise like no other. One with soft sand. Waves. Peace.
“That dreamscape calmed my soul. Allowed me to focus my thoughts. The sole purpose of vengeance left my mind, replaced with a grander mission, the one you and I are on now.
“So long as my sister breathes, all is not lost. She was the key to us going this far. She will be the key in our plans to come. Should we be so lucky to form them, or even one.”
“You think her alive?” Ashallah asked, believing the answer to be no.
“I do, regretfully. The Grand Sultan no doubt has plans for her.”
At that, Ashallah brushed away his hand and the knife he held. She lifted herself to her elbow and turned to face Rahim. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? Not with all the dreamscapes you and my sister shared?”
Ashallah shook her head.
Rahim rose and sheathed his blade. “Darya is no ordinary turquoise. We all have our special talents, but she is a woman apart. Her ability to dreamscape – to pull memories from another just by touch, to see one’s past and future, to impart knowledge and images from herself to anyone she touches – is without comparison. Most of our kind, even the Firstborne, have limits as to how much they can see into the past and the future. Darya, though . . .”
“Go on.”
“Her talents of dreamscapes strengthen. Every year. No, every day. She has the ability to see so much more than when she was a child. No other can rival her. Her power only grows. It will not be long before her aptitude will surpass those of the jinn, who themselves are limited from birth in their skills and powers.”
“So the Sultan seeks to exploit her.”
“He intends to expand his reach beyond the waters. The understanding of his enemies is paramount to their eventual submission. As is his understanding of the local populace, those he can ally with, the weather, and so much more. The jinn can help in such matters, to be sure, but the Sultan would rather save his wishes with them for battles and engagements. Darya is unbound by the By using her, he can find out their troop movements, the locations of their weapons depots and treasure caches, along with so much more.”
“Darya will never consent. The Grand Sultan would be wasting his time.”
“If he were a normal man, yes. For Darya is strong in both mind and heart. However, the Sultan’s jinn have ways of . . . changing her.”
“Meaning ?”
“Use your imagination, for I cannot speak aloud the horror they are capable of.”
“So what can we do?”
“Ready ourselves. You must rest. I must clear my mind.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“No. Not yet. I am hoping you can help me with that. But for now, gather your strength.”
Ashallah laid back down. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she found the small fire had smoldered to embers. She could still hear Rahim’s motions, of him sharpening his blade, back and forth. From the noise she could tell the sharpened edge was from a different weapon.
She extended her index finger to the ashes. She caressed them, drawing calligraphy into the bits of gray.
“The scribe,” she whispered.
“What?” asked Rahim.
“I know how we can sneak into the palace,” Ashallah stated as she sat up, ignoring the pain. “And rescue Darya.”
The janissary collapsed at her feet with a thud louder than she could have anticipated. One not noisy enough to attract attention though.
At least he did not gurgle, she told herself. Nor did he spit up blood. The cut was deep and clean.
As she cleaned her blade on the janissary’s sleeve, Rahim landed beside her. His eyes found the fresh corpse, then Ashallah. She expected a nod of approval. Instead, she received a breath, deeper than the one Rahim had breathed before. A sign, however small, of relief.
They were within one of the many inner-walled gardens of the Royal Palace. Soldiers patrolled the grounds just like all the other walled sections of the palace. However, none had the same number of guards. Those closest to the Grand Sultan’s residence, in the center of the sprawling regal estate, had the most. Buttressing it were smaller yet still handsome residences of his closest children and viziers. From there, other enclosed compounds spread from the oculus of the palace, with the importance of their inhabitants dictating how close or far they were from the middle. Naturally, the servants’ quarters lined the interior of the outer wall. That area of the palace – and the small gate that led to it – hosted the fewest sentries and guards.
The dreamscape from Yaromir that Darya had shared with Ashallah had told her as much. Through the whole of his transferred memories, she had discerned that Yaromir had been something of a curious wanderer, choosing to explore every crevice and hall of the palace not off limits to him. They also disclosed how Yaromir escaped the palace, which was more chance than design. The night the jinni had shared his revelation with Yaromir happened to coincide with Esterli, a soldiers’ holiday commemorating an ancient janissary victory. Many of the guards, even those on duty, had partaken in drink and pleasure that night, allowing for laxer enforcement of security standards in all but the Grand Sultan’s quarters. The departure of an unarmed scribe aroused no suspicions, even one tasked with doing the Sultan’s work.
While leaving the palace on a holiday night proved effortless, Ashallah knew such fortune would not be on their side. For in the days since Yaromir’s tenure at the Royal Palace, security and all other precautions had grown. Braziers lined the crenelled walls every fifty feet, and with them, guards. Every five hundred feet, a watchtower protruded from the wall, allowing a commanding view of the fortifications in all directions. So neither scaling nor climbing the crenels proved a viable option. Rather, Ashallah had to rely on a less than desirable option.
A sack landed at Ashallah’s feet. “Your people are disgusting,” Rahim declared. His eyes turned back to the sluice from where they came as he removed his soiled clothes.
“What, the turquoise don’t shit?”
“We do. But we don’t allow it to collect like so much filth.”
“It is a security precaution to raise the sluice gate sparingly.”
“One that permits discharge to rot in the heat and sun. Uhh, wretched.”
“If they left it open all the time, it would pose a security hazard. Consider that the gates, when opened at night, are practically invisible. The architects of the palace fortifications did a masterful job of concealing the sluice gates. Fortunately, our good friend the scribe was kind enough to remember the location of such things and the times when the servants would raise the gates to empty the waste conduits.”
“Yes, yes, I understand this palace is secure. Everything is a precaution. There are soldiers on guard even for the shit gates.”
“It’s always best to take the strongest measures possible.”
Rahim nudged the corpse with his foot. “A lot of good that caution did them.”
Ashallah changed her clothing along with Rahim. The Lower Quarters of Rilah, where they had procured their new garb, turned out to be a treasure trove of stolen merchandise. The flea market offered every costume and uniform imaginable, even those of janissaries. However, both Rahim and Ashallah had decided such combative gear would attract attention rather than allow them to blend into the fabric of palace life. They opted instead for the simple wares of servants. In addition to being drab and homely, the loose clothing of trousers, shirts, and tunics allowed them to hide whatever weapons they were able to procure.
With her trousers on, Ashallah was just about to put on a shirt when she noticed Rahim glancing in her direction.
“Take a long look,” Ashallah said with a smirk before she covered her breasts.
“I wasn’t staring,” Rahim began, “for the reason you think.”
“Typical of a man to lie about an open truth.”
“I was just considering your many scars.”
“You bear your fair share.” Ashallah nodded to Rahim’s right side, where a curved line of scar tissue protruded from his torso.
“Darya confided in me that this mission would be the last battle for many of us.”
“She knew?!”
“She saw death, but she said the faces were a blur. She didn’t want to make it widely known, lest to scare those with us.”
“I suppose she had the right of it.”
“Perhaps . . . huh . . .”
“Had our comrades known, none would admit a fear of dying. But all of us, in some way, would express concern with losing, as though the two were exclusive of each other.”
Ashallah frowned. “You talk quite a bit for a warrior.”
“Sitting silently, in a conduit full of shit, gives one time to overthink such matters.”
Ashallah turned her nose. Even in new clothes, she and Rahim still reeked of excrement. “Let’s just hope our thoughts don’t attract attention like our stench.”
The two lifted the dead janissary into the conduit along with their soiled garb. With one lift of the sluice gate, the evidence of their breach disappeared into the sewage channel below.
The climb down the wall steps turned out to be uneventful. As did the stroll through the servants’ quarters, the stables and the granary. Ashallah nearly concluded that the palace was uninhabited until the familiar clap of soldiers’ boots on stone alerted her otherwise. She and Rahim stepped behind the thin cover of a doorframe, their backs against the door, as a column of janissaries passed by on the street perpendicular to their position.
Ashallah studied the soldiers. Their legs moved in perfect unison as they marched. Their appearance was immaculate, almost regal, reflecting their status as the most elite in the Grand Sultan’s military. They were a disciplined force, to be sure. However, where others would find strength and perfection in their training, Ashallah saw their strict adherence to protocol as a weakness. In full march, their heads remained straight, limiting their line of sight. Their patrol alerted any with ears that heard of their presence. As they moved on, Ashallah parted with the door at her back, looking on after them. A woman with a wash basket strolled past the column, attracting neither suspicions nor stares.
Rahim came up beside her. “We must go,” he whispered.
Ashallah nodded though her attention was anywhere but with Rahim. For her mind went to a place it had gone to a thousand times before, to those moments when she found herself alone, about to embark on the last leg of a mission: the assassination.
I am midnight, she told herself. Once again, I am midnight.
Her night vision was clear. The whole of the city within a city laid out before her, as if in luminous detail. The tiled roofs. The brick walls. The waving banners and flags. The flickering torches and braziers. The heights of the domes and apartments that silhouetted themselves against the star-blanketed night.
With all of them, as though set to the tune of horn and lyre, patrolled the watchers of the palace. The janissaries. The sentries. The guards. Their presence was predictable and apparent. The green among them adhered to the marches of their training, turning and stepping without pause, while the more seasoned made a show of walking their detail, with eyes and ears dull to the boredom of guard duty. The best among them would undoubtedly be within the walls of the Sultan’s chambers, always at alert and suspicious of any movement. Even such soldiers, and the trained turquoise themselves, would not suspect those they could not see.
So much for the guards of the Royal Palace, Ashallah said to herself, her lips curling into a smirk. The most protected area within the famed Immortal City. Defended by complacent men. Unsharpened. Untested. Ruined by passivity and peace. Far from suspecting a woman about to penetrate their ranks.
Ashallah turned to Rahim. “I can do this. Follow my lead.”162Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMvsl179FA6
