Their reconnaissance of the dungeon had been fruitless along with their search of Yaromir’s alcove. Along with the Palace of the Concubines and the apartments of the Sultan’s mistresses. They even searched the cages of the Sultan’s personal collection of exotic animals, discovering a range of predators and prey the likes of which neither had seen. Nothing they came across hinted at the one they had searched for in vain. In fact, aside from a few spare turquoise they spotted on patrol, neither Ashallah nor Rahim encountered the children of the jinn, much less any sign of Darya.
Ashallah was no stranger to waiting. For in her training she had learned that assassinations required patience, as well as a tolerance of boredom that could stretch beyond hours into days or even weeks, all for the right moment to strike. That essential skill of any predator – whether leopard, serpent or falcon – had been ingrained in her from her first day as a recruit. Her experience in the field further honed her endurance of waiting. Like other midnight warriors, she had developed a sense of calmness and serenity, one she exercised during long stretches of surveillance. In such moments, Ashallah was as an imam in prayer and meditation, with the key difference that her eyes were not closed to the world, but open.
Such fortitude failed Ashallah in her present situation. For with every dead end her hope dampened. For every false lead, her mind clouded.
A caress of wind stirred a strand of hair across her face, bringing Ashallah back into the present. Across from her, Rahim leaned against the column, his body well within the curved shadow from the arch above. He stared ahead, his gaze fixed on the Royal Apartments, a five-domed structure that housed the personal chambers of the Grand Sultan. Constructed of the finest blue marble and pressed ivory, the ornate quarters managed to stand out amongst the rest of the palatial buildings, which was no small feat given their magnificence. Few structures came close to it in either beauty or scale, although the Grand Dylian Library across from it at least matched it in height. Therefore, it was there that Rahim and Ashallah had chosen to start their watch.
Neither had brought up taking turns nor trading off shifts. Rahim remained steadfast in his search for his sister. He had waited out the changing of the guards in the dungeon. He sat by the harem, his eyes neglecting temptation, as he scanned the women repeatedly for any of the veiled who could have been his sister. In each chamber and garden visited, as well as every room in between, Rahim’s determined focus never wavered. Not once. More inaction and waiting was not about to change that.
Ashallah’s will, however, was not so strong. Sitting amongst the arches of the library, with only the cooing of doves to break the silence, she allowed her thoughts to wander. The spare feather floating here and there amongst the columns reminded her of Darya’s look, the soft yet firm hold of her eyes. A curious and unusual association, Ashallah knew, but one she held onto nonetheless.
“You might as well share what you are thinking,” interrupted Rahim. “Since you are no good sulking in the shadows, not keeping watch.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll try to focus.”
“Don’t try. Your efforts would be a waste. I’ll do the watching until your mind clears and you can focus.”
“So you want me just to talk? To keep you company?”
“You are a woman, aren’t you?”
At that, Ashallah frowned. “Are you this much of an ass with your sister?”
“Yes,” replied Rahim, bluntly. “Are you surprised?”
“Somewhat. I thought turquoise were supposed to be stoic, the silent type.”
“Ah, yes. You expect us to remain strong and to be sparse in our words. When we do speak, we should do so as sultans or viziers, with no hint of the language of commoners on our tongue.”
“Mockery doesn’t suit you.”
“Forgive me. I know my sharp edges come out when faced with boredom. My sister used to go mad by my incessant chattering and teasing. That was when we lived amongst the other turquoise children, before I was shipped off to be trained as a warrior.” Rahim, looking off to the domes and roofs of the palatial estate. Allowed himself a moment of nostalgia. “When my schooling finished, what remained of me was a turquoise soldier – a male – like all others. Strong. Quiet. Dismissive. My sister barely recognized me. She exhibited patience, though. Her kindness never soured. When that failed, she resumed her childish charm. She did whatever she could to coax a grin or look from me. Eventually, our antics with each other returned.”
Rahim sighed, his gaze returning to the sights below, his focus narrowing.
Ashallah considered Rahim’s offer to speak. Only the words she wanted to say felt pitiful and drab. Only hours before, fire and steel had claimed so many of their comrades. Now, with Darya in captivity in an unseen, unknown locale, little came to mind that anyone could deem amusing or pleasant to the ear.
She laid the palms of her hands on the polished tiles beneath her, to stand and stretch.
“Ashallah . . .”
She looked over her right shoulder, then her left.
“Asha!”
“Who was that?” Ashallah asked as she sprang to her feet.
“What do you mean?” Rahim replied.
“Can you hear me?”
“That!” Ashallah exclaimed.
Rahim cocked his head as he stared off into the distance, listening to the ambiance around them. His gaze returned to Ashallah’s, his look telling her that he heard nothing of note.
“I’m down here.”
“What do you hear?” Rahim asked.
“Darya. At least I think it is her. She sounds muffled. With vibrations in her voice, as though she is underwater trying to speak.”
Rahim rose, his face no longer showing interest but genuine concern. “Could she be housed beneath one of the fountains or pools?’
“Where are you?”
Ashallah felt the palms of her hands tingle and warm. She studied them, finding no manner of visual change in them even as the sensation grew stronger.
“We should go them come nightfall, see if they offer any clues to her whereabouts,” Rahim continued.
She paid him little mind as he continued to think aloud, choosing instead to kneel. She stretched out her hands, her palms hovering above the tile.
“What are you doing?” Rahim questioned.
Ashallah laid her palms on the ground. Instantly, the gurgled voice she identified as Darya’s became clear.
“Wherever you are, Ashallah, stay safe, my love.”
Ashallah turned to Rahim. “Come with me.”
They traveled down the length of the library’s circular staircase that connected the roof to the upper study. Rahim stopped Ashallah before she could open the door.
“Listen,” he urged her.
Ashallah pressed her ear to the door. Through it, she heard the muffled clap of leather soles against the marble tiles within. She waited a few moments before being convinced that the sound was growing fainter.
“One patron,” she said as she glanced at Rahim. “Moving away from us.”
He nodded. She opened the door and together they entered the library.
From floor to ceiling, shelves lined with every manner of scrolls and manuscripts stood, like sentries guarding knowledge. Ashallah and Rahim snaked through the shelves on the balls of their feet, careful not to allow their heels to strike the marble. They proceeded through the maze until spotting the lone patron Ashallah had heard: an imam. No more than five feet tall, with his nose buried in a book, he strolled through the shelves. Once he rounded a corner to turn his back to the two, Ashallah motioned Rahim forward.
Despite the expansiveness of the library, Ashallah and Rahim found themselves on the opposite side within moments. Ashallah’s hands found the opposing wall, and with it, a stronger resonance.
“My skin . . . it burns!”
Whatever pretense Ashallah had shown before Rahim – as a warrior with mere affection toward his sister - faded. She parted with the wall and raced down the next staircase.
The whiz of Rahim behind her, with his stark blue eyes and flashes of turquoise stripes, was but a blur to Ashallah. As were the stairs that she took three or four at a time. Along with the doors she opened. The bookshelves she passed. The noise her footsteps may have made. Ashallah was uncertain of all of it, of all of herself, save the beating of her heart and the fear that raced through her mind without ceasing to provide reason or logic to her actions.
Only the last door she happened upon gave her pause, allowing Rahim to catch up to her.
“You’re mad! What in the Five Doors of Hell were you thinking? Every soul in the library could have heard that!”
Ashallah saw the rage and concern within his eyes, but choosing to look past it, she focused on her surroundings. The elegance of the floors above, with their cedar shelves and marble floors, had faded to worn granite and walls of brick and mortar. The natural light of arched windows was absent, replaced by the faint flickering from sconces.
“This is a cellar,” Ashallah stated.
“More like a dungeon, which is exactly where we’ll end up if you keep . . .”
“Shhh!”
Rahim paused as Ashallah pressed her hands against the wall and adjoining door once more.
“Dear Jaha, help me!”
“Rahim,” Ashallah started.
“I know,” he replied. “I heard it too.”
The door before them stood as tall as it was wide, at seven feet, with three rows of cast iron clavos. There was no lock or door pull save a lone ring, which did nothing to budge the door when pulled.
From within, a long, pained groan radiated. Ashallah and Rahim had but to glance at each other to understand they both knew it was Darya.
Rahim, with determination burning in his eyes, charged the massive barrier. He thrust his shoulder into the oaken giant. A thud echoed through the stone corridor, an impressive sound. Still, the door did not move.
Perhaps spooked by the noise, five rats emerged from under the door, scurrying from Rahim as he backed away to make another charge.
“Wait,” Ashallah urged as Rahim backed away to make another charge.
She knelt down before the door to wedge her fingers underneath it. To her surprise, her digits moved under the barrier with ease. She then lied flat on her stomach as her fingers felt the floor abutting the door.
“Tile,” she whispered to herself.
“What?”
“How far do you think we went underground? How far did we come?”
“I, I don’t know.”
Ashallah studied her surroundings. The hall in which they stood lacked all the grandeur of the library. The walls brimmed with stone were stained black by centuries of smoke and soot from torches and sconces. Some even laid slackened, so that the slightest tremor could have shaken them free. Then there was the floor. The tiles were of clay, not like the ones of stone on the floors above. More importantly were the grooves between them lined with dirt.
“Find something solid. A hammer, mallet. A tool. Anything we can use to pound or strike.”
Rahim nodded as Ashallah turned her sights back to the sliver of an opening under the door. She continued to feel the grooves and indentations of the tile floor, all the while straining to see what awaited them on the other side. The interior was poorly lit, which only permitted Ashallah to gather that the room within was large. But who or what rested on the other side she could not fathom.
Mere moments passed before Rahim returned with a heavy wooden torch. Ashallah shot up to her feet to grab the shaft, weighing it in her hand.
“Will it do?” Rahim asked.
Ashallah looked to the ground, considering. “It will,” she decided.
At that, she took the heaviest end of the torch and struck it against the groove between two tiles. One splintered. Ashallah hit it over and again until it broke. She handed the torch back to Rahim and bent down to brush away the pieces. Underneath, as she had suspected, was earth. Hard packed it was, yet still loose enough to part.
“We’re far enough away from the library’s foundation,” Rahim stated. “The ground. We can dig.”
At that, Ashallah began to tunnel underneath the door.
Knowing what he had to do, Rahim followed Ashallah’s example. He hit the adjacent tile under it broke and did the same to the one beside that. Four neighboring tiles he broke, until he determined the width of their destruction was sufficient. Then he too began to dig.
Minutes passed before they cleared a trough alongside the door. Not particularly deep, yet good enough. Their excavation continued, their hole inching under the wooden barrier. They hastened once their fingers reached the other side of the door, beckoning Darya’s attention.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Shhh . . . it’s us,” Ashallah answered.
“Asha! What are you doing here?”
“Not so loud,” Rahim whispered loudly. “Your voice may travel.”
Ashallah lied on her back and slid into the hole they had dug. The space between the door – the bottom lip of which now hung above her – and the other side was tight. Her cheek scraped the coarse wood of the door. She pulled away, back to where Rahim kneeled.
“More,” was all she said.
They dug at an alarming pace, driven by the fact they were so close. Ashallah reached under to the other side, prying more tiles loose. The debris of their work fell all around them. Ashallah attempted once more to crawl underneath. This time, her face cleared the lip of the door without a scratch. She shimmied her way through the hole, dirt falling on her. She closed her eyes until the top of her head touched the tile edges on the other side.
The dull light of a sconce met her cracked eyes. As did Darya.
“Asha!”
Ashallah squirmed from under the door. Darya, chained to thick iron rings at the opposite wall, fought against her shackles as she clawed forward. Ashallah, rising to her feet, scooped Darya up into her arms.
“You made it!” Darya exclaimed. “You found me. But how? There must be hundreds of buildings with hundreds of rooms within the palace walls.”
“We heard your cries,” Ashallah stated.
“Well, truthfully, only she did,” Rahim added as he wedged through the opening in the floor. “I only followed.”
“But . . . I didn’t cry. Or yell. Or scream. I only spoke, and even then, that was just before I heard you two on the other side of the door. How could you have come so quickly?”
Darya’s face froze, with an unspoken realization, with a sense of panic unknown before.
“Asha,” she said as she dug her fingers into Ashallah’s arm. “You must go. Now!”
“We will, once we break your locks.”
“No, now!”
“What’s the matter . . .”
Darya’s lips met hers once again. With them, a flood of thoughts and dreams followed. However, there was nothing sweet or heavenly about the dreamscape. Ashallah pulled away from Darya, whose face had gone pale as the color of her skin drained from rest of her body.
The moment between when their lips parted and she stepped away was brief, a fraction of a second at most. Yet so much happened, leading Ashallah to believe that she was losing her very sense of time. For in that span, the echo of scales and chainmail reached them, growing from a low ripple to a torrent of clanging and clapping. The massive oaken beast that had barred them from entry swung in with ease as janissaries and turquoise alike flooded the room. Rahim fell first, as his turquoise brothers-in-arms assaulted him. Then Darya, who collapsed to the floor, not from weakness of body or emotion, but from an overwhelming sense of defeat, one Ashallah had seen in veteran generals of past battles whose very hearts had given out due to utter disappointment.
Ashallah, still stunned from the kiss and the resulting dreamscape, put her fingertips to her lips. The raised sword tips and spearheads before her gave her little pause as she contemplated the torrent of thoughts from Darya.
Only when a chain had wrapped around her ankles did she come back to the present reality. Once again, it was too late. Her feet went out from under her. The cold tiles of the floor rushed up to her face, slamming against her cheek, her body having fallen. Then came the pairs of hands – some meaty, some lean, some coarse – all of them strong, that dug their fingers into her arms, her legs, her neck to restrain her as shackles bound her wrists and ankles.
Ashallah was no stranger to difficult situations. While on past assignments, she had been captured, jailed, and even tortured. In such circumstances, her training had served her well. She had always survived in both mind and body, while her comrades and even her superiors had perished. The odds of this moment were no different in action or purpose of her enemies.
For all the similarities to the past, though, her subjection in the cellar of the library proved different. Devastating it was, crushing Ashallah’s soul.
What am I? she asked herself, her gaze seeking Darya yet finding no answers. 172Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe3hFiOm2AX
