Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  “I didn’t need your help,” Ashallah lied.

  “Another few moments and you would have been dead.”

  “I could have taken care of myself. And if I would have died, then I would’ve waited in Hell for that dog of a vizier to join me, that I might torment him there.”

  The hazel-eyed one laughed. “I mean it,” Ashallah added.

  “I don’t doubt that. Come.”

  “Where?”

  “Where there is fire. And food.” The hazel-eyed one reached in the side pocket of her kameez. “Wear this.”

  Ashallah frowned at the thought of concealing herself once more. “Remember, you are still wanted,” said the hazel-eyed. “Best use tradition to your advantage.”

  Ashallah relented. She secured the veil across her nose. The only benefit was that it smelled like the one who had given it to her. A slight fragrance, of honeysuckle and jasmine.

  The hazel-eyed one led the masked figure and Ashallah up a rise until they reached a plateau. There sat a village of shepherds, many of which were taking advantage of the cool spring night by gathering around campfires as they watched their flocks. Ashallah smelled the roast lamb and flatbreads before they saw the faces of the villagers, her mouth watering. As they neared, she recognized the tribal villagers as Vedo-In, judging from their flat noses, wide eyes and dark features. After the hazel-eyed bowed to them and offered them the traditional greetings, the Vedo-In invited them to share in their supper.

  Ashallah and the hazel-eyed were shown the fire where the women sat. Most were older, in their thirties and beyond, who spoke mostly about the latest child to join their tribe and the new mother. Ashallah resented being seated amongst such domestic ones, while the masked figure was shown the fire where the village elders sat. If they only knew my power, my speed, my finesse on the battlefield, Ashallah told herself. Then they would respect me. Fear me.

  Her sense of insult settled when two of the village women brought a platter of lamb, stewed vegetables, and pita bread. Ashallah heaped two handfuls of each item onto her plate. She had gulped down five morsels of meat before realizing that the other women had paused to give thanks to Jaha for their bounty. Out of respect, and partly out of embarrassment, she waited until the others joined her before continuing her consumption. The village women did not seem to mind her lack of manners, but more than once, Ashallah caught the hazel-eyed staring at her with a mix a bemusement and embarrassment.

  After the meal, several families offered the three of them space in their tents for the night. The hazel-eyed accepted, while the masked one and Ashallah declined. While grateful for the acts of hospitality, Ashallah had her guard up, even around the hazel-eyed. The fact that the masked figure - who had not spoken once in her presence – had gone off into the darkness further raised Ashallah’s suspicions.

  She chose to sleep next to the dying embers of the fire ring, beneath the starry night. While cool enough that others required sheepskin and wool blankets, to Ashallah the air was comforting and refreshing so that she could lie without a cover. After the shepherds and their families had turned in, Ashallah found herself alone, contemplating the events of the past few days, along with her next move.

  I am a child of a sunless sky. A soldier of darkness. I am midnight.

  The words rang in her mind. In the silence of the night, surrounded by the village and all its quiet, she could not control the noise of her thoughts. Nor her pain.

  All those women. Gone. My sister is dead. My mother is no more.

  I am a child of a sunless sky.

  I was attacked. Nearly raped. I was hunted in the catacombs. Imprisoned. Chained. Caged. Brought out into the light, before men, to be executed. All for their viewing pleasure.

  A soldier of darkness.

  I hunger for justice. For my family. For myself. But in the world of men, I know I will find none.

  I am midnight.

  I will need to summon all my strength. Shed my apprehension, my sense of pain. Discard any weaknesses. All of me. That I may become better, a warrior without want. Inferior to no one.

  I will go out into the world of men. To conquer all. To vanquish any male who stands in my way.

  I will find Hyder. I will subdue that vizier. And slit his throat.

  All those who stand in my way – janissaries, the Court, the Grand Sultan himself – are foes to my cause. I will take on all of my enemies, whether men of the law or the sword, to fulfill my brand of justice. For I choose the path to retribution. I will have my vengeance.

  “I am midnight,” Ashallah said softly as she stretched out her hand to the stars in the sky. She reached for a cluster, one that thinned into a narrow line. She imagined it to be a neck, the neck of a man. She extended her hands toward it. Then finger by finger, she made a fist. A strong fist. A woman’s fist.

  Chapter 12

  “Asha.”

  Ashallah raised her brow yet her eyes remained closed. She grinned.

  “Asha.”

  She opened her eyes. Above, the sky was a velvet canvas, with sparse diamonds on it, twinkling.

  For a moment, she felt the way she did as a girl, years before she sought her training with the midnight warriors. When her mother would wake her with the casual mention of her name. No, not her name, but her mother’s name for her, one that she alone used. A time when she was innocent, not knowing the evils of the world.

  The moment did not last. Reality returned to her thoughts.

  “Asha.”

  Ashallah sat up. To her right, the hazel-eyed stood, dressed in shades of rose red and maroon. Behind her, the other one still wore the hermit’s mask but had changed clothes to resemble a beggar, with trousers, a shirt and a cloak of patched burlap and rough wool.

  Ashallah sprang to her feet. She shuffled back, almost stepping on the gray coals and embers of the fire.

  “What is the matter?” the hazel-eyed one asked.

  Ashallah grabbed a large rock from the fire ring. She cocked her arm, ready to throw it. “How do you know my name?” she demanded.

  “The guards. At the arena. They recorded your name in their register.”

  “You lie! You didn’t learn my name from them.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “No one calls me Asha. Only my...”

  Ashallah’s voice trailed off. The hazel-eyed stared at her. To the untrained, her look would have appeared as one curious and naïve to such accusations. However, Ashallah saw differently. The edge of her eyes twinkled, with an air that one has when her true motivation is discovered not by chance but by design.

  “I ventured to call you Asha,” the hazel-eyed began, “because I thought it was a common abbreviation. I did not know it carried such personal meaning for you. You have my apology, Ashallah, of the midnight warriors.”

  She wants to continue this ruse, Ashallah thought. Before she was able to call her out once more, a shepherd heralded his approach. Others emerged from their tents and within moments, villagers surrounded the three, wanting to prepare breakfast.

  “Are you hungry?” asked the hazel-eyed.

  “No,” Ashallah lied.

  “Then we should go.”

  The hazel-eyed went up to the village women she had befriended to thank them for their hospitality. The women pleaded for her to stay, but she declined politely. Nonetheless, they insisted that she and her party take a sack of supplies for their journey, which the hazel-eyed accepted and handed to the masked one. After many farewells, Ashallah and her two traveling companions made their way from the village in the pre-dawn light.

  “Where are we headed?” Ashallah finally ventured to ask, once she knew the village was far behind them.

  The hazel-eyed stopped. “You tell us. We’re following you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “This game has gone on long enough.” Ashallah, who had stayed close to the masked one, unsheathed its curved karambits knife. She held the blade’s edge to its neck. “Tell
me who you are and what you want from me.”

  “Would you kill the one who saved you?” asked the hazel-eyed. “To spite us and find answers?”

  “By the Five Doors of Hell, I will do it.”

  “And with that same fire in your soul, will you seek out those who wronged you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those who killed your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then my brother and I did well to rescue you.” She nodded to her kin. “Go ahead. Take it off.”

  The figure removed his mask. Ashallah stepped away, seemingly not aware of her actions as she looked at the one who had saved her from the arena, and realized what he was.

  Turquoise. He is one of them. Wait, they are siblings. They are both...

  The reason for the mask was obvious: to hide his eyes, which glimmered with a shade of blue Ashallah had never seen. Even the finest sapphires paled in comparison.

  The rest of his face was white, much like that of the northern islanders Ashallah would see in the brothels. With angular features, he appeared chiseled, especially his cheekbones and chin. His hair, blond and cut short, lacked the musk or odor she often encountered when around the men of Yasem. By any standard, the man before her was quite handsome, a fact that would have made Ashallah blush if she found his gender attractive.

  “You could pass for a regular man,” Ashallah noted. “If not for your eyes.”

  “And other things,” the hazel-eyed added. At that mention, her brother pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal turquoise-colored stripes against his otherwise white skin.

  Ashallah studied the stripes on his skin, having never seen a turquoise up close. “Is he one of the Firstborne?” she asked. The thought of the first generation of children from the jinn tingled her senses and heightened her curiosity.

  “No,” answered the hazel-eyed, politely. “He is several generations past the Firstborne.”

  A diluted bloodline, then, Ashallah thought. Less powerful. Perhaps with only one or two special skills. “Does he speak?” Ashallah inquired.

  “Like a poet,” answered her brother.

  “Good. Then I can question both of you.”

  “Yes, you are curious as to who we are,” said the brother.

  “And why we saved you,” added his sister. “I am Darya. This is my brother, Rahim. We need your help.”

  ***

  Ashallah awoke to find herself on the ground, the afternoon sun blazing above her. Rahim stepped before her, casting a shadow over her face. Darya followed his lead.

  “What happened?” Ashallah asked as her head throbbed.

  “She doesn’t remember,” Rahim said.

  “The dreamscape is much to take in, especially all that I tried to show her,” Darya commented.

  “She looks weak.”

  “The skin that the villagers gave you. Wine or water?”

  Rahim dug into the sack hanging from his neck. He withdrew a wineskin to taste its contents. He nodded.

  “Water, thank Jaha.”

  He handed it to Darya, who cradled Ashallah’s head in her hand as she offered some to her.

  “I can do it myself,” Ashallah insisted. She took the skin from Darya but found her arms unusually heavy. When she tried to lift the opening to her mouth, they went slack.

  Darya ripped the skin from her grasp. “Hold still,” she insisted as she held the end over Ashallah’s mouth. The coolness broke away to meet Ashallah’s lips, drop by drop.

  “Better?” Darya asked.

  Ashallah nodded.

  “Good. On your feet then.”

  Darya and Rahim assisted Ashallah as she rose. Ashallah found her legs as unsteady as her arms so that she leaned heavily on both of them for support. Her limbs were not sore or fatigued. Rather, it was as though there was just less of them, in terms of muscle and size. An unfamiliar feeling it was. Ashallah felt the need to question her new condition further. No sooner had she opened her mouth to speak, though, when she felt the tip of Darya’s finger on her lips, quieting her. In any other circumstance, she would have taken such an action as an affront. Not then, however, for reasons Ashallah could not explain. Not then.

  “If she is to learn more,” Rahim began. “She will need to rest.”

  “Yes,” Darya agreed. “But where?”

  “The Canyonlands.”

  “No!” Ashallah exclaimed.

  “Why not?” Darya asked.

  “The Canyonlands is the first place the Court will search. Where they will send their jinn. Their soldiers. The midnight warriors.”

  “But they are so vast. We can hide,” insisted Rahim.

  “They are not that vast,” Ashallah replied. “The Court. That vizier. He will scour every crevasse and inlet. I know it.”

  “I fear she is right,” Darya added. “But if not there, then where?”

  Ashallah pointed to the west. “There is a slight dip in the land. Over there.”

  “I see it,” Rahim said.

  “A dry riverbed. We go there, follow it south. It will take us to a gathering of, of...”

  The ground beneath her shook. As did the sky. Or at least what Ashallah thought was the sky and ground. Her body quaked along with all of it as her mind flooded with thousands upon thousands of experiences and memories. Many not her own.

  ***

  Ashallah parted her eyes. The sun had dimmed as the sky had tinted a soft orange. A breeze stirred her hair, as it did to the branches above.

  The soft wind also danced with the flames of the nearby fire. Ashallah turned her head to find Rahim adding sticks to it.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Ashallah felt a damp, cool cloth on her forehead. She looked up to find Darya’s hazel-eyes staring down at her and her niqab hanging limp. Ashallah thought she saw her lips through the veil, but she could not be sure.

  “Will you stay with us this time?” Darya asked.

  Ashallah nodded. Darya helped her to sit. Ashallah propped herself on one arm, finding it stronger than it had been earlier in the day.

  She looked around to find herself and her companions under the shade of a lowland acacia tree. Several straddled either side of the dry riverbed, as did other scrubs and bushes.

  “Truthfully,” Ashallah began. “What happened to me?”

  “You asked who we are and why we saved you,” Darya began.

  “I remember.”

  “I took a chance,” Darya continued. “And I put my fingers to your temple like this.” Darya brushed the side of Ashallah’s face. Her touch was warm and comforting, like a soft woolskin. Not unlike her mother’s. “Then I tried to share with you my thoughts, my experiences. That you may know all about us, my brother and I. Although Rahim has some reservations, I want to allow you to see my mind, so that there are no secrets between us. So that you may trust us.

  “The dreamscape, the memories, and stories we impart to others, are powerful. They require a great amount of energy.”

  “I’ll say,” Rahim chimed. He nodded to Darya. “That never happened in your dreamscape sessions with me.”

  “For some, the power manifests itself as motion.”

  “Of earth and air, you mean.”

  “At times.”

  Ashallah turned to Rahim. “You felt that too?”

  Rahim smirked. “We all did. I assume you most of all.”

  “It felt like my head would burst open,” Ashallah admitted.

  “I am sorry that we... that I tried to tell you as much as I did,” Darya confessed.

  “Do you remember any of it?” Rahim asked of Ashallah.

  Ashallah took a deep breath. Flashes of memories not her own flooded her mind. Of wars she had not fought. Of gold and jewels she did not own. Of palaces. Harems. Jinn. Turquoise. Along with the faces of thousands. Both men and women. Executed. Slain. All in the name of one.

  So much for Ashallah to consider. But altogether, it made no sense.

  The pained expression of
not being able to put her thoughts into words must have been apparent to Darya. She put her hand on Ashallah’s shoulder. “Come. Eat,” she urged.

  Ashallah made her way to the fire. There, on two skewers, Rahim was roasting hares. Fat dripped from their carcasses onto the fire to sizzle. “They are almost ready,” he said. He held out a strip of acacia bark, on top of which lied the dates and olives the villagers had given them. “Eat,” he offered.

  Ashallah ate a few bites as Darya took a seat next to her.

  “Better?” Darya asked.

  “A little,” Ashallah replied. She felt so sheepish for being so weak. All her pride as a midnight warrior had faded, leaving her to wonder if it would ever return.

  “Your recent experience of humility aside, do you feel you can talk now?”

  How does she know that? “I will try.”

  “Just focus on your first memory. The one you feel is not yours. We’ll begin there.”

  “Very well. I see... The remnants of a battle. Vultures pick at the dead. The enemy, they loot and take the spoils of war. On a rise, women subdue a man. He is important, by the looks of his cloths. A general. Maybe royalty. The women around him... They are like midnight warriors. Without veils. Only it is day. Moreover, men look upon them. Not with disdain. With respect. And fear.” Ashallah turned to Darya. “This is not my memory.”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Then whose?”

  “Inci. Leader of the Syniad. The last sultana.”

  “A woman a sultan?”

  “Do not look so surprised. You of all should know a woman can best a man at anything. Even in court or in battle.”

  “Her memories... how did I...”

  “We turquoise have gifts beyond killing. Thank Jaha,” Rahim interjected. “Our talents are inherited from our forefathers.”

  “The jinn?” Ashallah assumed.

  “Yes.”

  “You know our kind, the turquoise, mostly as fighters,” Darya continued. “That is due to the Court of the Grand Sultan breeding women with those jinn who specialized in combat. However, a few of us continued the bloodline of jinn with other talents. Some were born with skills in painting or sculpture or music. Others were great builders. Or mathematicians.”