Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  The rush continued for what seemed like hours. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.

  Darkness surrounded Ashallah. The shaft of light, the bronze disc, the calligraphy – all of it was gone. Even Darya’s hand was absent from her own.

  “Darya! Darya!”

  No one answered.

  “Rahim! Anyone?”

  “You must go now.”

  Ashallah looked around her.

  “Who is that?”

  “It is the only way.”

  “Where are you? Where are you?”

  Ashallah instinctively reached for her back, expecting to find her khukuri blades sheathed there, before remembering that she was without. She cursed the heavens under her breath. She knelt down and groped in the dark, hoping against hope for a rock or some object with which to defend herself.

  The ground held no such reprieve for Ashallah. Only sand.

  “You must leave tonight.”

  Ashallah lifted her head. She rose to her feet and clenched her hands into fists as she searched the darkness in vain.

  “Who is that? Show yourself!” she demanded.

  As if in answer, a pinpoint of light appeared ahead.

  Ashallah froze. She watched the point of light – a white, glowing orb – move toward her, growing larger as it approached. Ashallah considered stepping back but thought better of it. After all, she thought, I am in a cave. Where would I go?

  The light grew brighter. Stronger. Larger. By the time it reached a diameter similar in height to Ashallah, she could make out the silhouettes of figures within. It continued to draw closer to Ashallah. For all her uncertainty, Ashallah stood firm, defiant in the face of her own doubt.

  The orb was nearly upon her when she heard the same voice that had echoed through the darkness.

  “A horse will be waiting for you outside the palace gate.”

  Ashallah peered into the light. The figures, having been hazy only moments before, became clear.

  “Ommah...”

  Ashallah reached toward the orb. In that instant, it enveloped her.

  She found herself surrounded by lattice. Checkered moonlight illuminated the floor. Down the hall, a gathering of women dressed in fine silks sat in a circle, each one brushing the hair of the one in front. Many more women were all around, all talking to each other as they groomed themselves.

  I am in a harem, Ashallah realized.

  “Where will I go?”

  Ashallah swung around. The voice who asked the question - that of a woman - was not the one from the darkness. It seemed familiar, somehow.

  “Yasem. You will go to Yasem.”

  That voice, that is the one from the black void, Ashallah told herself. She searched around her. Women aplenty there were, but none seemed to be involved in conversation such as the one she had heard. Ashallah marched the length of the hall before turning the corner.

  “Yasem?” asked the familiar voice. “What is there?”

  “Our sisters. The Shadya,” answered the voice from the darkness. “They will help you to establish your accommodations. After that, you must not speak to them again. Do you understand?”

  Ashallah raced down the hall. She turned the corner. This time, she found it empty save for two women. One was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties, dressed in an abaya, her long gray hair flowing over her shoulders.

  The other woman, to Ashallah’s amazement, was Niyusha. Her ommah. Only she was much younger, not more than twenty. Her skin appeared soft and showed no signs of the aging Ashallah had known. Her braided hair was dark brown, so rich in color and body that Ashallah could have mistaken it for stained palm wood. Even her eyes were different, not in hue but emotion. Innocent eyes, like that of a doe, lacking the judgment and watchfulness that Ashallah had known her entire life. Still, they were her eyes. Before her, without a doubt, was her ommah.

  Niyusha and her acquaintance took no notice of Ashallah, even as she drew near enough to touch them.

  “Hello?” Ashallah ventured. “Ommah?”

  Niyusha raised her head, but not in response to Ashallah. She glanced at the older woman’s eyes but did not bother to hold a stare. Rather, she shielded her eyes, wiping away her tears. “I understand,” she said, in the familiar voice Ashallah had heard moments before.

  “You understand what?” the older one asked, in the voice from the darkness.

  “I understand I am to leave this place, never to return. I will go to Yasem, to seek help from the Shadya. I know that in exchange for their help, I will have to take in an unwanted child as my own. Once they have done their part, I will never seek them out again. I will go on to live a widower, a single mother, an outcast of society with no social standing. That will be my place. To be a silent woman. A mother without a husband.”

  The gray-haired woman nodded. “I will retrieve you tonight when the time is right. Until then, pack your belongings and rest. The journey to Yasem is long.”

  She turned to leave Niyusha to consider her words. Niyusha held her head high, long after the gray-haired had turned the corner and others had filtered into the hall. Other women passed her without so much as a glance or a nod. Niyusha did not seem to mind. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and strolled past them all. Ashallah walked beside her, staring at the younger version of her mother, who did nothing to acknowledge her presence.

  “Ommah... How can this be? How are you here? In this palace? In a harem? So young and beautiful you are. Why did you leave? Why did you go to Yasem?”

  Ashallah pressed these questions to her mother as though she could answer. For Niyusha had never divulged any details of her younger life to her daughters. Any curiosity by Ashallah or Orzala was met with a shrug or a wave. Over the years, what answers Ashallah or her sister could piece together were few and fractured. Neither was certain that any held a bit of truth: Ommah had been abandoned as a child, their father was a soldier killed in battle, a desert flood had wiped away their family’s ancestral home and forced Ommah to flee. Such stories they would share and repeat, in an effort to listen to themselves and hear if one sounded more plausible than another did.

  For all their imagination, neither of them would have ventured that their ommah had been a concubine.

  Niyusha continued to march. One hall led to a different one, and others beyond. A thick cloud shifted before the moon, darkening the hall. Although night inspired no fear in her and her steps remained certain, Ashallah nonetheless found herself reaching for her ommah. For comfort. For support. When her hand touched nothing, she thought her ommah had vanished. Then the moonlight returned and with it her ommah. Ashallah extended her hand once more. It passed through Niyusha like a veil of fog, a veil unaware of the company in its presence.

  Ahead, the lattice ended. The moonlight poured in through the columns onto the doors of a temple. As Ashallah’s eyes adjusted, she noted that the doors were inlaid with lapis lazuli, mother of pearl and gold leaf, all in patterns the finest artisans in all of Yasem could never produce.

  “What is this harem?” Ashallah asked as if her ommah could hear her. “The luxury. The richness. The prestige.”

  A feeling, as though a stone in her gut, formed. No, Ashallah thought. Not here. She cannot possibly be from that place, the place I suspect.

  Niyusha leaned upon the temple door. It parted, the hinges not even whispering a creak. From within, soft light spilled onto the moonlit floor. Rose-colored and inviting, it beckoned both Niyusha and Ashallah forth.

  Ashallah stood aghast for a moment as her ommah continued onward. Surely this must be what the heavens are like, Ashallah told herself.

  Marble tiles stretched across the floor and up the walls to the ceiling. The columns, of cobalt granite, supported the dome, which held carved reliefs of every creature imaginable. Gazelle and antelope raced in herds as cheetahs and lions chased after them. Estuaries teemed with cranes, heron, duck, and geese. Schools of fish swam in unison, creating a vortex suspended in white stone. Sconces sc
attered throughout illuminated all, in a glow so soft and soothing as to give comfort to any soul, no matter their faith.

  “Beautiful...” Ashallah whispered.

  “Hello?!”

  The echo boomed off the walls, stunning Ashallah. She tilted her gaze down to find Niyusha in the center of the temple, looking all around her.

  “Hello,” she repeated. “Is anyone here?”

  “I am,” Ashallah replied. She marched to her side, mere inches from being able to touch her. “Ommah!”

  Niyusha turned, searching the temple for others as Ashallah’s cries went unheard. Confident that she was alone, Niyusha knelt to the ground and bowed her head. Then she rose to her knees and lifted her head and palms to the dome above.

  “Merciful Jaha,” she began. “Father of us all. I beseech you in my greatest time of need. Long have I prayed to you, since my youth, and at every turn, you have provided. Now, I come to you with a problem...”

  Niyusha’s voice softened. She looked down at her hands, which drifted to her abdomen.

  Ashallah opened her mouth, finding her throat dry. “Ommah...” she whispered.

  “Not a problem,” Niyusha corrected herself. “But a blessing. The world’s greatest.”

  Ashallah sank to her knees. She reached out to her mother. Her finger edged against the line of her skin though felt nothing. Still, she kept it suspended there.

  “I pray not for myself,” Niyusha continued. “But for my child. May you bless my young one with the chance to rise in this world, to be something more than a servant. If a boy, may he grow to become a man, wise and confident in his abilities. If a girl... I pray that you may make her strong. May she never be forced to do a man’s bidding. Make her strong. That she may know no shame in being a woman. May her veil only cover her face, may it never discourage her ambition nor silence her voice nor darken her hope. Make her strong, Jaha. Stronger than any man. Even her father.”

  Niyusha bowed her head to the ground. With her forehead pressed to the tiles, she sniffled. When she looked to the heavens again, tears had welled in her eyes.

  “Forgive my blasphemy, Jaha. It is not my place to speak against her father nor men. But if I may be so bold, I ask you to consider my pleas for my child nonetheless.”

  As if in answer, a crack rang against the mighty walls, sounding like a clap of thunder. Niyusha stood, wiping away her tears, as Ashallah scanned the temple.

  The crack echoed again and a third time. From outside the doors, a voice boomed through.

  “Cover yourselves,” said a man. “We are about to enter.”

  Niyusha fastened her veil across her face as the temple doors parted. The incoming breeze stirred the tongues of the sconces, shifting the soft light in all directions. Two eunuch soldiers entered, the butts of their pikes striking the tiled floor with each of their steps.

  “Are you Niyusha, of the tribe Beyut?” asked the shorter of the two eunuchs, his shaved head glistening in the sconce light.

  “I am,” she replied.

  “The Grand Sultan requests your presence in his chambers.”

  Niyusha bowed her head before the eunuchs escorted her from the temple. The three marched out of the sanctuary, all with no mind paid attention to the midnight warrior they left in their wake.

  ***

  Staring into the abyss, Ashallah could not help but think about those final moments of her dreamscape. She had stood there alone, the eunuchs and her mother having left, contemplating the image of her ommah in her youth, and what her prayers to Jaha had revealed.

  “May I join you?”

  Ashallah did not even bother to turn as Darya approached from behind.

  “Mind your step,” Ashallah warned. “The way down is no doubt long.”

  “I will,” Darya responded as she sat cross-legged next to her. “How are you?”

  “Ommah never spoke much of our father. Sometimes, after hearing us whine for minutes on end, she would grant us a few words on his character. She would say he was strong. Smart. A great man. Then she would have us clean or run errands in punishment, saying it was never good manners to inquire so much on the dead. I never understood her apprehension.” Ashallah turned to Darya. “The unwanted child that the Shadya gave to Ommah, which she raised as her own?”

  “Orzala,” Darya said in assurance.

  “And the child she carried?”

  Darya stroked the side of Ashallah’s face. “You.”

  Ashallah hung her head. Never before had words, especially those she had expected to hear, struck her so hard.

  “Ashallah,” Darya started, her face as pained as hers, as though she suddenly felt her anguish. “I know this news is unwelcome. But it is the reason why my brother and I saved you from that arena.”

  “No, it can’t be.”

  “It is. You are...”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “A child of the Grand Sultan.”

  Ashallah sprang to her feet. She moved away from Darya, who stood to approach her.

  “Stay away from me!” Ashallah demanded.

  Darya froze in place. “Please. We need your help.”

  “Why me?”

  Darya looked past Ashallah, who in turn swung around. Behind her stood Rahim, his blue eyes seemingly afire in the pitch black of the caverns.

  “You saw the dreamscape of our father. You watched as I trained under his watchful eye. All for what? So that I could serve the same sultan who enslaved my kin? I know of your pain, from what happened to your family. I am sorry. My sister and I mourn your loss. But you need to understand; our kind has suffered a thousandfold.

  “Jinn like my father are bound to serve the Grand Sultan, to grant him three wishes according to the Scrolls of Jaha. At first, the jinn under his control were enough to conquer his enemies and vanquish his opponents. Nonetheless, as his thirst for power and land has grown, the Grand Sultan has required more minions to do his work. He forced jinn to lay with women, creating turquoise like my sister and I. As offspring without script, we are less gifted than our forefathers, and our talents are usually only one or two in number. However, without words to bind our loyalties, the sultan’s words hold less power over us. Some of us have rebelled against the disciplined life that restricts our brothers and sisters. Darya and I were fortunate enough to escape. Many more turquoise have died trying.

  “Meanwhile, our father and those jinn like him suffer unimaginable horrors. The script on their skin dictates their powers and limits them to granting three wishes. The sultan, ever distrustful, teaches his viziers only enough of the jinn’s language to pronounce commands – words they speak but do not fully understand – so that they can carry out his edicts far and wide. You saw evidence of this in Yasem when that vizier commanded a jinni to crush the uprising outside the arena walls. The vizier said the words, but I doubt he knew even half of them. So it is that the viziers themselves can blow their horns and destroy villages and cities, but never possess so much knowledge as to command the jinni the way the Sultan does.

  “Yet being the one with full knowledge of the jinn’s language is not enough. For the jinn are limited by the edicts inscribed on their skin, able to grant their master only three wishes. Even after years of biding his time and being mindful of their limitations, the sultan is finally running out of jinn capable of carrying out his commands. The number of wishes he has left dwindles. However, in using his wishes, his desire for more power has grown.

  “In his lust, the sultan has attempted to add to their calligraphy. He had his janissaries and even his turquoise engrave characters into the flesh of his jinn, inflicting a pain a thousand fold worse than any cut or stab you or your sisters have experienced. All to expand the hold the Grand Sultan has on his current lot of jinn.

  “You witnessed this trend, in the desert, when you fought the Tirkhan. That tribe had the opportunity to raid one of the sultan’s caravans, and in doing so, captured one of his jinn. They used it to secure their position in the Canyonlands. For
all their luck, though, they failed to understand the script the Grand Sultan had carved into the jinni’s skin. Unlike the Sultan’s viziers - who themselves only have limited knowledge of the language of the jinn - the Tirkhan rely on oral tradition and are mostly illiterate, save a few of their more curious nomads. That ignorance on their part cost them dearly, a mistake we hope to avoid repeating with our friend here.”

  Torchlight invaded the darkness as the scribe turned the corner. His eyes – amber ovals that on the surface appeared alert and pensive – seemed softer in the orange glow, giving the old man a grandfatherly quality.

  Ashallah stared at the three, her gaze holding theirs for a time before turning to the next one. Finally, her eyes rested on Darya.

  “If I believe you, everything you’ve shown me, then I must find a way to make peace with that.”

  “In your own time, I know you will,” Darya replied.

  Ashallah turned to Rahim. “You seem skilled with a blade. On your best day, you may even be as good as me. I assume all your efforts to rescue me are because you require another warrior?”

  Ashallah expected a wry smile or short remark from Rahim. He did no such thing in response to her jibe. His face was as stone, as serious as she had ever seen him.

  “If skill alone were all we required, then we would have no need of you.”

  “Rahim,” Darya chastised. “Your manners.”

  “It’s fine,” Ashallah said. She had seen this tendency in other warriors before. Her profession was a proud one, and warriors such as Rahim and her were not accustomed to asking for help. When they did, their arrogance and assuredness would often surface.

  “My sister is right,” Rahim added. “My apologies.”

  “Soldier,” Ashallah addressed him. “What is it you require of me?”

  “I can find my way into the Royal Palace of Rilah. I can fend off the janissaries and eunuchs. Even the other turquoise and jinn. But the blood that courses through my veins, the stripes on my skin, prevents me - as it does with every other turquoise and jinni - from accomplishing our mission.”

  “Which is?”

  “To kill the Grand Sultan.”