By way of another dreamscape, Ashallah learned what transpired afterward. The scribe’s testimony had driven Rahim and Darya to start their current mission. At first, they swept Greater Dyli in search for the missing jinn, in hopes that they could shield their distant kin from the Sultan’s wrath. Their quest - though it involved covering a vast domain - was not too ambitious given that Darya was able to use her powers of dreamscape to trace at least some of the jinn’s trajectories and intentions. However, in most cases when she and her brother drew near, the jinn they were tracking would scatter. The two turquoise soon learned that although bound by lineage, many of the jinn had grown to distrust turquoise, for as cohorts in the sultan’s army they were hunters of their forefathers, loyal not to their kin but their commander.
Without the trust of the jinn and with so many turquoise sworn to the service of Jalal, Darya and Rahim turned their hope to men and women. That too proved difficult, but not all of their efforts were in vain. For the enemies of the Grand Sultan were numerous. From oasis to caravan to village to city, the siblings found many who had been wronged by their ruler. Former concubines and harlots, especially those well past their sexual prime, confided in Darya on how the Grand Sultan had cast them aside as soon as he had lost interest. Such women had just the clothes on their backs and no a coin to their name when the janissaries threw them into the streets of Rilah. Rahim met several men who had been soldiers and guards that told of the Sultan releasing them from service as soon as they were injured or maimed. Such veterans lost their way soon afterward, squandering what little they had on drinks and wagers that only muted the pain, but never relieved it. Similar such stories from past servants, robbed merchants and others with grievances followed.
For all that the siblings heard and saw though, none of the tales told or sights witnessed were as horrendous as those involving the few enemies that had survived the Sultan’s wrath.
Those survivors lied broken on the streets and alleyways Rahim and Darya visited. On the surface, they appeared like so many other destitute souls. They wore tattered clothing. Grime and dirt caked their skin, with a boil or festering wound here or there. They begged for coins like all the rest. Unlike their sisters and brethren of the streets though, they lacked even the bare essence of spirit. Their eyes were as carved stone that had weathered over the centuries. They emitted no joy. No hope. Those that pitied them with coin or food found their efforts inspired no hint of gratitude or even acknowledgment that other beggars showed. Such survivors were soulless shells, remnants of people broken long before.
As Ashallah’s recollection of the dreamscapes faded, she stared down at the empty plate before her. She had devoured the pita, olives, and hummus left for her, which should have been enough food for any man or woman. She hungered for more though, and still more after that, a fact that disgusted her somewhat as the thoughts of the beggars on the streets had just crossed her mind.
Ashallah put her plate aside. She turned her sight to the walls around her, those with the ancient script. She was in a different part of the cavern, one a stone’s throw away from where she first entered and started her mental training. The script here, while no different in content or tone, was less intimidating for her to study. Perhaps it was the ink, which was more faded in appearance. The lack of luster was not as bold as other walls and subtler. Or maybe it was the consistency in letters, for while the other script had clearly been written and overwritten by a number of hands, the walls now around her reflected the craft of a single master.
Such consideration of what went into the calligraphy around her put Ashallah’s mind at ease, distracting her from the hunger within. With her thoughts quieted, she extended her arms and lifted herself up off the ground. Her body straightened over the floor until she formed a plank. She shifted her weight to her left arm as she aligned her right by her side. For minutes, she remained still, lifting her head only occasionally to watch the flames of the sconces dance with trepidation as they fought off the darkness.
“Two hundred ninety-eight...” she counted aloud to herself. “Two hundred ninety-nine. Three hundred.”
She lowered her right arm and lifted her left. Effortlessly.
“Are you impressed?” she asked.
No answer came from the darkness.
“Are you impressed?” she inquired again, knowing that someone was there.
From the black, Rahim emerged. He was bare-chested. The sweat on his torso spoke of his training session. His turquoise lines, which previously shone boldly, appeared faded, especially in the low light of the cavern.
“You ought to save your strength,” Rahim said.
“A sharp mind does not benefit from a limp body,” Ashallah retorted. “You and your sister should know that best. Where is she?”
“Resting. Her head aches.”
At that, Ashallah perked. In the little time she had known Darya, it seemed unlike her to fall ill or show fatigue.
Ashallah’s stoic manner must have broken, for Rahim replied with assurances. “She will recover. To impart dreamscapes is almost as trying as receiving them. The transfer of thoughts is tiring, burdensome.”
“How she ever showed fatigue before?”
“Not recently, no.” The hesitation in Rahim’s voice was slight, almost enough to worry Ashallah, had Rahim not shook his head. “But our circumstances are not usual, are they? Consider the traveling we have done. The fighting. The fleeing. Along with all the dreamscapes. No wonder she tires.”
“I suppose,” Ashallah admitted, her concern fading yet still present.
“Do you hunger?”
“These days, always.”
Rahim reached back into the darkness. He retrieved a sack from the cavern floor.
“I brought this.” He withdrew an oval loaf, one with grains on its surface that glistened slightly in the light.
Ashallah spotted the peculiarity at once. “Is that sugar on it?”
“And cinnamon.”
“Both are costly. How did you...”
“Yaromir had been saving it for a special occasion. To celebrate a victory.” At that, Rahim’s voice lowered. “It is the last morsel of food he has.”
“Can we not afford more?”
“We can, once he barters a few of his possessions. Alas, you should eat it now all the same. For you need your strength immediately to withstand the news that waits above.”
Chapter 17
The bazaar teemed with desperate faces, those of men and women who craned to see the janissary and his entourage of local magistrates and guards. The difference between the janissary and the city officials was striking. While the janissary sat atop an ebony stallion – a steed with a shine to his coat, further enhanced by his muscle tone – the magistrates and guards rode donkeys and mules, mounts affected by mange, creatures that struggled to support their riders. From his finely pressed dishdasha robe to the clean shirt and trousers beneath to the polished hilt of his yatagan sword, the janissary’s garb commanded respect. Those who rode behind displayed their status symbols such as brass rings or brightly colored shemagh headscarves, but any one of the onlookers could tell such items taken together made for a poor match.
As impressive as the janissary was in riding, he managed to garner further admiration upon dismounting. For the envoy from the Rilah was a full head taller than those who accompanied him. His gait reflected years of marching, as each one of his steps portrayed confidence and superior training. He ascended the stone platform to unfurl the scroll tucked into his belt. Without so much as a cough or clearing of his throat, he read:
“Citizens of Greater Dyli. Today is a great day. For our Exalted Leader, the Prophet to Our People, His Excellency the Grand Sultan, announces a New Age. No longer will our nation be restricted to the lands we walk. The time when our people looked to the sea in wonder of what may lie on the other side has ended. On this day, our forces will begin their preparations for greater might, to expand the reach of our empire. On this day, the ocea
n becomes our road to our new destiny.
“For years, merchants and traders have brought back tales from overseas of nations rich with gold and jewels, spices and finely-woven fabrics, luxuries beyond imagination. Long has our Grand Sultan yearned for the ability to bring those riches to our cities, our bazaars, and your doorsteps. But enemies here at home kept his ambitions at bay.
“It pleases the Court to announce that those past obstacles are no longer concerns for our Exalted Leader. For years, he has toiled for Greater Dyli, to rid the land of traitors and insurgents, of those who desire to spread evil. He has personally trained soldiers and guards, perfecting their responsiveness and skills, so that they may protect us. Most importantly, he has led his forces into the heat of battle, his courage serving as the sigil to our troops, his selflessness an inspiration to all.
“Such time and dedication to our motherland have proved fruitful. With our opponents defeated and on the run, the Prophet to Our People can now focus on his brighter ambitions, on creating greater wealth for us all. The day will soon come when you and your children will be able to stand upon the fertile soils of distant lands, to eat bountiful fruits and meats beyond count, and call a plot of land as your own. Our overcrowded cities will see ease and balance will return to our kingdom, as our Jaha had predicted long ago in his Scrolls.
“So ready your best men for glory! Dance and sing to the heavens! Dream of a better future for yourselves and your kin! For within days, our Grand Sultan will send messages to the most fortunate of families, to bestow the gift of invitation into the greatest quest Greater Dyli has ever seen!”
The last words of the janissary rang and echoed through the canvas walls and tent poles of the city. Every eager face heard and responded with shouts and cries of jubilation.
Among this sea of celebration, four stood. They ignored the tone of the speech, despite the janissary’s obvious gift of peddling propaganda. They absorbed the true weight of the spoken words. Along with all of their consequences.
Darya was the first to break away from the group. Unlike her companions, her face bore all the worry of a concerned mother. Ashallah had noticed it first when she and Rahim had ascended the cavern to find her and Yaromir amongst the audience. Her skin was absent of color, having an alabaster tone. Her energy drained too, for with every other sentence she took in from the janissary, she reached out to another body for support.
This is not the product of exhaustion, Ashallah concluded as she watched Darya sway back and forth. This is something more.
Rahim, somehow caught off his guard by his sister’s rapid departure, trailed after her. As did Yaromir and Ashallah.
“We were fools,” Darya muttered.
“Darya,” Rahim called after her. “What do you mean?”
“We never should have thought that we had so much time. Never.”
“Darya...” Rahim reached for her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“It is clear now.”
“What? What is clear?” Ashallah asked, believing that they had kept yet another secret from her.
“I have no idea,” Yaromir responded.
“Neither do I,” Rahim confessed. A more inquisitive look there never was, Ashallah concluded, as she studied Rahim’s face. He tells the truth, she realized.
Darya looked to the three of them, her face reflecting pained emotions of heartache and disappointment. “I fear our efforts were in vain. We may be too late.”
“Sister,” Rahim pleaded. “What do you mean?”
“There were more dreamscapes I’ve had recently. More than I let on. I wanted to share them with you, I did. But I chose not to, as they were incomplete. Fractured sounds. Distorted images. From one jinni, then a dozen. From so many tortured people, men and women beyond count.
“They were never cohesive. They never made sense. Until now.”
A chill ran down Ashallah’s spine. Never had she seen Darya like this before.
Ashallah stepped up to her. She took Darya’s hand. “Tell us,” she urged.
“In the past few weeks, I have been having visions. Images and sounds from past dreamscapes. From jinn and people I have not touched in years.
“Their experiences have mixed together, with seemingly no cohesion or reason at first. I thought that such things were happening due to stress, from my intense focus to find and then train Ashallah. Therefore, I ignored them.
“Then within the past few days, those same experiences – the fractured dreamscapes – began to take meaning. It is as though a thousand voices talking all at once finally quieted, to allow each other the opportunity to tell their part of the same narrative. Their collective story is one of heartache and suffering, as it tells of a superior power slaughtering their kin and ravaging their lands. Over and over, from a thousand souls, I hear the cries of pain and the moans of anguish. Again and again and again.” Darya closed her eyes as she rubbed her right temple.
“Those aches you felt,” Ashallah ventured. “In your head. They were from them, the fractured dreamscapes...”
“Yes,” Darya confirmed. “They were.”
“Time.” The three looked to Yaromir, who until then had stood silently as he witnessed Darya’s recollections spill forth. “You mentioned time. That we did not have as much as we thought?”
At that announcement, Darya’s face went milk white. Ashallah gripped her arm, nearly expecting her to fall. As did Rahim. Indeed, she swooned but at the last moment regained her composure.
“Back to the tent. To the caverns,” Rahim insisted.
“No!” Darya yelled. Rahim and Ashallah gave pause as Darya fought off their support. “We mustn’t delay any longer,” she continued. She turned to her brother. “The time for action is now. She is ready,” Darya added as she stared at Ashallah.
Rahim leaned in, his gaze locking with that of his sister’s. “She is still unlearned in the language of the jinn. We have yet to test her. She has much to learn.”
Darya looked to Ashallah as a child does to a mentor, seeking a glimmer of hope. “What do you say?” Darya began. “Are you ready? Ready for our unknown plan? Able to take on the greatest challenge of your life? Are you prepared to face the demons of Rilah? Those from our dreamscapes? And your past? Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
***
Rahim was back before midnight. Ashallah, Darya and Yaromir had just returned from the bazaar, having retrieved food for their journey, when Rahim entered the scribe’s tent. Ashallah was impressed, especially as she knew of the miles and terrain he had to cover. He is unique, she admitted to herself. If I had any inclination toward men, he would be one to consider.
“So soon?” Darya asked.
“I found him,” Rahim managed to say through his deep breaths. “Their envoy. I spoke to him. They were closer than we thought... the Tirkhan.”
Ashallah straightened. Unarmed, she withdrew, setting her sights instead on the long wooden sticks - which had been dried and treated – that the scribe used to furl his scrolls. She had her hands around two when Darya came to her side.
“Be at ease,” Darya insisted as she laid her hands on Ashallah’s.
“But the Tirkhan, they are...”
“Enemies, I know. However, that was then. At your battle outside the Canyonlands.”
“They’ll gut me.”
“They will not. They oppose the Grand Sultan and his expansionist policies, nothing more. The soldiers, midnight warriors, janissaries who stand in their way, they are obstacles to be dealt with in their eyes. They hold no ill will towards them or you personally. You shall see.”
Will I? Ashallah asked herself. She glanced at Darya’s hazel eyes, which appeared like that of a doe who had never encountered men. So innocent, she thought. So learned in the finer arts and yet so unschooled in the realities of the world. So unaware of the faults of people, of their unforgiving and spiteful nature.
“Very well. I will provide them with a chance,” she lied, knowing that w
hether she spoke her mind or not, she did not have much of a choice in the matter.
“This tent is hardly the place to meet a warrior clan,” Yaromir chimed.
“You’re right,” Rahim replied. “Their presence will echo beyond the canvas and to the ears of any janissary or magistrate who may be loyal to the Sultan. That is why they insisted on a more clandestine area.”
The caverns, Ashallah told herself.
***
Shades of gold and orange danced on the painted script. At times seductively, or violently, they moved as though wanting to entice the calligraphy to move. The ink did not budge though. Neither did the arms of those who held the torches.
Like statues of old they stood. Their discipline paralleled that of her midnight warriors, or even the few janissaries Ashallah had seen in her time. From afar, they resembled none of the unkempt and disheveled fighters she had encountered in the Canyonlands. These were the Tirkhan’s finest.
Darya and Yaromir bore subtle expressions of admiration, ones tempered by the caution brought on by each stalagmite they passed. Rahim, ever stoic, displayed his apprehension by lowering his right hand to his waist, where any number of small weapons could have rested concealed beneath his vest. With his left, he held a torch, leading their way past stone and rock. Holding up the rear of the group was Ashallah, who stared forward, although her peripheral vision remained heightened.
The stone points stood upright on their guard, mirroring the Tirkhan then and for all eternity. When the four had cleared the last of the eternal sentinels and marched into the open area of the caverns – only a few dozen feet or so from their visitors – they were able to discern in full the extent of the Tirkhan. Those with torches appeared much like imams before prayer. Dressed in tunics and with long beards, the only visible difference between them and Dylian holy men were the kilij swords at their belts.
Behind the bearded Tirkhan and beyond the reach of torchlight, more stood. Faint silhouettes against the black. Like their well-lit cohorts, they remained at attention. Ashallah sensed a difference in them though, a variable she was unsure of until a chance breeze through the cavern splayed a flare in one’s direction. The mask shone for an instant, and that was enough for Ashallah. Hermits, she thought. They bear their masks, the coverings of the solitary.
Midnight Page 21
