Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  Ashallah, curious as to how many faces hid in the shadows, had her ponderings interrupted by the closest of the Tirkhan. A thick-chested man well over six feet in height, he commanded a presence amongst his brethren.

  “You requested an audience,” said the man. “You have one.”

  In response, Rahim stepped forward to meet him. “We thank you for your consideration.”

  “Your time with us is short. Do not waste it.”

  “Very well. We require your best turquoise. Not the inbred bastards or those from mixed bloodlines. We need the Firstborne.”

  Laughter echoed through the cavern, the kind expected of a public shaming or in an arena, not of a meeting between warriors.

  “The Firstborne?” boomed the man, whose chest heaved as he chuckled. “You’re mad.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh no, you’re mad, that’s for certain. But you are right in saying that they’re our best.”

  “We need them.”

  The man’s laughter subsided. “I don’t doubt that.”

  “You know our enemy. Our mission.”

  “I am aware of both. Our envoy gave us your message,” he replied, his tone turning serious. “A fool’s errand, it is. The kind that will get you and any in your company killed. I speak for all Tirkhan when I say that not one of our prized turquoise – the Firstborne we have fought and bled with – will be sacrificed for your cause.”

  Rahim’s eyes narrowed as he tilted the torch toward the Tirkhan. “You would be an idiot to pass on this opportunity. We and we alone have a chance to defeat the Grand Sultan in the name of all those he wronged, including your kind.”

  “An assassin in your debt is no guarantee. Even if she is a midnight warrior. Or one of the Sultan’s bastard runts.”

  Ashallah’s blood boiled over. She moved toward the Tirkhan, having lost all sense of patience or civility. Only Rahim’s quick hand kept her at bay.

  Through the darkness, Ashallah heard swords unsheathe. Fifteen, maybe twenty. She knew many must have been at the ready, before their arrival in the caverns. We are outnumbered and without weapons, she knew. Though she did not care.

  Rahim’s grip on her forearm was as strong as an iron brace. As she pulled and fought, he only held on tighter. Through their struggle, she spotted the silhouettes in the darkness shifting, drawing closer.

  They are tightening their circle, she told herself. Our fate is sealed. They mean to kill us.

  “Darya! Don’t!”

  Ashallah and Rahim froze. Darya had managed to slip around them to come before the thick-chested Tirkhan, who had drawn his kilij sword along with his other brethren. The sight of a female before them, even a turquoise one, was not enough to quell the advance of those with torches and the others in the darkness. They moved forward, with swords poised.

  Until Darya dropped her veil.

  All froze.

  With Darya’s back to her, Ashallah could not see her facade. She was only able to spot the right side of her face. Even then, the torchlight allowed her to admire nothing more than the slender lines of her cheekbones and patches of her skin.

  That was enough. Enough to leave Ashallah stunned, like all the rest.

  “Do all of you see me?” Darya asked of the Tirkhan.

  Mutters and half-words followed her inquiry. Ashallah searched those faces of the Tirkhan that were visible and not hidden by shadows or masks. Those she could spot turned away from Darya, as though looking upon her was unfathomable, forbidden.

  Darya stepped closer to the Tirkhan. The torchlight further illuminated her. Ashallah could still only see the side of her face, which she noticed bore the same striped colors as her brother.

  “Do all of you see me?!”

  “Yes,” managed the thick-chested Tirkhan. “All of us. We see you.”

  “You break the commandment of Jaha by showing so much of yourself,” said a voice beyond the shadows, one that was deep and clear.

  “Oh, believe me, I know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because who can condemn me? I tell you, no one.”

  Gasps and quizzical looks followed. The Tirkhan warriors, not accustomed to such bold speech from a woman - much less from an unveiled one who should have been cowering in shame – were speechless by such a brazen statement.

  “What of Jaha?” spoke the voice from the darkness. “Is he not willing to condemn you?”

  “For what? For being a woman? For showing my true self to men? How is being born the way I am, the way Jaha himself made me, a sin? How is it blasphemy?

  “I know what is going through your minds. I know your thoughts. Tradition compels you to throw excerpts from the Scrolls of Jaha before me. You desire to condemn my very being because I, a woman, dare to do what is not acceptable. At this moment, know I have only done one of the many things you and other men take for granted.

  “You rise in the morning. You step into the sun uninhibited, with nothing covering your face. You show yourselves to all, with no concept of shame. You shop in the bazaars at will. You speak freely. You own flats and land. You even frequent brothels without recourse. All this you do without concern for your gender, for the simple reason that you are a stallion and not a mare.

  “Even this moment of treason, the consideration of standing against the Grand Sultan himself, brings you no shame. For generations, men as warriors – whether in the Sultan’s service or as his enemy – have earned the admiration of their brethren. But when my kind serves in the same capacity, we suffer in the shadows, to fight and die under the night alone, when our contributions go unacknowledged. By day’s rise, our heroes of the battlefield must cover themselves in shame like discarded whores, while the broken and injured fare even worse.

  “Yet here I stand. A woman. Unveiled. I stand urging you to join our fight, to battle the very tyrant who has slaughtered and enslaved so many. Even as I speak, who knows how many have died by blade and hunger under the Grand Sultan’s wrath. Your fathers and mothers have suffered. Your brothers and sisters have suffered. Your children will suffer. My father, a jinni, has suffered, knowing the pain and struggle under the yoke of oppression.

  “You know this. You have battled his forces, including his midnight warriors, for land and livelihood, in open fields and stretches of desert. And what has your lust for battle brought you? Corpses of hundreds. Exile to the fringes of the empire. Poverty to your masses.

  “Our quest is clandestine. It will not earn praise or song among your tribe, who value battles of the masses rather than the efforts of a few. It does not call for a grand show of force. The plan we have devised requires tact and skill, timing and patience. It calls for cooperation amongst those once considered enemies. It even relies on those you consider the last line of defense - women.

  “If I were a man, my words would be a mark of pride; they would command respect. My proposition to end your plight – a bold, unexpected one - would garner serious consideration. My insolence would be celebrated. The proclamation I speak would be admired, for it would reflect that of a man bold enough to speak his mind. My stand against tyranny would serve as a model for others to follow. Alas, I am not a he. My words invite scorn. They inspire no hope in men. Not because they lack power, but merely because I, a woman, am the source.

  “If I am to be condemned for treason, for blasphemy, let it be fully. Let all of you see me for the shame I bring, not only by my words but for the face that expels them. So hurl your insults. Your curses. Stone me if you desire. Try to cut me down. Before you do, know this: I am no less determined in my cause. I will go after he who is the real enemy; the one man ho oppresses us all and threatens to enslave the world.”

  Darya stood tall; her chin held high. The Tirkhan, both those in the light and the darkness, held their weapons tipped a little lower, as though the luster of their ambition had dimmed. Nevertheless, they still held them. Their grips remained tight. Not one returned to its sheath.

  From beyond the lit Tirkhan, Ashal
lah spotted the silhouette of one as he approached. He passed a torch, revealing the grooves and curves of his mask.

  “You risk more than you can afford to lose by talking in that manner to those who can easily become your enemies.”

  “I know,” replied Darya.

  “Then you also know that the Tirkhan take their faith in Jaha very seriously. They consider his Scrolls to be his divine words. Blasphemy has no place in their presence, especially from those who should be veiled.”

  “This I know as well.”

  “Yet still you stand. Your face exposed. Defiant.”

  “Not out of disrespect, I assure you. My only intention was to display my zeal, my commitment to...”

  “What? Who?”

  “To overthrowing the Grand Sultan.”

  The torchlight flickered, as though brushed by a gentle breeze that was not there. Ashallah could not be certain, but she thought that the tongues of flames each bent toward the masked one talking to Darya.

  “The Grand Sultan is no fool,” the masked one continued. “He knows many such as you conspire to overthrow him. His caution is even more ever-present now that he...”

  “Has all seventy-seven jinn under his control.”

  “You know the truth behind the janissary’s edict?”

  “The Grand Sultan, for all his pride and power, would never go overseas to conquer while leaving so many enemies at home. Not unless he had the ability to extinguish the flames of resistance in one fell swoop. The fact that he is now recruiting to expand his forces for his naval ventures proves he has the seventy-seven under his command.”

  “Only recently did he even capture our last jinni,” added the thick-chested Tirkhan. “A fine asset, that jinni was to our forces. Until we were chased through and then cornered in the Canyonlands by the Grand Sultan’s army. Facing a superior force, and with the jinni limited in his power, we tried to carve our own script into his skin to extend his powers. A fine effort that turned out to be. Our lettering was off, our recitation not matching his commands in calligraphy. The warriors tasked with recitation tried to make do. They inserted commands in our own tongue, with disastrous results.”

  “And because our commands no longer held sway over that jinni, his powers faded,” continued the masked one. “The same script that bound him to service drew him to the last master who attempted to control him: the Grand Sultan.”

  “Leaving our warriors in the Canyonlands to be slaughtered,” added the Tirkhan as he spat on the ground. “First, by men. Then when darkness came, by the Sultan’s midnight warriors.”

  Ashallah felt the shame of a thousand accusatory stares. In truth, only the masked one paid her any notice, and even then for just the moment of a glance. Still, that was enough.

  “We have our burden to bear,” interjected Darya, as she reached to her waistband to draw her cedar horn. “The Grand Sultan’s soldiers nearly caught us when I summoned a jinni to our rescue. Three times I sounded the call, one made in distress.”

  “So the last jinni – the one who had managed to escape the Grand Sultan – came out of hiding, to sacrifice himself for you,” stated the masked one.

  “Yes!” Darya replied, her shout echoing through the cavern. Ashallah, still unable to see Darya in full, nonetheless spotted a single tear roll down her cheek.

  The masked one leaned in close to Darya. “The odyssey you ask us to join will be filled with peril. How do we know of your commitment? Tell us, why should we trust you?”

  Darya glanced at the floor, averting the cold, still stare of the mask before her. Then she raised her head - and with it, her right hand – to extend her antique cedar horn. “Take it,” she pleaded. “It was a gift from my father, one of the seventy-seven jinn. He designed it for us so that we may call upon any free jinn in our time of need. Although there are no free jinn left, I offer this to you, as a symbol of goodwill. We are loyal to the cause of freedom, to the resistance of tyranny. Whether you choose to help us or not, you have at least been kind enough to listen and consider our proposal. Take this as our gift to you and your people.”

  The masked one extended his hand. With fingers as gentle as a mother’s touch, he held it. His mask tilted from one side to another as he studied it.

  “A fine present,” the masked one said in response as he extended the horn back to Darya.

  Darya was taken aback. “But it’s yours. I offered it as a gift...”

  “To me and my people, I know. That is why I offer it back.”

  With his free hand, the masked one removed his concealment.

  The Tirkhan stepped back. As did Yaromir. Even Rahim. Only Ashallah and Darya stood their ground.

  Before them all, stood one unmasked. A Firstborne.

  The hue of the turquoise on his skin was brilliant, even in the low light of the cavern. Well-defined lines separated tones of blue from streaks of pale flesh, creating a stark contrast. Despite the stir the tones imparted on one’s eyes, the curvature of the stripes across his face seemed natural, thereby creating a sense of balance between color and composition. By comparison, Rahim’s marks or those of other turquoise could have been mistaken for cosmetic paint or ornamental ink applied by a novice artist.

  Above all, his eyes shimmered, putting to shame the radiance of Rahim’s or Darya’s own. A tone of the deepest blue they were. As they focused on Darya, they emitted their own light, much like the way the sea captures the sun only to send its rays upward again.

  Ashallah looked to Darya, whose back was still to her. She saw her shoulders, her frame, rise and fall as her breaths deepened. Then, as though her shame and self-consciousness returned, she kneeled down to pick up her veil.

  “You needn’t do that,” said the Firstborne.

  “I must,” Darya insisted as she fastened the veil across her face. “You are Firstborne, inferior to none but the seventy-seven jinn. You do us a great honor by being before us.”

  “It is I who is honored,” said the Firstborne. From behind him all the other masked, who had lingered in the darkness, stepped forward. Dozens there were, all who removed their concealment. The other Tirkhan, including the thick-chested one, stood by watching in awe. A few even began to pray aloud, albeit in whispers.

  “By who?” Darya said through her veil.

  “You,” said the Firstborne. As though in unison, the stripes of his face, and those of the other Firstborne behind him, shone. “Cast aside your modesty and any hint of shame,” he continued. “You should not hide. We should not hide. For what purpose do you or we conceal ourselves? To adhere to an antiquated notion? One that does nothing but suppresses us and spoils the name of Jaha? For too long, we have borne shame for no reason. Now, you present us with a chance to rise and stand against tyranny. You offer us your wholehearted effort without hesitation or doubt. So show yourself - that we may know you truly - as an independent woman, free from submission. Free from the constraints of men.”

  By then, the Firstborne had inched up to Darya, so that he stood right before her. Darya’s neck tilted upward, her chin to his chest, as she stared at the lines of his face. Overwhelmed by the moment, a tide of emotion washed over and through Ashallah. Excitement pulsed through her veins at the thought of combining forces with such a powerful and mysterious ally. The thought of victory dried her mouth and deepened her breathing as anticipation welled in her. More powerful than either feeling though was jealousy. For the Firstborne stood as close to Darya – and had connected to her – as much as Ashallah had always wanted.

  “My child,” said the Firstborne. He lifted his hand toward her veil. Darya offered no protest. The veil rose without effort. He placed it in her hand. “May you never wear this again.”

  Darya nodded. She tucked it into the pocket at her waistband. “I wish for that as well. But in truth, I will need to wear it, for our mission into Rilah requires stealth...”

  At that, she turned around. And Ashallah gasped.

  Darya’s face was as fine marble inlaid with str
eaks of sapphire blue. In the low light they shone, the light of her lines growing brighter as she turned away from the torchlight to take her place between her brother and Ashallah. Yaromir was no less impressed, having backed into the cavern wall as Darya approached. Even Rahim, not accustomed to seeing his sister unveiled, averted his eyes, betraying his warrior composure.

  Darya faced the Firstborne once more, her voice stronger than it had ever been that day.

  “Our mission demands we hide once more. All of us. The marginalized. The children of jinn. All us women. The oppressed. One more time will we hide. Then, no more.”

  Chapter 18

  The cold splashed Ashallah’s face, sending streams down her neck to her back and chest. Over and again, she threw water on herself until she felt shivers down her spine. That sensation lasted but a moment before the sweltering desert air overwhelmed her once again.

  Sweat collected on the small of her back within seconds. Along with dust. Along with sand. Itchiness soon followed. Ashallah sighed. Again, she thought.

  A cool cloth found her neck. Ashallah swung around to find Darya behind her.

  “Allow me,” Darya offered.

  “I didn’t even hear you,” Ashallah replied.

  “My brother taught me the art of stealth.”

  “You only tell me now?”

  Darya giggled. “I can sneak up on anybody. Even a midnight warrior. For the sake of the trust between us, I thought it best not to practice it on you.”

  “Until now.”

  “What more can I say? You looked warm.”

  At that, Darya smiled. Struck by her boldness, Ashallah found herself almost as surprised as she was two days before in the cavern. The image of Darya, unveiled, was stunning in and of itself. However, there was something even more striking to Ashallah: the subtlety of the changes she saw in Darya. The quickened step in her stride. The tilt of her head, held higher, even when she remained veiled amongst men in the brightness of day. Even the way she held her stare, a fraction of a moment longer than necessary, when speaking to the Tirkhan that now accompanied them on their journey.