The kilij slipped from his fingers. It fell, its blade turning and wavering. The Sultan extended his arms, his mouth agape, in a desperate effort to plea for his life.
No plea or cry came. No word. No whisper. Just a gasp. Then the clang of steel on stone as the kilij sword bounced off the marble tile.
Ashallah, holding the Sultan by the shoulder with one hand and the shaft of her spear with her other, glanced at the kilij. It rested on its side, motionless, the singing of its blade trailing off into the silence that otherwise consumed the balcony, and the arena, at large.
She felt a single point of warmth on her toe. Followed by another. She looked down to find blood dripping onto her foot.
She looked to the source of the red dots, which emanated from the shaft of her spear. Blood flowed freely down its length, to coalesce at her spear hand, which held the long wood shaft firmly.
The spear disappeared into the parted flesh of the Sultan’s torso, just below his sternum. He remained upright, his body unsure of where to go. In his indecision, he reached out to Ashallah’s temple. Instinctively, she did the same to him.
***
Then Ashallah was there. On a caravan trail in the middle of some unknown expanse of desert, with dunes on all sides save the camels and servants who attended to them. Bound by chains, she saw the Sultan, Jalal, on his knees as the sultana Inci stood before him. She offered him a waterskin.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she began, her stare and words directed at Jalal, seemingly unaware of Ashallah’s presence. “You and I can do great things.”
In reply, Jalal spat at her feet.
Undeterred, Inci extended the waterskin further, until it was right in his face. “Your father was a brute. I did what I did because he left me no choice. His disdain for women was remarkable, even by a man’s standards. You must have known. He ordered the skin of his concubines cut off in strips if they showed the slightest wrinkle. He would display the least of them, those who had fallen out of his favor, before his viziers before passing them along. He cut out their tongues. He kidnapped their babies. He treated them – no, us – like cattle. Why? Who is to say? But I knew I had to stand up to him, if only because no one would.”
Inci turned in Ashallah’s direction. Perhaps it was to watch the setting sun. Or maybe to meet her stare.
“He was your father,” Inci continued. “You shared a bond. I know. He was half a sister to me. My blood and yours. For all the legacy he established, though, you do not have to follow in his path. You can carve out your own destiny. A better future. For your bloodline. For your people. For every woman in your nation. They do not have to suffer. You can make sure of that.”
Inci turned back to Jalal. He remained on his knees. His look, the one he bore into Inci’s skull, was anything but subservient though.
“As Jaha as my witness, I will fulfill his legacy. Every word he said, every action he committed, I will mirror a thousand-fold. That includes... Every woman. They will suffer. As will you.”
“Then know this,” Inci replied, her comforting tone now sharp and quick. “Someone like me will always be there to stop you.”
At that, Inci straightened and stepped away. She turned. This time, Ashallah knew, to look into her eyes.
***
The Sultan slumped to his knees, dragging the shaft of the spear downward. His eyes, the last vestige of life within, fluttered. Quickly. Then slowly. Then not at all.
Eyes closed, life drained, he fell back. Ashallah pulled the spear out. She stared down at the blood that covered the shaft, as well as her right hand. She cast it aside, jumping over the Sultan to join Darya.
A thousand fallen midnight warriors - women that Ashallah had shared blades, bread, and even her bed – were not enough to prepare her for this. The woman before her laid motionless. The turquoise stripes of her skin glowed with less radiance. Her hair sprawled out beneath her head. Her limbs laid still. Her eyes remained closed.
Darya. More at peace than any other deceased Ashallah had witnessed.
To look upon Darya, in all her timeless beauty, was more than Ashallah could bear. She knelt to her side, wrapping her arms behind Darya’s head to cradle her back and forth, their skin touching, Ashallah not wanting to lose the sensation she knew she would never experience again.
She knew not how long she held her love. Her body was still warm when Rahim knelt to Darya’s other side, taking his sister’s hand in his. Her fragrance was still subtle and sweet when their father put his mighty hand on Ashallah’s shoulder. She did not look up to the jinni as he pulled her away, with all the gentleness of a father, and bent down to lift the daughter he had hardly known. Ashallah watched as the jinni carried Darya in his arms, to the edge of the balcony. Those all around and below looked upon her, the sight of one more fallen striking them harder than those that lay around them, the unfortunate deceased the product of conflicting commands, of an engagement that pitted blood against blood.
Ashallah, her tears still streaming, came to his side, not wanting to be away long from Darya. She joined the jinni at the balcony’s edge, looking upon the lifeless form of the turquoise in his hands.
An unlikely one was the first to bow.
Among his blood, his equals and descendants, he stood. His eyes as black as before, as they had been in Yasem. His gold script, his blood-red skin unchanged. The whole of him was resolute, existing as it had always been.
Yet he bent his knee, then the other.
He laid his head on the ground to display his shoulders and back upward. Prostrated, he remained, as in waves the other jinn, Firstborne and turquoise joined him.
Rahim limped to Ashallah’s side. “Sultana,” he decreed. “Greater Dyli is yours.”
Chapter 27
“I am sorry. For treating you as I did. For striking your face. For the thrusting myself into you, even when I felt you resist. For making you cry. I apologize, for all of it. By the grace of Jaha, forgive me.”
The rotund man struggled with his shifting weight as he bent forward. He grimaced as he extended his hands to brace himself and lower his forehead to the clay tiles, his bald spot inches from the whore’s feet.
The woman - a mousy Displaced one, not yet twenty - blinked in awe. “I don’t understand!” she exclaimed.
Ashallah sighed. This one will take a while.
The sun was up, waking all manner of beasts and men, when Ashallah left the brothel. Her retinue of guards – all women, all unveiled – collected to her sides and rear, awaiting her directive. Ashallah, unconcerned with their presence, yawned and stretched, closing her eyes as the morning sun stroked her face.
“That took a while.”
Ashallah parted her eyes to find Badra strolling up from the street, juggling an apple with one hand as he held a scroll with the other.
“Seeing out one’s commands, however mundane, is not for the weary,” she retorted.
“Yes, sultana.”
Badra’s square face contorted as her mouth widened into a grin and she continued to juggle her apple. She had not yet grown accustomed to addressing Ashallah by her newly bestowed title. Not that Ashallah could blame her, for even she had not become used to hearing it.
Ashallah snatched the apple mid-air. She bit into it, Badra’s hand still extended, waiting for it to fall.
“Don’t look too surprised,” Ashallah gibed. “You owed me an apple, remember?”
“Aye,” was all she said, both impressed and defeated. She handed the scroll to Ashallah. “Here, before you steal this as well.”
Ashallah unfurled it, skimming its contents. “The south, is it?”
“A few outlying Renaikan tribes have banded together with the Nasians.”
“Men?”
“Mostly. A few hundred female warriors though.”
Those that still don’t know any better, Ashallah thought. Still naïve, under the yoke of oppression. “Very well. Gather our forces.”
“We march?”
&n
bsp; “Not yet. First, I will have one of the jinn take me there, to try to negotiate peace.”
Badra cocked her head. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then, we’ll see.”
Seeing Ashallah’s resolve, Badra nodded once. She left her to her guards, who proceeded to follow Ashallah to the edges of Yasem.
Ashallah took longer than necessary, leading her guards on a meandering path through side streets and alleys. Some of the narrower passages gave them pause. Ashallah cared not, choosing to march forward, absent of any concern for her safety.
When they reached the base of the ridge of Diestar, Ashallah ushered her guards to fall behind. Every one of them protested as they should have. Still, they relented when they saw the blue-skinned creature who towered on the edge of the cemetery above.
“I have my watcher in sight,” Ashallah had told them, as she climbed the path.
By the time she reached the flat top of Diestar, the sun was at its highest. Beads of sweat had coalesced on the small of her back and forehead. Fatigue eluded her though, as she took her place beside the father of her love.
“The first time I saw you, your skin was as ebony,” she declared.
“It was,” Quasim replied. “The Sultan’s treatment of me, well, it had a way of lessening my power. My appearance changed in kind.”
“It suits you,” Ashallah continued. “Blue is your color. As it was Darya’s.”
“A different shade, yes. More brilliant, more pleasing to the eye. As was my daughter, a pure treasure.”
“Yes, she was.”
Ashallah tilted her head, finding a blond-haired figure ascending the cemetery path with remarkable speed. Here he comes, she told herself.
Mere seconds later, Rahim appeared on the ridge, panting like a feral dog in heat. He was bare-chested, the sweat beads on his skin adding a sheen to his turquoise stripes. Despite feeling no attraction to him whatsoever, Ashallah could not help but stare.
“Badra said she saw you headed here,” he said between gasps.
“Here I am,” she responded.
“She told me you were to go south... to negotiate a truce...”
“I intend to.”
“But that you would... use a wish...”
Ashallah paused, looking from Rahim to Quasim. Quasim, having grown more comfortable and less reserved around Ashallah within the past few weeks, frowned.
“I know, I know,” Ashallah admitted.
“My sultana,” Quasim went on to caution nonetheless. “Your wishes are to be used sparingly. You have already made so many requests of the jinn under your command.”
I know, Ashallah wanted to reply again, though she allowed the words to resonate only within her mind. The men of Greater Dyli had rebelled almost instantly upon hearing of the Grand Sultan’s demise and the ascension of a woman in his place. The fact that she was a midnight warrior, a woman who defied the tradition of female servitude, made matters all the worse. Viziers and imams throughout the country marshaled their forces, blockading trade routes and ports while closing the gates to their cities to any woman not vouched for by a man. Only Ditra, who had beheld Ashallah’s newfound power, initially relented to her command.
Upon hearing of the resistance throughout Greater Dyli, Ashallah had considered allowing the provinces and cities their freedom. But with the news of such defiance also came a tide of support, the likes of which no dreamscape could ever compare.
Columns of women swarmed into the city gates of Ditra, to pay homage to their new sultana. Their numbers inundated the streets and neighborhoods, prompting Ashallah and her midnight warriors to restrict entry, so as not to overwhelm the city’s resources. That led to line after line of admirers who camped outside the city walls, waiting for their chance to enter. In their extended downtime, they sang aloud chants and ballads celebrating women. They danced among themselves while playing instruments to accompany their voices. So freeing and inspiring was the scene of thousands of women serenading each other that Ashallah found herself walking the parapets of the city, admiring the liberty the women now enjoyed.
That seemed so long ago, Ashallah considered, looking down at Yasem in the distance. How many wishes have I made since then? How many cities did I visit, brandishing the power of the jinn, to force thousands into submission? Who among the powerful men defied me anyway, to suffer imprisonment, lashings – or in a handful of cases- death?
The transition to a new world thus far had not been easy. Not for Ashallah, nor her midnight warriors. Nor for her jinn, and their children, the Firstborne, and turquoise, who dutifully carried out her commands. Even the women she freed from bondage and servitude were not altogether liberated from hardship. For in every city Ashallah visited, she made sure to walk the streets, to meet the women, to touch them and take in their experiences through dreamscapes. In doing that, Ashallah felt their beatings and saw their bruises. She listened to the ridicule stubborn men hurled at them. She repaid such insults and crimes accordingly. However, the punishments she doled out never felt like enough, for she knew that every soul she helped represented a grain in a dune of sand.
Ashallah turned from the cityscape below, not wanting to fill her mind with doubt and dread. Rahim and Quasim watched as she weaved through the graves, back to the handful that rested beneath the shade of the largest acacia tree they had ever seen, a gift that Ashallah had bestowed upon Diestar. It had cost her a wish, for no plant could have thrived on the ridge otherwise. Ashallah had decided it was worth it, though, because the graves of the fallen - the discarded, the Displaced - deserved a reprieve from the sun under a canopy of beauty.
“The midnight warriors of my soul,” Ashallah said softly, as she stopped before three gravestones in the sand, those that represented her sister, her mother and her lover. She reached down to the ground, her fingers stretched out as her palm rested in the sand. The warmth beneath put her at ease, as if her three loved ones were within her grasp.
Rahim watched from afar for a few moments, allowing Ashallah her space, as Quasim did the same. They meandered among the other graves, pausing to lower their heads in respect of a few, as they approached Ashallah.
“I miss her too,” Rahim offered, nodding to the gravestone that bore his sister’s name.
Ashallah sighed. Then, with an idea suddenly stirring within her, she beckoned the two to her side. “Come.”
“What is it?” Quasim asked.
Ashallah took Quasim’s massive hand into one of hers, and Rahim’s in the other. She closed her eyes.
She shared with them every image, every experience and emotion Darya had shared with her. All the pain and sadness. But also the joy and the triumph of life. Everything from her childhood memories to those of adolescence, to her young adult years and finally to the end of her days. The dreamscape ended not with an event that was real. Rather, it was one imagined: Darya’s beach. With all the sand and waves and palms she had dreamed, those she had created, save one change:
There was not one set of footprints on the beach.
There were three.
Midnight Page 35
