by Jean, Rima
He slowly walked back to where she sat and squatted before her. He looked at his hands, which Zayn noticed were clean and masculine. “I came to Rafaniya to find a girl named Zayn. The rumor is that she is a peasant girl with unnatural gifts. She is as fast as a gazelle, as strong as a grown man, and as smart as the brightest pupils in the kingdom.”
Zayn looked at Junaid with bloodshot eyes. “There are rumors about me?”
“You don’t speak much to others, do you?” Junaid said. “Yes, there are rumors. And the rumors have spread far and wide. Some, such as the people of Rafaniya, believe your gifts are from the devil. Others, such as myself, believe they are from God.”
“My mother is dead because of me,” Zayn moaned. “Because of my gifts.”
Junaid stood. “Your mother is dead because of ignorance and fear and lust,” he said, “not because of you. The men who murdered your mother will win if you let them crush your spirit, Zayn. It’s what they want.” She clenched her jaw, and he seemed to almost smile. “Now. I can carry you, since you are barefoot, or—”
“I’ll walk.” Zayn stood up, leaving her tears to dry on her face.
Junaid nodded solemnly, and they continued through the brush. Zayn followed him beneath a rocky overhang in the side of a hill where an Arabian stallion waited under a tree. Lean muscle rolled beneath a coat of glossy black. He raised his head, shook his mane, and whinnied when he saw Junaid.
“He’s beautiful,” Zayn said as they approached.
Junaid stroked the horse’s neck affectionately. “His name is Shaitan.”
She looked at Junaid in surprise. “You named him Satan?”
He grinned, flashing white teeth. “You’ll see why. Shall we?”
He helped her mount Shaitan, and she landed in the saddle with a wince—this ride would be a painful one. He hopped into the saddle in front of her and gave her his profile. “Hold on, now.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, and they were off. The ride was, without question, excruciating; Zayn kept her jaw clenched with each bounce from the saddle. She tried to focus on where Junaid was taking her, noting that they traveled north and west along the Ansariye mountain range. At one point, she was certain that they’d left the Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem and entered territory controlled by the Saracens. When she spotted the castle in the distance, her heart dropped. The only castles in this part of Syria belonged to the Assassins.
“Stop!” she cried into Junaid’s ear. He pulled on the reins, and Shaitan reluctantly slowed, snorting in annoyance.
“What’s wrong?” Junaid asked.
“Where are you taking me? What castle is that?” she demanded.
“It is Masyaf,” he told her.
She tried to swallow. “You are taking me into the Assassin stronghold? Why?” She knew the answer, of course—Junaid had to be a Nizari Isma’ili. As a child, she’d heard terrible stories about that heretical sect of Islam to which the Assassins belonged; the Nizari Isma’ilis drank wine, ate pork, allowed their women to wear trousers, and spent most of their time steeped in a cloud of hashish. The Assassins themselves were brutal, cold-blooded killers who hunted both Muslims and Franks alike, depending on what suited them. The Assassins currently had a tentative truce with the great Muslim warrior Saladin. While Islam united the Assassins and Saladin through faith, their relationship stood on shaky legs.
“What does it matter?” Junaid asked. “Not long ago you were set on plunging sheep shears into your heart. Is this so much worse?”
“It might be,” she snapped. She watched his profile as he broke into a wide smile.
“The spirited girl is returning,” he said.
“Let me off,” she insisted.
“Be reasonable. If I leave you here, you will most likely die, and Guy de Molay wins. Come with me, and you get your chance at retribution. Which option appeals to you more?”
She was silent for a moment. Would she turn against everything she had ever been taught about right and wrong, good and evil, if she had to? A rush of emotion swept through her veins, but this time the grief was accompanied by cold, hard rage. It settled over her heart like an icy shell, freezing the image of Miriam’s agony in her mind. She said, “Promise me that I will kill Guy de Molay with my own hands, and I will come with you.”
She noticed a very subtle change in Junaid’s expression before he replied, “I promise that you will be given the opportunity to kill Guy de Molay with your own hands.”
She nodded halfheartedly. It was good enough. “Then let’s go.”
…
“Mama, how did you know?”
Miriam set a bowl of eggplant relish on the table, beside a stack of triangular-cut slices of flatbread. The smell of thyme, ginger, and garlic wafted at Zayn, and her stomach growled. She reached for a piece of bread, tore off a bit, and dipped it into a small bowl of olive oil before devouring it. The silver-leafed olive trees around their modest home were their lifeblood. Miriam’s family had lived in the village of Rafaniya for as long as anyone could remember, but Lord Gerard de Molay had owned the land since the First Crusade, and the natives who lived there had become his serfs.
Zayn let the oil slide over her tongue, comforted by its taste. It was buttery, with flavors of almonds, figs, and pepper. Sometimes it was sweet, sometimes bitter, but it always tasted like the woods and grass and streams around the olive trees, as though the trees had drawn the earth itself through their roots, creating home in each and every olive. The olive oil was like a worn blanket to Zayn, the aromas of her mother, of her life, condensed in every drop. She would know her mother’s fresh-pressed olive oil from any other.
“How did I know what, my love?” Miriam said, sitting down for the first time all day. She closed her eyes and exhaled, the lines of tension on her brow fading. Despite the toil of her life, Miriam was beautiful, with her large, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and graceful body. Her neck and limbs were long and delicate, and her thick black hair fell to her shoulders in glossy waves when uncovered and unbound. Zayn could see the threads of silver near her mother’s temples, and it saddened her. At thirty, Miriam was too young for gray hairs and wrinkles. Zayn looked down at her plate of eggplant and hesitated.
“About me,” she said softly. “That I am…”
Miriam’s eyes twinkled. “Special,” she finished with a twitch of her lips. When Zayn nodded, Miriam sighed. “You are my daughter. I watched you take your first step, say your first word. I know you.”
“But why am I this way?”
After gazing at her daughter’s curious face for a long time, Miriam answered, “Only God knows why.”
Zayn rolled her eyes and let her chin fall to the table. “Mama, please. What aren’t you telling me? Does this have to do with my father?” She saw Miriam stiffen and immediately wished she hadn’t mentioned her father. Her father—the man she had never met and knew next to nothing about. She was an astute child, but she also knew that there was a whole world of drama that only adults understood. She had a feeling that the subject of her father fell into that world.
“Finish your dinner,” Miriam said, her eyes downcast. She opened a piece of flatbread and began absently scooping the eggplant relish into it. They ate in silence until Zayn sensed her mother relax. Miriam asked, “What happened today?”
Zayn met her eyes and smiled mischievously. “Lord de Molay’s sons were hunting in the woods this morning,” she said. “I frightened their quarry, and they became upset with me. I decided to confront them.”
“Zayn!” Miriam’s face drained of color.
“They couldn’t catch me, and I knocked them both down,” Zayn said hurriedly, before her mother could have an apoplexy. She thought it was wise to leave out the fact that they’d tried to knife her. “I ran off before they could do anything. Don’t worry, Mama, they don’t know who I am. You know the Franks—they can’t tell us apart, anyhow.”
Miriam snorted, almost laughing. “Yes, it’s true. Especially when we’re veiled. But Zayn
, Molay’s sons are wicked boys. Lord Molay and Reynald de Châtillon plunder the Muslim caravans despite the truce between Saladin and the king, and Lord Molay may very well bring war upon us again. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed us to work the land, he’d massacre us all. You put yourself in danger when you attract his attention.”
“I’m sorry,” Zayn said. “I didn’t seek them out.”
They continued to eat quietly. After a moment, Miriam stifled a smile. “And now you believe me?”
“Yes.” Zayn beamed. “I could feel it course through me, this feeling…this energy. What is it?”
“Energy is a good word.”
“But where did it come from?”
Miriam fixed her eyes on Zayn’s. “From within you.” Zayn sighed, resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t get a straight answer from her mother. Miriam continued, “As you grow, so will your power. You must learn to control it, Zayn. You have been given this gift from God, and you must use it to do good.”
“But what does that mean?” At twelve years old, Zayn understood a few things, including that life was hard, God was good, and both were better if you were a Frank.
A tenderness crept across Miriam’s face. “You will have to decide that for yourself.”
Zayn silently fumed over how her mother would only ever speak to her in riddles.
They cleaned up after dinner, then decanted the freshly pressed olive juice. They stored the oil and prepared the baskets of picked olives for pressing the next day, soaking a portion of the olives in brine, and cleaned the small millstone behind the house. As night fell, the ancient hamlet of Rafaniya quieted down. The farmers put away their sickles and scythes, and relieved the mules of their burdens. The wheat fields, vineyards, and olive groves emptied, grew silent in the cool, dry darkness. Most of the villagers prayed and ate together, but not Miriam and Zayn. No, it was just the two of them, and Zayn liked that just fine.
She washed herself with warm water from the tub, watching furtively as her mother patted herself dry after her bath. Miriam’s scent—a delicate blend of olive oil and orange blossoms—comforted Zayn like nothing else. Her golden skin glistened with moisture, and the curves of her body reminded Zayn of the Roman art she’d seen around the village, collapsed in white rubble beyond the fields, relics of Rafaniya’s past. Miriam was as lovely as the statues of those barely clad Roman women, with their pert bosoms and gently sloping bellies. Only the long, silver scars that crisscrossed from her shoulders to the small of her back marred Miriam’s beauty. Zayn had only caught a glimpse of those scars a few times, and Miriam had been quick to cover them. Zayn knew better than to ask her mother about them; she knew they were from a whip’s lashes, and she knew it meant Miriam had been punished. Somewhere in the back of Zayn’s mind she wondered if there was a link between the things Miriam would not discuss—between the scars on her back and Zayn’s father.
The call to prayer broke the silence of the evening, the muezzin’s strong, melodious voice carrying in the breeze. Draping herself in a robe and veil, Miriam prepared to pray. Since Zayn was still a child, she did not need to cover her hair—yet. She knew the time was quick approaching when she would have to stop her tomboyish ways, when shrouding her hair and body would become a necessity. Her first menstrual bleeding would mark the end of her childhood and as far as Zayn was concerned, the end of her life. She privately prayed to God that he would abstain from inflicting her with “womanhood” until she was much, much older. To say that she dreaded the day was an understatement. Zayn saw the trouble that befell girls when they became women, and she wanted no part of it.
There was so much that she wanted to do, to learn. She had to hurry, for womanhood awaited her, lurking like the plague.
Chapter Four
The castle of Masyaf overlooked its fortified town from a steep hill. Zayn forced the memories of her mother from her mind and tightened her grip on Junaid’s robe. There was no time for tears right now; she needed to have her wits about her. As they rode through the city walls and into the town, she peeked around suspiciously. It looked like any other Islamic town, with its narrow, winding streets and cramped, stucco houses. She had been to the city of Homs once with her mother when she was small. Though Masyaf was much smaller, its layout seemed similar. It had a market, a mosque, and crowded residential quarters. The people were more worldly than the villagers of Rafaniya, which showed in their colorful garb and fancy shoes, but not as sophisticated as the people of Homs. She stole furtive looks at the women and was surprised to find that they wore skirts, not trousers, and were veiled below the eyes like good Muslim women. Despite herself, Zayn felt relief—she’d half expected to see a wild, hashish-induced orgy in the middle of town.
They rode on, through the wall of the castle itself, and Zayn’s apprehension returned. This was where the Assassins themselves lived and trained; this was where the Grand Master of the Syrian Assassins, Rashid el-Din Sinan, resided. The “Old Man of the Mountains,” they called him. Zayn remembered what her mother had once said about the Grand Master: He uses magic to twist minds and hearts, ordering them to fulfill his evil purposes. Was that why Junaid wanted her? So that the Grand Master could twist her mind and use her special abilities for his purposes? Zayn straightened her back, ignoring her body’s protests. She refused to give in to her fear. Junaid had promised her Guy de Molay. She would do whatever she could to ensure she got him.
Junaid helped Zayn dismount and gave Shaitan to a stable boy. Zayn was ashamed of her ragged appearance, hiding her face and slumping her shoulders, but no one paid attention to her. Junaid led her through several dim passageways, his footfalls echoing against the stones. He stopped at a door and knocked; an older woman with henna-dyed red hair and bright emerald eyes opened it. She nodded at Junaid and looked at Zayn, her piercing, kohl-lined eyes traveling over Zayn’s person carefully. Zayn wanted to hide from those eyes; it was as though they detected her every sin.
“This is Aysha,” Junaid said. “She will tend to your wounds and familiarize you with your apartments.”
“Are you leaving?” She almost felt frantic at the thought.
His eyes smiled, even though his mouth did not. “I will be back for you soon. Don’t worry. Aysha will take care of you.”
“Come in,” Aysha said, stepping aside, her tangerine-colored skirts swishing and her bracelets tinkling with her every move. She smelled of jasmine, and Zayn wondered if Aysha could smell Guy de Molay on her. Instinctively, she tightened her headscarf and folded her arms against her waist. She stepped into the room and heard the door shut and lock behind her. Inside, three women who were dressed less lavishly than Aysha moved about, folding linen and dropping scented oil into a large tub of hot water.
She glanced at Aysha. “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” Aysha replied, pulling gently on Zayn’s headscarf. “Come. We are all women here. There is nothing to be modest about.”
Zayn began to disrobe nervously. “Yes, but I’ll be the only naked one,” she said. This made Aysha smile. After dropping her clothes on the floor, Zayn climbed into the tub and sank into the water with a hiss of relief. The cuts and abrasions on her body stung, but the heat felt wonderful on her sore muscles. She immersed her head and washed her hair while the women flitted about mending clothes, cleaning, and generally ignoring her. Aysha came and sat near the tub, her eyes on Zayn’s bruised face. She said softly, “You’ve been hurt.”
Oh God, please don’t let me cry. Her nose and eyes stung with tears. “He killed my mother. He…” She lowered her head and slumped farther into the water, drawing a bloody knee up against her body. Who was this woman Aysha, that Zayn felt inclined to reveal her deep, fresh wounds to her? Would Aysha judge her? Would Aysha see her for what she had become? Guy’s words still echoed in her mind: Filth. Nothing but filth. Aysha was looking through her now, darkly lined eyes luminescent with compassion, and Zayn broke into a sob.
“Speak of it,” Aysha said firmly. “It will slo
wly lose its power over you.” When Zayn shook her head and whimpered, Aysha continued, “When I was even younger than you, our neighbor, my father’s friend, raped me. He was not a Frank, not a Christian. He was like us, and yet nothing like us. I thought my life was over.”
Zayn looked up suddenly, the soapy bath water rippling from her. “Was it?”
Aysha smiled. “No. It was a brutal beginning.”
After trying to scrub herself raw of the prior night’s pollution, Zayn reluctantly stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in a thick linen sheet. The pollution was still there, like a stain on her soul. Aysha had laid out clothes on the couch, and Zayn stared at the trousers apprehensively.
“Are those the clothes I am expected to wear?” she asked.
Aysha nodded. “Junaid’s orders.”
Zayn gnawed on her lip. “They are men’s clothes.”
Aysha stopped moving and looked directly at Zayn. “You are here for a special purpose, from what I understand,” she said. “So long as you are in Masyaf Castle, the rules for women do not apply to you.”
Her heart jumped. “They don’t?”
Aysha titled her head curiously at Zayn. “How can you be expected to dress and behave like a woman when you are to be trained as a Faithful One?”
A wet lock of hair dripped to the tile at her feet, and Zayn absently squeezed it with the sheet. Of course. She’d known that all along, hadn’t she? Why else would a Nizari Isma’ili like Junaid seek her out? Had the rumors he’d heard about her been so fantastic that he believed he could transform her into a Faithful One? A Faithful One—an Assassin. The full impact of what she had agreed to undertake slammed into her, and Zayn swayed on her feet. Aysha reached out.
“Here, sit.” She pulled up a stool for Zayn and said to one of the other women, “Amina, bring Zayn something to eat and drink.” A platter of figs, dates, grapes, cheese, olives, and bread was set on a table beside Zayn, and Amina handed her a goblet that smelled of citrus. “It is lemon sherbet,” Aysha said, “made from the mountain snow.”
