by Jean, Rima
She continued to throw knives until she thought her arm might fall off. Junaid attached a scabbard to her waist, and she practiced pulling the knife out and throwing it in a single motion. She had to be faster, and she had to be able to throw accurately while running or lying down. The stares of her fellow trainees didn’t faze her anymore as she sped across the courtyard, flung her knife at the target, fell to the ground, and flicked yet another knife in the same direction as she rolled in the dirt. Some hit the mark, some didn’t; it seemed to hardly matter to Junaid. “Again,” he said. “Again.”
The energy faded in and out at random. Sometimes it hit her with force, other times it simply fizzled away when she needed it most. She grew frustrated when her power would fail her, often at critical moments. The knife would be passing through her fingers when her power would give out abruptly, sending the blade askew and leaving Zayn in a pile on the ground. When this would happen, the other trainees would cackle behind their hands, their contempt clear on their faces. She was certain that were she a boy, they would not treat her this way. The thought made her self-conscious and caused her power to stutter.
Hours passed before Junaid allowed her to stop. He offered her a flask of water, sat next to her on a low wall as she rested.
“I have trained only one other like you,” he said, his voice low. “It was very difficult. He could not reign in his power, much as he tried.”
Zayn snapped her head around to look at Junaid. “One like me? What do you mean?”
He stared ahead, his hands clasped together between his knees. “One who was gifted, as you are.” His eyes flickered to her face. “When you are under pressure, do you hear the roar? Do you see a light, as he did?”
She stiffened. “Right now, Junaid. I hear and see them now.” She paused. “There are others like me?”
Junaid nodded slowly. “You will have to learn how to control your power. By learning how to harness it, you become a lethal weapon against mortal men.” He smiled wryly. “You can understand why the Assassins want you among them.”
“But how will I learn?” she asked. “These powers… They are so fickle, so strange. What if I am like your other pupil, and I am unable to control it?”
“It has been done before,” he said, standing. “There have been many like yourself, who’ve harnessed their strength enough to become very powerful. You must learn what triggers it, what makes it fade. It is said that the Templars have one like you. He can apparently manipulate fire.” He looked down at her. “Come, I have something to show you.”
He led her to where the practice weapons were stored. Her heart thumped erratically. Fire! I could never manipulate fire. She was in over her head. Her mind in a turmoil, she swiped a stray tendril of hair from her eyes and scanned the array of weaponry displayed before her. Scimitars, swords, daggers, spears, crossbows, bows, ropes, grappling hooks, and the like lined the walls. Zayn’s eyes immediately lit on a small recurved composite bow made of horn and hard maple. Junaid followed her gaze.
As he reached for the bow and a quiver of arrows, he asked her, “You’ve used one before?”
She hesitated, taking the beautiful weapon from him when he offered it to her. “No. Not one like this.” He inclined his head slightly and waved toward the target. Zayn smiled uneasily as she strapped the quiver to her back and looked over at the target. It was much farther away now, and her arms shook with fatigue, but her confidence was growing. She tugged an arrow from the quiver and nocked it to the bowstring, then pulled her arm back, anchoring her drawing hand near her right cheek. She narrowed her eyes at the target and released. The arrow whistled through the air and cracked against a knife embedded in the very center of the target.
Junaid’s face hinted at a smile. “You’ve never used one before, eh?”
Zayn felt her face grow warm, and she looked down at her feet. It was the closest thing to a compliment she’d gotten from him, but it was enough. No, she’d never used a bow like this before, but she’d used a Frankish longbow, one small enough for a child, when she was twelve years old and aching for adventure.
…
Her fingers moved more quickly than they ever had, plucking the olives from the trees. She clambered through the branches and raked the fruit into a basket that was tied about her waist. Miriam was hunched below, washing the grit, leaves, and branches from the harvested olives. When Zayn plopped yet another full basket at her mother’s feet, Miriam looked up quizzically, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
“Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you work so quickly.”
Zayn shrugged, looking away. “I just wanted some time to play, before it got too hot.”
Miriam nodded. “All right. Just don’t go too far, and be back before prayer.”
“Yes, Mama.” Her feet were already moving, gearing up for a sprint. It was not unusual for her to play alone in the woods or near the spring with the Roman ruins. Sometimes she played with the other village children, but more often than not, she chose solitude. She’d rarely seen her mother socialize with the other women in the village; Miriam only interacted with them when necessary. Zayn supposed this tendency to keep to oneself was hereditary and shrugged it off. As she ran, her gaze fixed on the castle of Montferrand in the distance. Like most castles, it sat high on a hill that looked upon several small villages on the plain. One of those villages was Rafaniya. She wasn’t sure how to find what she was looking for, or if she would find it this morning—find him this morning. She knew that she had to avoid the Molay boys, Guy and Henri, and could only hope that Fair Boy, whoever he was, spent more time away from them than with them.
She found him just outside the castle’s grounds, unfortunately with the Molays. Perched in an oak tree on the hillside, she could see the boys engage in swordplay in a small field nestled amid the trees. Their boasts and taunts carried in the breeze, and she marveled at how boys were all the same, regardless of whether they were Frank, Saracen, Jew, or anything else. Zayn smiled to herself—they were all predictable. She noted that they trained with real weapons, not the wooden, blunt things the village boys used. She wondered idly if they were off the castle grounds to avoid getting in trouble for using the heavy cruciform swords. The blades of Damascus steel gleamed in the sunlight as Guy and Fair Boy clashed, kite shields raised on their left arms. They both wore mail hauberks over their chausses and gambesons, just like real knights, albeit shorter and slower ones, Zayn thought with a smirk. Guy was bigger, but Fair Boy was the better swordsman, wielding his sword in smoother, sharper motions.
“You will die, Saxon swine!” Henri cried good-humoredly from where he sat in the shade, his elbows on his knees. Zayn already knew Henri was not a fighter; he’d made that much clear to her in the woods when she’d hit him.
“We will see about that, Norman curs!” Fair Boy bellowed in return, managing a grin despite the fact that Guy’s sword swung heavily toward his side and jarred him when it hit his shield.
Saxon? Zayn chewed on her lower lip. She wished she knew what it meant. She knew nothing about “Frangistan,” what her people called the land of the Franks. The Franks were the people of the West, the “Latins,” including the Germans, Spaniards, Gauls, and Italians. Clearly Fair Boy was somehow different from the Molays. She leaned forward in anticipation, her muscles tensed, secretly cheering for the Saxon. If only she could learn to fight like that! She was certain she’d be good at it.
Sweat poured down Guy’s face, matting his dark hair to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed a bright red, and he staggered a bit. Fair Boy lowered his sword and studied his rival with concern. “Guy? Are you all right?”
The sword dropped from Guy’s hand and landed on the ground with a thud. He swayed and crumpled to his knees as Fair Boy and Henri leaped to his aid. The heat had done it to him, Zayn knew. Was there any surprise? They must have been cooking under that mail, beneath the thick, padded clothing. The boys poured a flask of wat
er over Guy’s head as they struggled to remove the hauberk from his person. They drained a second flask into his mouth and dragged him into the shade. Zayn watched intently. Fair Boy, the Saxon, was clearly the strongest of the three.
When Guy felt well enough, he draped an arm around Henri’s shoulders, and they shuffled back toward the castle, leaving Fair Boy to gather up their equipment and load it onto the surly gray mule they’d tied to a tree. Fair Boy shucked off his hauberk and gambeson, whistling to himself. Zayn swallowed the knot in her throat—here was her chance. When she was certain the Molay boys were far enough away, she crept slowly down the tree and stood at a distance so as not to startle him. “Hello,” she said.
He spun around, blurring before her eyes. Her senses tingled as he looked about suspiciously to see if she was alone. “What do you want?”
“My name is Zayn. Do you remember me?” She put her hands at her sides, trying to look harmless. Friendly, even. Would smiling be improper? She decided it would and tried to keep her mouth relaxed.
“Ah yes, I remember.” His blue eyes narrowed at her. A smile began to tug at his lips. “You’re the Saracen girl who walloped Guy and Henri.”
Zayn grinned, propriety instantly forgotten. “I didn’t wallop them…”
“That was fantastic,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You aren’t a fairy, are you?”
“A what?”
He waved his hand. “Nothing. Forget it. I’m Earic, one of Lord de Molay’s squires.”
“Earic the Saxon,” Zayn said, half to herself. “Will you become a knight, then?”
“I hope so,” he replied with a smile, slipping the swords back into their scabbards. “Soon we will go to Jerusalem so that we may be educated in becoming real knights.” He grinned proudly. After a brief pause, he said, “Your French is good. How did you learn?”
Zayn shrugged. “I’ve lived among you all my life.” Eager to turn the questions back to him, she asked, “How old are you?”
“Fourteen. You?”
“Twelve. And the others?”
“Henri is fourteen as well, and Guy is fifteen.” He let out a short laugh. “You can see why I was so stunned when you threw Guy to the ground.”
She blushed and fidgeted, unsure of where to put her hands. “I caught him off guard, is all.”
Earic squinted one eye, considering her. “Hmm. Maybe. But you must be strong, too. And fast—you were gone in a flash when Guy pulled his knife.”
Zayn cracked a smile. “You would have been gone in a flash, too.”
“Ha! Yes, I suppose that’s right.” He grinned back at her, and she instantly liked him. He was a cheerful, good-hearted boy and no doubt one who would become a fearsome knight.
“Thank you for defending me,” she added.
“Don’t thank me,” Earic said, looking away. “Guy can be…impulsive. I don’t like to think he’s all bad, but sometimes he makes me question his judgment.”
A moment of silence passed as Earic loaded the shields and rolls of mail into the mule’s saddlebags, and then Zayn said, “There’s a patch of woods just south of here, before the Ansariye Mountains. The hares and gazelles are bold, and the pheasants are plump.”
He looked at her, an eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”
“Yes. I could take you there at daybreak, and you’d be back just after the third hour.” She twisted her hands hopefully.
Earic tilted his head and surveyed her with interest. “You want to take me hunting? Why?”
Zayn squared her shoulders and sucked in her breath. She had decided she would be truthful with him and hope it was not in vain. “So that I may hunt, too,” she replied, keeping her eyes locked with his. “To hunt on Lord de Molay’s lands would make me a poacher.”
“But if I came with you,” Earic said, completing her thought with a narrowing of his eyes, “then you wouldn’t be poaching?”
Her cheeks grew warm, but she didn’t look away. He scratched his head. “I would have to get permission.” He suddenly flashed her a smile full of mischief. “I’m assuming Guy and Henri are not invited?”
Smiling back, Zayn replied, “I want to be the hunter, not the hunted.”
Earic laughed. “All right. Tomorrow morning at daybreak, then? I’ll keep it a secret.”
Chapter Six
Zayn held her breath, convinced the beasts could hear her heart pounding despite the songbirds perched in the branches of cypress, cedar, and juniper trees all around her. With her back pressed against the trunk of an old oak tree, she was acutely aware of the numbness that crept up her leg and tingled her feet—she’d been crouching in the same position for what felt like an eternity. Her thighs and buttocks ached, and she resisted the urge to stand or shift. Without moving a muscle, she scanned the long grass around her, trying to single out her prey from the clouds of buzzing insects.
Her prey—two, maybe three wolves.
Were they her prey, or was she theirs? They were hunting her, and she was hunting them. She hadn’t set out to hunt wolves, of course; just two months into her training, Junaid had led her into the woods with the intention of hunting deer, pheasants, and hares. He wanted to see how good she was with the weapons when the target was moving flesh and blood, he’d said. They’d taken two fine horses, a falcon, and a couple of beautiful Saluki hounds into the forests. Somehow Junaid had coaxed Zayn from her horse, and in the heat of the chase, she’d been separated from him. Now, she was alone in the woods, armed with her bow, a quiver of arrows, several knives, and was surrounded by wolves. She could not shake the feeling that this had been staged, that this was a test.
Zayn smiled wryly. A test in which failure meant “brutal death.” She would be lying if she’d said she didn’t find it all thrilling; Junaid’s tests made her feel alive, so dangerously close to death. It granted her the escape she so desperately sought. Run away, run far away.
Her mysterious energy rolled through her in waves, and even beyond the humming, she could hear every sound around her. She was getting better at anticipating it, at keeping it from deserting her. She was not as afraid of it as she’d been before—she was learning to accept it, to embrace it.
A sudden rustling in the distance jolted her. Twisting her torso, she swiveled her bow so that she aimed in the direction of the sound. Zayn let out her breath slowly. She’d been too cocky around Junaid. You think you’re better at this than you really are. Now she would have to pay for her cockiness with her life, and it would serve her right.
A soft yip sounded, just over her left shoulder, and she swiveled again. They surrounded her now, even though she couldn’t see them, and they were far too close for comfort. She began to truly think the tables had been turned—the hunter had become the hunted—when she saw it: something beyond the thicket moved, something dark and textured, unlike the blades of grass around it. Instinctively, she lowered the bow and reached for a knife that was tucked in her boot. Not a moment too soon, as her body was beginning to tremble with fatigue. Her gaze never left the animal’s black hump as she deftly flipped the knife into her palm and let it fly.
The knife sliced through the air, a set of bared canines flashed at her, and there was a split second of unearthly silence.
The wolf emitted a sound that was more scream than growl as it twisted into the air, its body curling around the blade that now protruded from its side. Zayn’s movements were nimble, fluid. She heard the second and third wolves yowling, snarling, and from the corner of her eye, she could see their dark forms moving through the grass toward her. After sliding another knife from the sleeve of her jacket and one from her belt, Zayn flung the blades with inhuman speed. As they sailed through the air, she reached for another, not waiting to see if her aim was true—she didn’t have to; she knew that it was. The third wolf was barreling toward her, its black lips curled over yellowed teeth. Zayn stumbled backward as she reached for another knife, trying to increase the space between herself and the animal. It launche
d itself at her, its massive head lowered, just as she let the last blade fly. The wolf growled as it landed, taking Zayn down with it. She fell hard, her head snapping against the ground with a dull thud. Before she’d even recovered her senses, seeing only a whirl of dust and hearing the dying, angry grunts of the animal that lay on top of her, she pulled out her dagger. She gripped the hilt with both hands and drove the blade into the wolf with all her strength. The animal screamed and thrashed while Zayn struggled to pull herself from under it, feeling claws and teeth tear at her clothes and skin. Then it was still, exhaling the remnants of its life with a great puff.
She knelt on the ground beside the dead wolf, breathing hard. The smell of fur, decay on the animal’s last breath, and blood mingled in the air around her. Within moments, she heard hoofbeats and the baying of hounds. She stayed where she was, refusing to turn around even when Junaid dismounted and addressed her. “Impressive,” he said in that monotone of his.
Zayn finally looked at him. “You planned that,” she shot at him. “It was too convenient. Admit it, Junaid, you staged this.”
He crossed his arms. “Of course I did. It was a test, one of many. It seems to me that your weapon of choice is the throwing knife. A good choice. Needless to say, you passed.”
“Good to know,” she grumbled, standing on legs that still shook from her near-death experience. “Is my life so expendable that you won’t even warn me if I could die during one of your ‘tests’?”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” he replied, barely waiting for her to mount her chestnut mare before coaxing Shaitan into a trot. “I knew you’d survive.”
As she hurried to follow, she bit back her sharp retort and stifled the overwhelming desire to knock him off his horse with her bow. She wasn’t angry, of course. She sensed Junaid understood this, even as he pretended to rebuff her. They returned to Masyaf, and Junaid stopped just within the city’s walls. He hopped off Shaitan’s back and motioned to Zayn. She dismounted and asked, “What now?”
