by Jean, Rima
He smiled. “The day is young, and you are strong. Another test.” He gestured into the town’s crowded, busy streets. “Walk back to the castle. But beware—you will be followed. Your job is to figure out who is following you, then evade and capture him before he—or she—can catch up to you.”
It sounded like a children’s game, but Zayn knew she was at a disadvantage. She was not as skilled at stealth as she was at combat and was still trying to master invisibility by blending into her surroundings. She rubbed her temples and sighed—she was drained from the hunt, hungry and thirsty. As she emptied her flask of water into her mouth, Junaid took the mare’s reins. “May God be with you,” he said to her as he rode away, stoic as always.
He hadn’t given her a chance to ask questions, as usual. She was beginning to understand the way in which Junaid worked, and while she admired it, as his pupil it drove her crazy. She stood where he’d left her, observing the crowd for a moment. Mules pulled carts laden with goods, and dirty-faced children begged on the steps of the mosque. A tall, turbaned Abyssinian, his skin a dark blue-black, filled his goatskin with water at the public fountain. The darkness of the covered bazaar offered her the best opportunity to disappear, so she headed there first. In the shade of the market, the air was thick with fragrant spices, and their scent mingled with the odors of sweat and manure every now and again. The sunlight filtered in through holes in the planks and patchwork awning above, illuminating the dust and smoke that drifted in the air and setting the bronze and silver wares on display ablaze. The crowd flowed restlessly, like a wave of color through the bazaar, on foot, on horses, on donkeys. She matched the pace of the jostling, plodding people, scanning the shadows as her head barely moved.
She saw her opportunity to disappear at the entrance of a narrow alleyway, where two men stood beside an open-air shop, having a heated discussion. Both men were large, with flowing robes that melted into the dimness. Slinking between the warm, moving bodies, she made her way in their direction. Once she had managed to conceal herself in their shadows, she crept into the alley, barely allowing her shoes to touch the ground. In the dimness, she untied the sash around her waist and wrapped it haphazardly about her head, tucking her hair into it. She continued to walk, sticking close to the shadows along the wall. No one seemed to be following her, which meant that Junaid had probably enlisted one of the more skilled Assassins to pursue her. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and her senses tingled with anticipation.
With forced indifference, she slipped back into the crowded thoroughfare and once again mimicked the masses, moving listlessly with the market’s rhythm. Zayn wasn’t interested in capturing her pursuer—Junaid could go to hell. She just wanted to make it back to the castle before she was caught. The desire to run was overwhelming. She could probably outrun her pursuer anyways. Of course, that would completely defeat the purpose of the exercise. She took a turn along with two women, shielding herself behind their voluminous headscarves and veils. She knew she should move into the shadows again and walk silently, but she wanted to get back to the castle sooner rather than later. As she took another turn, her eyes were drawn to the light of an oil lamp, where two old men played backgammon inside a stall. She collided head-on with a young man carrying a basket of fruit. Pomegranates rolled into the mud, and Zayn gasped an apology as she tried to collect them.
“Oh!” she said, wiping the pomegranates in the folds of her trousers. “I’m so sorry. I—”
A cold, sharp blade slid against the skin of her back. The young man leaned toward her, putting his lips against her ear. “You’re dead,” he said.
…
She had seen him before on the castle training grounds, annihilating his opponents with his dagger. His name was Bashar, and he was, without question, one of the top Assassins. Young, maybe in his early twenties, and made entirely of lean, tight muscle. His skin was pale white, but his eyes and hair were midnight black. He smiled at her now, a slow, wicked smile, and dragged the edge of his blade in a line through her tunic, grazing her skin. It was the site of her left lung, between her fifth and sixth ribs, the spot the Assassins were taught to pierce with chilling accuracy… It is through the arteria venosa and the aorta that one is able to reach the vital spirit…
The roar filled her ears, and she pushed him away with only a fraction of her strength. She snarled, “You found me. Congratulations. There’s no need to cut me.” Try to cut me again, I dare you.
He stumbled back, surprised. “They weren’t kidding. You are strong.” It wasn’t meant as a compliment. He eyed her as though she were a strange creature, not quite human. As if reading her mind, he said, “They say you are a jinniyah. I am inclined to believe them.”
“Then you’re as stupid as they are,” she spat back, throwing the pomegranates she still held into the fallen basket. She saw his jaw tense, the grip on his hidden dagger tighten.
Her power flowed thickly in her veins. She pounced on him in a movement that was lightning fast, wrenching the dagger from his hand so that it clattered to the ground. He tried to slip out from beneath her, but she was simply too strong. She grinned down at his outraged expression.
The merchants of the nearby shops gaped at them, startled. Satisfied, Zayn stood, allowed Bashar to rise. He was livid, his nostrils flaring. “Be very careful, jinniyah,” he snarled. “You make very dangerous enemies.”
Bashar disappeared into the crowd as Zayn wordlessly swept the fruit back into the basket. Hurrying back to the castle, she was angry that she’d been caught, but glad she’d wiped the smugness from Bashar’s face. When she made it back into Junaid’s study, Bashar was already there, speaking in a low voice to her teacher. Bashar paused and looked at her darkly when she walked in. Junaid spoke immediately.
“You are impulsive,” he said firmly. “It is your impatience that will kill you, Zayn, not your lack of skill.”
She stiffened, willing herself not to look at Bashar. “I am tired and hungry. I just—”
“Combat is not convenient. It will not wait for you to be fed and rested.”
Bashar spoke. “She does not belong here. A woman, no matter how strong or skilled, does not have the intellect or emotional strength to become one of us.”
Junaid met her eyes, and she knew what he was thinking. He wants you to become angry and irrational. Don’t give him the pleasure. She clenched and unclenched her fists, restraining herself. “He’s only angry because I humiliated him in the marketplace,” she said.
“I speak for many of us when I say this,” Bashar continued, ignoring her. “We do not think she belongs here. She will only cause us trouble. Furthermore, it has come to our attention that she is currently unclean.” He watched Zayn’s jaw drop with relish. “We strongly believe she should abstain from handling holy texts and training with us until she is clean again.”
Zayn was speechless. How did he know she was menstruating? Perhaps one of Aysha’s maids had revealed it to him. Were the women, too, against her being here? Heat rushed to her face as she sputtered, “You… That is none of your affair!”
“And combat is none of yours,” Bashar shot back.
She stepped forward, and Junaid stopped her with his arm. “You overstep your bounds, Bashar,” he said. “But since Zayn has much more to learn than you ever have, we will concede on this point. She will focus on other aspects of her training until she is clean.” Zayn opened her mouth to argue, but Junaid silenced her with a look. “However, until the Grand Master himself tells me she can no longer stay, I will train her as one of us.”
“You take much risk upon yourself, my commander,” Bashar said, a languid expression on his face. He said his words carefully, weighing each down with hidden meaning.
Zayn clenched her teeth. Is he threatening us?
“Let it be a testament to how much faith I have in her,” Junaid replied with ease. Zayn once again felt warmth in her cheeks, but this time the feeling was one of pleasure, not rage.
Without looking at
Zayn, Bashar nodded and left. The moment his footsteps could no longer be heard, Zayn snarled, “I will not give that bastard the privilege of knowing my monthly cycles.”
“He will find something else to use against you,” Junaid replied with a sigh, sitting at his desk. “We will take this opportunity to teach you other things.”
She flopped into a chair. “What other things?” She couldn’t drag her eyes from a plate of vine leaves stuffed with rice that sat untouched on the table, so she helped herself to them hungrily. When Junaid didn’t seem to mind, she poured herself a cup of spiced tea from a long-necked carafe. She drank deeply, savoring the cloves and nutmeg that rolled over her tongue.
“Zayn,” Junaid began, folding his hands on his desk, “how do you plan on finding and killing Guy de Molay?”
Zayn swallowed a mouthful and shrugged. “I thought you would help me.”
“And indeed I will. I brought you here with the intention of making a frightful Assassin out of you to turn loose upon those Frankish knights. Since the assassination of Count Raymond of Tripoli more than thirty years ago, we have been paying a tribute to the Knights Templar.”
“A tribute?” Zayn said. “You mean a tax?”
“Yes.” Junaid reached for the cup of wine and took a sip. “The Assassins and the Templars were once allies against the Sunni Muslims. But Raymond took Assassin lands, and so the Assassins had to kill him. His death was avenged by Gerard de Molay, Guy’s father. He and the Templars slaughtered the inhabitants of Tripoli and raided Isma’ili villages and croplands. Though the Assassins fought back, they were weakened by the destruction. In the end, they were forced to pay two thousand gold pieces annually to the Templars, which they pay to this day.” Junaid leaned forward in his chair. “We are very similar, we Assassins and the Templars, despite the fact that we are enemies. It is because we are so similar that they are our greatest threat.”
Zayn stared at him. “But you still haven’t explained—”
“Patience, Zayn,” he replied with a sigh. “I am feeding you important information; do not gloss over it. Guy de Molay is coming into his own; he is proving to be even more ruthless than his father. He is to become a Templar soon and must be killed before he reaches a position of power. When you have been fully initiated as a Faithful One, we will send you to Jerusalem disguised as a lady-in-waiting to the Lady Marguerite of Ibelin.”
“You will?” Goose bumps exploded on her arms.
“Yes. Lady Marguerite was a childhood friend of his. In order to kill de Molay, you will need to study his behavior and habits while you are in Jerusalem. You will need to blend in. You will need to gain the trust of those around you so that you can obtain information about their plans, their motives, their aspirations. As such you need to be schooled in the more ladylike endeavors.” Junaid smiled at the expression on her face. “During your monthly cycles, it will do you good to abstain from strenuous physical activities and learn to be a Christian woman of high birth.”
“I can perform strenuous physical activities at any time of the month,” Zayn snapped. With a smirk, she added, “After all, combat will not wait for my menses to end.”
Junaid stifled a smile and looked away. “The sooner you are fully trained, the sooner you can be sent on your mission. Do not let a petty disagreement with Bashar get in the way of your goals.”
She crossed her arms. “Fine. So tell me, who in this manly bastion is going to teach me a woman’s courtly etiquette? You?” A taunting smile played on her lips.
“Aysha will train you. She once worked for Lady Marguerite’s mother as a maid.” He refused to banter with her. Zayn wondered briefly if he even knew how. “Go to the harem and ask for her. She knows what you need from her.”
“The harem?” Zayn repeated in a small voice.
Junaid looked at her, his hazel eyes flickering. “Aysha is one of the Grand Master’s wives. Surely you knew that.”
“How could I know that? I haven’t seen Aysha since I first arrived,” Zayn retorted. She fidgeted nervously before standing. “I suppose I’ll go look for the harem, then.”
“Before you go,” Junaid said, indicating she should sit again. “I have one more bit of training for you.”
Zayn sat on the edge of her chair, gazing at her teacher curiously as he pulled a small vial of liquid from beneath his desk. He put two drops of the liquid in the cup of wine and pushed it toward her.
She let out a cynical laugh. “You think I’ll let you drug me again?”
“I am not drugging you,” he said calmly. “I am poisoning you.”
Zayn grinned. “I was wrong about you, Junaid. You do have a sense of humor.”
The look he flashed her in response was withering. “It’s arsenic. Consuming small quantities of it over a period of time will help you survive a dose of the poison that would normally be lethal.”
She paled. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Deadly.” He smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow.
“Who would try to poison me?” She waved her hands incredulously. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to do the poisoning!”
“You have not exactly made friends with your fellow Assassins, have you?”
Her eyes widened. “You mean Bashar?”
“Any of them, Zayn. You may be unnaturally strong, but you aren’t invincible. And since they are trained in the art of assassination, it would be a tidy affair.” He pushed the cup closer to her. “Trust me.”
She lifted the cup and looked into its contents with distaste. “Am I also in danger of getting a dagger in the back?”
“It’s possible, though unlikely,” Junaid said. “As I said, they would want it to be a quiet, clean job. Killing one of your own is not like killing the enemy—you don’t want word to get out, nor do you want yourself implicated.”
Taking a deep breath and shaking her head in disbelief, she tossed the cup back and swallowed. Junaid smiled. “Good. You should not suffer any ill effects from that small dose. We will continue dosing you with the poison in greater increments until you leave for Jerusalem.”
She found her way to the harem in a daze, mulling over Junaid’s words. She would always be in danger; she would always have enemies who wanted her dead. She had known hate before, but now that she was becoming a force to be reckoned with, the game had changed. She stiffened as she walked, wishing she could harden her heart at will. There would be very little room for emotion in her life from now on—she had to kill or be killed.
The harem was in the Grand Master’s private apartments, which adjoined the castle but was not part of the fortress itself. The enormous eunuch guards allowed her inside only after much questioning; they eyed her men’s clothes suspiciously. She wondered briefly if she was stronger than any of them, with their shaved heads and bulging muscles. She smiled to herself—it would be fun finding out, since they had no “male members” to use against her. Her smile faded as she thought of Guy de Molay and how turning him into a eunuch would bring her sadistic pleasure.
Unremarkable on the outside, the Grand Master’s abode was palatial on the inside. Filigree walls and colored tile floors, colonnades of white marble, and intricate blue and gold inlays of crowns and stars dazzled her eyes as she walked through a vaulted hall. The apartments looked inward to a magnificent courtyard and garden. Zayn’s breath caught as she took in the crystal pools, canals, and tinkling fountains, the orchards of palms, oranges, and grapevines. The scent of rose attar wafted at her, and she felt pleasantly dizzy. She had to be in Paradise. Laughter emanated from a nearby pavilion, and Zayn turned to see several women and some small children sitting together on rugs and pillows, watching her curiously.
“Welcome, Zayn,” a voice echoed. Aysha stepped toward her, a warm smile on her painted lips. She wore a tight-fitting bodice and a skirt of blue silk, and a thin veil edged with pearls covered her hair. Although Aysha was well into her forties, she was still stunning. Zayn was not used to seeing women age well; th
e women of Rafaniya waned quickly under their lives’ burdens. Aysha moved like a gazelle, her skirt swishing between her legs and her gold bracelets jingling.
How is she so confident? So self-possessed? Zayn wanted to know this woman who had been raped as Zayn herself had. How did she transcend the pain? Zayn withheld her questions, however; Aysha was kind but aloof, and while Zayn desperately needed a confidante, these Assassins—their women included—maintained careful walls.
“Junaid sent you, I presume,” Aysha said.
Zayn put her hands against her belt self-consciously and nodded. She could smell her own sweat, the wolf, the town’s filthy streets. “Perhaps I should have bathed…”
Aysha smiled. “You’re fine. Come with me.” She led Zayn into a set of apartments just off the courtyard that must have been Aysha’s. The rooms were lavish, with a great bed and feather mattress, an ivory inlaid coffer, and plush Persian rugs of every color covering the floor. With her shoes removed, Zayn sank into a cluster of red silk pillows, still very aware of her filth. Aysha offered her a goblet of wine and sat across from her. “So, you have come sooner than I expected.”
“I have been forced,” Zayn grumbled, taking a gulp of wine. “The men do not want me here. They’re finding excuses to have me suspend my training.”
“What excuses?”
“My menses.” Zayn snorted.
Aysha laughed. “Men! Of course they will come up with anything to be rid of you. A woman does not belong in their midst, or so many say.” Aysha crossed her legs and surveyed Zayn with interest. “So tell me. What can you do?”
“What can I do?” She felt like an idiot.
“Yes. Can you embroider? Can you sing? Can you paint?”
Zayn’s cheeks flamed. She could do none of those things. “Uh, I can make olive oil.”
Aysha frowned. “Stand up,” she ordered. Zayn stood clumsily. “Sing for me. Anything. A local song.”
“Ha!” Zayn laughed. “Aysha, I can’t sing. I promise you.”
