by Jean, Rima
She slipped through the dark passageway, trying to keep her breath steady. The sounds she heard were all within, she told herself. Her heart, her breath, her blood. She made no sounds without. When she emerged from the inner wall, she found herself gazing at the castle’s massive keep, which was littered with archers and crossbowmen. She moved in the shadows, willing her body to float through two inclined, cobbled tunnels. How she found herself staring up the spiral staircase of Saladin’s tower was beyond her; she had been concentrating so hard on the map in her mind, on hovering above the ground. With as much speed as silence allowed her, she flew up the stairs and through the heavy door that stood between her and the sleeping general Saladin. He snored peacefully in a large four-post bed, his mouth ajar. Moonlight streamed in from the high, barred window and reflected off the blade of a knife, which he held tightly in his fist as he slept. Zayn was suddenly, painfully glad she hadn’t been sent to kill him. Creeping to his bedside, she carefully placed the Assassin dagger on the pillow beside his head.
She could not get out quickly enough. Saladin had jarred her with his fatherly looks. Did he have a family, she wondered? In the stony darkness of the great fortress, her stomach knotted with a feeling she hadn’t anticipated. Her powers stuttered, flickered, like a dying flame. No. Come back. I need you. When her time came to kill someone other than Guy de Molay, would she be able to do it? She did not believe in the Assassins’ cause; she had no faith in their god. She hated herself and anyone who hurt her and her mother passionately, and longed to unleash her power on them all. Nonetheless, she had not descended into such a state of depravity that she could kill without conscience. This man, this slumbering general, had done nothing to her. Indeed, he was considered by many Muslims to be their hero.
The crossbowman waited for her on the curtain wall. His gaze flickered to her with reassurance. She wasted no time sliding over the edge and back down the rope, her body suddenly aching from tension. She wanted this night to be over. When the crossbowman released the grappling hook and she’d gathered her rope, she began to weave back through the trees, finally relaxing her shoulders and neck. She’d done it; she was now one step closer to initiation. She could go to sleep and—
Thwap! She snapped around and saw the knife handle glint against the darkness, its blade embedded in the trunk of an oak not a foot away from her. As she dived down into the underbrush behind the tree, she heard the air whistle and two more dull thuds. She crawled, trying to think. There were two attackers, at least. The knives had come from two different directions. They were small blades, much like the ones she’d been taught to use. The first had cut near enough to her head that she’d seen the distinct Isma’ili Lion decorating its hilt.
She was being attacked by Assassins.
…
Think, Zayn. Think. It’s likely just another test.
She was frozen in the grass, her eyes seeking, hands slithering to the knives strapped to her torso. She couldn’t defend against what she couldn’t see. The grass crackled in her ears, alive with the various clicks and buzzes of insects.
A shadow moved in a way it shouldn’t have, and she launched a knife. The scream that peeled the air assured her the knife had found its mark, and she scrambled up and away through the bramble. She was not trying to be quiet now—she was running as fast as she could, snaking left and right between the trees. The spot between her shoulder blades tingled, anticipating the plunge of a knife.
But the blow never came, and when she reached the agent’s farmhouse, she demanded her horse immediately. She was shaken to the bone. Who could she trust, if not her fellow Assassins? Fear and shock transformed to rage as she rode back to Masyaf in the dead of night. Despite her exhaustion, she rode hard, pausing only to give her mare a brief respite. She was a sweet horse, and spirited, too; even slick with sweat and panting, she carried Zayn easily through the rugged terrain. “Thank you,” Zayn whispered into the mare’s ear when they arrived and stroked a grateful hand down her brown neck. The mare nickered softly in response. Zayn burst into Junaid’s rooms, expecting to find him asleep. Instead, he sat at his desk, looking as though he expected her.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve completed your first mission successfully.”
His words only incited her further. Through grit teeth, she spat, “Are you trying to kill me, Junaid?”
Nothing but a slight flicker of his eyes indicated surprise. “Why would I spend all this time and effort training you if I only wanted you dead before you could accomplish anything?”
“You tell me!” she replied, unsheathing her last knife and flipping it point-first into the center of his desk. The handle vibrated slightly from the force of her throw. “I was attacked by Assassins in the woods outside Krak des Chevaliers. There is no question as to their intent. If this is another one of your tests—”
Junaid considered the knife for a moment. “I did not approve any such test.” He pursed his lips. “I will speak to Bashar.”
“It was Bashar, was it?” Her chest rose and fell with each breath, and she clenched her fists at her sides. “Enough talk. Let me fight him. There is room in the Order for only one of us.”
“You will have your chance to fight him,” Junaid replied, “but not yet. We need you both right now.” He stood. “I will speak with the Grand Master.” He looked at her then. “You should sleep. You’ve had a long night.”
She glared at him. “I’m too angry to sleep. I’ll be prowling the armory.”
She threw knives and shot arrows in the darkness of the armory, hoping for Bashar to suddenly emerge and confront her, until her body succumbed to fatigue. She stumbled to her room and onto her pallet, her mind fighting when her muscles would not.
The following morning, her head throbbed as though she’d drunk an entire carafe of wine. She attended her studies and training as usual, and though she constantly scanned her surroundings for Bashar, he was nowhere to be found. Junaid must have been keeping Bashar away from her, she thought with a smirk. When night fell, Junaid invited Zayn to join him in the gardens. This was unusual, and she was instantly wary—her mentor had a test for her, or he had something grave to tell her.
Either way, Zayn had never been to the Grand Master’s private gardens, and she hesitated now. Those gardens had spawned an abundance of Assassin tales, whispered in the night by elders to village children around crackling hearths. The word “assassin” was believed to come from the Arabic word hashashiyun, from hashish—the resin of the cannabis plant. Supposedly, Faithful Ones consumed hashish before going on suicidal missions of murder. Hashish was also said to be used during the Assassin’s initiation: After being put in a drug-induced stupor, the inductees were placed in a “Garden of Paradise” filled with food, wine, and women. This would lead the inductees to believe that the Grand Master was a prophet and that by serving him faithfully, the Assassins would gain access into Paradise.
This made Zayn snort in amusement. If Faithful Ones were so simpleminded, then Junaid had made a mistake in choosing her. She knew better than to believe the tales embellished by silly old men, but still… Was there not a kernel of truth in everything she had heard thus far?
Junaid waited for her in the mythical gardens, where the air was so fragrant with herbs that Zayn felt a spell of dizziness pass over her. She stopped short and furrowed her brow, further disoriented by the sight of her teacher sitting leisurely on a stone bench, his eyes half-closed as he chewed something slowly. She wondered briefly if the man before her was Junaid at all, so unusual was it to find him in such a relaxed state, to see the lines of tension around his mouth and on his brow smooth, nearly invisible. He opened his eyes and saw her and nodded once. “Faithful Zayn,” he said, his voice burred. “Come and sit with me.”
She didn’t move. “Hashish,” she muttered, a twinge of panic in her chest. Bewildered, Zayn watched him toss back his head, saw his face transform in a way she hadn’t thought possible. The man is laughing!
“
No,” he finally replied, allowing the look of amusement to remain on his countenance. His eyes danced at her. “Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense about our Assassins being hashashiyun. Yes, we take the drug, but no more or less than any of your ignorant villagers or the Franks. We certainly don’t use it during our missions—can you imagine? It makes me slow and stupid and forgetful. I wouldn’t make it past the castle walls.” He grinned, and Zayn contemplated running. What possessed him? He shifted, his voice changing ever so slightly into the one she found familiar. “We are Assassiyun, those who are faithful to the ‘foundation,’ the assass, of the faith.”
Zayn indicated the crumbs on his lap. “You’ve been eating something. What drug are you on, then?”
He dusted the brown morsels from his trousers. “It is a poppy seed cake.” He looked at her steadily, his eyes tinged with something… Grief? Pain? “Opium is my greatest friend in this world, Faithful Zayn.”
“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, stepping toward him, just a bit. She was stunned, uncomfortable with Junaid’s sudden openness. She didn’t like it at all—she needed him to be strong, impenetrable, always.
“Are you not faithful?” he asked, smiling again. “You are most faithful to your mission. I believe you will not rest until Guy de Molay is dead in a pool of his own blood.”
Something in his tone goaded her, and she suppressed the urge to punch the smile from his face with her fist. The panic that had abated now returned, seeping through her. Where was Junaid? Her Junaid? She needed him to come back. “Why did you call me here? Surely it wasn’t to watch you wallow in self-pity.”
He continued to smile, unfazed by her sharp words. “You are to be inducted into the Order, Zayn. You have passed all the tests.”
Yes. She clenched her jaw and met his eyes triumphantly. “When?”
“But there is still one problem,” he continued, ignoring her question. “Aysha tells me you are not ready to go to Jerusalem yet.”
Zayn blinked. “What? Why not? I can sew and play the lute perfectly! I’ve learned all that court etiquette rubbish and—”
“Your anger,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. Like his eyes. “She says your passion burns brightly in your face, Zayn. How will you deceive a Frank, a lady, a knight, when your hatred for them is so clearly written in your eyes?”
This, again. She’d become adept at controlling her emotions inasmuch as they affected her power; while unexpected emotional shocks still gave her pause, she’d overcome it as a major hurdle. At least, she thought she had. Controlling the expression on her face should be child’s play by comparison. “I can hide it,” she swore.
“You must,” Junaid said. “You must do what it takes to earn their trust, Zayn. If they want you to be dust beneath their feet, you must acquiesce.” His eyes were hard now, and he was more like the Junaid she knew. She sighed with relief and shuffled over to the bench, then dropped down beside him. He said, “Do you know how long it took for our agents at Krak des Chevaliers to become useful to us? They converted to Christianity, became members of the Christian community, became carriers of the cross, rose in the military ranks, then gained the trust of those in power… It took years of deception, of living a lie. Are you prepared to do that?”
She answered steadily. “Yes.”
“And what if”—he lowered his voice, a strange glimmer in his eyes—“one of them desires you? What if you can obtain information or accomplish your mission by lying with a lord, a prince, or a knight?”
She flinched, unable to hide the revulsion from her face. Did Junaid know, she wondered? He’d found her shortly after Guy had raped her, in the shed, preparing to kill herself. Junaid knew what Guy had done to her mother, but did he know what Guy had done to her? Was he testing her strength now? She looked away, biting her lip. She caught a bit of skin between her teeth and pulled, tasting blood. She tore at her lower lip again and again, until it was raw. If only she could do the same to her face, to bloody it, make it ugly and undesirable. She hated herself, the curves of her body, the hairless skin of her face, her childlike eyes and lips…everything that made her female and feminine. Those things reminded her of Earic Goodwin, Fair Boy, and the gentle way he had treated her, the way he had made her feel. It was like a knife through the heart, since he would likely scorn her now, ruined girl that she was. She detested men and their lust, and she loathed herself for inspiring it in them. Her body, though muscular, was still very much a woman’s, with its contours and sweeps. She would still excite them; she would still see hunger in their eyes. It would not end, not yet. She had to find a way to survive until it did.
Filth. Nothing but filth.
In a voice that was hardly her own, she said, “I would sooner die a brutal death.” It was the wrong answer, she knew, and she could only hope it wouldn’t cost her. He was silent for several beats, and when she finally met his gaze, she was startled to see what she least expected—tenderness. No, more than that… What was it? Men had only looked at her one way in her lifetime, and this expression of his disconcerted her. Was it affection? Desire? She battled within herself, fighting the fear that threatened to take her.
“God,” he muttered hoarsely, raising a hand to her face slowly, tentatively, “you are so like her, both in spirit and in body.” His thumb touched the corner of her mouth. “She lives in you, Zayn.”
His words escaped her. He’s going to kiss me. With that horrifying thought, her actions came instinctively, her power surging through her body in an instant. The side of her right forearm swiped at his wrist, forcing his touch away from her face. Her left hand clamped at his throat like a vise. The drug had muddled his brain; he couldn’t have expected this. He stiffened but did not fight back, his eyes locked on hers in surprise. “Don’t ever touch me,” she breathed, lips curled over teeth, body beginning to shake violently.
She released him and twisted away all at once, nearly falling from the bench as she scrabbled away, ripping through the garden in a blur of light and back to her rooms faster than even she’d thought possible. Bolting the door, Zayn fell to her pallet, panting, almost crying. What had just happened? Why had it happened? Cradling her head between her hands, she watched the tears drip from the tip of her nose onto the mattress beneath her. She’d trusted him—as much as she could trust a man. She’d relied on his strength, on his faith in her. She’d come to believe he was different, that he saw her as a person, an equal maybe. But not a woman. Anything but a woman.
He betrayed me. Clutching her chest over her heart, she wailed aloud, her voice shrill with pain. Every tear she’d not yet shed for her mother, for herself, flooded her now. The power of her sorrow threatened to choke her, to kill her. She did not want to take the special herbs Aysha had given her; she wanted to wallow in her pain. She wept until she fell asleep, then awoke to weep some more. Dawn broke, and sunlight shifted as hours passed. Zayn barely moved except to roll to her side when her body would begin to ache. She alternated sleeping and crying, vaguely aware of the insistent knocks at the door, of the shift from day to night. Why am I still alive? I am filth…nothing but…
As if in answer to her question, she heard a rustling at the door and the sound of brushing against stone. Curiosity made her lift her head and squint toward the door. A scroll had been pressed beneath it, tied with string. She crawled to where the scroll lay, plucked its string loose, and unrolled it. It was a fine vellum, and the words were written in flowery script.
Your presence is requested by Grand Master Rashid el-Din Sinan in the Great Hall at sundown.
The smell of onion and garlic made her stomach growl. Yes, she was still very much alive. She stood, opened the door slowly, and peeked out. A platter of steaming lamb with yogurt and rice awaited her on the floor, and beside it sat a carefully wrapped parcel. She brought them in and closed the door again, spooning the food into her mouth as she tore open the package impatiently. Inside was the white tunic and red sash worn by only the most elite of the Assassi
ns. The Faithful Ones.
Zayn fingered the fine cloth as she ate, a renewed sense of purpose kindling within her. She may have lost her faith in her teacher, but she still had a reason to survive. Only a little bit longer, and she would leave Masyaf and Junaid for Jerusalem…for Guy de Molay.
She did not leave her room until shortly before sundown. She made her way to the Great Hall dressed for the initiation ceremony, and when several trainees and Assassins stared as she passed, her pace quickened, and she gnawed at her shredded lip. She had no idea what to expect, and it unsettled her. Surely there were more tests to pass, tests none of the initiates would anticipate. She would do what it took, of course, but she also feared the worst. Faithful to God or not, Rashid el-Din led a cult of trained killers. He had to be ruthless.
The hall was stark save for the audience of red-and-white-clad Assassins who stood in a crescent around a large, blazing brazier. Zayn was at first startled by the cowled white heads of her peers, then remembered her tunic had a hood. She pulled it up immediately, glad for the anonymity it offered. As she walked in, an older Assassin directed her with a nod to an inner semicircle closest to the brazier, where the nine Assassin hopefuls stood. And I make ten. They didn’t look at her, nor she at them. She focused on the dancing flames, on the incense that perfumed the air. Of course she wondered if Junaid was among those who stood in attendance behind her—she was certain he was. Was Bashar there as well? Her muscles tightened at the thought.
As if out of thin air, a cloaked figure appeared behind the brazier. He was tall and thin and silver bearded, just as she had imagined. From where he stood, it appeared as though he was engulfed in flames, and Zayn was sure that it was not by accident. As he approached, it was his eyes that caught her attention most. Though they were deeply embedded within the bony structure of his face, they peered out from their dark orbits like points of light. Unnatural, thought Zayn, as they pierced her. Hypnotic. His eyes rested on her long enough to unnerve her before moving on to the other initiates. Zayn blinked, then blinked again. As Rashid el-Din Sinan, the Grand Master of the Syrian Order of Assassins, made his way before the initiates, Zayn could have sworn that the darkness beyond the brazier shimmered and moved, as if crawling with living things. Her eyes darted about, trying to capture the movement. It was then that she knew—we’ve been drugged. She thought back to her dinner. It was tasteless and subtle, the poison they’d used; the effects were so illusory that an initiate might not realize he was drugged at all. He might believe everything he sees is real.
