by Fuad Baloch
“The prophecy called for me,” Yasmeen said, her usually serene voice wavering even as she stood rigid, dominating the space between them.
“You are a bitch!” snarled Yenita. She cocked her head to the side. “I carry glad tidings for you, though. Your dark era finishes tonight.”
Yasmeen’s eyes never flickered from Ruma’s face. The corner of her left eye twitched, a long strand of grey hair slipping underneath her veil and falling over her eyes. “Who are you, Laal?”
Ruma kept quiet.
“The Charlatan works through you," said Yasmeen, Mother of Believers. “Even if you can’t see it.”
Yenita grunted. She reached into her waist, drawing out another dagger. “By Alf, with my hand—”
Ruma reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. “Stop.”
Yenita turned around, her eyes livid. “This is the woman who killed my father, my brother, and thousands more throughout the peninsula. She deserves death, and even that wouldn't be enough to wash the pains she has caused us all.”
“I’m the wife of Gulatu Koza, girl!” declared Yasmeen, her voice authoritative, imperious. Yenita flinched, her hand dropping. “I’m the mother of the faith. Never you forget that.”
Shaking her head, Yenita jabbed a finger at her. “You—”
“I did what I had to,” replied the Blessed Mother, her voice betraying little emotion even as a shadow crossed over her face. She exhaled, her profile lit by the brazier beside her. “Times of crises call for sacrifices. Enormous ones. When men resist making those, even as their backs are strengthened by faith, sometimes one has to make those decisions for them. Isn’t that right, Laal?”
Ruma gritted her teeth, unable to counter the argument. Truth was that though she had been fighting Yasmeen, it really had been against her evil ideology. Another realisation flashed in her mind. She had never really fought Yasmeen but her Traditionalists. And with the former subdued, the latter was gone. The conclusion troubled her.
“Your men killed innocent civilians by the thousands,” barked Yenita, waving the dagger at Yasmeen. “Untold numbers of souls made to walk the lonely path because they refused to follow your… your twisted interpretations of the faith. You—”
“I freed the holy cities,” said Yasmeen. Despite the fact her army had been cut down and she had no weapons, she gave no outward sign of fear. “I strengthened the faith of my Gulatu in this peninsula for all time to come.”
“Ruma, let me kill her,” begged Yenita, her hands trembling in rage. “I can’t listen to one more word from her.”
“You’re done, Yasmeen,” said Ruma, her voice cold, matter of fact.
Yasmeen crossed her arms over her chest. The brazier to the right crackled. Her eyes flickered over to the almirah. Ruma followed her gaze, recalling that was where she had kept her dagger before. Yasmeen had had plenty of notice this time, but it seemed she had decided to not retrieve it. “The prophecy called for me.”
Ruma chuckled, the sound strained even to her ears. “Don’t tell me you actually believed the words of the dead prophet.”
“I was married to one.”
The temperature dropped. Ruma hugged herself, suddenly unsure of what she was meant to do here. Here was the pillar of the Alfi faith, the one remaining icon around which the faithful had rallied. Whether Ruma liked it or not, this was the woman who had rid the peninsula of the Vanico forces, freeing the holy cities of the faith. How did one deal with a woman like that? She discovered yet another flaw in her plan. She’d never given much thought to what she would do if she stood in front of Yasmeen as the victor. Despite what she had been telling herself, her subconscious had never really considered her winning, and so she’d never really planned for this particular moment.
Growing restless, Ruma raised her chin, then drawing the veil back, pulled her hair back, patting the errand strands.
“You never told me how you knew my husband?” Yasmeen asked.
Anger flared in Ruma. “Stop calling him your husband! He’s dead to you, or have you forgotten that?”
Before Yasmeen could say anything, Yenita stomped her feet. “Enough! We’re not friends catching up after a minor dispute. She’s evil, Ruma! This ends. Right here. Right now!”
“Yenita, leave us,” Ruma commanded, her voice cold.
Her young general whirled about. “What? Surely, you jest. This woman—”
“I know exactly who she is and more importantly what she represents,” said Ruma. “And that's why we must think carefully what happens from here on out.” Yenita shook her head, her knuckles growing white on the hilt of her dagger. “Out!” said Ruma again, then she forced her voice to grow soft. “I’ll speak to you soon.”
“I pray to Alf you don’t let this woman live,” Yenita barked, marching towards the exit. She paused at the threshold. “By Alf, if she lives this night, I’m going to parade her naked in the streets of Salodia, heap cow dung over her with my own hands, then tie her limbs to four horses and have her torn to pieces.”
Then, Yenita left the tent, leaving just the two of them.
“You’ve put me in a difficult spot,” Ruma said, biting her lower lip.
“You owe me nothing, but as the wife of the prophet, give me a dignified death,” said Yasmeen. Her voice quavered, her fingers twitching. She uncrossed her arms, then leaned forward. “I deserve that much honour.”
Ruma grunted, still not moving. This conversation wasn’t going at all the way she had imagined it.
“Laal, you got what you wanted. You’ve won. The blessed Traditionalists are broken. Your ungodly weapon saw to that.” Yasmeen looked up. “Send me on the lonely path so that I might meet my husband.”
“You won’t—” Ruma started, then clamped her jaw shut, but knew she was too late.
“What do you mean?”
A terse silence fell upon them both. Outside, Ruma’s soldiers were shouting at each other. Some were singing. Ancient Andussian songs of victory she couldn't recall hearing before. Some priests were chanting lamentations and rites for the dead.
Ruma exhaled. “I’ll… I’ll consider your fate tonight.” She turned. “Until then—”
“You’re too young to have known him,” said Yasmeen. “And yet, I see so much of him in you. The way you pat your hair, the way these men flock to you, the manner of your miracles.”
“I do no miracles.”
“Would you not tell the truth to a dying woman?”
Ruma closed her eyes. This was a trap, she knew that much. She ought to walk out of the tent, consult her generals tomorrow and decide Yasmeen’s fate befitting her station, a fate that would not throw this peninsula in turmoil. After all, her fight hadn’t been against her as a person, but what she had stood for. If after all that, the Shard still stood, home beckoned.
“You knew my Gulatu?”
“I love him,” Ruma said, clenching her fingers, the intensity behind the words taking her by surprise. “More than you imagine.”
“You love him?” Yasmeen stepped away from the table, her eyes widening. “Not loved him?”
Ruma blinked. She raised a finger to whisk away the mist prickling at the corner of her eye. Suddenly, it was getting hard to breathe. “I…” She shook her head. “You will never see me again, Yasmeen. I hope you repent and—”
“Will you see him?”
Again, the words drew Ruma up short. She swallowed, the tears threatening to break through her restraints. Not the right time, not the right place, yet they disobeyed her. “I… I can’t answer that.”
“My Gulatu… and you?” Yasmeen cocked her head to the side, her eyes taking her in once more. This time, when they took her measure, Ruma could tell she used a different perspective. “Well, I guess he could have done much worse.”
Ruma’s nostrils flared. “You’re his dead wife.”
Yasmeen made a strange, choking sound. Her chest heaved, followed by a sob, her eyes acquiring a faraway gaze. “He used to call me the Light of his night
s.” Her eyes glazed over, acquiring a faraway look. She smiled. “He was a great man, a wonderful husband, even if he doubted that at times.”
Ruma nodded, feeling foolish at this display of vulnerability.
“You know what’s my biggest regret?”
Ruma shook her head.
“I should have told him he owed me nothing,” Yasmeen said slowly. “He did the best he could by me. My love for him never dimmed when he was alive, and after… after he was gone”—Yasmeen sniffled, a tear tracing a path down her proud cheek—“there’s never been a moment where I’ve not thought of him. Tell him, Laal, when you see him, that he is still the sun of my days.”
Ruma blinked, tears falling down her cheeks as well. She wiped them hastily even as her chest heaved under the crushing pain.
“Feels strange to finally unburden my soul. When I was younger, I miscarried his child,” continued Yasmeen, making no attempt to wipe her cheeks. “There’s never been a bigger regret in my life than that. I guess in my heart of hearts, I always knew I’d outlive him, but that child…” Yasmeen’s voice broke. Ruma choked back tears, then finding it impossible, let them fall free. “That child was to be my reminder of my Gulatu.” Yasmeen shook her head. “He was so handsome when he was young, the Light of my days. And he had such great hair too, back when he did, anyway.” She laughed and Ruma couldn’t stop herself from smiling either.
Yasmeen sniffled, her chin dropping. “When I was younger, we used to race each other. Just the two of us, away from prying eyes, in the oasis of Basaw. I was faster, of course. He used to tell me we’d race again when I was his age.” She chuckled. “He was so sure he’d beat me.”
“He loved you,” said Ruma, her voice strained. “Fracking hell, he still loves you. After all that happened, his heart still beats for you.”
Yasmeen looked up, her face snotty and wet with tears. She never asked for clarification of what Ruma meant. Instead, she merely nodded, a sad smile spreading on her lips. “Do you miss him, Laal?”
“Aye,” Ruma replied, her insides twisting.
Yasmeen stepped forward. Ruma tried to raise her hand to ward her off, to ready herself in case the older woman intended to stab her. Instead, Yasmeen stopped a step away. “Will you do me a favour?” Ruma nodded. “When you see him, tell him I miss him too.”
Ruma squeezed her eyes shut, blubbering now, her chest heaving.
“Will you, Laal?”
“Aye…” Ruma whispered.
Yasmeen turned around and walked back to her desk. She sat down on the chair, drew her chin up, once more turning into the proud symbol of a great faith. “No matter what you decide to do with me, I want you to look after my Gulatu.”
A sob escaped Ruma’s chest.
Nodding, wiping her tears, she turned and exited the tent, leaving the wife of Gulatu Koza behind to the memories of her husband.
Twenty-Eight
Fates
Blowing out exasperated air, Ruma chewed on her lower lip. How long had she been tossing and turning in the bedroll? Hours surely, and yet sleep proved elusive. She’d been travelling non-stop, had just ridden in and miraculously survived the great battle. Her body should have shut down the moment she laid her head on the bed roll, but her mind just couldn’t shut up.
“First, it’s time to leave,” she whispered. “Time to go.”
Long moments passed. Outside her tent, a camel bleated. Faint voices spoke somewhere to her right. Boots scrunched as guards patrolled her campsite built over the remains of what once had been Yasmeen’s.
The Pithrean remained quiet. Ruma fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. Had she left it all too late? Was it possible that in her quest to defeat the Traditionalists, she had missed the chance of escaping? Her body tensing, she stared at the canvas roof. Despite the faint moonlight filtering in through the flaps, she couldn’t quite see the top shrouded in shadows.
“Speak to me, you fracking piece of shit!” she muttered.
Growing restless, she debated sitting up. No, she decided. She needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day. Ruma shook her head, pitying all those who thought nothing followed once a battle had been won, that all previous woes merely faded away in the afterglow of triumph. She knew better now. Tomorrow, she would have to face the angry Yenita once more. Mad with grief for Sivan and her father, she would once more push for a sham trial for Yasmeen, the end result predetermined. Ruma would try and talk some sense to her, like she had earlier in the day after emerging from Yasmeen’s tent, but more than likely the hot-headed girl wouldn’t listen.
Yenita was so much like her when she had been younger, Ruma mused. Then, she smiled. Had she really been that difficult to deal with as well? The realisation gave her a new amusing perspective on those who’d had the misfortune of going against her in the past.
Her smile faded. Tomorrow would be tougher than today. Today, it was just Yenita laying out her objections. Tomorrow, the young commander would have more voices joining her. Soldiers often mirrored their commanders, and the bunch outside her tent were all men who had been fighting under Yenita and winning for weeks. They, too, had lost family, friends to the Traditionalists, and no doubt would love to see Yasmeen punished.
They were wrong, though, all of them. Ruma hated what Yasmeen had done, but she couldn’t lose sight of the fact that once the glow of vengeance had faded, more cults would rise around the memory of Yasmeen who would go on to acquire the status of a tragic martyr. And if that happened, that would mean multiple versions of the Misguided in her time, all arguing to be the true standard bearers for the Traditionalists.
Ruma turned once more. Why was she the only person able to see this? When the frack had she gotten old enough to let worries of the future govern the blasted moments of her present? “This is not me,” she muttered, shaking her head. Still, these thoughts were hers, and no matter how much they startled her, they refused to disappear.
“Stop it! You’re no fracking philosopher,” she chided herself.
Ruma turned to her right, curling her hand under her cheek, then winced as her bandaged thigh throbbed. Cursing all the nicks and wounds she had picked up, she forced her body to unclench, pushed her eyelids closed.
Sleep continued to resist her embrace. Worst was knowing that the more she tried, the harder it would become to fall asleep. “Argh!” She slapped her right thigh in annoyance, winced again at the pain that greeted her.
Yasmeen’s words rang in her memory. Ruma tried shaking them off, then realising the futility of the attempt, let them float on instead. Did a part of her pity Yasmeen? Had the connection the two of them shared with Gulatu mellowed her heart? After all, at the end of the day, this was still the same woman who’d had thousands slaughtered by her men, her crimes dimmed not a bit by her eventual capture. Ruma hissed through clenched teeth. The two of them shared another connection as well, one she hated to linger on. Both of them, convinced by what was right, had been willing to extract ugly sacrifices if that meant good for the masses. Short-term turmoil, even if it affected real people, was nothing when it came to the rewards in the end. Both of them, Yasmeen and Ruma, were fracking gamblers, playing with lives of others.
“I’m not her,” she said through clenched teeth. The words rang out hollow to her own ears.
She began counting backwards from ten. Then, tried from a hundred. Next, she visualised a never-ending parade of corvettes floating in space, quiet and majestic as swans gliding through a still brook.
The trick didn’t work.
Next, she recalled the freshman manuals she had to laboriously work through as part of her training at Arkos. Pages and pages going through a thousand different variables that needed to be adjusted and tweaked and monitored to ensure the ship continued to hum just right.
A shout rose in the quiet of night, shattering the silence. Her eyes shot open. But just as quickly as it had risen, the shout petered out. Ruma waited, a tight knot forming in her stomach. Long, quiet moments passed.
Ruma sighed. Facts were facts. Yasmeen was alive, coming to terms with a defeat she had never seen coming, her existence a great headache for Ruma.
“First!” she called out again. “Did you hear me? I’m finished. I’ll leave word for my council on how to deal with Yasmeen. The two of us though… let’s fracking leave!”
Again, she waited.
Nothing.
“Are you sulking now that I took out your favourite extremists?” she asked. Blowing out air through gritted teeth, she placed her fingers gently on her stomach, her eyes falling to the night sky through the flaps. A starry night. She chuckled. Every night in the deserts of Andussia was a starry one. No artificial lights to pollute the views here. No spaceships that might—
A shadow moved outside.
Ruma blinked.
Boots scrunched outside. A scuffle broke out. Ruma bolted upright in her bedroll, her heard thudding. Someone shouted, accompanied by a soft thud. Two more thuds followed. Ruma jumped to her feet, the dagger clutched and ready in her hand.
“—then ensure—” someone was saying, the tone authoritative, the words hard to make out.
Balancing the dagger in her right hand, she tiptoed towards the flaps. Two hooded figures burst in.
“Halt!” Ruma challenged. “Or you’ll die at my hands!”
“Lady,” huffed the man whose voice she had heard outside. He removed his hood. Though his features were largely shrouded in darkness, the mercenary general’s grunt was unmistakable. He looked over his shoulder. “We need to leave. Now!”
