by Jean, Rima
A deep crease etched itself between Aysha’s well-shaped eyebrows. “Sing. Now.”
Oh God. Zayn cleared her throat before attempting a lullaby that Miriam used to sing to her as a child. She managed to complete two verses.
“Stop,” Aysha commanded, holding up a hand. “So you were telling the truth.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let’s see. Can you play an instrument? Can you dance?”
Zayn grinned. Dance! “I can shoot a bow and arrow. I can throw knives. I can fight. I can kill.”
Aysha smiled in spite of herself. “You will be a challenge, then. Junaid says you have special powers, so we’ll see if they can help you learn the occupations of women as well as those of men.” Her lips twitched. “I highly doubt it.” Sitting back down in the cushions, Zayn asked, “What is Junaid’s story? I don’t know anything about him, and I’ve been working with him for over two months now.”
Aysha considered carefully before answering. “Junaid has had a very difficult life. His family was killed by the Franks many years ago. Rashid saw potential in Junaid and transformed him into a powerful Assassin.” She met Zayn’s eyes. “His story is much like yours.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Zayn mumbled, examining her dirty cuticles. “He’s not an angry man. He’s not very emotional at all.”
“Therein lies his success,” Aysha said. “He channels his emotions into his work, his faith.” She paused. “He battles his own demons, like anyone else. He simply wins those battles more often than not.”
“Is that why he came after me?” Zayn asked suddenly. “Because my story was similar to his?”
Aysha shook her head. “That is something you must ask him yourself, Zayn. I cannot answer for him.” In one fluid movement, she stood. “Now, you have a lot to learn, so let’s get started, yes?”
Chapter Seven
I am invincible.
Though she panted like a hound, her hands braced on her knees, Zayn managed to grin victoriously at Junaid. “I suppose I’m the winner,” she managed to say between breaths. “Again.”
Her fallen opponents groaned on the ground, holding a head, an arm, a calf. There’d been three of them, all armed, against her—unarmed. She drew in her strength all at once, coiled it like a whip within her until she had to use it again.
Junaid leaned against the parapet, his arms crossed, that near-smile on his lips as he watched her. He pushed off the stone and began to approach her. “Do you seek applause? Because you won’t get any from me.”
Zayn’s smile faded, and she straightened before him. “Admit I am ready.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Are you? I think not.”
“I have good control over my powers,” she said, her lips drawn tight. “I’ve learned everything you have to teach. I’m ready, I tell you.”
In a lazy motion, Junaid stepped back. He watched her face as he said, “Bashar, approach.”
Ah! Zayn couldn’t help but flash a demon smile at her mentor. She uncoiled her strength slowly, relishing the sensation. Yes. Let me have Bashar. I will enjoy this.
Bashar walked briskly out into the courtyard, his face nearly white against the blackness of his clothes, his hood. He betrayed no emotion as he stopped a short distance from her and placed what looked like a simple ceramic ewer or a jug on the ground before his feet.
Her eyes slid from the jug to Bashar’s face. She smirked. “Brought yourself a beverage?”
In response, Bashar parted his lips in amusement, his white canines glinting in the light. “Have you never seen an urn before, Zayn?” He nudged the vessel with his foot. “This one holds Miriam’s ashes.” He tilted his head. “Or what was left of her.”
Like a candle in the wind, Zayn’s control guttered. He’s lying. It’s a trick. But as she reassembled her wits and her strength, the pale Assassin raised a foot and stomped on the urn, smashing it into pieces. The ashes within trickled like sand from between the shards, releasing the familiar scent of olive oil…and orange blossoms.
With an animal cry, Zayn doubled over, her strength extinguished. Mama. It was then that Bashar leaped forward and planted the heel of his foot in her rib cage, sending her to the ground. When she failed to get up immediately, he kicked her again, in the gut. She was seeing visions of Miriam now, consumed by Templar flames and tangled in the red veins of Zayn’s eyelids. She heard Junaid’s voice and tasted dirt and pebbles in her mouth.
Zayn. Zayn. Zayn. Her mentor’s face came into focus as he crouched before her, cradling her head in his hands. She felt Bashar move away. But though Junaid’s touch was gentle, his expression was anything but. She tried to spit the filth from her mouth as he said gravely, “So you think you are ready, do you?”
She twisted her head away, still lost in the nightmare. He pulled her up nearly into his lap with a hard yank, held her face with his hand, and spoke softly into her ear: “It was a test. Those were not her ashes, Zayn. Miriam’s ashes were not in the urn. Do you understand?”
Lifting her arm slowly, she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. The nightmare was receding, replaced by a fierce pain in her heart…and her ribs. “I think something is broken,” she croaked.
Junaid nodded. “A rib or two, no doubt. Come, let’s get you healed quickly.”
…
“Your passion will be your undoing.” The hard lines of Junaid’s face were softer by candlelight, his lips almost sensual in appearance as he spoke. “Your love. Your hate. They will destroy you unless you master them.”
Zayn turned her head away from him. “I know that fear and despair make my power fade. But sometimes I can’t help it. I am human, after all.”
Silence.
Shadows danced on the wall, entrancing her. The drug in her system made her drowsy enough to feel indifference, but not drowsy enough to sleep. She would hate it, if only she could summon up the anger required. At least the pain over her heart had stopped for the moment. The pain in her heart was another story.
Papers rustled as Junaid shifted. “Since you will need to heal before you can resume your physical training, I will give you some text to study.”
With a wince, Zayn pulled herself up into sitting position. When Junaid set an immense, leather-bound tome across her lap, she raised an eyebrow at him. “How long do you expect it will take me to heal? A century?”
Junaid was, at this point, highly skilled at disregarding Zayn’s acerbic witticisms. He ran his fingers across the strange symbols engraved in the leather. “This is The Testament of Solomon. These symbols are pentacles.”
She frowned, eyeing the odd shapes and stars suspiciously. She opened the heavy cover to find more symbols within, surrounded by text in Hebrew and Latin. “What kind of text is this?”
“It is a grimoire,” he answered. “A text of magic.”
“Magic,” she repeated. “Am I to become a mage as well as an Assassin?”
A twitch of the eyelid was the only indication that he was annoyed. God, but she loved vexing him. The drug swimming in her blood only made her want to goad him more. “The Testament of Solomon is at the very heart of the Assassin Order,” he continued. “It is also at the very heart of the Templar Order.”
The mention of Templars made her amusement fade. She looked again at the symbols. “What do you mean?”
He flipped to the back of the grimoire and laid a finger on a page. “This is a translation. Read it aloud.”
She complied: “Solomon, son of David, who was king in Jerusalem, and mastered and controlled all spirits of the air, on the earth, and under the earth. By means of them also, he wrought all the transcendent works of the Temple. Telling also of the authorities they wield against men, and by what angels these demons are brought to naught.” She didn’t entirely understand the words, but a shiver ran up her spine nonetheless.
“In this text,” Junaid explained coolly, “Solomon describes how he enslaved the jinn to build his temple. Both Orders seek to use Solomon’s text to their politi
cal advantage. These symbols are magical spells by which one might summon the demons…and control them.”
Her lap was suddenly hot beneath the tome. She squirmed, wanting it gone. “Can the Assassins and Templars…summon demons?”
“Not quite,” he replied, smiling at her visible relief. “Conjuring the jinn, and controlling them, requires a highly skilled mage. It is not as easy as it may seem and can have devastating consequences if not done properly.”
“I would imagine so,” she muttered, glad for the sedative in her system.
“Even so, both Orders race each other to harness the power of the jinn,” he said. “It would benefit you to read as much of the translation as possible.” He tapped the book with his forefinger and stood.
She peered up at him. “Do you…approve of this conjuring business?”
“Whether I approve of it is hardly the issue,” he answered. “I can tell you that I most certainly disapprove of the Templars harnessing that kind of power.” He strode to the door, looking back a final time before leaving. “Jinn are dangerous beings, Zayn. Not because all jinn are evil, but because full-blooded jinn can become slaves to their power. If they are discovered, they can be used by men as tools.”
As soon as Junaid was out of sight, Zayn closed the grimoire and pushed it from her lap. She had no desire to read that thing, especially not when her own mother had been burned at the stake for witchcraft. Especially not when the people of Rafaniya had believed her to be a jinniyah.
Curling on her side, she closed her eyes and let the drug carry her into sleep. That night, she dreamed of armies of jinn, one bearing the Templar standard, the other carrying a banner adorned with the Isma’ili lion, fighting each other with bolts of lightning.
Chapter Eight
It sat on a hilltop, its massive battlements a brilliant white in the distance, commanding a view of both the sea to the west and the Silk Road to the east. Saladin’s Castle was an enduring reminder of the Franks’ strength, of their tenacity. The Franks had built it and thought it to be impregnable, until it fell to Saladin’s forces during a siege that lasted three days.
Zayn urged her chestnut mare along, looking away from the monster that seemed to watch her from its summit, as though its very walls had eyes. That monster now belonged to the Muslims, and she had a message for their leader, Saladin. Six months into her training, Junaid had deemed her ready for this: her first real mission. Her goal was not to murder, but to instill fear.
Saladin was growing more powerful by the day and therefore, treading on dangerous ground with his Assassin neighbors. The Assassins were sending Zayn to remind him to keep his power in check—by placing an Assassin dagger beside his sleeping head.
She had studied old plans of the fortress with Junaid, had memorized every twisted passage, every precipice, every arrow slit. The castle had been somewhat reconstructed since the plans were obtained some years ago by the stealthy Assassins, but she hoped that most of it had remained unchanged. Her success on this mission, on this test, depended on it. Either she succeeded and went before Grand Master Rashid el-Din, or she failed and died. Her options were fairly cut and dried.
“Dying is more important than killing,” Junaid recited to her before she left. “We kill to defend ourselves, but we die to conquer our enemies.”
Zayn sighed deeply and rolled her eyes. “As much as becoming a martyr appeals to you, I personally would rather live to see my enemies conquered.”
A muscle in his cheek jumped, as though he withheld a reaction to her words. “You won’t die. You will return and become a Faithful One, and you will be indispensable to the Order. We will not send you on any more sacrificial missions.”
She let out a humorless laugh. “All the missions are sacrificial.”
In a rare gesture of affection, he placed his hand on hers briefly. “May God be with you.” She looked at his hand in wonder, but before she could meet his eyes, he pulled away and strode quickly from her. She wanted to take a moment to consider him, to imagine what sorts of emotions he kept tightly controlled beneath his mentor’s demeanor, but the Krak des Chevaliers loomed large before her and wiped her mind clean of all but her mission.
She would not be alone, she reminded herself. There would be other Assassins in the surrounding villages and within the castle, disguised as servants and archers. Her mission was her own, but she had support. They communicated with Masyaf by carrier pigeons, and if she needed Junaid, she could send him a coded message. These thoughts soothed her even as the fortress grew larger on the horizon, indestructible and forbidding. Was she truly ready for this? Physically, she felt that she was. She was more and more in control of her powers, and she’d gotten to a point where she was confident summoning them. But emotionally she was frozen in a state of disbelief. Time had flown since that fiery night in Rafaniya, but she was still lying in the hay behind the sheep’s pen, numb and shattered. She’d had no time to drown in grief, to pick up the pieces, to put her soul back together again. Perhaps after she killed Guy de Molay, she would try. Or perhaps she wouldn’t, and she’d become like Junaid. Perhaps she was meant to be a killer, a tool, furthering other people’s political aims, fueled by her brokenness.
An agent waited for her at a small farmhouse nestled amid a grove of olive trees. Agents identified one another by the subtle, unique perfumes they wore, made from the plants grown at Masyaf. Zayn dismounted, her heart lodged in her throat. The silver leaves shimmered like fish scales in the breeze, winking at her in greeting. She shook, her old wounds throbbing, choking her with pain. The agent, an older man with a white mustache and a silver cross around his neck, looked at her quizzically. “Are you all right, my daughter?”
Mama. What have I done? What am I doing? “I’m fine, thank you.”
He nodded. “You will find everything you need inside.”
She ate and took a nap on a tattered rug, waking at nightfall. Before she began strapping her equipment beneath her dark clothes, she gazed out a small lattice window at the Knights Hospitaller’s menacing fortress. It was black save the flicker of torches on its walls, its solid, round towers silhouetted against the dark blue sky. She concentrated on breathing evenly—you don’t have to kill anyone. Not this time. No one here knew her; Guy de Molay was not here. She only had to focus on getting in, doing her job, and getting out alive.
Unbidden, memories of Earic Goodwin flooded her mind. No! I must not think of him ever again. He is my enemy now. She forced herself to breathe evenly and closed her eyes.
I am nothing but a specter, imaginary movement.
Junaid had spent too much time teaching her meditation and self-hypnosis—or it had seemed so back when she was still unable to stifle her pain. Now, as she repeated the word “peace” and wove her fingers as she’d been taught, her legs crossed and head bowed, she was lulled into a state of calmness. In her mind’s eye, she saw Junaid looking at her coolly. Almost, but not quite, smiling. After washing the perfume from her body, she patted on a new scent, so faint it could hardly be detected by humans. Dogs, on the other hand, sensed it from a distance and were both repelled and silenced by it. What a terrifying and brilliant man the Grand Master was; educated as a physician and alchemist, he grew a multitude of herbs in his Masyaf garden from which he made perfumes and potions. He was, among other things, a master of poisons. This particular concoction would subdue the soldiers’ hounds so that she could pass them without incident.
The air outside was dry and cool, and the stars protruded from the sky with vivid, white arms. Miriam had loved to gaze at the stars on desert nights, and Zayn had to shake her mother’s image, throat exposed and lips moving in prayer, from her head. Entirely in black, with a black headscarf about her face covering her mouth and nose, Zayn disappeared in the night. She moved noiselessly through the fields toward Saladin’s Castle, her feet hardly touching the ground. As she approached the steep hill, she scanned the battlements, seeing the castle plans in her mind. The defenses included an outer wa
ll with several towers. It was riddled with arrow slits and topped by parapets for pouring boiling oil or molten lead. Beyond that wall was a deep moat that led to thick, inner battlements. According to Junaid, the south side was weakest, with three towers protecting it. One of these towers contained a spiral staircase that would lead her directly to Saladin’s bedchamber.
Of course, the southern wall also had the sheerest drop of cliff, she noted as she readied her rope and grappling hook. In the torchlight high above, she saw one, two, three crossbowmen at the nearest tower. I am the breeze, nothing but the crickets’ soothing buzz. After spinning it in a wide circle, she threw the grappling hook. It flew past the top of the wall and clicked against stone. She held her breath, pressing her body against the fitted stones. She waited, counting soundlessly, her lips barely moving. When she was certain she hadn’t been heard, she tested the rope and began to climb, her feet against the bulwark. She’d tied knots in the rope to help her grip it, and now she was glad for them. She felt her strength flood her veins, her vision, her eardrums. Climbing was easier suddenly, and she felt like she could climb to the sky.
She reached the top and dangled silently at the edge, her gaze on the nearest tower. Two of the crossbowmen were chatting and looking off in the opposite direction, while one was strolling her way. She waited; he turned. Like a snake, she slithered on her belly over the edge. On the other side, she crouched against the stone. The crossbowman nearest to her turned again and stopped, his eyes on her.
I am nothing but stone.
He came toward her once more, firelight flashing off his armor, and slowly lowered his weapon to his side. She watched him load and draw the crossbow with subtle movements, and her heart thudded erratically against her chest.
That’s it. I’ve already failed.
He stepped closer and met her frozen gaze. Inclining his head slightly, he pointed to a hidden door in the wall with his eyes. Then he turned and walked back to the tower at a leisurely pace, looking out into the distance. Even as Zayn crawled through the doorway, she exhaled with relief—the crossbowman was one of the agents she’d hoped to find, the ones Junaid had told her about. He would help cover for her.