by Jean, Rima
“It is said you are ready,” the Grand Master said, his voice coming from all around them. She suppressed the urge to look around. “It is said you are ready,” he repeated, “to join our Order and become our brothers”—he looked at Zayn—“and sister. We wage a virtually bloodless war against so many powerful enemies. The Sunnites, the Franks, the Mongols. How can we defeat them when there are so many of them and so few of us?” He glanced around, as if waiting for an answer. “Sometimes killing is not necessary. Sometimes it is sufficient to create fear, with the careful placement of a mysterious dagger, to completely change the course of history. Sometimes it is necessary to take a step further and kill one significant person—a general, a lord, a prince. Cut off the head of the snake, and the snake will die.”
He stepped back. “Remember, future Brothers of Blood: Do not take the lives of innocents. Do not hide in the dark, but be unseen before all. Last but not least, do not jeopardize the Order.”
Grand Master Rashid began to pace around the initiates as the audience of Assassins chanted. Nothing is true; everything is justified. The initiates picked up the chant as well, and as Zayn spoke the words, her lips barely moving, she sensed him behind her, his eyes boring holes into her. Her spine tingled until he moved away, ever so slowly. Just as she was beginning to feel a tinge of relief, darkness struck from over her shoulder. The initiate standing beside her uttered a scream so lurid Zayn leaped to the side, prepared to fight, her power uncoiled and ready to strike. The initiate crumpled to the floor instantly, and blood bloomed from his back, seeping into the white tunic. Grand Master Rashid stood behind him, wiping the blade of an ornate silver dagger.
The remaining initiates looked to one another in terror, then to their master. Casually, Rashid said, “He was a traitor, not an innocent. There is a penalty for unfaithfulness. Let that be a warning to you.” Then he pointed to the body at his feet. “Do you see how I struck him? It is the preferable method—there is less blood and a quick death. I could have, for example, thrust my blade into the base of his skull, severing the spinal cord and piercing the brain itself. Or I could have struck up within the kidneys, or through the spine to target the main renal artery…”
Zayn was trembling, her mouth was dry. Holy heaven, he’s turning this into an anatomy lesson.
Rashid paused, as if having read her mind, and smiled at her, then at the others. “But you already know all of this, yes? It is why you are here.” Two Assassins came forward and carried the body from the hall as Zayn and the others returned to their semicircle. Now that they were drugged and rattled, what else did the Grand Master have planned for them? They were each called forward to the brazier and asked to drink from a fiery chalice. Zayn watched the first initiate drink, the flames licking about his nose harmlessly. It’s a trick. Rashid el-Din Sinan is nothing but a common trickster.
When it was her turn, Rashid held up his hand to stop her and smiled coldly at her. “And now, we have our first female Faithful One. How so very exciting. Your mentor, Junaid, has championed you from the beginning, and it appears as though he was right in doing so.” The way his eerie eyes looked at her made her blood run cold—he had something different planned for her, she could tell. “I am curious, however, to see this petite girl, who is said to be faster and stronger than a man, perform with my own eyes. Is she also as determined? As meticulous? As faithful?” His smile widened. “I want to see you fight, Zayn. Here, now. Against one of my established Assassins. I want you to fight as though your life depended on it, with every ounce of your supernatural strength.”
Before she had a chance to process the command, the Assassins shuffled away as a whole, clearing a large space in the center of the hall. She stepped into the center of the circle and turned back toward Rashid, waiting, the drug making her blood vibrate. The Grand Master wanted to see her strength, so she would show him her strength. It gushed through her readily, nearly blinding her. Bashar. Give me Bashar.
In a loud voice that echoed in her head, Rashid ordered, “Junaid, step forward and fight your pupil.”
Chapter Nine
Junaid came forth, dressed in his hooded tunic and red sash. He bowed to Rashid, then turned to face Zayn, his face blank of any emotion.
Zayn, however, felt as though her every thought was written in her eyes. She tried to push them away, to meditate silently as she had been taught. It wasn’t working. Her power began to trickle away even as she tried to coax it back. No! It’s a test. I must not let my emotions affect my power.
“This should be as easy for you as fighting Bashar, I imagine,” Rashid said, rubbing his pale, bony hands together, his eyes beaming into her. “After all, hasn’t Junaid proven to be a man with base, carnal desires, just like Guy de Molay?” She clenched her jaw, and she knew he saw. He chuckled. “Ah yes. Emotions are such a powerful motivator. The problem with them, dear Zayn, is that they cloud one’s judgment and obscure one’s faith to the true cause. Women are so prone to silly bouts of emotion, aren’t they, Zayn?” She met his piercing gaze with one of her own. His eyes hardened, and he nodded once. “Prove me wrong, then,” he said.
She looked at Junaid, and he looked back at her. Stony, impenetrable. Her brain was foggy, the light was too bright. How would she prove Rashid wrong? By winning or by losing? Did it even matter? Assassins were not trained to fight, they were trained to kill. She searched Junaid’s face for an answer but saw nothing there. Her breath came quickly. The Grand Master knew about Bashar and Junaid. He knew, at a minimum, that Bashar disapproved of her training; perhaps he also knew of Bashar’s attempt on her life. Zayn’s head spun as it occurred to her—perhaps it had all been part of a test. Was it possible that Junaid’s behavior the previous night had also been part of a test?
“The rules are simple,” Rashid said, cutting through her frantic thoughts. “Only the unarmed fighting techniques of Janna are to be used. The fight is won by he—or she—who wins.” He smiled enigmatically at Zayn.
Junaid stood ready, his expression as unreadable as ever. Zayn took a step forward, her muscles tensing but her mind still awhirl. She and Junaid had fought before, but only for teaching purposes. He’d never truly hurt her, and she’d never used the full force of her powers on him. They both knew that, with her powers fully summoned, she was much stronger than he was. But he had more skill and experience, and he knew all her tricks, since he’d taught her those very tricks himself.
Zayn was not ready. She could not will all of her strength to return to kill the one person in her life that she cared for. When Junaid lunged at her, her block was ineffectual. His fist connected with her face, and she crashed to the ground. Her own blood blinded her, and from where she lay, she could see Junaid’s kidskin boots and hear laughter. The left side of her face throbbed, and the pain ignited her fury. She stood, wiping the blood from her eyes and meeting Junaid’s steely gaze.
So it’s going to be like that, then?
Like a crashing wave, her powers hit her. She reigned them in with a deep breath, allowing herself just enough. She launched herself at him, feinting high but landing a punch to his solar plexus. She deflected a kick and issued a palm blow to his chin, exposing his throat. She could kill him now. She could see the detailed diagrams and clinical text in her mind: It is by crushing the larynx, with one forceful strike, that the trachea is blocked and the victim dies by strangulation. A fraction of a second’s hesitation cost her; he swept at her legs, knocking her off-balance. She managed to leap back and gain some distance, a split second of respite. The drug that coursed through her, the blood that obscured her vision, and the overpowering smell of incense made her reel, made her numb. Her vision was speckled, her body tingled. Junaid’s form lumbered before her dangerously.
She would end this fight now. She waited for him to attack, and when he moved to kick her, she was prepared. She shifted to the side, slipped her hand beneath his kicking leg, and struck his groin with her fist. Then holding his leg, she swept his remaining leg out from
under him and dumped him to the ground. Leaping onto his fallen form, she straddled his torso and put him in a chokehold between her arm and his shoulder. She could feel Junaid buck beneath her, trying to create space between them to escape. She pushed harder now, a bit frantically. If he would not submit, what was she to do? How was this fight to end?
Beyond the din in her head, she heard Rashid’s gleeful voice. “Kill him, Zayn, and you’ve won.”
Was it her heartbeat that pulsed through her desperately, or was it Junaid’s? Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh… With what strength remained, she flung herself from him, rolling to the side and away. As she stood, she heard Junaid gasp, cough, wheeze. She stepped toward Rashid, seeing only a blurry form, a phantom. She untied the crimson sash about her waist and pulled the tunic from her back. Crumpling the clothes into a ball, she dropped them at his feet and turned on her heels, knowing the flimsy undershirt she still wore did nothing to shield her breasts.
The heavy doors opened for her, as if by magic, and she didn’t look back. She hurried to the stables and readied her mare. She was leaving Masyaf. Now that she’d ruined her chances of becoming an Assassin and thoroughly bludgeoned Junaid, she had no reason to stay. Her heart still racing from the spectacle at the initiation ceremony, she mounted her horse and cantered to the main gates of the castle.
A sound behind her made her look back. Junaid limped toward her, hailing her. As he approached, shame assailed her—his eyes were swollen purple, and his mouth was caked with blood. He stood beside her mount, breathing heavily, his expression unreadable on account of his injuries. “Congratulations,” he managed to say, his voice congested. He held her crumpled Assassin tunic and sash out to her.
Tentatively, she took them, debating on what to say. But he gave her no opportunity to speak, turning on his heels and limping back toward the castle.
…
Aysha frowned as she examined Zayn’s face. “Hmmph. I suppose it’s healed well enough.” She stepped back, scanning Zayn carefully from head to toe. “I still think it is too early to send you to Jerusalem, but the men have spoken…” She rolled her eyes upward and sighed.
Zayn stood quietly, resisting the urge to defend the decision. She was itching to leave. She had been at Masyaf for seven months. Normally, neophytes trained for years before initiation, but Zayn was no normal neophyte. For all intents and purposes, her training was complete.
A month had passed since the night of her initiation, a long, uncomfortable month. She continued to train, but she and Junaid had exchanged no more than a handful of obligatory words to each other. She felt relieved and sorry and angry all at once when she saw him and his injuries. Why had they made her do that to him? What had they proven?
Clearly, she had “won.” She still didn’t completely understand what had happened that night, what had been staged and what hadn’t. Had she proven her faithfulness to the Assassin cause by refusing to kill Junaid? She wasn’t sure how, but she didn’t dwell on it—notwithstanding Grand Master Rashid’s thinking, she could not kill an innocent man, let alone one who had mentored her. She didn’t care that the Grand Master had ordered it. She sensed that perhaps Junaid had something to do with her acceptance into the Order, despite her refusal to obey Sinan. Junaid must have convinced Sinan she was worthy.
Now, as she stood with Aysha fretting over her, she had to smile. She missed being mothered. If she hadn’t been so eager to leave, she would have gladly curled up at Aysha’s side and let the older woman nurse all her various wounds.
“You would never have her leave,” a familiar voice said from the doorway, and the women turned in surprise to see Junaid. He looked only at Aysha. “She is as ready as she’ll ever be.”
Aysha clicked her tongue. “As I’m sure you are so eager to be rid of her,” she snapped, her bracelets jingling as she waved a dismissive hand at him. She turned back to Zayn and said, “Remember, keep your eyes down. You always want to look people in the eye, and this will give you away. Eyes down! And be sure to bathe alone, or as alone as you can manage. There is no need to draw attention to your body, with its scars and muscles.”
Blushing furiously, Zayn mumbled her assent. Did Aysha have to speak of her body in front of Junaid? And… Is Junaid not eager to be rid of me? She tried to hide her frustration. She’d spent far too much time puzzling over Junaid’s actions. She had no idea what to think, how to feel about him. Sometimes she hated him, secretly smirking over his bludgeoned face, and other times she craved his approval. Not his affection, she told herself. Anything but that.
He looked impassively at Zayn. “Your horse is waiting.”
Aysha nodded and gave Zayn a small smile. Her eyes shone. “May God be with you, Zayn.” Zayn swallowed and nodded back, then turned to follow Junaid from the room, controlling the desire to turn and fling herself into Aysha’s arms. They walked in silence into the courtyard and to her mare. She wore the clothes of a merchant-class boy, which would aid her in getting to her various stopping points in Tripoli, Tyre, and Acre. Only then would she become Sara Zachariah, the niece of John Zachariah, a prominent Christian noble in Jerusalem and a member of the Syrian Court.
Before mounting, Zayn pretended to adjust her saddlebags. “You knew my mother,” she said softly, knowing that Junaid heard her.
He inhaled audibly. “Yes.”
She turned to look at him, accusations in her eyes. “You loved her.”
He didn’t waver. “Yes.”
“If you loved her, why did you bring me here? Why not kill Guy yourself?”
“Because I needed you to find a reason to persist.” He swallowed. “I needed you to become an Assassin.”
The words made her chest hurt, her throat close. “Did you know my father as well?”
His gaze faltered. “It is complicated.”
“Junaid, who was my father?” Her voice was rising with her desperation.
“I need you to return,” he replied, stepping toward her. “You are not expendable. We are not sending you to die for a single knight. We want you to come back to Masyaf, to continue to fight for the Order.”
“I never said I wasn’t returning.”
“I am keeping the truth about your father hidden from you to protect you,” he said, “and to ensure that you return.”
Zayn turned abruptly and mounted her mare. Taking the reins, she looked down at her teacher indignantly, frowning. “Very well, then.” She had one last question, one that had burned to be asked since Junaid had shown her The Testament of Solomon: am I a jinniyah? But she could not utter it, for fear of what he would answer. Instead she said, “I make no promises.”
Junaid looked up at her, his dark eyes illuminated to a ruddy brown in the sunlight, his bruises faded to a faint yellow. “Make just one,” he said. “Trust no one, not even other Assassins.”
She flashed him a wry smile. “That is the only thing I can promise you.” She kicked her mare into a gallop, and within seconds Masyaf Castle was behind her. She was alone now, she was free—ostensibly. The threads of the Assassins’ influence still bound her to Masyaf like an invisible cobweb. In a way, it reassured her. She did not trust herself to be truly alone. She wasn’t certain yet that she wouldn’t crumble.
After riding throughout the day, she would stop at night at her given locations, farms and village homes where Assassin agents lived their duplicitous lives. She left the Assassin territory of Syria and reentered the Kingdom of Jerusalem, stopping only in the Christian villages that dotted the Frankish lands. The agents were farmers, potters, tanners, smiths, bakers, butchers, and sometimes even village headmen. Oftentimes, their wives and children were agents as well, meeting Zayn’s eyes with complicity, occasionally reverence.
She was not tempted—not even for a second—to visit Rafaniya. Rafaniya, the village of her birth, had never felt like home. Miriam had been home, and Miriam was dead. There was nothing in Rafaniya for her to visit.
Farther south she went, deep into the heart of the Kingdom. She
rode along the coast, stopping often to marvel at the sea. The coastal cities sat tilted toward the Mediterranean, their flat-topped roofs and domed churches surrounded by walls and studded towers. Frankish galleys and lateen-rigged fishing boats bobbed together peacefully on the sparkling water. In Tyre, she stayed with a fisherman and watched in awe as he drew his nets, glittering with the scales of twisting fish, from the waves and into the boat. She could have stayed longer there, for the salty air was a wonderful antidote to her dark moods. But her mission pressed her on.
Acre, the foremost port of the eastern Mediterranean and the primary source of the Kingdom’s wealth, left her breathless. Its domes, spires, and minarets shimmered white in the sun, contrasting brightly with the aquamarine water. Ships from Venice and Genoa and even farther away crowded the harbor, a forest of galleys and pinnaces, all laden with goods. A caravan of bedouin camels traipsed through the dust, carrying bolts of silk and bales of spices. The low houses and narrow streets sprawled in all directions and teemed with activity, making Zayn feel tiny and insignificant. This is the world outside Rafaniya. I am finally here. As she made her way through town, her eyes rested on the enormous citadel in the distance, the massive walls that protected the city, the Jerusalem Cross flapping in the wind.