In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  There was no writing on the envelope. Carefully she fit the block back into place. Looking around quickly, she broke the royal seal and gingerly extracted the ivory parchment.

  Tomorrow at dusk Ciris Sarn Will escort you and your companions from the city. You Will find him, Waiting at the Fountains of Iimiyyah near the western the gates of the city. He Will be your guide to Waha al-Rihat from there you Will lead him to your final destination. Once the books

  are in my posseeion, you may do as you Wish With the Kingslayer

  Marin read the message again; finally. She knelt on the floor, let her shoulders slump and her head droop, and allowed the torrent of emotions to wash over her. She hoped that by letting them overwhelm her now—where she was alone and private—she could prevent them from betraying her when tomorrow came.

  “Soon, Ciris Sarn… soon, I swear it.”

  7

  SHE WAS READY.

  Marin led her group to the western gate. Beyond Riyyal the horizon was fading into a canvas of pastel shades painted by the setting of the second sun.

  Marin found Sarn at the fountain. After so long, it all seemed to happen in an instant. One moment she was anticipating her encounter with the assassin, and the next, he stood before her. Beside him stood another man dressed in fine silk; the style of his head scarf identified him as a member of the royal family. Was this the Emir?

  Marin looked into the eyes of the man she intended to kill. This was not the baleful, hollow-faced demon she had expected to confront. He was tall, with broad shoulders and high, chiseled cheekbones. He might be considered handsome were it not for his eyes. His cold black stare chilled her to the bone. She felt her heart leap, and her knees weakened.

  Sarn led them away from the city just as the second sun set.

  8

  “TELL ME.”

  She looked at Torre Lavvann as her former captain entered the tent. He was as direct as always.

  “Tell me.”

  “Sit,” Marin said, “and I will.”

  “I need to know.” Lavvann studied Marin. “What did you learn from the sha’ir that you are keeping from me?”

  “The books contain the truth about the essence of Ala’i: a truth that appears to contradict everything you or I have beentaught to believe, that proclaims it all to be a lie that may already have doomed us.”

  The implications of this gradually became apparent to Lavvann. “What else?” he asked.

  Marin held out her left hand, exposing the unhealed scar in her palm. “The sha’ir while possessed by the efreet revealed the location of the last book. I can find it. It will be revealed to me when we are near to the location.”

  Lavvann leaned forward with interest. “How so?”

  “A binding spell. Powerful magic that will aid us. However the four books are to be hers when the fifth is found.”

  “I see.” Lavvann nodded.

  “We must find it,” Marin said.

  Lavvann looked troubled. “These books have been kept secret for a reason,” he said. “I am not sure if they should be found.”

  Marin sighed and said no more.

  9

  THE SHIMMERING of the mirage hid the danger.

  Marin and her companions were five days into the desert and ten days away from reaching the oasis when they were ambushed.

  The attack seemed to come from all sides. The camels strode along at a steady pace, with Silím Rammas in the lead to scout their route. Adal Hussein brought up the rear, with Marin in the middle of the party. Prior to departing, she had donned a white flowing garment of light fabric that covered her body from head to toe and shielded her from the harshest rays of the suns. Her headdress provided her head and face with little relief from the stifling heat. The books were concealed in the inner pockets where they would be protected from the elements. Her sword, in its scabbard was ready for use at an instant.

  The wind had intensified, pelting them with sand. They covered their faces, turning their heads away from the stinging blast. Their camels slowed, pushing on against the gale. Rammas called out from the front of the party. “This is just a short squall! It should blow over quickly.”

  “We can hope!” Marin exclaimed.

  Before long, the wind was screaming like a jinn unleashed. The blowing sand provided all the cover their attackers needed.

  Their assailants came at them suddenly but were still far enough away that Marin and her companions had time to prepare. Swords and bows were drawn, and everybody prepared for a fight. The four men that Cencova had sent to accompany Marin encircled her. Sallah Maroud strung an arrow to his bow and took aim at an approaching rider. As they drew nearer, the wind died, the airborne sand settled, and Marin could see the Haradin.

  She muttered an oath under her breath as they came closer. There were eight of them. Rammas and the others followed Maroud’s lead and pulled bows and arrows from their packs. Marin winced at the blinding flash of sword blades and scimitars as the Haradin approached.

  Their arrows flew.

  Marin drew her own sword and let out a piercing cry as the arrows hit their targets. Three Haradin went down. The other five continued their charge, and the battle was on.

  Marin dove ferociously into the battle, meeting one of the Haradin with a flash of her blade. The assassin’s arm dropped to the sand, blood gushing from the stump of his elbow. Rage deafened her to the sound of steel against steel, to the cries of anguish. Her sole focus was survival.

  Her companions matched her fury as they fought alongside her. Before long, all five of them had drawn their mounts into a rough semicircle and successfully fought off the remaining assailants. Panting from the exertion, they dismounted and snatched at their water skins.

  Around them lay the slain bodies of the assassins. Their blood stained the white sand red. The Haradin horses had scattered and were lost to a predictable fate in the desert.

  Lavvann sheathed his sword. “Is anybody hurt?”

  “One of them sliced my arm pretty badly,” Maroud said.

  Marin and Rammas tended Maroud’s wound. They bound his arm, and Marin smiled at him. “Don’t worry.”

  “I won’t worry, Marin,” he said. He smiled. “It cannot go easy, it never does.”

  “There will be more,” Marin said. “Either Haradin or White Palm. Word has spread of our coming.”

  “That is probably true,” Malek said. “We need to leave quickly.”

  He was right. The faster they moved, the sooner they could reach the oasis, and possibly avoid more hunters. But too much exertion was even deadlier. The desert itself was unmerciful—even more than a legion of assassins.

  Once they had collected their belongings and bound their wounds, they resumed their journey west. Sarn was at her side in an instant, as if he were keeping a close watch on her.

  She let him. I am keeping a close watch on you, too, Ciris Sarn, she thought. And the first chance I see, I will spill your blood all over these desert sands.

  None of them spoke.

  10

  DANGER CLOSES from all sides.

  She kept her thoughts to herself as off in the distance, Marin saw two figures on horseback.

  It had been two days since the Haradin attack. They had not encountered anyone else; nevertheless, they had not let down their guard. They were wary of other badawh and cutthroats.

  Since the ambush, the heat had become even more brutal.

  At the height of the day they were forced to take shelter, setting up tents to shield themselves from the suns’ heat. Lavvann sent Hussein ahead a short distance to scout out the road for them. He returned with periodic reports during their progress, and they adjusted their pace accordingly.

  The last report had come two hours ago. No sign of anyone, and by their best reckoning, they were alone.

  For now.

  11

  SARN WAITED.

  Several hours after the others had gone to sleep, he watched as Marin approached his tent.

  She
entered silently, carefully moving aside the folds of cloth that hung across the entry. She paused for a moment, as though she could feel his eyes upon her.

  She is beautiful, thought Sarn. The way he felt about that startled him. Women did not usually affect him in that manner.

  Sarn lay on his left side, wrapped in blankets, his head opposite the entrance. As she peered in the dim light, he moved slightly, shifting as though in sleep.

  He admired her courage in entering his tent, and watched as lowered the flap quietly behind her. She took several small, careful steps closer and then hesitated. Slowly she reached for her blade. Sarn rolled into the shadows, vanishing from her sight. She froze, looking about wildly.

  His eyes met hers as he stepped away from the dark wall of the tent and approached her menacingly.

  Sarn had known that at some point, one of these travelers would try to end his life. Marin was the one whom he had suspected from the start. Earlier that night he had spied her venomous glances as they ate together.

  After all, he had killed her husband, Hiril Altaïr.

  Sarn saw her flinch, fully expecting a lethal blow, but he did not approach. Instead, he was content to watch the emotions play across her face—all but fear.

  He continued to stand silently, waiting for her next move. Whatever weapon she had hidden behind her back remained there.

  Sarn underestimated no one. While it was true that most assassins were men, there were women just as capable; and Sarn knew that they were, in some ways, superior. A woman tended to be more driven and relentless than a man. Female assassins were dedicated, deceptive, and ruthless. These qualities made them extremely lethal.

  He had expected the worst from Marin, but he quickly determined that although she was capable of killing, she was not a killer. She was different. Yes, she was fair and cunning, but not cold and shallow. Something in her eyes told him she was much more complex than he could have imagined. He decided to spare her life tonight.

  But he knew he would kill her eventually.

  12

  “DO YOU think I’m a fool?”

  Marin went still. She recovered quickly though, hoping that her disappointment and uncertainty were not perceptible. She brought her empty hands up in front of her and murmured, “No, no, of course not. I heard sounds and feared you might be ambushed by some unseen attacker,” she said, flinching as she realized how feeble it sounded even to her.

  Sarn lit a candle and continued to study her. She could swear his lips quirked. “So, you were worried about my welfare? I hardly believe that… and yet to take my life now would seem to be an

  even greater folly.”

  Her chin rose involuntarily as the anger boiled up inside again. “You know nothing about me or my motives,” she whispered.

  He regarded her for a moment. Did she wait for his attack? Did she hope he would end her life quickly?

  Sarn sighed and raked his fingers through his dark hair. He straightened and beckoned to her. “Come, sit—let’s talk. We haven’t spoken much, and I could use the company.” He sat at one end of the tent, thoughtfully leaving a place for her near the doorway, as far away from him as possible.

  The irony of this invitation did not escape her; she stood for a moment, indecisive. Finally however her shoulders drooped and she sat quietly.

  She looked around, then said, “I have watched you use magic—the false image of yourself when you battled the Haradin.”

  “It’s a simple spell, a protective illusion.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But the use of arcane—even trivial—magic has serious consequences for the one who weaves the spell, doesn’t it? Isn’t that why there are so few who can do such things?”

  He nodded, seeming unsurprised by the question. “True. It is said that one will first wither from within and then age outwardly from its continual use. Yet for some reason, be it a boon or a curse, I suffer little of this effect… at least, on the outside,” he said wryly, as if to himself.

  “Are you jinn-born?” she asked.

  The look that passed across Sarn’s face was brief, and to the untrained eye, undetectable. It told her that her guess had hit home.

  “I will not burden you with my past tonight,” he said. “I wish to hear of yours.”

  “Mine? How could that possibly interest you? My deeds pale in comparison to what you have done.” She made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice.

  “How is that? Your possession of the books tells me you are important.”

  “I once had a future, but that was taken from me. Though it can never be replaced, I seek to right some of the wrongs done.” Marin paused and said, “The books will give me the chance to change this.”

  “Then we share a common bond. Let hope we see it done, then,” Sarn said.

  The shock of his words resonated in Marin. Looking at him, she knew he could see how she felt—and she could see his emotions, too.

  He was pleased.

  13

  MARIN SHIVERED.

  It was the following morning, and the company continued its trek to the oasis. Marin was still reeling from her conversation with Sarn.

  Sarn had awakened everyone at the crack of dawn and was silent as they all packed their horses for the day. He didn’t say a word to her. Instead, he quietly fed and watered his horse and then consulted with the Emir away from all the others. They traveled six hours before stopping.

  They reached a caravanserai without incident. The owners provided them with bedding, cheese, and bread. Marin heard the metallic clink of coins being exchanged. Somehow, she did not fear for their safety. In truth, Marin wasn’t sure what she felt anymore.

  “You’d better get some sleep,” Sarn told her. “We have a long trek still ahead of us.”

  “A week?” one of the others asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The path is becoming more difficult to follow with each passing mile,” Marin said.

  “Finding proper passage from this point onward will not be easy,” Sarn warned her. “But don’t concern yourself. I know the way.”

  Marin allowed herself a small smile.

  “I am not afraid,” she said.

  14

  SOON.

  Marin knew that her confrontation with the assassin was getting closer. It was impossible to keep from brooding on it.

  She told Sarn little. He had been successful in getting information out of her, but she’d revealed only what she wanted him to know, weaving fact with fiction. Sarn had listened, nodding. The closest she’d come to Hiril’s death was a brief mention of a spy dying in Havar. For a moment, Sarn’s eyes glinted, as if he’d realized she was alluding to her late husband. But she’d moved on quickly, changing the subject to how she’d gained possession of the books that Malek sought to possess. Sarn had questioned her about that, and the answer she’d given was the same as before. “I came across them accidentally.” Sarn had nodded, seemingly accepting her explanation.

  At some point during their conversation, Marin had found herself relaxed and even at ease with Sarn. His voice was soothing somehow. “My birthright has been more of a curse than a blessing,” he said. “Everything I have undertaken has been because of it.”

  “So you are a servant, then?” Marin asked. She doubted this would draw out a confession, but thought it was worth a try.

  “In a cruel way, yes,” Sarn answered. “There is a man named Fajeer Dassai. He is close to the Sultan and Prince Malek. I am atthe mercy of him and… others…” Sarn faltered. She detected a furtive movement as he touched something in his pocket. “… a tool for the Sultan.”

  “And you must do as they command?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Marin pressed him. “It seems that you would be a slave to no one.”

  And then Sarn told her more than she ever would have expected him to reveal. He told her of his mother, and of the veil between the mortal world and the realm of the Jnoun—how in certain instances the barrier broke or
tore, allowing these elemental creatures to slip through to Mir’aj. He told her of his father’s marriage to such a being.

  Marin was silent, awestruck by his narrative. He went on to explain that he was both human and jnoun, begotten of his father’s seed and nurtured in his elemental mother’s womb, hence the mystical blood that flowed through his veins. “My mother died in childbirth,” he said. “My father later married an ambitious whore whose only desire was to use him to get at the wealthier men of the court.” He told her about the rage he’d felt over her neglect, how she’d arranged to have him kidnapped from his home and delivered to the Tajj al-Hadd. He spoke of his rage and the result of his uncontrollable actions.

  “What happened?” Marin asked.

  “I killed her lover,” he confessed. “She witnessed the attack and discovered my secret.”

  “And she found a way to get rid of you.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  He revealed the training he’d received in the Tajj al-Hadd from Fajeer Dassai. He told her how Dassai had groomed him from an early age to do his bidding, how he’d become a virtual slave to Dassai because of his blood. He explained how the seeds of resentment festered. “I am a pawn to the Sultan of Qatana.”

  Marin remained silent.

  “Yet… someday… I might live in peace,” Sarn said. “But only upon the Sultan’s death can this occur.”

  “For you to be free, the Sultan must die?”

  “Yes.”

  His revelations subjected Marin to an onslaught of conflicting emotions. When she returned to her tent, she had a new perspective on her husband’s killer. On the one hand, revenge for Hiril’s murder still drove her, compelling her to complete her task. On the other, she’d discovered, like it or not, a newfound compassion for Sarn.

  She tried to shake it off, but try as she might, she could not rid herself of the feeling.

  Her sleep that night was troubled.

  15

  MARIN MUTTERED a curse.

  She had told more lies and used more trickery in her attempt to avenge her husband’s death than she ever would have imagined. She should not have listened to Ciris Sarn last night. She should have excused herself as quickly as possible and returned to her tent.