by IGMS
"Zaad!" Her grand-uncle shouted as loud as his feeble lungs would allow. He was on his feet again.
Layla could not quite sort out all the hollering that followed. She'd always been bored by books and the Traditions, by scrolls and sermons. Even her command of the Heavenly Chapters wasn't what it ought to be, she knew. For seven years now, she'd spent every moment she could in the training yard or the archer's copse or the pool of hardening. This back-and-forth of saints and scriptures meant little to her. But in Zaad's eyes she saw something that she knew well enough. Rage.
Again her grand-uncle's reedy shout cut through the other Shaykhs' voices. "Disgraceful! I will not have the Lodge of God torn apart in these disputes! In God's name, I --"
His words stopped as his eyes bulged out and he fell back in his seat. He sucked in a breath and Layla was close enough to see him grit his teeth. With every bit of discipline her training had given her, she kept from leaping to his side. Such a display would weaken his hand, and in this hall he was the High Shaykh, not her grand-uncle.
"We . . . will . . . adjourn." Her grand-uncle bit the words out and put his hand to his chest. Two attendants half-carried him out of the room. Shaykhs Saif, Rustaam, and Zaad followed the High Shaykh.
After a long, shocked silence the hall began to clear.
"No! No! He can't be dead!" Layla wailed. She sat on a large rock near the archer's copse with Shaykh Rustaam who, with strong arms and a vial of salt-and-violet had twice now kept her from collapsing.
His own eyes shone with tears that did not quite fall. "Listen, child. High Shaykh Aalli scolded me often, but without his guidance I'd never have become a Shaykh. I loved him and I feel his loss -- for 'Death is only a loss for the wicked and the living.'
"Yet if we would honor your grand-uncle's memory, there is work that falls to us -- work that leaves us little time for grieving. You recall what the Lodge of God's Traditions mandate in a situation such as this?"
Layla's memory struggled through grief and neglected lessons. When the answer came to her, she gasped. "The Judgment of Swords and Souls!"
"So your learning isn't so poor as some wagging tongues say! Yes, the Judgment. Zaad, in his lust for power, insists upon determining the new High Shaykh immediately after your grand-uncle's funeral."
At the word 'funeral,' Layla felt a sob rising up in her, but she smothered it and clenched her jaw.
Shaykh Rustaam went on "The Judgment is a matter between Shaykhs. Its contests of swordplay and piety act as arbiters between us and help us find our leader. But we Shaykhs are measured by our pupils as well -- and so we are accompanied in the Judgment by a Dervish of our choosing. Zaad will bring that little-shit-in-a-big-man's-body, Hakum. And I'll bring you. Now, I ought not ask this -- for High Shaykh Aalli's sake I should protect you. But the Lodge that he has built needs your help." Shaykh Rustaam stood.
Layla winced and again felt weakness creep in. But there was no time for it now. She rose and she and her teacher walked side-by-side. "I mourn my grand-uncle, O Shaykh, but Shaykh Zaad must not become High Shaykh. To tell truth, my grand-uncle spoke of your someday taking that place."
Shaykh Rustaam's eyes shone again. "Me? High Shaykh? Truly? And here I thought he had cast me in the dross-pile for a hopeless libertine! Nonetheless I loved him. And I'm proud to see that his grand-niece has made a fine Dervish. Daring! Honest! And 'pointed,' as the Traditions say a Dervish must be, 'like God's own sword at the heart of injustice'!" Her teacher had recaptured a bit of his bombast, and Layla drew strength from it as she walked.
They entered the burial yard.
From the small minaret above the High Shaykh's house, the funeral-caller cried out scripture about souls weighed on golden scales and the brevity of men's lives.
Death-rites at the Lodge were simple, with none of the trilling and sweets that she remembered from her mother's funeral. Within the Order, the rites grew simpler the more venerated the deceased was, so that the funeral for a High Shaykh was a very brief affair. Quiet recitation from the Heavenly Chapters, a plain white winding sheet, a cup of clean water passed about the mourners' mouths.
Layla could not focus on even these simple, pious gestures. Her thoughts kept returning to the Judgment of Swords and Souls. A strange giddiness crept over her and she had to keep herself from smiling. In an hour's time she would have a sword in her hand, and all of the intrigue and ceremony would be beside the point. She would prove with her skill that the Lodge of God belonged to her and those she loved.
Before an hour had passed, the ceremony was over and she was walking toward the training yard. Shaykh Rustaam fell in beside her. He diverted them, taking an indirect route.
As they walked, he twirled his sword between his left and right hands, an old Order exercise for mind focusing and wrist limbering which he'd always performed with a unique flair. But the Shaykh displayed little of his usual mirth. "Listen closely; I want to be sure you're clear about how the Judgment will proceed. After the opening invocation, the middle tambour will sound and you and Hakum will duel until one of you is disarmed and yields, or Shaykh Saif sounds the low tambour to signal a breach of rule. You may wield no weapon other than your body and your forked sword. To blind, cripple, or kill is to forfeit victory. When the duel between you Dervishes is over, the high tambour will sound and then Zaad and I will cross swords, bound by the same rules."
"What if I lose?"
"You won't, God willing. Regardless, the outcomes of both Sword-Judgments are considered mere preliminaries to the Judgment of Souls that follows. After the two duels, Zaad and I, our spirits strengthened or weakened by our own contest and that of our pupils, will have a battle of closeness-to-God. A weaponless duel, of gazes and all that lies behind a gaze. It is the Judgment of Souls that truly determines the contest's winner."
It was as strange a notion to Layla as when she'd first read about it. Still, beneath all the words it meant that, between the contesting Shaykhs, the best and most pious warrior would become High Shaykh. Which surely meant that Shaykh Rustaam would win. She smiled and said so, but Shaykh Rustaam sheathed his sword and frowned at this.
"It's not so simple, Layla. With High Shaykh Aalli gone, God shelter his soul, the Lodge already half-belongs to Zaad."
"But if we win the Judgment, then things will be different!"
Shaykh Rustaam ran one hand over his moustache. "Perhaps. At least, if we win the Judgment, I will be High Shaykh in name. But don't put too much faith in even a zealot's adherence to inconvenient old codes. Too many men here are loyal to Zaad. The Lodge's troubles will have just begun. Still, if we lose . . ." He held Layla's gaze. "It won't be easy for you. Your grand-uncle's authority protected you from . . . many things. If we lose, I'll be under Zaad's authority, and I won't be able to protect you."
Layla took a moment to think about what that might mean. But it changed nothing. "I understand."
Shaykh Rustaam's solemn stare broke into a smile. "But why do I speak so grimly? God forgive me my boasts, but I could defeat two Zaads even if I missed my morning tea and yogurt. No reason for fear, child!"
They arrived at the training yard and Layla hoped to Almighty God that her teacher was right.
Two hundred men and boys -- students and Dervishes alike -- stood forming a large circle around the training yard. Even more men than had been at the tribunal. The entire Lodge, in fact. It was as she had expected.
The crowd parted as she and Shaykh Rustaam made their way into the circle. Layla ignored the murmured words that followed her. She stepped into the circle and saw that Shaykh Zaad and Hakum were already nearing its center. Beside her, Shaykh Rustaam said nothing, but flashed her a grim smile as they went to stand face-to-face with their opponents.
Shaykh Saif, acting as judge, stood just inside the circle. He held a small mallet over a three-tiered tambour. He called out in a clear, thunderous voice "'If there is no High Shaykh, there is no Lodge of God'! So say our Traditions. So it is that we gather here to . . ."
He said more words, but Layla did not really hear them. She studied Hakum, weighed different opening gambits. She gripped her swordhilt and nearly jumped when the middle tambour sounded.
Hakum wasted no time in beginning his attack. He was one of the biggest Dervishes in the Lodge, and the savage blows Layla parried were jarring. Her teeth rattled. But she was confident.
She'd bested Hakum each time they'd met in the training yard. He fought now as he had then. Still believing that raw strength was enough against her. She watched his hacking sword arm with disdain. Waited for her chance.
He kicked her left shin. Hard. Layla hopped back two steps and nearly buckled from the pain. Hakum pressed the attack, but she gave no more ground. She saw her opening. She slashed out once and sliced open Hakum's forearm. Another swift blow knocked his sword away.
As Layla expected, he scrambled for his lost weapon. But then, without retrieving his sword, he turned awkwardly and swung at her. Was the angry fool venturing his bare hands against her? She brought her arm up in a scornful block.
And felt a blade bite deep into her flesh. A second weapon! The dog had a palm-dagger! A coward's weapon, and blasphemy to bring into the Judgment. The pain seared. Surely Shaykh Saif would call this a breach of rule and sound an end to the duel. The Traditions demanded it. But she dared not turn to catch the Shaykh's eye.
And the low tambour did not sound. A few feinting steps brought her into Shaykh Saif's line of vision, but he just stared at her coldly. Of course. Even the Traditions did not matter to him so much as a unified Lodge. He had chosen not to see the dagger.
So this is how things stand.
The wound in her arm burned, but she had her sword and Hakum had only a tiny dagger. There was no contest. With two vicious but careful slashes she disarmed him a second time. She slapped his face with the flat of her blade for good measure before she cried "Yield!"
The big, sour-faced Dervish breathed heavily. He did not speak or move.
"Yield!" Layla repeated.
Another silent moment. Then Hakum bowed stiffly to her. With murder in his eyes, he mumbled, "I yield."
As soon as the words left Hakum's mouth, the high tambour sounded and Shaykhs Rustaam and Zaad stepped toward each other, swords drawn.
The forked sword of the Order was a slashing weapon, but Shaykh Rustaam thrust his out before him. He easily kept Zaad at a distance. Then Shaykh Rustaam darted his sword-tip almost past Zaad's own sword. Zaad clumsily turned away the blow, but he was in a desperate defensive position now. Shaykh Rustaam drove him back a dozen steps with a whirling attack that made his one sword seem like three.
Shaykh Rustaam toyed with Zaad, wearing the older Shaykh down. Zaad was not unskilled with a sword, but Layla thought her teacher had boasted true -- it would take two Zaads to even challenge one Shaykh Rustaam.
Again and again the two swords crossed in parries and flurries of blows. Shaykh Rustaam touched his opponent five or six times to Zaad's one. The older Shaykh managed to get in one more accurate slash at Shaykh Rustaam's arm before Layla's teacher knocked the weapon from Zaad's hand.
There was no question who would win the Judgment of Swords. Shaykh Rustaam still held his blade and his forearm was marred only by two small slashes. Shaykh Zaad was disarmed and his silks had been sliced open in a dozen places. Still, Zaad smiled as if some comforting thought kept the pain from him.
Shaykh Zaad moved to recover his weapon. But Shaykh Rustaam pointed his own sword at his opponent's throat. "YIELD!" the younger Shaykh boomed. Zaad still smiled when he ought to have been furious. "I yield."
Shaykh Rustaam nodded and sheathed his sword. But something seemed wrong. He'd barely exerted himself in defeating Zaad, yet sweat poured down his face, and his breath was now coming sharper and quicker.
All three tambour-tiers sounded in quick succession, and Shaykh Saif intoned "Thus ends the Judgment of Swords! But the Heavenly Chapters say 'The strong soul of the believer can stand against seven swords.' Prepare, O Shaykhs, for God's Judgment of Souls!" Again Shaykh Saif struck the three tiers of the tambour.
Their gazes locked, the two Shaykhs moved in unison. Each took one long step back from the other and sank down to sit cross-legged on the packed dirt. And then Layla knew something was wrong. Though he held Zaad's gaze, Shaykh Rustaam was sweating and breathing harder than ever. It wasn't battle fatigue. Layla had sparred with her teacher countless times, and she'd never seen this.
The two Shaykhs continued to stare at one another, their souls in a strange silent duel. But after a few long moments, Shaykh Rustaam began to swoon, and he huffed as if he'd been running for hours. It made no sense. Except --
Poison.
Just as the thought formed in her head her teacher swooned again, as if he couldn't breathe. He righted himself and kept his gaze hard on Zaad, who suddenly seemed, behind his own strange stare, to be afraid.
Then Shaykh Rustaam collapsed.
Poison!
It was the only explanation. Caring little for propriety, she scrambled to his side as Shaykh Saif sounded the high tambour and shouted words about victory and God's Judgment.
When Layla reached her teacher, she saw that Shaykh Rustaam would never breathe again.
Poison was the most reprehensible weapon in existence, according to the Traditions. Zaad visibly withheld a smile as he looked on Shaykh Rustaam's body. In his eyes she saw her suspicions were right.
But if she was close enough to see the signs, surely Shaykh Saif was. Layla turned to him. "What . . . what could cause this, Shaykh Saif? Only an envenomed sword!"
The assembly murmured around them. Shaykh Saif's look was dark, but he said nothing.
Zaad turned toward her and shrugged. "His wicked soul shriveled when it stood unmasked before a servant of Righteous and All-Scouring God! Such things have happened before in the Judgment of Souls."
"No. No!" She was screaming, and she did not care. "This is wickedness! This is no fair Judgment! This is murder!" She fell to her knees beside Shaykh Rustaam's now lifeless body.
Shaykh Saif knelt next to her and spoke softly. "Be still, child. It's out of our hands now. This is why we have the Judgment. The Lodge must shed its diseased limbs so that the body does not die." He knew that Shaykh Rustaam had been poisoned. But even this wouldn't cause him to act against Zaad. Layla saw it in his eyes. A united Lodge of God. He placed a hand on Layla's shoulder.
She jerked away from his touch and stood. "Zaad is the diseased limb!" she screamed, "A user-of-poisons, as disgraced in the Traditions as the blasphemer - you all see this, yet you say nothing!" A last bit of something careful and thoughtful in Layla seemed to burn and blow away like ash. She turned to Zaad.
"Poisoner! Son of a whore! God piss on you, murderer!" They were the words of caravan guards, and Hakum snarled at them, but Zaad restrained his pupil with a raised hand and smiled.
"I forgive your angry words. You are a girl, taught by a heretic and a soft old man. You cannot be blamed. But an influence such as your cannot be allowed to remain --"
Zaad would not strike her. He did not need to. He would simply cast her out of his Lodge coinless, friendless, and dishonored. Her grand-uncle and Shaykh Rustaam were dead. Their enemy had won.
She could not let it be this way.
She focused on her breathing, her blade, the mocking Shaykh across from her. Zaad had killed Shaykh Rustaam, who had shown Layla how strong she might be. But if her teacher could look on now, he would see her strength. Her sword appeared suddenly in her hand. She flew at Zaad.
Before the Shaykh or his pupils even got their weapons up, Layla's sword made three deep cuts at Zaad's neck and shoulders. He gurgled as he fell. Then he stopped moving.
The assembly rang with men's shouts and the drawing of swords. Shaykh Saif bellowed her name. Hands clutched at her. Her blade bit into flesh again and again. Hakum fell before her, clutched at his bleeding gut. Her sword flashed. She heard screams, watched a man's severed fingers ar
c through the air.
Whether her power came from God or from the Traitorous Angel, Layla was faster than any man at the Lodge. She bolted through the stunned assembly, out the great double doors, and into the cool night air.
Layla ran down the rocky path that led away from the Lodge. The shouts slowly grew more distant behind her. She headed off the path and down into the stony hills. Picking her way among the rocks, she ran for an hour before stopping beside a great gray boulder. She held her breath and listened for sounds of pursuit, but heard none. She allowed herself a few huffing breaths and put her hand to her swordhilt.
Merciful God, please, no! This can't be!
But it was. Brushing against her scabbard, her fingers touched only leather. No scrap of silk was wound there. During the Judgment, or when she'd killed Zaad, or perhaps when she'd fought through the assembly -- somewhere she had lost her mother's scarf.
Her grand-uncle. Shaykh Rustaam. Her home in the Lodge of God. Her oath to her mother. All lost. And what did she have? Revenge? Shaykh Zaad's death meant little enough, when she thought on it. How she had burned to kill him! But now his allies -- men who called God's name as they took what they wanted -- would run the Lodge, even if Shaykh Saif became High Shaykh in name.
Her life in the Order was over. She would never become a Shaykh as she'd once dreamed. And she had maimed and killed men. Other Dervishes. She'd done it simply by reaction. It wasn't as hard as the Shaykhs had made her believe. She felt no shame thinking on Hakum and . . . Yusef, had it been? Mahmet? Others whose names she'd never retained had gotten in the way as well. No shame. But her eyes stung and her stomach clenched.
Layla inspected herself. Bruised and cut. Her blue silks tattered and stained with blood. She could not continue to wear them, and not only because they were ruined. She was no longer a Dervish.
She thought of the map on her grand-uncle's wall and all the cites listed there. She quickened her pace through the hills. Saints starve, robbers roast lamb. More caravan guards' words she shouldn't have heard. Layla weighed them heavily now, her hand on her sword.