Ghosts

Once she found the archer on the ramparts, Khayzuran was already running. Nadir was swift to follow her, using his tall frame to push the crowd out of the way as they carved a path out of the square.

"He's going east," she yelled over the din of voices. She grabbed onto his shirt and closed her eyes; there were so many sounds in the way, drowning her mind like sand pooling in an hourglass, threatening to erase her tether to the fleeing rebel. They could not afford to lose this one.

He was high up on the rooftops, his bow clattering against his still-full quiver as he leapt from roof to roof.

Nadir shoved aside more people until they finally burst into an empty street.

"Where is he?" he growled, fingers tensing around his sword hilt. Khaya opened her eyes and pointed, and they took off running. She could hear him getting further away as she led them down alleys and roads that meandered eastward. She could not run as fast as Nadir, but he did not know where to go without her leading him. Inwardly she cursed at herself for not taking a horse from the square.

But it was not too late.

She skid to a halt and backtracked, then veered right down a narrow alley which opened into a quiet mercantile road. As they sprinted down the street Nadir's eyes sparkled with knowing, and he bounded forward with long strides until he reached the stable she had pinpointed and cut free the first horse he saw. The startled animal reared, but Nadir held its reins firmly in place and mounted it in a swift movement.

Khayzuran's lungs ached, her body begging for respite as she ran towards him. He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the horse, and she held onto its mane with an iron grip as Nadir kicked into a canter. Her eyes were already closed to better hear her mark.

"Left!"

He was descending from the rooftops now, likely trying to get to one of the tunnel entrances. Again Khaya cursed herself for not memorising the map that Yahya had shown her.

"I see him," said Nadir over her shoulder. He spurred on the horse, and Khaya jolted forward with its unfamiliar gait. Her headscarf whipped in the wind violently, threatening to come loose as they rode faster and faster towards the eastern quarter. The streets grew narrower and more decrepit, the people more hunched and morose. They finally turned a corner, and there he was.

With his bow aimed straight at them.

"Watch out!" Nadir bent his body over hers as her eyes snapped open. The arrow hit the horse's shoulder and it reared, bellowing with fury.

Khaya's body lurched, and suddenly she was mid-air. She tumbled off the horse, and her body seized in pain when she hit the ground. Another arrow cut through the air, Khaya rolled out of the way just as it passed her head, and she looked up to see Nadir drawing his own bow. She got to her feet, clenched her fists tightly to stop them shaking as she stood face to face with the rebel.

Nadir's bowstring snapped, and the man's knees hit the ground, his eyes wide in shock. His scream came seconds after, as if his mind could not understand what had happened to his body. Still, his eyes were feral and defiant as he looked up at her, gritting his teeth through the pain. Nadir had nocked another arrow, but if he missed and hit a vital spot all their effort would be in vain.

It seemed the rebel had the same thought. His hands went to his hip, steel flashed.

"No!" She ran for him, arm outstretched. Nadir realised just as she did, and kicked the panting, bleeding horse for one last sprint. He swung his bow in an arc, clubbing the rebel in the back of the head just as the dagger reached his neck.

The pair of them stood motionless for a brief moment. The horse was moaning in pain, blood dripping from the wound in its shoulder. Nadir moved first, he dismounted and carefully cut the arrow head from the shaft. Wordlessly, they switched places, Khaya taking the reins and Nadir throwing the limp body of the rebel over his shoulder, and they walked back the way they came.

The street was silent thereafter.

X

Rehan blinked. To any onlooker who managed to peek through the gossamer drapes into the confines of Firaz's chariot, he would have appeared pensive and determined. His eyes were vacant, body floating in the small space as if suspended in the sky itself. That touch from Yahya had drained him of all human emotion. He could hardly absorb his surroundings, did not even realise when they turned into the residence and entered its marble halls again.

Suddenly he was in the hall of private audience with Firaz and the Emirs of Rey. Slowly, as if moving through water, he took off the winged crown and placed it on the ashwood table. The din of voices fizzled out like a dying light, and the Emirs turned to him in anticipation.

Palpable silence filled the room, until Firaz himself cleared his throat. "While we marched the streets of Rey our soldiers have been watching the entrances to the old tunnels," he said, "All is quiet."

"What of the assassin?" someone asked, and several voices rose in response.

"We do not know as yet," said Firaz, "He may have been acting alone—"

Their conversation droned on, with the Emirs asking increasingly pointless questions and Firaz giving increasingly vague answers. Someone called his name, perhaps they were asking him a question.

"Sayyidi." Firaz placed a gentle hand on his bare arm. Rehan looked down to where the old man was touching him, then at his face.

"Firaz will answer all your questions. I must go," he finally said. He did not look at any of the Emirs as he walked away, leaving his crown on the table as an offering.

The stone pillars were a blur around him as he walked on without aim. Distant voices echoed around him, he was vaguely aware of a staircase to the right that led back down towards his chambers but he felt no compulsion to follow it. He was outside himself, not free and powerful as he had been in the square, but crippled and anxious to the point his mind could not focus itself on a single thought.

It could have been seconds or minutes that he stood there motionless. There was movement ahead, a fragment of an arm, the memory of a body shifting through space, and suddenly Yahya's haggard expression came into focus. His hair was strewn across his face, his chest inflating heavily as he reached for him.

"Yahya," Rehan exhaled and bowed his head against his friend's shoulder. "I feel like I'm going mad."

"I know," whispered Yahya, "I'm sorry."

"What the hell did you do to him!?" Sharan's sudden fury jolted him, but he did not even have the fortitude to respond. "We need to get him inside, and you need to fix this."

The pair supported the Prince's body between them and with jarring, awkward steps descended the stairs. They reached the safety of Rehan's room, Yahya's heart rose into his throat as he and Sharan reclined Rehan's body into a chair, his mumbles incoherent with delirium.

Yahya tipped the Prince's head back gently and pressed two fingers into his forehead, his breath locked in his chest when he realised what he had done. Rehan's mind was devoid of feeling. In his bid to calm him, to keep his mind on the task at hand, Yahya hadn't had time to think. He simply grasped his friend's arm and took away everything, emptying his mind so he would not panic. Would not go in search of that which was not meant to be there.

Inside Rehan's mind Yahya saw the remnants of what he had not touched—the very core of Rehan's soul. There were his parents, the Caliph and Calipha, for whom he felt love, respect, and awe. His wife Princess Rayta, towards whom he held resentment, anger, and the old dried husk of lost love. His city, his people, that he loved unconditionally. Ministers and courtiers whose faces were half out of focus and whose voices blended together in a chorus, all of whom he did not trust.

He saw himself, and the wave of colour around him representing deep love, trust, and admiration. But the band of trust, glowing pure gold, was cracked and marred in places, decaying into blackened suspicion. Into green jealousy. The sight was a knife in his heart. His hand shot out instinctively to it, to smooth the blemishes with false faith and heal the broken splinters, but he stopped short. He had already made the mistake of trying to control Rehan, and it had ended like this. His friend unconscious, unable to nurture a thought.

Yahya stepped away from himself. He lost mortal form, turning into a tendril of thought as he rewove the emotions he had absorbed and poured them back into Rehan's empty soul just as he had found them. The fear and unease. Anger, rage, violence. Hope, heart, and inner strength.

There was something else Yahya had seen. A small glowing ball, white as milk but for a deep black scar—a hole where no light entered.

Khayzuran. The memory of her voice he had stolen.

He had never before tried to alter a memory. It had been like grappling a lion, or trying to empty an ocean with his bare hands. Just holding onto it sapped all his energy, and ripping it apart had taken more than he had ever expunged in his life. He did not even know if it had worked when he let go of Rehan's arm, but then he saw the light dim in his eyes. The memory forgotten. But he didn't realise that he had stolen far more than just the memory. It was a miracle Rehan had not fallen unconscious then and there.

Carefully, Yahya touched the glowing mass, ran what would have been his hand over the dark pit and filled it with something that vaguely resembled Khayzuran, a twice remembered, recycled memory, not the true vision of her. It was what he remembered of Rehan's memories of her. A fragment of a feminine voice, the sharpness and suddenness. There was confusion, betrayal, hurt upon hearing her when she was meant to be safe in Baghdad, but Yahya did not return those feelings. Khayzuran did not deserve his rage.

What remained was a scar, blueish grey in the surrounding pure whiteness like a lone storm cloud. He stared at it in shame of what he had done, then finally let go.

X

Sharan paced the room, now silent but for Yahya's laboured breathing. He knew better than to disturb his work, although his fists clenched tighter and tighter with each lap of the room he took. Anxiety, dread, and raw fear surged through his chest when Yahya suddenly gasped. He dropped his hand from Rehan and stumbled backward, and Sharan jolted forward to steady his shoulder.

"What happened?"

Yahya's eyelids fluttered closed and he sucked in several deep breaths before answering. "I made a mistake, but he should be fine now, I fixed it."

"Should be? What the hell did you do, stupid boy?"

Again Yahya took a moment to breathe. "I thought he would panic and lose his bearings when the assassin shot at us. I used too much power. And then with Khayzuran— I... I didn't know what I was doing, Sharan."

Sharan was about to let out another string of expletives, but he stopped short. "Oh hell," he suddenly said. "Yahya."

Yahya brought his hand up to his face, brushing his upper lip just as he felt warm liquid trail down and meet his finger. His hand came away red with blood. Yahya scrambled to the basin and stared at his mottled reflection, then splashed water on his face. He felt something oozing from the corner of his eyelids too, and soon the water was stained the deep crimson of an open wound, Yahya's reflection darkened and faint.

Sharan's muscles had seized in shock. "You need to rest," he began.

"No," Yahya shook his head, still bent over the basin. "Khayzuran is—"

"Let me take care of that, you've done enough," Sharan snapped. His patience had long since run its course, and he did not know why he continued to entertain these three children and their whims. "I don't care if I have to strap you to the bed, Yahya, you will rest."

Yahya's jaw tightened, but his gaze was mellowed with fatigue, completely dissociated from reality. He could not go on much longer like this. "Fine, just make sure she is safe."

Sharan said nothing, merely watched his nephew trudge to the bed and collapse into the cold sheets. Khayzuran was another nuisance thrust upon him against his will, disobeying his orders left and right. He had explicitly told her to remain hidden while she did her job, and even that much she could not do. And now the city's two best defenders were out cold in an unguarded room of the governor's residence with only him to watch over them. It could not be helped.

Sharan clenched and unclenched his fists, smoothed the front of his qamis to regain a modicum of composure. He had to think. The winds had changed today, suddenly and viciously blowing them towards an uncertain future, a portent of the sandstorm to come. He still could not wrap his mind around how the kidnapping plot Yahya had mentioned tied into the presence of the Umayyads. There was no advantage to their cause in keeping Rehan alive, because what leverage would they have if they took him? "We have your heir, give us your kingdom?" But our heir is our kingdom. In taking him, you have taken it. In destroying him, you have destroyed it.

Indeed, they would have to end Rehan's life to gain any real ground in the fight. Today demonstrated that—the assassin was aiming for Rehan's head, there was no mistaking it. So the kidnapping could be someone else entirely. Sharan sighed, wishing his brother-in-law were here to provide his insight. Though he lacked the Barmakis' otherworldly talents, Khalid was a man who could see well beyond the current state of affairs, chronicling predictions a year, even five or ten years into the future. It was Khalid who predicted that Al-Mansur would have only one heir to prevent rebellion and needless politicking in his court, Khalid who predicted their capital would move from Damascus after they won the war.

He decided he would write him, seeing as both of the Caliphate's prodigal sons were out of commission. He found sheets of fresh parchment strewn on the only table in the room, buried beneath a giant map of Rey annotated with the short cursive strokes of half-thoughts and the bold slashes of confident predictions. Rehan's, doubtlessly. Sharan looked at the map more closely now. Rehan had drawn the routes of the tunnels over the city, so one could see what was both above and under ground at a glance. He had marked the entrances in red, where they had already stationed watchmen in the days prior, but there were other more intricate marks. Arrows indicating a route from the central square into the eastern quarter, a list of men's names in shorthand whom he recognised as the soldiers he had hand-picked. Rehan had not mentioned any of this to them... Sharan supposed it would be a point of discussion later.

He set aside the map for now, dipped a blunted quill into the nearly empty pot of ink and began his letter.

Esteemed Vizier,

Greetings from Rey, which continues to be steeped in fire and blood since I wrote you last. We have gained little ground since discovering the escape routes the rebels have purportedly been using to evade us beneath the city. We have managed to remove their visual presence and replace it with our own, at least. Today the Prince marched his banner into the city and conducted a formal address, which was interrupted by a crude assassination attempt swiftly foiled by the quick thinking of our men.

Here, he paused. Really it was Khayzuran who had issued the warning, directly going against her orders to remain silent, but Yahya had explained that she had accompanied him unbeknownst to the Vizier—foolish and brazen of her, to try and deceive him. Khalid probably knew of her transgression by now, but it would likely serve no purpose to mention it. They were all on the same side, after all.

Your son Yahya exerted himself beyond his ability in trying to protect the Prince from his own mental strain, and now both of them have exhausted themselves to the point of unconsciousness. However there is no reason to worry, I am with them and have not left their side, nor do I plan to until they are both recovered.

The kidnapping plot as Yahya explained remains elusive to me. I do not believe the Umayyads are involved in it, I see no strong evidence as to why they would take Rehan alive as opposed to assassinating him outright. This is puzzling me to no end, and your input would be appreciated here. I believe the Prince has planned some kind of offensive strategy, though he has yet to reveal its details to us. I will let you know more once he awakens.

Sharan leaned back in the chair and read over the letter again. There was nothing further to report as yet, this would do.

A single knock on the door startled him, and he jerked his head around, nearly dropping the sheet in his hand. "Announce yourself," he called.

Another knock, a silence, and two knocks. Again, a knock, a pause, followed by two knocks. Sharan placed the letter back on the desk and closed the ink pot before rising and gliding to the door. He had a feeling he knew who it was even before he cracked it open.

"Come inside, they're asleep," he said.

Khayzuran padded inside with soft, delicate steps, her eyes peeking out of a full face black veil and darting around the room until they fell on Rehan's still form, draped limply in the chair. Sharan observed her fingers reaching, then closing into a tight fist, her throat bobbed with unreleased tension. Only a few moments later did she notice Yahya laying on the bed.

She stood a good distance away from Sharan and did not make eye contact with him before speaking. He sensed she did not like him, though he was not particularly concerned with changing that opinion—his job was not to be liked, after all.

"You disobeyed my orders," he quipped.

Something hardened in her eyes. "I had to, Emir."

Sharan lowered his eyes in agreement, so she continued.

"We caught him," she said, "Nadir sahib is restraining him in one of the holding cells in the barracks."

Sharan unfolded his hands and stood stunned for a moment before letting himself fully beam with excitement. "Excellent." He would have to add this development to his letter.

Khayzuran shifted on her feet, forcing her hands to keep still by her side. "What happened to them?" she finally asked.

"Yahya's foolishness, nothing for you to concern yourself with now." Even as he said it he knew it would make no difference. She was not like his other agents or spies who were detached and objective to the work. Her emotions had already caused her to reveal herself amongst the entire group of soldiers, not that they had the capacity to notice in the hubbub of the square. Still, if she had not done it perhaps they would not be in this advantageous position now.

Love is the most dangerous emotion of them all, he thought.

"I can't leave them here alone," he said after a short silence. "We need to find someone else to watch them while I go speak to Nadir. Ask one of the others, anyone competent will do."

"A written order from you would be safer."

Sharan's brow curved at her brashness to order him, but he had to admit it was astute thinking. Khayzuran was proving to be quite intelligent for a girl plucked from the middle of nowhere. He procured a fresh sheet from beneath the messy pile on the desk, jotted a quick note with his signature and handed it to her. She took it with both hands and bowed, the image of respect. At least she had manners.

"Hurry."

"God willing," she replied, already halfway out the door.