The Moon

Her crying eyes shone like pearls, like the diamonds he wore around his neck. Rehan felt like he was drowning, like he was burning from the inside out. His hand was around her neck, his whole body pinning her to the ground like an animal. His muscles wouldn't respond, like he was encased in iron.

Seconds passed. He blinked, each time hoping what he was seeing would change. Suddenly movement jolted his limbs and he pulled himself off her, stumbling backwards from the sheer force of movement. For a moment she lay still as death, and what first began in him as shock and pain turned quickly into crippling fear. But she moved, she slowly got to her feet like she was carrying the weight of a moon on her back and faced him.

"What have you done?" he murmured, scarcely able to keep his voice from shaking. "Why... who... who are you?"

Smudged kohl and dirt marred her beautiful face. Her mouth was hanging open, even she did not know what she had done, who she actually was. She extended her hand towards him. "Re—Sayyidi, please," she said so softly he almost did not hear it.

He took a step back, turned his body half away from her. Rage began to pulse through every nerve in his body. If she took even a half step towards him, he did not know what he would do. He imagined himself throwing her on her knees, gripping her hair tightly in his fist and exposing her pale white neck to the edge of his dagger as he made her beg for mercy. He had done it before, to those who disobeyed.

To those who betrayed.

It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to turn that vision into reality as he faced her now.

"It's just me," she managed to say, still reaching for him, "It's Khayzuran. It's me."

"You are a liar," he said. There was no malice, no emotion in it. There was only ice. "You are a wretched liar and a traitor to the throne."

"No!" she cried, her tears still streaming, "No, Yahya and I... He—we wanted to help, I promise, we..." She couldn't find the words.

Yahya. He had betrayed him too. Everyone around him was a liar, a traitor. Was even Sharan aware of this? Rehan felt his body begin to boil, his cheeks hot with anger and despair. His chest hurt, his limbs ached, his lungs burned. His head pounded like a war drum.

She was so small, cowering in front of him in her night-black disguise. A speck of a shadow, insignificant.

"You were there..." he realized with growing horror, "You were there in the tunnels. You saw us kill those rebels." Rehan's chest ached. The words that streamed from his mouth didn't feel like his, but that of a ghost who wore his skin. She started towards him, and he held out his hand to stop her. "If you take another step towards me, Khayzuran, if indeed that is your name, I'll kill you."

Her expression fell. She could see the way he was looking at her, like she was an animal. "Please, Rehan," she begged, wiping away her tears, "I am sorry, I was trying to help, to protect you—"

"Protect me?!" he suddenly exclaimed, his voice echoing down the dark street. "What protection could you offer me? I am king of this empire and you are a slave."

Her whole body seized.

"Please just let me explain, the Barmakis discovered that—"

"Do not speak of them to me," he boomed, slashing his arm across his chest in defiance. "You came into my palace, into my bed, as their spy."

"No." Pure horror contorted her face. "No, I would never do that! I love you!"

Everything hurt.

"You do not know what that word means," he whispered.

"I do," she cried, "You taught me what it means. Please, Rehan, I love you, I did this for you, you have to believe me!"

She couldn't stop herself from running to him.

X

It was well beyond the midnight hour by the time Rehan had returned to the governor's residence. He pulled off his shirt, now drenched with sweat, and stared at his dark reflection in the basin. The edge of his hand still pulsed from where he had knocked her unconscious, the memory of it too horrifying for his skin to ever forget.

His hands clutched the edge of the basin to steady himself. Every movement after she fell at his feet was of a ghost. He was no longer in his own body as he carried her limp form back to the residence. When he finally arrived, he did not know where to put her. In a cell? In his own room? In Yahya's?

Every thought was another knife inside his back. Had she been lying about everything? Was she truly Yahya's and not his? Was Yahya an agent for the Umayyads? Would he betray him like this after 13 years of friendship?

Was every laugh, every smile, every kiss a lie?

He felt like screaming. He felt like dying.

I am king of this empire and you are a slave.

You are a slave.

No. She was the moon. She was water. She was birdsong. She was starlight.

I love you.

How he had longed to hear those words from her. To say them to her.

I'll kill you.

He looked at his hand. For a moment it carried bloodstains, but he blinked, and they disappeared. His eyes shot to the bed where she lay, watching to see if her chest rose with life's breath. He could have killed her.

He had wanted to kill her. Every bone in his body was ready to strike her down like prey. But his mind was screaming for him to stop, begging him.

She is the moon. She is water. She is birdsong. She is starlight. Please, don't do this.

What was worse? That she loved him, and he killed her for it, or she never did, and he killed her for it. He couldn't breathe, could't breathe, couldn't breathe.

Rehan fell to his knees, coughing, struggling to take in any air. His eyes stung with the prick of a thousand needles, but no tears came. What had he done?

X

Yahya lay awake till midnight, despite there being nothing he could do for Khayzuran after arranging her escape. Everything had been carefully planned, caravan masters bribed, guards well armed, and the city asleep, for Khaya to make her silent return to Baghdad. Still, he was nervous. Anything could happen between now and then. It would still be a week until she would be back in the safety of the harem and could send a message.

As the hours droned on his eyes slowly drooped with fatigue and he fell into a light doze. He had no dreams, only racing thoughts, and when his door latch clicked he did not stop to wonder who else it could be this time of the night other than her.

"Khayzuran?" he said, shielding his bleary eyes from the light pouring in from the hall.

"You lying, traitorous bastard!" Rehan screamed as he burst into the room, aiming a punch straight for Yahya's jaw. Yahya's head spun from the impact, and he let out a tendril of power to push Rehan back, to make him freeze, anything.

Rehan did not relent, he seized Yahya by his hair and slammed his head against the bedpost, then pulled him back and punched him again. This time Yahya fell to the ground. He raised his hand, channeled every bit of his power against Rehan.

"Do not even think about using that demonic power on me," Rehan growled.

"Rehan, stop! Why are you doing this?!" Yahya choked out, still reeling from being thrown against the post. His powers were not working. Something glinted on Rehan's wrist, the citrine bracelet.

"I found your spy," he spat, bending down so they were eye to eye, "How long were you expecting to hide her from me? Are you the one who has been sending secrets to the rebellion? Are you?!"

"She isn't a spy, and no, I am not!" he screamed back.

Rehan's hand shot out and his fingers wrapped around Yahya's neck. "Don't lie to me, you snake."

Yahya's vision grew spotted as Rehan squeezed his throat closed. Raw pain shot through his head. "She's like me, she's like us," he choked, "She has magic—she didn't know what it— was, she wanted my help." He struggled to get the words out as Rehan's grip only grew tighter. He looked into his friend's eyes and saw only blood.

"Please, please Rehan." He could only mouth the words now, he was almost out cold. Or would he be dead once his vision went black? Was this the price he had to pay for deceit?

The pressure ceased, and Yahya fell to the ground in a fit of gasps and coughs. His breath was shaky and deep as he held himself up with both hands, still reeling from what had happened.

"I can explain."

By the time Yahya had finished relaying everything, from the first time he saw Khayzuran at the souq to him discovering her meeting with Ibn Fakrid, letting her meet his father, and the plot to kidnap Rehan, the sky was alight with the dawn. In a few hours, they were set to go to war. Yahya's chest rose with still-shaky breaths. They sat in the growing light, pale and haggard and seeping mental fatigue.

"How could you do this, Yahya. How could you bring her here?" Into war, into danger and death.

"She would have come, even against my command."

"You could have stopped her."

He knew what Rehan meant, that he could have used his full power against her. But he had been selfish. In that moment, he did not see her as Rehan's concubine, as his property and to be protected on his behalf, but a tool to be used in the interest of the throne and the Barmakis.

"I didn't think," he said, knowing it a was a lie. He had thought, considered, and decided on his own accord that Khayzuran could be the difference between losing Rey or expelling the Umayyads, and he had been right. Without her, they would have had nothing.

"We need to get some rest, the first group is heading out in a few hours."

"Where is Khayzuran?"

Rehan clenched his jaw, the vein in his forehead bulging uncomfortably. "That is not for you to know."

"Rehan I'm sorry—"

He held up a hand. "Enough." He stood up, ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, and looked down at Yahya. "I know why you did it, but I can't forgive the lie."

Yahya looked at the floor. "I know," he breathed. Neither of them moved for a time. "She loves you, Rehan. She would never betray you, I saw it in her soul."

When he looked up, Rehan was already gone.

X

The first group of overground scouts had left at dawn and returned before afternoon prayer with news; the locations and physical descriptions relayed by the prisoner were indeed correct. There was an Umayyad outpost in the eastern quarterhoused in an abandoned wheat store. Most of the surrounding buildings were abandoned, they did not get a good look inside but they saw men skulking around and overheard a Damascus dialect. The leaders Dawudal-Hak and Abu Musawere nowhere to be seen, but a few scouts had stayed behind and would send pigeons once they learned more. Reyanspies were efficient, thought Rehan. Almost as good as the Barmakis.

He had spent the morning asleep in his chambers—alone. Khaya was under the watchful eye of his shadow with complete awareness that if even a hair on her head was displaced, his eyes would be gouged from their sockets with iron-hot spoons. With her safety secured, he was free to turn his attention to other pressing matters. The events of last night had imprinted him deeply, carved out a part of his heart he did not know he could grow back, but for the moment, he had to turn himself to Rey and Rey alone. That was the price of the crown.

The barracks were chaos when he entered, men passing around weapons and armor. Rehan wished they had time to brand the weapons in black ink, as he had done on his march to Khorasan. The Army of Darkness, the insurgents had called them.

Since their armor was grey steel, Rehan made sure the men were wearing black keffiyehs. He had passed around some from his personal collection to men who did not have their own, and they took it like holy water, kneeling to praise God that such a blessing could befall them. It was divine protection to wear a cloth that had touched the corporeal vessel of the Prophet. Those men would be braver than the rest today.

The squadrons had been divided into tunnel-men, who carried pikes, shields and short daggers, and overground forces armed with sabres, long and short bows on horseback. Although certainly nowhere near being his preferred weapon of choice, Rehan himself carried a magnificent halberd whose steel head was inscribed with pure gold calligraphy, one of Firaz's great treasures. Symbols of power in war were often just as important as strength of force.

Yahya, too, stood among the men, worse for wear. Rehan could not tell if he was still recovering from his exertion on the day of the procession, or if his conscience had been sucked dry by his own indiscretions. Either way, he would not be joining them today. He was too inexperienced in close combat, Rehan had said, but the truth was he was simply too valuable to even risk putting into such danger after he had been recently weakened. After a brief slew of protests, Yahya was silenced. He would remain with Firaz and Sharan in the residence.

By early evening, the tunnel-men had descended through three entrances, the one in the tea house, one by the blue mosque, and another in the southern quarter. The entrances had been found and opened by Firaz himself, after which they remained under heavy guard by the Emirs living in each district.

Above, Rehan turned to the remaining men. "Today we march towards what I pray will be our final altercation with these dissenters. Most of the area is abandoned, but some Reyan people still live there, poor and vulnerable people, our people." He banged his chest with a fist. "Remain cautious. I will not have a single drop of Abbasid blood spilled for this. We are not like them."

The men shouted their assent as one. This was their city. They wouldn't see it bleed.

A clerk was hovering around by a nearby pillar, perhaps intimidated by the presence of the armed men. Rehan beckoned him forward with a warm smile. "We have maps of where the tunnels open and sketches of what the rebel leaders supposedly look like." The clerk distributed the sheets of paper among each pair of men, and they spent a few minutes scrutinizing them. "The map serves us to know where to meet our fellow men, and where theirs can emerge from. Remain on high alert," he repeated. "The leaders may be wearing keffiyehs over their faces, so look at the eyes." He pointed at his own.

One man raised his hand hesitantly. "When we come across a confirmed enemy, do we capture or kill them?"

"We take no prisoners," said Rehan, his voice a blade itself.

The sun had dipped, tinging the sky purple-orange as the men mounted horses and chariots and made their way to the easterquarter by three alternative routes. The city was still toiling away, with many men returning from evening prayer out in the streets eating and shopping for the last of the day's bargains. They had no inkling that the men now meandering through their crowds, their weapons carefully sheathed away, were heading to battle. It was difficult to make the halberd look nondescript, but Rehan had done his best by wrapping it in a brown cloth. It could have been a long dowel or broomstick for all anyone knew.

Rehan himself had never fought a war inside one of his own cities, he did not enjoy the prospect of coming across civilians in the darkness. He hoped that by the time they arrived in the decrepit eastern quarter the men, women, and children would be tucked safely away in their beds, dreaming of tomorrow.

It was time to go to battle.