The sky was filled with the caw of dozens of pigeons frantically swooping in to governor's coop. Yahya, Sharan, and the governor himself caught the birds with their own hands before they could fly into their holes and plucked off the little scrolls tied to their legs. The notes came from the the north and the east at varying intervals, sometimes a few minutes, sometimes a half hour.
Tunnel empty, outside secure.
Twenty five enemies killed, thirteen martyrs.
Area empty.
Three horses martyred.
The Barmakis flipped through the messages, sorting them by location and time of arrival to help keep track of what was happening where. They were both nervousâRehan's contingent hadn't sent word yet. Had they lost their scout? Or...
Yahya could not let himself harbor the thought. Shoving aside thoughts was becoming a strange habit he did not wish to keep; already he had stopped himself from investigating Khayzuran's whereabouts. It was no longer his place.
Sharan's foot was tapping incessantly. Yahya had never seen him so perturbed.
"He will be alright," said Yahya. Rehan had gone off to war in far more dire conditions and with much less experience than this. There was truly no man that could defeat him.
Another pigeon was approaching, and Sharan jumped when he saw it was white. He reached for it before Yahya did and nearly ripped the bird's leg clean off to retrieve the missive.
Dawud al-Hak dead. Base secured. Thirty enemies killed, seven martyrs. Prince requires physician, returning soon.
The Barmakis held their breaths as they took in the last sentence.
"We need a doctor to be ready for him," said Yahya, leaving Sharan holding the limp slip of paper as he sprung into action. "I will go."
The two older men nodded assent, and Yahya was away at once, rushing down the tower stairs and heading to the stables. There were no physicians who lived in the residence, he would have to ride to the Altabib road, where the handful of elite physicians lived and worked. It was only a matter of his compulsion to pray them out of their beds and bring them back to treat Rehan, although he was certain they would do it of their own accord if they knew who they were treating.
The stable boys jolted awake when they heard him push open the wooden gate, they scrambled to attention when they saw Yahya was wearing royal black.
"Give me your fastest," he said, and they wordlessly led him to a silver-grey mare. They tacked her hastily under Yahya's watchful gaze, and soon he was off. He raced out of the gates, down a torchlit main road leading deeper into the quarter. The mosques were still bustling with worshippers as he rode past. He briefly stopped to get clearer directions, and then all at once he was upon the medics sector. The buildings were small and simple but neat, a few had lanterns hanging outside. He approached one of these, dismounting and tying the horse to a fence.
He knocked, but no answer came. Again he knocked and waited. He considered banging down the door, but there were still several options to choose from. Perhaps this was not even a physician's home. He went to the next building,, and the door opened before he even moved to knock.
"I saw you from the window," the woman said. She was holding her headscarf under her chin, and Yahya almost laughed at the parallel of her and Khayzuran. She was older, perhaps around thirty, with large eyes and olive skin.
"I apologise, sahiba," he said, and lowered his gaze. "There is urgent work at the governor's, please can you call your husband out? We must go at once."
"Emir Firaz sent you? Alright, let me get my things."
Yahya's mouth opened, but the door had already closed again. A few minutes later, and the woman emerged with a satchel, her veil securely pinned. "I'm afraid I do not have a horse, sahib," she said, even as his perplexed expression did not change. "Oh, forgive me, my name is Amina."
Still, he appeared confused. "The physicianâ"
"Yes, that is me. I have no husband any more, he died."
"...I see," Yahya said, finally understanding, "No matter, you can ride with me if you have no objection."
She didn't.
X
Khayzuran had spent the entire day pacing. Because she had removed one sapphire, she could easily find Yahya and Sharan's voices. And Rehan's. She almost felt afraid of trying to listen to him, frightened of seeing those eyes again. Like he would know if she had any awareness of him at all. He seemed calm, heartbeat steady as he directed men, passed around armor, and wore his own. Time passed, and all Khaya could hear was the gears of the war machine turning. Bowstrings snapping, arrows clattering against each other in quivers, swords, so many swords slicing against their scabbards as they were sheathed and unsheathed. After a while, she closed herself off to the sounds. She tried the door again, but it was firmly shut. Though she did not know what she would have done had it been open. Would she have gone down there and tried to speak to him? Not among all those men, no.
It was maddening to be locked in this room with nowhere to go. She sat on the bed, went to the wash basin, the balcony, the bed again. The door opened suddenly, and she jumped from where she sat. It was only a maid with a tray of food, and she left so quickly Khaya did not even have the chance to try and escape. She whittled away the hours drowning in her thoughts, wondering what she would say when she came face to face with Rehan again. Her first instinct was to grovel, the words I'm sorry being the only valid utterance. What else was there? She thought she was strong, she thought she was capable so she put herself in this position against Yahya's orders?
Her eyes began to sting when she recalled his words.
You are a slave.
You came into my bed as their spy.
You do not know what that word means.
Tears mottled her vision as she sat on the floor and ate from her plate of lavish food. She could hardly swallow.
Could she love someone who looked at her this way? Like she was nothing but a monster, an enemy.
Could he love someone who did what she had done? Lie and deceive and lie and deceive. And worse, what if he did not return? Did not even give her the chanced to prove her love.
When the sun finally set, and the soldiers fanned out into the city of Rey, Khaya let herself listen to their booming footfalls, the horses' strong hoofbeats, the clang of steel and wood. Soon they were far enough away that not even her new level of power was sufficient to surveil them. The deep orange sky soon turned violet with stars, and she settled herself into bed. It was the first time in a long time she was well and truly alone, and it was the first time in a long time she wondered, why am I here?
Why had that snake bitten her? Why did the Bedouin have to see her without her veil and think it was his right to take her? Why did Yahya of all people have to be the one to choose her? Why had the Prince been someone worth protecting? She touched the scar on her shoulder, hugging her own chest.
Suddenly she wished she was back home, not Baghdad, but Jorash. That long forgotten place where she never had to care hard enough about anything except the next day's meals and the current day's ink. She missed her mother, whose patience and resilience she mistook for unassertive indifference. Her sister, whose carelessness was truly innocence, her brother whose foolishness was truly dissatisfaction with their mediocre life.
Tears which had crawled back into her eyes now emerged again, trailing down her oily skin. She had never felt so ugly and helpless and broken.
She closed her eyes and cried silently into the night.
X
They rode hard and fast back through the city, Rehan on a black gelding with one hand on the reins and the other clutching his shoulder, and a soldier with the boy on another. The boy pressed his neck to help stifle the slow bleeding, the cut was not deep but if not attended to could be fatal. Rehan pushed the horse on, each jolt from its gait squeezing more blood from his wounds. The pain was blinding now, every part of him screaming for release. The lights grew brighter as they approached the western quarter, the polished tiles of the blue mosque reflecting the orange incandescence of flames. They were almost there.
"Open the gates!" the Reyan shouted from behind. Rehan hadn't even noticed they had already arrived at the governor's residence. The gates flew open just as their horses rushed past the threshold, startling one of the gamesmen. Rehan's vision grew blurry as he slowed down to a trot and tried to manoeuvre around the bushes through to the entrance. There was a light up ahead, a torch, someone coming out.
"Sayyidi!" Sharan screamed and ran forward as the reins slipped out of Rehan's hands and his body slid off the saddle. Sharan broke his fall with his own body, the white of his qamis staining deep red, a bloodstained cloud. "Rehan, Rehan! Stay with me!" He held the Prince's head up, his eyes were half lidded as he struggled to lift his hand and point to the guard.
"The boy," he murmured.
Yahya was upon them immediately, helping Sharan hoist Rehan up by either shoulder. The guard followed behind them with the boy, careful to make sure his wound was under control as they made their way inside. Amina had set up a temporary bed in one of the nearby alcoves just as they entered. They manoeuvred Rehan onto the thin bedroll as she directed them.
Rehan looked on the verge, his torso was completely drenched in blood, and the wound in his chest had only opened wider from the strain of riding so hard. His hair was soaked with sweat and grime, sticking together in places where it was caked with blood.
"Take off his shirt," Amina said, handing the Barmakis a pair of shears. Her voice was level and radiated absolute calm, in contrast to the Barmakis frenzied anxiety.
Amina pressed two fingers against Rehan's wrist, then his neck. "Get me a long knife and a firetorch, please," she said to Sharan. He hadn't the will to care for her lack of title in addressing him, and was away at once. Meanwhile, Amina procured her bag and pulled out a jar filled with a runny gel, a mixture of honey and blackseed oil, which she slathered all over the smaller cuts and bruises on Rehan's exposed torso. Once Sharan returned with the knife and the firetorch, her expression turned grave.
"Hold him down."
She poured some water on the wound in Rehan's chest to clean it, then held the knife in the fire for a time, until the iron blade was glowing a blistering red-orange. Sharan held Rehan's shoulders down so he would not thrash from the pain, though he was nearly unconscious, and Yahya moved to hold down his arms. Amina carefully aligned the flat end of the blade with the wound and pressed down.
His scream pierced through the hall, reverberating against the vaulted ceiling as his torso jerked forwards against Sharan's palms. Yahya strained to hold his arms down, silently pouring power through where their skin made contact.
Don't move. You're fine, you're fine, there is no pain. You're fine.
Rohan's eyes met Yahya's, then slowly fluttered closed. His arms finally relaxed as the maladious scent of scorched flesh rose from the cauterized wound. Amina took a deep breath, and reached into her bag again. This time she pulled out a flask and a towel. She soaked the towel generously with the liquid and gently pressed it against the wound.
"Show me the boy," she said after a moment, looking up to where the guard was still pressing against the wound on the child's neck. Yahya and Sharan paid no attention as she slathered another thick paste on the boy's neck and wrapped it in gauze. She returned to Rehan's side moment's later. His chest was rising with agonising slowness, but at least it was rising.
"He is going to be in unimaginable pain when he wakes up, he won't be able to move his arm at all.," Amina stated, her voice cold and clinical. "We need ice and black nightshade for the swelling, turmeric, eucalyptus oil, and cloves for the pain. I have all of these with me now but it will run out soon for a wound this large."
The Barmakis, now completely red with Rehan's blood, did not move.
"Please, sahib, your friend needs you," she said, touching Yahya's arm.
"He is not our friend, he is Crown Prince Rehan al-Mahdi, a vessel of the Prophet and heir to this kingdom" said Sharan. He was neither angry nor morose, merely tired. Amina's mouth fell open in shock.
Yahya placed his hand over hers. "We will procure everything you need, sahiba, thank you for your service."
Amina was still reeling. "I... yes, I will remain here then." This was the last thing she had been expecting from a late night call.
"We should call for Tahir," said Yahya suddenly, looking at Sharan. His eyes widened fractionally.
"Yes, I will go." The coops would have pigeons for Baghdad, it would probably take them two days to deliver their message and Tahir another week to reach. Still, it was to their advantage to have him, no matter how late. "We need to see whether the men need reinforcements too," he added.
Yahya turned to the soldier and dismissed him, leaving the little boy alone with him and Amina. His neck had been thickly bandaged, the red dot of blood hardly the size of a fingernail now. He seemed calm for what he had just witnessed.
Amina tried to reassure him with a smile, and beckoned him away from Rehan's unconscious body. But the boy did not follow her, instead he walked up to him and looked down at his face, at the gore of his cauterized wound. He opened his palms, kneeled, and prayed. Yahya and Amina looked on with shocked expressions, but did not reprimand or pull him away. Once the boy was finished he turned to them, fidgeting with his fingers. They would have to decide what to do with him.
"Do you have a place I can stay?" Amina asked. "We need to move the Prince somewhere clean and spacious where I can continue monitoring him."
"I will have to ask Firaz." He paused. "Actually there is a wing that is empty, the diplomat's spousal wing, but it is far and isolated from the rest of the residence, I don't know if it will suit your purpose."
Just then, the man himself descended upon them with a retinue of servants trailing behind. "Oh I lament this day!" He exclaimed upon seeing Rehan's body lain on the thin, blood-soaked bedroll. "We must move him up to the private halls." He gesticulated to the servants behind him, then suddenly said, "Amina! What a relief they called you, pleased follow us."
The servants, with grunts of effort and strain, slid Rehan's bedroll onto a wooden palanquin they would lift by hand. Yahya and Amina, with the latter holding the boy's hand, followed the group as Firaz led them down a set of halls Yahya was still not familiar with. They finally stopped at a nondescript door and Firaz pushed it open. The room was already lit with candles, but was otherwise untouched. The men fanned in and manoeuvred themselves so they could carefully slide Rehan's limp body onto the bed without disturbing his wound. After the chaos calmed, Amina asked for more supplies, and she and Yahya got to cleaning Rehan's remaining wounds. The boy watched from the other end of the room in silence. Suddenly, when the pair had almost finished their work, he whispered, "Long live al-Mahdi."
The silence heard it.