Kadar shook with fear, the terrifying red crosses coming closer and closer and… even closer still. He was indecisive, unsure of how to best approach this sort of attack, too untrained to react. He was a novice still, and did not even have a suitable weapon to defend himself.

Malik had to rush to his aid, deflecting the knights' blows and shouting desperately for him to run. And this Kadar did, but instead of running for the way out, he made for the treasure. He could not be a coward! He scaled the rubble with struggle, the breath leaving him quickly when he was at last able to clutch the thing in his clammy hands. He would show Altair that he could do it- he would show his brother, too!

"Leave it!" Malik screamed when he saw what he was doing, "do not- ugh!" A knight slashed him across the waist, and blood seeped from the wound. It was not deep, but Kadar still shouted for Malik, "brother! Are you alright?!" He held the thing under his arm and nearly tumbled down the heap of rock and wreckage.

"He's got the treasure!" Robert de Sable was fully armoured now, and pointed the tip of his sword to Kadar, "get him!"

"Kadar!" Malik was helpless as the knights attacking him stopped their onslaught and turned their attention to his defenseless brother, "Kadar, run! Over here!"

The novice's eyes darted around wildly, trying to find his brother among the knights coming his way with their swords raised high. When at last he focused on Malik, his legs were already dead tired and heavy as bricks. Using his speed and dexterity to his advantage, Kadar weaved his way past the lumbering knights weighed down by their armour. "Brother!"

Deflecting more blows, Malik used his sword to slice one knight's neck straight through. When the weapon caught itself in the man's armour, Malik let go and dispatched his hidden blade, stabbing another knight in his unprotected eye. The adrenaline coursed through him heady and strong, and as soon as the path was somewhat clear he clutched at Kadar and ran for cover. They sprinted in the direction in which they came, making their way up the steep platform with the treasure in tow. Robert shouted in harsh Frankish, and the sound of men clamouring after them was heard.

The assassins ran mindlessly, the structure of the temple having flown from their minds in this moment of panic. The knights were hot on their trail, some of them having even dispersed in hopes of running into them.

The passages of the temple were dark and strewn with debris. Every so often Malik and Kadar tripped.

"There!" Kadar motioned to a stack of logs and brick leading up to an opening in the wall. Most likely this was a hole in the temple that was meant to be made into a window, the piles of wood and stone meant to become a staircase. Through the open hole, sunlight cascaded down onto the dusty ground. Also through the hole, they could see a bit of earth and grass. The assortment of logs and brick made no steady platform, but if the assassins could get on top of it, they could climb out to freedom.

"It looks loose," Kadar noticed that the ropes holding the logs together looked old and worn. But with the knights so close after them, Malik decided that they had no other choice. They had to climb this thing.

"Go, go, go!"

Dutifully following his brother's orders, Kadar put one foot on the lowermost log and heaved himself up, the treasure still held tightly under his cramping arm. Malik did the same, but as soon as his weight was added to the stack, the ropes holding the logs together suddenly burst. The two assassins lost their footing immediately as the wood rolled out under them, and Malik looked up for a split second to see the pile of bricks settled on the logs slowly come free…

He shouted, but heard no voice. He heard the heavy bricks, some small like the palm of his hand and some big like doors, come tumbling down. He tried to run, but he found no footing. His hands reached out to grasp something- anything, but it was too late. His breath left him and his vision flashed white, he hit the ground and steeled himself for death.

The logs rolled, crushed them, the slabs of stone fell.

Malik died for a few moments, and then came back to life. He was too afraid to open his eyes, and could not believe he was still alive. He moved to clutch his spinning head with both hands, but one hand went up to touch his face. Where was the other?!

Instinctively, he snapped his dizzied gaze to look to his right side, and there he saw his right arm crushed under a great pile of rubble. Strange, because he felt next to no pain.

The lack of pain allowed Malik to remember… "Kadar?!" Malik strained his neck in search of his brother, "Kadar!"

A soft groan caught his attention, and what he saw brought forth agony like no other exploding deep in his chest. There was Kadar, his little brother, the boy who'd laughed and sang and played with him. There was Kadar, his head split by some sharp impact and bleeding from his ears, from his eyes, from his mouth. There was Kadar, half of whose body was squashed under a mountain of log and rock. When he breathed, blood gushed from his mouth.

Malik was screaming uncontrollably, but all that came out were whimpers. No… no no no no no! He pulled at his mangled arm, not caring if he was making the injury worse. Eventually it came free, and all the pain swallowed him whole. Blood blossomed on the white cloth as soon as the pressure was lifted, but he could not think of himself, not when his brother was dying. Malik dragged himself to Kadar, his flesh and bone, the boy he loved above all else, and sobbed grievously. The novice was barely conscious, his eyes rolling back and forth and blinking out rivulets of blood. His mouth moved like he was trying to say something, but no sound came forth.

"Brother…" Malik cupped Kadar's wet cheek with his one working hand, "please, don't leave me. Don't go, please…! I love you so!" He'd failed him- he'd failed to protect Kadar… Kadar had been the one to think clearly, had seen the danger in the worn rope. But no, Malik had not listened.

The younger man gave no response, and Malik wailed, not caring if he was making them both known to any knights in the area. His pain was too great. Nothing mattered in this instant except his brother, who was dying before him.

"I cannot lose you," the assassin cried, tears coming freely, "no, no!"

With one last violent shudder, Kadar drowned in his own blood. His eyes grew wide for a moment, and then all the life fled from them. The treasure he died to obtain rolled out from his slack fingers, clanging against something metallic behind Malik.

…Allah have mercy.

Malik spun around and tried to stand, but was still too weak to. His own arm was now bleeding profusely, and his vision swam in and out from the nausea.

A Templar knight, instantly recognizable by the horrible red cross on his chest.

"Mercy," he choked, surprising himself. He wanted desperately to live now; he needed to deliver this treasure to Masyaf so that Kadar would not die in vain. He could not die here, though he knew he was now no match at all for this knight that stood before him. "Mercy, please," he sobbed, wracking his mind for the Frankish equivalent… He knew how to say 'please' in Frankish, and so he tried that. "S'il vous plait!" It sounded hideous coming from his mouth, the words drenched in his thick Arabic accent.

The knight removed his helmet and serenely blinked once, then twice. He looked down to the blood stained 'treasure' at his plate boots, to him nothing more than a gold artefact inlaid with jewels. He turned his sights to the dead assassin, his life force crushed out of him. And then there was the one still alive, and begging for him to spare his life.

He was a knight, sworn by duty to God. He knew no other way, had no other choice. He raised his sword-

-and sheathed it in one fluid motion. He turned to leave, but the Saracen –the idiot- grabbed a fistful of his cloak.

"You- you…" Malik could not believe his ears, and thought maybe his eyes were deceiving him. "I don't… I don't understand."

The knight shook his head, "in the name of God the Merciful, we are not enemies at this time. I know not why you are here nor why you are being chased, and I seek no conflict with you." He spoke perfect Arabic, causing Malik to sputter. The man before him had hair the color of wheat, eyes the spirit of the sky, but he spoke in his tongue as if he were Saracen. He shook his head rapidly and blinked, but the Franj was still a Franj.

"But… I am Saracen," the assassin slurred, stumbling to his feet and leaning on the very mountain of debris that killed his brother, "and… and you are… a knight of the Temple."

Said knight shifted on his feet, "I see you assassins like to state the obvious."

Malik could not make himself understand. Surely there was some catch, surely he was about to be killed now. "But if you are a knight… you must kill me." Was there some sort of deal that had just occurred? Something out of his reach? How did the knight know he was an assassin?

A laugh. "As I have said, I seek no conflict with you at this time. Consider these words from your own scripture, the words which the Prophet Mohammed, may peace be with Him, spoke: 'Take not another's life, for God has declared it Holy, except in a righteous cause'. For now, I see no righteous cause to kill you. I do not know enough of what has happened here to understand why you should die, so I have no choice but to let you live."

"But it is your duty!"

The knight frowned, "do you wish to die, assassin? I have no such duty today. I came under orders to take stock of the temple, not to slay assassins."

"But Robert de Sable…"

"Ah, my Grand Master? I have not seen him. If he is here, it is a coincidence. Go now, assassin, before he comes and gives me cause to kill you. The Lord Jesus Christ has spared your life, not I."

With that, Malik grappled for the treasure and tried to hold it the best he could with his right arm, but found he could not climb to freedom like so. Under the knight's watch, Malik swiftly tied the treasure to his belt with a bit of burst rope he found, and used his right arm to drag himself up the wreckage. The stones were tight under his hand, and he did not lose his footing once. In the back of his mind, he imagined Kadar's spirit guiding his hand, filling him with unfound strength and the desire to live on.

Kadar… He looked down to where his brother lay dead, and was startled to see the knight kneeling over him. "Don't-"he began, and then trailed off when he realized the Franj was closing Kadar's eyes. This was something he should have done, as his brother. Again, a testament of Malik's failure. He blinked away the tears again stinging at his eyes and kept climbing.

"Thank you," he called to the knight when he was at last kissed by the fresh breath of liberty, "I know not who you are…" he trailed off, a faceless identity unexpectedly coming to mind. A knight who spoke the tongue of the Saracens, who understood the Qur'an… Who was this? Somehow he felt like he should know this man… maybe he'd heard about such a person somewhere, but he could not remember.

The Franj contemplated the accusation. "…And I sincerely hope we do not meet again. Safety and peace, my unknown foe and friend." And then he put on his helmet and once again became a faceless infidel, striding out of Malik's line of sight. His heathenish white cloak trailed with sickening grace behind him.

With a newfound sense of urgency, Malik willed his legs to carry him forward. He found two horses roped to a post… His and Kadar's. Altair's horse was missing. The thought that Altair was safe, had fled, and had left them to die filled Malik with fury. He cut the animal's ties and flung himself awkwardly onto the beast's saddle with one arm. The other arm was dead and useless at his side, and was sending pounding swells of pain up his shoulder and into his head. Spurring forward with passion, his focused on two thoughts that consumed him: one, to return to Masyaf; second, to slowly break each and every one of Altair's bones and have him scream himself hoarse.


Robert's army retreated once Altair unleashed a torrent of felled logs at them from the heavens. The fortress was not taken; the concubines breathed a sigh of… not quite relief, not quite disappointment.

Mistress Khitan emerged from the fortress safehouse and saw the broken lock at its gate. She said nothing, just gave thanks that they were not found. She did, however, notice the disappearance of a certain spy and courtesan. "Where are they?" She barked at Sunbul, who shrugged her dainty shoulders. Khitan guessed, and the concubines all looked the other way at the accusation.

At least Aasha was no traitor, though disregarding her direct orders at such a dangerous time called for penalty of its own. Ever since the girl came to them on a midsummer day, Khitan knew she would be trouble. She just didn't understand…! Over time, Rani the Bedu girl grew into Aasha the spy, but still Khitan was heavily disquieted by the secret knowledge in her eyes, her desert roots. A woman like that did not belong in the Order.

The Mistress furrowed her brows, her thoughts focused on Aasha even while arranging the rest of the women into rows for counting and inspection. Something had to be done about her before she brought fourth ruin to Masyaf. Her work at the Templar fortress might have temporarily saved Masyaf, but she also established the assassins as a notable threat to the Crusaders. It was common knowledge among the Franj that the death of many of their best knights were caused by assassin spies, and one could argue that Aasha's work there had done more long term harm than good.

She couldn't even explain clearly to herself why she so desperately wanted Aasha gone, of all people. There were women here who were more troublesome than she was, but everything about her gave Khitan shivers.

"What will you do with Altair?" The Mistress caught up with Al Mualim later in the night, when things had quieted down considerably. Still many citizens of Masyaf crowded the infirmary, fires had to be put out, and houses rebuilt… Robert de Sable had left his mark on the town and fortress. But in the dark of the night Al Mualim found solace.

He was tired, his old bones creaking, and had little patience left for Khitan. The old man needed to rest, and all of his efforts were currently focused on getting up the stairs to his chambers. Despite popular belief, he was not a mystic; he was just an old person trying to do his work the best he could. The events of the day had drained him completely- Malik losing an arm, Kadar dying, Altair having betrayed them and yet been the key to their victory against the Templars this day… It was all too much.

"I have stripped him of his rank," he replied, groaning with the exertion of finally having climbed the high staircase. "And his work in regaining it will teach him humility."

Mistress Khitan, who was not nearly so tired and was able to keep up with Al Mualim with little strife, was not happy at this. "He should be dead, Grand Master."

And this comment upset Al Mualim for three reasons: one, because it was true. Two, because even so he could not deny the attachment he had with Altair, all the efforts and resource he'd invested to see him succeed. And lastly, despite his own reservations he still did the thing that was expected of him, spilling Altair's blood for his sins.

…And yet, Allah brought him back to life. Altair did not die from a wound that surely should have killed him. Al Mualim did not dare challenge Allah, and hence allowed Altair to live and redeem himself. Or perhaps it was not a matter of challenge, but just himself holding onto whatever excuse he had for keeping the man alive and by his side. It was impossible for him, as the Grand Master of the Order, to not develop attachments to the assassins he raised. And with Altair, Al Mualim's attachment to him ran even before he was born. Altair's father Umar had been a close friend and disciple of Al Mualim. His spirit lived on in his son.

"You will see the fruit of my actions soon enough," he promised Khitan, taking pains to be as courteous as he could. If he had been a little more tired, a little more rankled, he would've just ordered her away. But as it was, his and Khitan's history ran many decades back. He found her deserted by the side of a country road, beaten by her husband for not bearing him children after one entire year. She begged him to take her away, and she had been so beautiful- what could Al Mualim do? He was not yet old at that time, and she was just barely a woman. She was not very intelligent, but at least she was literate to a small extent. She took a keen interest in Al Mualim's texts and soon the man himself. She swore her loyalty to him in return for him to keep her under his wing.

The Grand Master, then nothing more than a man with big dreams and connections, allowed her into his life and taught her what he knew. He also understood without a doubt that Khitan would allow him to take his pleasure from her if he'd so desired. He refrained from doing so not for her sake, but for his own. In his experience, as soon as a man bedded a woman, so much more was expected of him. And he did not know if he could offer her what she might want in return. He was, first and foremost, a fair and compassionate man, but he was not a lover to anyone.

She promised him that she was not barren, that her womb was ready to receive his seed and give him an heir. But Al Mualim was not interested in an heir. He knew too much, had too much responsibility as the Order began to grow, and to put all this strain on the shoulders of a newborn was unthinkable. He could not subject his seed to the curse of being the Grand Master's Son, and so he flung himself into teaching others and their children. In this way, he did not yearn for his own child- not when he had thirty or forty already to take care of.

Khitan had been by his side as be built the Order, offering compassion, support, and a sharp jab of reason when he needed it. During the days when all went well, she revelled in his joy. And on those nights whereby nothing went as planned, when it seemed his dreams were at the edge of collapse, she pulled him back with soft words. She was the only one he allowed to speak to him so closely, and to enter his quarters at night when all others were barred. He never bedded her as a man should a woman, but in a way he sensed it was not necessary. Now they were both old and useless. Al Mualim lost his strength and virility, and Khitan stopped her monthly bleedings. In a way, they'd both outlived their use to the world. The Order and their role within it was all they had left.

They were man and wife in spirit, and the Order was their child.

It was her inner strength that inspired him to bring women into the Order. Al Mualim owed much of the Order's success to her, and so it was the least he could do to not be snide in his remarks.

"I have chosen to give him a second chance."

Khitan shifted on her feet, "and what of Malik?"

Malik was a completely different matter. With his left arm gone, he could no longer be an assassin. The man was still caught by fever, but the healers advised the Grand Master that he would live. If it were anyone else- Abbas, Rauf, perhaps even Nasir, Al Mualim would have dismissed them from the Order. But as it was Malik who had brought back the treasure, the mystical treasure that granted such immense and volatile power. To steal it from the Templars was a reaffirmation of God's will to side with the Saracens. Al Mualim could not just cast Malik aside. "I will have him replace the Dai at Jerusalem."

"…That's a wise choice." The Dai at Jerusalem was aged and becoming senile. It would be a good change to have a fresh young man taking charge of the Bureau there. And Malik was a capable student, more than able to take over the academic aspects of the role. To be a Dai was to be something like a Master Assassin; it was a promotion, just on a different ladder of the Order. "But he has one arm, Grand Master. How will he perform his duties?"

Al Mualim considered all he knew of Malik, scrutinizing his attitudes and dreams and wishes… "He will not want to be useless to the Order. His loyalty is great and unwavering… Malik Al-Sayf will find a way." It would be difficult, of course. The duties of a Dai were many. They acted as healers for wounded assassins, were charged with keeping the Bureau well stocked, sometimes had to leave the Bureau to meet with informers or other Rafiqs. Then on top of that, they had to take care of themselves. Al Mualim had no doubt that Malik would carry out the work given to him by the Order, but by doing so it was possible that the man would work himself to death.

Khitan voiced his thoughts, "he will need an assistant."

This was a problem. An assistant would help things greatly, but this whole situation was a headache. Malik would need to bathe himself, dress himself, buy foodstuffs, cook, make maps, keep ledgers, help assassins, and somehow still keep himself physically and mentally stable. With just one arm, an injured ego, and the mental trauma of having seen his brother die, he really could not trust him with such responsibility. It was obvious that the man would need an assistant. "But he will be too proud to take one. Crippled or not, Malik is prideful. He strives to prove himself at all times, and will not allow another man's aid."

"…then...what about a woman?"

He knew this tone from her. Khitan was scheming something. Knowing the argument might already be lost, Al Mualim asked, "who do you have in mind?"

The old woman's eyes glimmered with mirth, "give Malik your hope."

This argument began ten years ago. "Aasha? I cannot tether one of my best spies to Jerusalem and expect her to make herself most useful there." However, he could not say he did not expect this from the Mistress.

"She is barely your best spy," Khitan countered, "we have many excellent spies to sing our praises of. In any case, do you not agree that it is of utmost importance to have the Jerusalem Bureau running smoothly?"

"I… yes." Al Mualim lumbered into his quarters and sat himself at his desk, ill lit by an old oil lamp. He motioned for Khitan to close the door after her, and his tired eyes were mesmerized for a moment by the sheer number of books and scrolls that lined his shelves. One of the windows had broken, a sizable rock lying obnoxiously on his floor surrounded by shards of glass. A reminder of how close Masyaf had come to being taken. He could not be bothered with this tonight, and instead sought to enjoy the hollow echoing of the wind outside. He was nearly beside himself with exhaustion, and knew he could not win this argument. All he wanted now was for Khitan to leave him alone so he might retreat into sleep's loving embrace.

"And you see no better man than Malik to replace the Dai there?"

"…That is right…"

"And surely you know how enamoured he is of your little pigeon girl, hm?"

There was no point to denying this. "…Yes…" The fact was plain as day, and Al Mualim scoured his mind for any reason –any at all- to keep Aasha here. He could not think clearly at this time, and especially not when Khitan was pushing her own twisted logic at him.

"Then would it not be an excellent idea to send her there to support him? I know Malik as well as you do, Grand Master, and he would gut any other assistant you send him. But to her, he would listen. By holding his admiration, she holds power over him."

"…I can't just send her there in hopes she could… seduce Malik into working…"

"This isn't about seduction, Grand Master," Khitan purred, both hands snaking up to Al Mualim's shoulders and kneading the tight muscles there, "it's about giving your man what he needs to succeed."

Al Mualim was silent.

Khitan continued, her hands expertly working to untangle the knots in the base of the old man's neck, "and besides, the Franj are upon us once again. Jerusalem will be made a hotspot for activity. And you know that Aasha has experience with the Templars… Let her be his advisor, let her go on missions Malik assigns, and most importantly of all, let her be the soothing balm to his ache."

Soothing balm to his ache, indeed. The decision came and went, Al Mualim's grunt of approval sealing Aasha's fate. Satisfied, Mistress Khitan helped Al Mualim to his bed, on which he collapsed unceremoniously. For now, Al Mualim, the Old Man of the Mountains, was just Rashid ad-Din Sinan, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. He would take up his role again as Grand Master of the Assassin's Order the next day, when things made a little more sense.


"These are mine?"

Mistress Khitan paused in her work, the familiar voice casting her mind back to a time when its owner was no more than a tiny girl.

Rani… no, Aasha, had turned the pair of worn rawhide boots around and around, admiring its fashion that was so completely different from the sandals of her childhood. She'd seen men wear them sometimes, but never women. The material felt good under her hands; even though she could tell it was not new and had definitely seen better years.

When the girl dared to ask if the shoes were hers, Khitan slapped her hand, eliciting a whimper. "No, child… Nothing is yours here."

"Nothing is mine?" she had repeated dimly. "I don't understand."

And then Khitan had to explain to her that she now belonged to the Order, and as such she would never have any personal belongings to speak of. The girl was simple minded then, and accepted the fact without truly understanding the consequences of her consent.

But today, Aasha was a woman. Khitan struggled to pull herself from her misty reverie to answer her question. She didn't feel very well today. Maybe her age was finally catching up with her. "Yes, those are yours. I picked them out for you myself."

Like how she did when she was younger, the spy studied the packages wrapped in parchment that was to become her new outfit. Tied together neatly with lengths of string, they looked innocent enough. She untied and unfolded the smallest package to reveal a hijab head wrap.

"I see," she nodded her approval, blinking her eyes rapidly. The veil was beautiful, and the quality of it surprised her. Firstly, it was made of silk; Aasha had never worn such a precious material. Always, the dress of the assassins and spies were made of cotton and linen, and only the most skilled courtesans were worthy to dress in silks. Even the concubines in the gardens wore thin but rough makeshift silks. The scarf she held now was black as night and just as light, shot through with strings of gold and silver. This was not the hijab of a poor woman. She could not look away from it. When she at last raised a hand to her face in wonder, she noticed Khitan's expectant gaze.

"Well?" The Mistress put both hands on her hips and swayed from side to side, biting one side of her cheek. It actually looked like she… cared.

"I-" Aasha's voice caught in her throat. "It's gorgeous, uma."

The two were alone in the Mistress' chambers, and being allowed in here was a privilege for Aasha. Always she was given her mission attire by the Order's supply and clothing holds, and so when she was invited here she already felt something was amiss. And now the two women were standing in front of the Mistress' bed, such a private and secret place, pouring over fine silks like mother and daughter.

"Open the rest," Khitan ordered softly, "there are more items here, so you will at least be presentable wherever you may go."

"Yes, Mistress."

Aasha did as she was told, opening the other package to examine the simple cloak which would hide all her body save for her face and hands. It became clear to her that for this mission she would not be expected to fight, run, climb, or perhaps even speak to a man. She wished Khitan would tell her about her mission already. The unsure look on the older woman's face was disturbing her. "Mistress, what… what is all of this meant for?"

Khitan cleared her throat, running her fingers through the fine silk of the veil on her bed. "Malik has been appointed Dai of the Bureau at Jerusalem."

The spy's eyebrows raised in false surprise. "That is good!"

This was knowledge she already possessed. Malik had been gone for two weeks now. At first no one knew where he was, but brothers and sisters returning from Jerusalem spread the word soon enough. It was strange that there was no ceremony held for his promotion to Dai… Usually when an assassin was promoted, a ritual or feast was held in his honour. A Dai was to the Order's scholarly branch what a Master Assassin was to the working branch. When Altair was made a Master, all the Order knew of it. The fact that Malik was made a Dai in hushed tones and rushed away in the night to Jerusalem as soon as he recovered made the situation seem somewhat suspicious. Already the rumours fled that Al Mualim promoted him out of pity, that Malik had no skill in scholarly work and would surely fail… On top of it all, he was a cripple.

By circumstance, Aasha never saw Malik again after watching his arm being so brutally cut off in the infirmary. And to be honest, she didn't know if she wanted to see him again. Yes, in a way she wanted to see him to show her support and understand that he was alright… but what if he was not alright? What if he became a different person? What if she became a different person, after seeing the part of him that was meant to be covered? Could Malik look in her eyes and know she'd seen him?

She would be ashamed to see him again.

In her mind, Malik was still the strong and healthy man with two arms and two legs. He still smiled with cockiness; his eyes still glinted with secret laughter. Seeing him again without an arm would shatter all of this. Of course, the Dom knew that one day they would meet again, and the awkward moment would come in which they had to decide what was between them now that so much had changed. For this, Aasha was afraid of where this conversation was leading her.

Khitan seemed to share in her discomfort. She battled with her words for a moment before deciding to relay the mission in the simplest terms: "he needs an assistant."

If this news had come a month or two earlier, Aasha would have been beside herself with joy. Finally, she'd be able to legitimately spend time with Malik under the Order! But now with things as they were, she crumpled with dread and fear. "Mistress," she choked, "why me?" It wasn't just that she had no choice but to work with Malik now, it was also that she felt she was being punished for something. What did she do wrong?

"Because you are the only one who he will listen to," Khitan replied, keeping a remarkably calm expression plastered over her face. It had collected many lines over the years, and displayed them all proudly.

Aasha dropped the fabric she was holding like it was garbage. "What can I do to help him? I don't know anything about what a Dai does." She never reacted this way to a mission before, but this felt like no mission to her. This felt like the Order was pushing her out of its doors and shutting her away.

"…You won't need to help him in… in that way," the woman tried to explain, but her mouth fell dry. Why? She'd wanted this girl gone since the beginning, but why was it so difficult now?

The realization dawned on Aasha, the fact that Khitan expected her to 'help' Malik in a way only a woman can 'help' a man. In a way, she understood. Malik was injured both physically and mentally, perhaps even spiritually. Some pains simply could not be dulled by hashish. Malik cared deeply for her, and so Al Mualim must have arrived at the conclusion that she could put him on the right track to recovery. "How long?" How long would she have to do this for?

Khitan didn't answer, a horrible knot growing at the base of her stomach. This whole situation was her orchestration, and yet it felt so wrong. Her logic made her so sure before, but now her intuition faltered at the fear revealed in Aasha's eyes. The old woman felt an uncontrollable urge to draw her into her arms and embrace her.

The urge was manifested in reality when at last the spy began to cry, "you want me to leave the Order and marry him." The tears fell with no restriction, and Khitan wound her arms awkwardly around the younger woman. Having not held another person in such an embrace in so long, the Mistress didn't even remember where to rest her hands. But when she gave into her instincts, she found her hands knew exactly where to go. One found itself gently bracing the back of Aasha's head against her as the gypsy cried into her collar, "what have I done wrong? Why are you casting me away?"

"I am not casting you away, child." Khitan found her voice finally, but the words came out harsh by habit.

Aasha looked her in the eye with disbelief. "You have always wanted me gone, Mistress. You have always looked down upon me. I knew it ever since I was a child… that you thought I was not worthy to be here." She rushed to catch the tears as they slipped from her swollen lids. "So this was your plan all along."

The words were true, and Khitan was not surprised that Aasha picked up on the Mistress' distaste for her. However, the spiteful way with which she'd accused her… The knot in her belly turned to a hard chunk of ice.

Aasha was sobbing now, her hands covering her entire face as her body heaved and buckled under the heavy sadness. Khitan guided her to her bed and left her there to wallow in her misery, the old woman moving with alarming speed to close all the windows and lock all the doors. Aasha steeled herself for the beating that was sure to come.

"You are right and you are wrong, my child," Khitan pried Aasha's hands away from her face, now stained wet with tears. When the former Bedu opened her eyes, the woman she saw now could not be her Mistress. This strange woman settled herself on her knees, her joints protesting the entire way, and touched her so carefully. Her hair fell in dry lengths over her aged face, streaked with white. "You are right that I wanted you gone, but not because I thought you unworthy."

"No..?" Aasha wiped her nose with her sleeve, thoroughly embarrassed at herself for the emotional outburst. "Then why..?"

This time, Khitan's voice was soft and warm. "Because you were a girl of the desert, and you did not deserve to be subject to the laws of the Order."

That was unexpected, and Aasha's mouth dropped open in shock. "I don't understand."

Khitan closed her eyes slowly, the action forcing a fresh rivulet of tears coursing down her face like water breaking from a dam. "I don't either, my child."

Despite all the mixed feelings Aasha had harboured for this woman- admiration, fear, distrust, unwavering loyalty- she never thought she'd ever pity her. "Please, uma, don't cry," she tentatively set a hand on Khitan's shoulder, "will you please hold me again?"

The Mistress nodded, and when she struggled to rise to her feet, Aasha held her hands and helped her up. Together they sat on the edge of the bed and leaned against one another, the disgusting silks and fabrics strewn all over the room. Having never known such love from the Mistress that seemed more like a spirit wandering the halls than a mother figure, Aasha could not help but cling to her. And Khitan, being once married and childless, clung to the younger woman in return.

"Years ago," she held Aasha to her breast, "I saw you running naked from the bathhouse. You were scared."

Blushing, Aasha did not know how to respond. She remembered that night. The condescending tone usually permeating the Mistress' voice was gone. "I'm sorry."

"No, I am," Khitan lamented, "for it is I who took that blessed gift from you. I took you in and tore you from your freedom." She didn't feel this same way with the countless other apprentices she took in. Somehow, watching the gypsy girl slowly lose her roots heavily disturbed her. Rani had given away her life on a whim, without knowing the grandeur of the possibilities she was throwing away. To Khitan, taking in such a girl was not right.

Al Mualim didn't seem to understand. He never understood. She could never make him see how happy a child would have made her, how she longed for him to fill her belly with his child. He made his decision to bring women into the Order without consulting her. And suddenly, she was made a Mistress when she wanted nothing more than to be a mother. She hated all the young apprentices that came under her care; hated all of them because Al Mualim loved them like they were his own children, and how dare he? What was so wrong with her that he'd rather love other people's children than have her bear him children of his own?

And how dare he demand that these young women never have children? If he was using Khitan as an example that such a thing could be done, then he was an idiot. Khitan was never loyal to the Order; her only loyalties were to Al Mualim. Her love for him made her stupid enough to sacrifice her very purpose in life.

"I don't understand." Aasha could barely hear herself against the sound of Khitan's strained breathing. With her year pressed against the old woman's frail collarbones, she heard the sound of wild winds. "I don't understand- I am freer with the Order than I can ever be."

"You are wrong, child," Khitan kissed the top of her head, cradling Aasha in her arms like a precious thing. "You know within yourself that you yearn to discover the mysteries of life."

No, Aasha would not let Khitan force her thoughts. These were things she'd blocked away long ago because thinking about them was dangerous. She wasn't ready to open her mind to these possibilities yet! "And I am to discover these mysteries of life as a wife to a cripple, with my head ever covered?" Malik was more than a cripple to her, and she didn't much mind to cover her hair, but this was beside the point.

Khitan looked stunned, "have you never wanted to become a normal woman again?"

"I was never normal to begin with!" Furious, she grabbed the silk hijab and held it up to Khitan's face. "I never knew this as a child. I never had to cover my face among others of my tribe. I was a desert girl, daughter of Omar Bin Haji and Sharma, who are forever lost to me now. I could not return to my 'normal' life even if I'd wanted to! I have two brothers who won't recognize me now. I have nothing left but my father's bead necklace that… you've… let me keep." Her angry diatribe trailed off, "you let me keep it."

Again Khitan was crying fat tears. "Please take this opportunity, Aasha, a chance for a different type of freedom." She was nearly desperate with how much she wanted her to understand. When Rani called her uma that first time, the moment she did so Khitan knew she was lost. Since then, she convinced herself she wanted the girl gone because she was unnatural, that she was a curse. Khitan still held this purpose in mind when she spoke with Al Mualim weeks prior, but now the truth she'd tried to push away tore to the surface. She never hated the girl.

Perhaps the other women of the Order would never have this chance. Oh yes, Khitan knew all about their secret lovers in the cities, the men whom they loved but could not be with… Aasha was given this wonderful opportunity to finally be free, and yet she didn't see it!

"You are not being released from the Order, but… your direct allegiance will be to Jerusalem's Bureau."

To Malik. The words left unsaid were becoming ever more obvious.

Aasha sat there calmly for a few moments, letting the present sink into her bones. She forced the idea of marriage from her mind long ago, knowing she would never be able to live the life her sister might have had. Of course, she was not unaware that while the assassins could not marry, Rafiqs certainly could with little consequence. The Bureau leader at Acre had a wife once, and when she passed away he never took another. Sometimes he spoke of her longingly, but he rambled so often that Aasha never took cares to actually listen to what he said. The Dai at Damascus was courting a pretty little thing at this moment, trying to impress her with his painted pots and failing miserably at it.

And yet she never thought Malik could become a Dai.

And the only man she thought she'd ever have to answer to was Al Mualim.

She did very much care for Malik, but she could not see him as her husband. She could not see him as any woman's husband, just as she could not see herself as any man's wife.

Khitan stifled her sniffling beside her, looking very much overwhelmed. One could almost mistake that she was the one about to get married.

"What does he think of this?" Does Malik even want to marry her?

Khitan looked strained. "Aasha, I am not sure if he even knows of this. Your work, you understand, is paramount to the Jerusalem Bureau's success. As it is, you must do whatever it takes to ensure Malik makes a quick recovery and is kept in good health in every way." She considered her words. "After all, Al Mualim has invested threefold in him what he has invested in you."

"Then I don't actually have to…?" It wasn't like she hadn't wondered about how he was faring. He never did strike her as one patient enough to keep ledgers all day like Jacques de Sonnac. The knight, too, was injured in such a way that kept him from battle and the honour that should have been his. In a twisted sort of way, the two men had much in common now. But where Jacques could get himself through the day most satisfactorily, Malik only had one arm. She supposed it was possible to adapt to living as a cripple, but this process probably took months and years. In that time, she might have dress him, treat his mangled arm, bathe him, perform general duties around the Bureau, accompany him on trips to the market.

"You must do whatever it takes," the Mistress repeated, rubbing her temples.

…She might even be called upon to warm his bed.

"You may always send a pigeon to us if there is anything you require, but I believe the Bureaus are all well-funded and should provide you whatever you need."

After a while, Aasha asked, "will I be able to ride horses still?"

The Mistress laughed bitterly- of all the questions! "If Malik allows it."

Aasha worried her bottom lip, her brows creasing in concentration. Of course Malik would allow her to ride horses. "Could I still be friends with Nadia and communicate with my friends here?"

Again, the reply was the same. If Malik allowed it.

"Oh," Aasha blinked serenely, looking at the palms of her hands that were rough with work and wear. They were not calloused and peeling like the men's hands, but they weren't soft and supple like an unmarried maiden's, either. They were perfect for housework.

Acutely feeling the passage of time, Khitan rushed to say, "you will understand this later."

"I think I understand it now," Aasha rose from the bed to gather the garments that would become her daily outfit, "I think you're trying to stop me from becoming you."

The statement was cruel, a pointless and unnecessary jab at Khitan's already tenuous grasp of her role in this world. If she was not so drained and confused from her own revelations, she would've slapped the spy across the face for saying such a thing.

You may hate me if you'd like, she spoke lovingly to Aasha in her mind, like she would her own daughter. The former-spy did not look at her again, pointedly working around her.

You may hate me if you'd like, but I won't let you live on wondering of what could have been.

Aasha was making for the door with quick and efficient steps.

I won't leave you lost to your purpose, searching for a place in Paradise all alone.

Wrenching the door open, Aasha glared long and hard at Khitan, no compassion or warmth whatsoever in her face.

The door slammed shut.


End of Chapter 11.


Because the concept of freedom is ever changing. Like it or not, arranged marriage and forced marriage was a norm back then, and traces of it still exist in some parts of the world today.

Lots of revelations in this chapter. Woooh. I hope most of you remember enough from previous chapters to actually remember. I hope my OCs have made enough of an impact on you. And again, if you've read, I'd appreciate some feedback or whatever on the chapter/story/unicorns. Thank you! C: