Al Mualim praised the garments Khitan picked out for her, and acted like he didn't know Aasha was being sent off to be a man's property.
Under the fragmented light spilling through the Fortress windows, he gave her a copy of their Holy Text, the Qur'an, and blessed her journeys. Aasha found this terrifyingly underwhelming, clutching the Holy Book in both hands and gazing upon the man she so revered and loved. For some reason, she thought herself special. She thought perhaps Al Mualim had some grand plans for her, and that she would at least go further than be made a Dai's assistant, though the position was not at all unfavourable. In a way, it was a promotion for her. But the promotion was like an insult, that she'd outlived her use as a spy.
This must be what Malik had felt, being made into Dai out of pity. And she would see him soon enough, and only hoped things were still the same between them. Any more change, and she would break with the pressure.
She debated asking him what she'd done wrong to deserve this, but decided against it. "I am ever loyal to you, Grand Master," she kissed his robes one last time and prayed, prayed that he could hear the sincerity in her words. How desperately she still wanted to believe in him like Rani idolized him.
But Al Mualim didn't comfort her, didn't embrace her. He nodded politely to her, in a very detached manner. When she rose to leave, at last he seemed to come alive. "Wait."
Aasha froze, wondering if Al Mualim was going to change her fate, demand of her to stay with the Order. Instead, the old man approached his desk, opened a low drawer and rummaged around for some time. He found a lacquered box carved with intricate lines, and presented it to Aasha. "As a gift, for you to keep."
Her heart surging up to her throat, Aasha did not want to touch this thing the Grand Master now offered her. Children of the Order had no possessions, and surely Al Mualim was making a point by giving this to her. Just to be sure, she cleared her throat and asked, "this is my possession?"
"It is yours," Al Mualim smiled warmly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Thank you, Grand Master." She tucked the Qur'an away and received the box with both hands. She sought to open the container, but Al Mualim put a hand on her shoulder and bade her stop.
"As you know, child, those of the Order are strangers to possession." As he spoke, Aasha felt herself wither away in fear that she'd just failed some sort of test. Al Mualim continued steadily, "everything that is yours is owned by the brotherhood. While your brothers owe me their lives, your sisters owe me their virtues. As an assassin's ties to the Order are cut from the moment he loses his life, so shall you be allowed to possess from the moment all of you is given."
He bade her leave then, but Aasha could not resist the question. She was burning with a hateful passion at his words, the box feeling too light to be a trade for 'all of her'. "If those of the Order are not meant to possess, why should Malik come to possess me?"
Al Mualim was stupefied by her audacity, and she saw it by the way his hand stopped halfway while stroking his long beard. "Why, child, he will never come to possess you."
"If I give him my virtue, then he will have all of me. If I marry him," she spat the words to see if he would react; he didn't. "If I marry him, he will possess me as he does a piece of furniture, or a cow."
The Grand Master laughed, thoughtfully stroking his beard again. "I am sure Malik has more respect for you than he does for a cow. And in all seriousness, child, why do you believe I decided to send you for this task?"
"Because he fancies me."
"He fancies many of the concubines as well. I could send a bunch of them to Jerusalem, and he could have a harem!"
Despite herself, Aasha giggled. It wasn't often that Al Mualim made an effort to be funny, and indeed the image was hilarious. She began to have hope again. Maybe Al Mualim held her in his pride after all; she was not something to be tossed aside on a whim. "Then why, Grand Master?"
"It is not only because Malik fancies you, but it is that he will never actually come to possess you. This I know, and in you I trust. A concubine could not challenge him as you would, and neither could anyone else."
"How can I make it so that he never possesses me?" How could a woman marry a man and not be possessed by him? She didn't think it possible.
The Grand Master bent forward and bade her rise. His hands were rough as sand but as sturdy as stone, and reminded Aasha of her father. When she was still a child, he carried her on his shoulders like a trophy. She never felt unsafe in his arms- could she feel safe in Malik's? Oh, right. Malik didn't even have two arms with which to hold her anymore. She shuddered involuntarily.
Al Mualim examined Aasha's full head of hair, her well-proportioned and tidy face, her modest breasts, and his eyes settled on her hips. They were not very wide for child bearing, and perhaps she would have some trouble, but they looked to be a good size under her narrow waist. Al Mualim felt no shame gazing upon her body, just as a father could commit no crime in looking at his daughter. His sights lingered, knowing that Aasha might soon have to cover her body should Malik request it. And then who would be there to behold her beauty?
"The secret, pigeon, is to hold your deepest secrets tight inside your heart. Lock it away, hide it. Let not Malik or any other man touch it." He waved his finger at her as he spoke, the words coming true and untainted from his integrity. "It is his right and power to enjoy your body's beauty, but he can never touch that which shines from within you. You are one of few in this Order who can accomplish such a thing. As a spy, your secret flame mesmerized your targets so much that they bestowed treasures upon you and spilled all their secrets. Do this, and you will always be yourself and child of the Order first and foremost; not a wife to a man."
Humbled by his sage advice, Aasha bowed her head low and blinked away her tears of thanks. She was so glad she had asked, so glad she'd taken that leap of faith. "Thank you, Grand Master. Safety and peace."
He smiled and returned the blessing, delighting in her newfound confidence.
Al Mualim knew the power of a strong woman better than any man. It was Khitan's inner radiance that caught his eye and trapped his heart since the day he met her, after all. He did not dare to lie with her for fear of the knowledge that he'd never truly completely possess her. She could bear him all the sons he wanted and yet she would be forever out of his reach. With Aasha, he'd seen much the same spirit in her. When she arrived at Masyaf's gates clad in bloodied clothes, she reminded him so much of Khitan that he had to take her in. Even if Khitan herself did not see the resemblance, Al Mualim found it to be his duty.
He actually found it a bit amusing that it was Khitan who suggested Aasha act as 'assistant' to Malik. It was as if her subconscious mind was aware but her conscious mind was not.
So be it, then. Let Aasha be the soothing balm to Malik's ache, and let her also be the sting that reminds him of his loyalty.
Nadia held her hand and walked with her to the gardens, where Aasha would say her final goodbyes to the concubines there. She'd already said her farewells to her friends and all others who would miss her. She told them all she'd be back, but in truth she couldn't be sure. But at least she would see them when they came to visit the Bureau at Jerusalem. When Nadia first heard about Aasha's new task, she was baffled but… not truly surprised. She felt more jealous than sad for the other woman, though.
To block her envy, she offered overly explicit advice without any shame whatsoever. The understanding that she knew more than Aasha about these matters reassured her. But Aasha was not intent on learning how she could keep a man interested. The concubines, too, could offer her little help. Pleasing Malik was not her concern. She was worried about something else.
Lying splendidly over her pile of cushions, Sunbul considered Aasha's question carefully. "I don't think anyone knows for certain what causes a woman's belly to swell with child. But once I threw a bunch of orange peels in the air, turned around three times this way, and splashed some water on my face. It seemed to have worked, since I have not conceived."
"That's not right," Fatima huffed, "I tried that, and it didn't work. It still hurts sometimes when I breathe."
"Maybe it's different for everyone," Sunbul shrugged. "And maybe Allah decides."
"Here," Nadia untied a pouch from her waist and pulled out a small jar of salve. "This is a paste made from crushed acacia shrub. It comes from Egypt, and if you soak a strip of linen in it and push it in yourself before he enters you, you will not grow big with child."
A little embarrassed, Aasha opened the jar and tentatively sniffed its contents. The cream smelled earthy, a little like the medicinal blends she swallowed to heal her illnesses as a young girl. The concubines stared at the salve with resentment, having never been offered such a luxury. They rarely ever heard of a pregnant courtesan, and even if they ended up with child, they were never beaten.
"I cannot take this," Aasha said as she passed it back to Nadia. "How will you explain its loss to the Mistress?"
"I can say I dropped it. A sister in need is just that." Nadia tried to shove it into her hands.
Aasha finally opened her hands to accept the gracious gift, but the sight of Altair Ibn-La'ahad striding purposefully into the garden made them freeze. "How long are you women going to spend chatting away?"
"Are you my escort?" The former spy was not even aware that Altair was in Masyaf. The last she'd heard of him, he was out assassinating some men to redeem his rank. He really should be dead.
"Yes," Altair ground out in annoyance, "now let's get going before a two day trip turns into a three day pain in the ass."
"Silence, novice!" Nadia berated him, and then hooted with laughter. Even the concubines covered their mouths and laughed.
With his hood drawn over his face, all they could see of Altair's frustration was the deep scowl on his lips. Taking pity on him, Aasha drew her own hood up and kissed Nadia goodbye. The jar of salve was forgotten between them when Altair took hold of Aasha's forearm and tugged her along none too gently.
"Stop," she hissed at him, pulling herself from his grasp and kicking him in the shins as she did so. Altair did let go, but he kept moving at a brisk pace and dared her to keep up. As she followed after him, Aasha noticed the small things about Masyaf that she never paid mind to before. The patios overlooking the gardens were haunted by linen ghosts hanging limply on lines in the soft breeze. The kitchens were always roaring hot when she passed by, overflowing with the sounds of cooks shouting at each other. The smell of spiced lamb wafting out of the kitchen doorway made her mouth water. In the courtyard, assassins lounged about on reed mats drawing from tall brass hookahs. Some waved to her when she passed by, muttering goodbyes and wishes of luck.
"Malik is a good friend of mine!" one of them cried and waved his pipe around. "He likes almonds!" He burst out laughing, "I'll gladly cut off my own arm if it means I get a wife!"
Aasha blushed with mortification and tried to walk faster. As the days passed and she contemplated her future, Aasha became more and more torn.
They reached the stables in record speed, Altair immediately mounting a horse and riding onto the trail to the Kingdom. Aasha found Maymun and kissed him on his snout. The horse puffed warm breaths on her hair, making her laugh. The Bedu hung the bags containing her clothes and other things to Maymun's saddle and took her time getting herself into it. The stables stank of animal dung, blood, rotting fodder, and still she loved this place. Maymun clapped his hooves and started in a trot before Aasha gave the command, and she had to rein him in. She squeezed his flanks with her thighs and tittered with the joy of riding him again.
"You seem awfully happy," Altair commented when he made a lap back to pick her up. "I suppose I should congratulate you."
She had not yet decided how she should act with Altair, and so kept silent. After all, was he not the man responsible for Kadar's death and Malik's misfortune? Her lack of response spoke volumes to Altair, who twitched his head to the path and again resumed a steady gait. What could she say, anyway? She wasn't quite happy about the arrangement, but wasn't quite disappointed either.
Desperately, Aasha drank in Masyaf's village. At this time of day, the streets tittered with children, chickens, goats, and oxcarts clattering along. The air smelled rich with the aroma of roasting nuts and flatbreads being made in giant stone ovens. Humble merchants and salesmen lined their stalls up flush against the narrow allies, calling attention. The people of Masyaf lived humbly, and there were no wealthy women walking in the streets like butterflies flitting from one blossom to another. The colors here were refreshingly drab compared to the explosions of bright dyes in the lively streets of Jerusalem. Jewellery and luxury items were not sold here. As such, the atmosphere here was remarkably welcoming and easy.
By the time they reached the end of the market street, vendors were rolling up their awnings and locking their shop doors. Once he realized the path to Jerusalem would indeed take longer than previously thought, Altair rushed to purchase food for the journey. "Go find some camel's milk, fresh or powdered will do," he handed her some dinars. "Go."
Aasha held onto the coins and stared at Altair for a moment before the man nodded in understanding and took the money back. It had been more than five years since their last mission together. Despite still being dressed in assassin's robes, Aasha could no longer pass for a young boy. Still many citizens of Masyaf regarded the sisters of the Order with distrust and contempt.
So the young woman waited on her horse while Altar scurried off to buy pieces of flatbread, a pouch of lentils, some dried meat, and powdered camel's milk. He even managed to barter in a piece of goat cheese.
"Put them in my sacks," she offered, motioning to the burlap pouches strapped onto Maymun's saddle. "I'd rather you ride light."
Altair untied the sacks and paused. "This is… it looks very nice."
Carefully guarding her expressions, Aasha thanked him.
Feeling his load grow heavier, Maymum swatted his tail at Altair's face and whinnied in annoyance. It was difficult not to laugh at the sight of the great Eagle of Masyaf, spitting horse shit from his mouth.
It wasn't until the second day of the journey that they began to finally converse in earnest.
They found themselves riding across the stretch of unmitigated desert with now nothing left for them to feign curious attention to. At first there were tall shrubs, scrub grasses, banyan trees, and once in a while an isolated stream or pool lined with date palms and wildlife. These dots of color became less common as they rode out deep into the heart of the land, and soon there was nothing left to look at but one another. The air grew harsh with silt and sand, and both riders had to stop to wrap a scarf around their faces.
Aasha fumbled with her new scarf, and Altair had to help her. Himself masked, Altair tucked the ends of the coarse fabric into its folds and briefly touched the skin of her face. His hands drew away too quickly, and he muttered an apology.
"No need to apologize," said Aasha, "thank you." The scarf must be tied a little tight, since her whole head was now burning with heat.
His eyes only narrowed a little; that was the sole part of his face that was visible now. When he spoke, his voice came out muffled. "You look like you belong in a shemagh."
"You think I look better covered?"
Altair shook his head in the negative. "Not covered. But to wear it around your head and live in the sands as the Bedu."
Aasha clambered back up her horse. Maymun was no longer a young stallion, and already his head was beginning to hang with exhaustion. They'd have to rest at the next oasis. "You should be happy that I am no longer Bedu," she smiled when she was again at eye level with Altair, "if I were, you would have greatly dishonoured me on numerous occasions."
"Oh?"
"A man not related to a woman must not touch her in any way, not even brush her hand while handing her something. That is the Bedu code of honour."
The assassin was silent for a long time. He knew this, which was why he reacted in such a way when his fingers inadvertently rubbed against her cheeks. "So… what does that make you?"
It doesn't make me a whore.
"I used to be a desert dweller, but now I am not." Aasha tapped her heels to Maymun's flanks and urged him forward, following Altair's lead. "Why are you so interested in the Bedu?"
"Because I think they are beautiful." Altair recalled living with a Bedu tribe for some time when he fell ill with fever in the desert. That had been... only a month or so ago, on a mission before Solomon's Temple. Too far gone to even remember his own name, they discovered him collapsed over his horse.
They took him into their tents and nursed him back to health, albeit by painful methods. One of the men put a red-hot piece of coal on his skin to draw the evil spirits out of him, and the next morning his fever broke. They gave him camel's milk to drink and fed him bread. Three days living with the Bedu and listening to their stories convinced Altair that they were absolutely beautiful. Not just their brightly coloured fashions, but the way they held themselves and the way they lived. They could go to Persia if they liked; they could set up camp near the river Jordan. They could raid or they could herd camels or they could sell wares. On a whim, they disappeared completely and resettled elsewhere. They lived with an unprecedented amount of freedom, detached from organized civilization and rules and all those boundaries.
The confession caused Aasha's head to snap so quickly to the left that it hurt. Altair revealed absolutely nothing in his calm composure, and in fact looked amused.
"I am disappointed, sister, that you speak so little of your family."
Aasha pulled on Maymun's reigns so tightly that the horse sputtered and fell out of its gait. She came to a sudden halt behind Altair, whose horse slowly worked itself to a stop as well. "What is there to say, Altair?" She tried to sound as scathing as possible, but it was difficult to get her point across when all the man could see were her eyes. "To say I was Bedu would be claiming something. I was not raised Bedu; I belonged to no clan, my loyalty was to my family." She frowned, gripping the tough rope tightly in her hands. This conversation was becoming a little unsettling. She had been content all her life to not know where she came from, and not knowing was like cutting herself from responsibility. "I- I don't want to talk about this any more." Discussing her heritage with Altair was wracking her with the guilt of having abandoned her family for the creature comforts offered by Masyaf. As a child, she hadn't known it. As an adult, she was disgusted with what she'd done. A true Bedu would value family above all else; it was too late for her now. No Bedu tribe could take her back. She was a traitor. She had no more right to call herself Bedu.
"As you wish," said Altair, a little disappointed. He'd never spoken to Aasha about her past in this way, and in reality he hoped she would be more passionate. He hadn't expected her to completely push away any mention of her possible heritage as she did. He knew she had her reservations about marrying Malik, and had hoped the desire for freedom was still strong enough for him to rouse her to run away. She had the desert at her fingertips, and if his knowledge was correct, she was practically hanging by a thread to the Order. She could easily cut her ties and run away into the undulating sands, and no one would follow her.
Altair felt that she would never truly be happy married to Malik. He'd heard her conversations in the gardens, knew she did not want to bear him any child on his terms. Altair could care less about Malik's happiness, to be honest. If he wasn't feeling so horribly like he owed the man something now, he'd help Aasha run away. But on second thought, she was right- where would she go? Tribal solidarity dictated that strangers of other clans were held in detachment, and she'd eventually end up the wife of some other man anyway. Perhaps it was best for her to go to Jerusalem.
He never told anyone about his secret visits to the nomadic Bedu tribe that saved his life. There was something shockingly refreshing about being received as a man, not as an assassin of incredible skill. The Bedu did not bow to him like the novices of the Order, nor did they try to lead him along like Al Mualim. They were like flowing water, and Altair just couldn't help but bob along to the current whenever he was allowed a slim peek into their lives.
They knew him by name now, and he knew their Sheik. Of the Bedu, they called themselves Ubeidah. And of the Ubeidah was a humble man named Omar who mourned the death of his two daughters, except one of them was not dead. Altair knew this and kept his silence on both ends, disappointed that Aasha had no desire to return to her desert roots. If only he had a chance to be reunited with his father or mother… Based on how she'd responded to his prompting, Altair decided it best to not tell her of what he'd found. She would not be receptive to it, and it'd cause her more confusion than good. She was now in a precarious middle- no longer Bedu by nature but not quite an urban woman. He felt she both wanted and did not want to marry Malik, and throwing the proposition of reuniting with her family again would throw Aasha's life into turmoil. The truth would come, but later...
It was enough that he took Kadar's life and Malik's arm from him; that grievous error he would spend a lifetime repenting. But it also hurt him to be the one to deliver Aasha to Malik, who would wed her out of duty and not for love. Malik might have loved her once, but Altair knew better.
The man was a different person now, and Aasha might as well be marrying a stranger.
The Jerusalem Bureau had a door, but it was well concealed behind a section of woven curtain that closed it off from the quiet alley. They'd considered dropping Malik down its latticework roof, but decided otherwise. After all, the man was unbalanced and could get injured. So the two novices and one informant making up his travel party delivered him straight to the door that few knew existed. The old Jerusalem Dai pulled open the door and lost his breath doing so. He was truly in need of replacement.
The novices and informants joked around for some time, but Malik seethed quietly. While the Jerusalem Dai fussed around his messy Bureau, pouring them tea and apologizing profusely for his disorganization, Malik just gritted his teeth. Each time he breathed, fresh pain licked up his left shoulder and up his neck, rooting itself into his head where it clawed at his thoughts. The point where his left arm was severed had to be wrapped daily, for it still oozed pus and dark blood. He didn't want to touch it, didn't want to accept that it was part of him… or rather, what was no longer part of him.
Kadar's loss was bad enough, and it made Malik guilty for what pity he felt for himself. He refused the tea offered to him, instead chewing on a few dried dates he found in a bowl on the counter. Instinctively, he reached for them with his right hand, and gave thanks that at least he had not lost his dominant hand. But then he remembered that he'd lost a brother and a part of himself, as well as his career and standing in the Order all because of Altair, and suddenly there was little to be thankful for.
They sat him down behind the counter but Malik refused to, and stood defiantly against their concerned gazes. The old Jerusalem Dai kept looking at where the bottom left arm of his assassin's tunic swung freely with Malik's every motion, a clear indicator of what was no longer there. "Are you sure…?"
"Yes," the man snapped, "I am fine."
So the Dai lead Malik around the compound, explaining all the while the general duties of a Bureau Leader. The Jerusalem Bureau was a quaint but cozy establishment that had the potential to look quite charming if properly cleaned. Its main areas consisted of the assassins' resting areas and the Bureau workroom. Any assassin could enter through the gate on the roof and find solace in the trickling fountain promising sweet water and the cushions lining the room. An opening from the safe area led to the Bureau area itself, occupied by a number of shelves of supplies and wares, and the Bureau leader's counter. These areas, Malik was familiar with. Jerusalems' Bureau was well stocked with paper, and its Dai was known for his skill in cartography. Unlike the Damascus Dai, whose skill in painting pots was nothing more than a pastime, the Jerusalem Dai made a name for himself with his meticulously detailed maps. Of course, as he aged, assassins and informants alike began to pick out inaccuracies in his work.
Sometimes said bearded man actually forgot Malik was with him, and wandered off to take a nap or to take sips of tea. The lines and creases in his brow told Malik he was far too old to be doing this sort of work, and coughed irritably when such a thing happened. "Oh!" The old man would look comically startled for a moment, "I'm sorry. Have I showed you the latrines yet?"
"Yes," said Malik, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "You were going to show me the paper stores." Now the two of them were no longer in the Bureau areas accessible to common assassins and novices. Now they were in its living quarters, where the Dai spent his days. There was a humble latrine that had to be emptied and cleaned every morning, a tub for bathing, a fairly comfortable if not strange-smelling bed to sleep on, and even quarters for cooking and eating. Malik noticed the lack of servants as they had in Masyaf's fortress, and a sinking feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. He did not actually know how to cook, and wondered about how he would get things done now with one arm. He needed help with practically everything, even though he never thought of asking for it. He struggled to put on his assassin's robes some days prior, as if desperate to prove that he was still able to don it. But he could not make himself presentable with just one hand, and eventually a novice timidly stepped up to help him. Malik punched him when he was done.
The old Dai had left him a lot of work to be done. Chairs and tables and derelict pieces of furniture were pushed to the corners of rooms and gathering dust there. Leaks were forming in the Bureau's walls and ceilings due to lack of maintenance and the small medical area where assassins were to be treated was desperately in need of re-supply. Malik took note of all this with tired eyes, knowing it was to be his work and yet feeling so distant from it. He moved as if in a trance.
"Oh yes!" The Dai clapped his hands in childish excitement, and waddled off to the latrines. Then he stopped at its doorway and mentioned suspiciously, "I have a feeling that I've already showed you the latrines."
Incredulous, Malik threw his remaining arm up and demanded he be left alone to figure out the rest on his own.
"Alright," said the old man, who winced when his back creaked in protest as he turned. "I have left you a sheet of contacts who will help you. I have told you all you must know. What you do with your spare time is your business I am told, but I will teach you cartography if you are so willing."
Malik hated cartography. He never paid attention to it when it was taught in class, never imagined that he'd have to do it for work. He shook his head an adamant negative and watched the old Dai's face whither even further. In truth, Malik just wanted him gone. He wanted the novices and informant lounging about on the Bureau's cushions to be gone. He needed to be left alone.
He moved as if in a trance until he was handed his Dai's robes. Instinctively, he raised both arms to catch it as it was passed to him, but since only one hand came up, the garment slipped from his grasp and fell to a heap on the ground.
There was a tense moment of silence as former-Dai and novices and informant each held their breaths…
And then Malik screamed. He screamed and yelled and cursed, kicking the damned robe and ordering everyone out!
"Remember the contacts," the now former-Dai choked with wide eyes, "if you can't…"
"Out!" Malik gestured violently to the worn door, tension and explosive fury spewing from his lips. "Out, all of you! Allah forbid I see you again." He pulled open the drawer to the Bureau desk so harshly that it fell out of its place and clattered to the ground. Malik bent low and gripped the carefully scribed list of contacts with his one hand. He floundered at how difficult it was to scrunch it up. Unspeakably frustrated, he tore into it with his teeth before the four frightened men. "I don't need your help," he snarled, spitting pieces of torn paper at their retreating forms.
They practically fell over themselves in their haste to get away.
Malik cried for a long time after that. He clutched the dark Dai's robe in his one hand and sobbed into it. He hated it. He fucking hated it. He threw up into a pot he found under the counter and then cried some more. He hated everything about this place. He belonged with his fellow assassins, he belonged by his brother's side. He did not belong in this Bureau cage in which he would live and die. Especially not when Altair was still alive and flaunting his health and wholeness.
It was dark when he heard some movement in the joined room next to the workroom. The sounds of boots hitting the floor as an assassin dropped in from the ceiling opening. Malik was so used to doing this himself that to hear it from the other side was a jarring experience in itself. He tried to tug on the Dai's robe but it was buttoned, and he could not unbutton it with one hand. Trying to do so was making his fingers cramp. So instead he threw it to the side and glared at the assassin who walked into the Bureau.
…not an assassin, but a spy.
She was surprised to see him. "Malik, brother," she kept her eyes low in respect. "Is the Dai ill?"
"No," Malik shot back venomously, "I am the Dai."
The woman shifted on her feet, the tiny bells strung to her bodice singing so hideously to her every move. Finally she freed her face from the confines of her veil and shook her head. "This must surely be a joke."
"I assure you this is no joke, sister." His patience was wearing thin. It was a miracle that he still had any to begin with.
She looked as if she had much more to say, but decided against further questioning. "I need a map of the area leading to Salah ad-Din's camp," she explained, "may I receive one?"
Malik stared back at her blankly. His eyes were still wet and now they were sore from all the tears he'd shed prior to the spy's arrival. He'd spent so much time wallowing in his sorrow that the candles in the Bureau burned low and the lanterns were running dry. He struggled to see her face, and struggled to remember where the former Dai said he held the maps. Behind him there was a shelf filled to the rim with both complete and incomplete maps of many varieties, but his eyes could not discern how they differed from one another. He even forgot where the oil was to replenish the lamps. So he just stood there looking at her, she whose eyes flickered up to meet his nervously.
"I don't have any," he said at last. "Find your way through the camp yourself."
"Yes, Dai," she nodded and began to leave, then stopped herself to tentatively bow to his authority.
"Be gone," Malik ordered, thoroughly annoyed, and watched her skitter away. She climbed the stone wall to the opening on the roof and disappeared into Jerusalem's starry night. The soft sound of bells growing softer indicated to Malik when she had gone from his vicinity, and again he found himself utterly alone.
Four days living in this way had Malik realizing that he desperately needed help, his ego be damned. Walking was unbalanced, running was impossible. Climbing ladders was pointless since even if he could get himself up the ladder, he could not reach for anything without breaking three points of contact. Walking out in public unescorted brought him looks of disgust from all directions, and on several occasions Malik dropped the wares he bought and had them stolen from him. He had no way to carry such a load home even with a basket; he'd have to make multiple trips out into the crowded markets to purchase foodstuffs, medical supplies, and day to day items. The stipend he received from Masyaf was generous and allowed for him to live comfortably, but it wasn't enough for him to hire an assistant. The rafiqs, assassins, spies, and courtesans that came through on a daily basis always seemed to need something from him. Malik found himself constantly giving and giving to the point of exhaustion. To deal with the demand for maps, Malik began to painstakingly re-learn the art of cartography on his own. He buckled under the demands placed on him, but refused to give up. All the while, he gave thanks that he never saw Aasha again. He knew that as Dai, it would only be a matter of time before she dropped into his Bureau to ask for information, but he wasn't ready to be seen yet by her.
He always considered himself her protector, but now that he only had one arm, he was useless. He was hideous and an outcast; if she saw him now, she would laugh at him. Of course his heart yearned to hear her voice and his loins burned to feel her against him, but his pride reminded him that he was no longer good enough. He was marred, incomplete. He no longer deserved to consider himself desirable. Some days he struggled to lift himself from his cot because of the heavy shame weighing him down. Thoughts of Kadar made him choke and took him out of his daily routine for hours. Thoughts of Altair made him ruin maps and kick his furniture around. Thoughts of Aasha made him afraid and overly anxious at every small sound. So to remedy all of this, he pushed them all from his mind and drowned himself in work.
Not even two weeks had passed before Malik finally fell ill. Come afternoon he found himself no longer able to work on anything, and stumbled into the courtyard in the back of the Bureau to empty the meagre contents of his stomach.
This was how Altair and Aasha found him: doubled over and shaking with a cold sweat. In a single moment, Malik's gaze met with Aasha's. They hadn't seen each other for many nights, and both were utterly unprepared for the overbearing disappointment they felt when the understanding passed between them.
End of Chapter 12.
It's been a while since my last update- I was living out in the field the whole time, which means no electronics whatsoever. I sprained both my ankles last week during a section attack, and am absolutely exhausted. I apologize for any typos/inaccuracies you might find in this chapter... It might be edited later when I have the time and energy.
In this chapter, I wanted to explore Aasha's situation in the sense that she has very little control over her body, not at all like how women today are able to more or less influence their fertility. In a way, it's quite scary.
Also, Altair is becoming an unlikely source of intrigue for Aasha- he offers her the opportunity to create a link again with her family and culture, but the question exists: does she in fact want to grow close to her roots once again? In the end, who does she want to live as? Aasha or Rani? And just to clarify his motivations: Altair wants to live through her. To him, bringing her back to her family (where she is meant to be, according to him) fills the void in his own psyche from having lost his family at a young age.
As always, please leave me some feedback if you've read the chapter. Reviews really do make my day!
