Chapter Nine

Junaid came forth, dressed in his hooded tunic and red sash. He bowed to Rashid, then turned to face Zayn, his face blank of any emotion.

Zayn, however, felt as though her every thought was written in her eyes. She tried to push them away, to meditate silently as she had been taught. It wasn’t working. Her power began to trickle away even as she tried to coax it back. No! It’s a test. I must not let my emotions affect my power.

“This should be as easy for you as fighting Bashar, I imagine,” Rashid said, rubbing his pale, bony hands together, his eyes beaming into her. “After all, hasn’t Junaid proven to be a man with base, carnal desires, just like Guy de Molay?” She clenched her jaw, and she knew he saw. He chuckled. “Ah yes. Emotions are such a powerful motivator. The problem with them, dear Zayn, is that they cloud one’s judgment and obscure one’s faith to the true cause. Women are so prone to silly bouts of emotion, aren’t they, Zayn?” She met his piercing gaze with one of her own. His eyes hardened, and he nodded once. “Prove me wrong, then,” he said.

She looked at Junaid, and he looked back at her. Stony, impenetrable. Her brain was foggy, the light was too bright. How would she prove Rashid wrong? By winning or by losing? Did it even matter? Assassins were not trained to fight, they were trained to kill. She searched Junaid’s face for an answer but saw nothing there. Her breath came quickly. The Grand Master knew about Bashar and Junaid. He knew, at a minimum, that Bashar disapproved of her training; perhaps he also knew of Bashar’s attempt on her life. Zayn’s head spun as it occurred to her—perhaps it had all been part of a test. Was it possible that Junaid’s behavior the previous night had also been part of a test?

“The rules are simple,” Rashid said, cutting through her frantic thoughts. “Only the unarmed fighting techniques of Janna are to be used. The fight is won by he—or she—who wins.” He smiled enigmatically at Zayn.

Junaid stood ready, his expression as unreadable as ever. Zayn took a step forward, her muscles tensing but her mind still awhirl. She and Junaid had fought before, but only for teaching purposes. He’d never truly hurt her, and she’d never used the full force of her powers on him. They both knew that, with her powers fully summoned, she was much stronger than he was. But he had more skill and experience, and he knew all her tricks, since he’d taught her those very tricks himself.

Zayn was not ready. She could not will all of her strength to return to kill the one person in her life that she cared for. When Junaid lunged at her, her block was ineffectual. His fist connected with her face, and she crashed to the ground. Her own blood blinded her, and from where she lay, she could see Junaid’s kidskin boots and hear laughter. The left side of her face throbbed, and the pain ignited her fury. She stood, wiping the blood from her eyes and meeting Junaid’s steely gaze.

So it’s going to be like that, then?

Like a crashing wave, her powers hit her. She reigned them in with a deep breath, allowing herself just enough. She launched herself at him, feinting high but landing a punch to his solar plexus. She deflected a kick and issued a palm blow to his chin, exposing his throat. She could kill him now. She could see the detailed diagrams and clinical text in her mind: It is by crushing the larynx, with one forceful strike, that the trachea is blocked and the victim dies by strangulation. A fraction of a second’s hesitation cost her; he swept at her legs, knocking her off-balance. She managed to leap back and gain some distance, a split second of respite. The drug that coursed through her, the blood that obscured her vision, and the overpowering smell of incense made her reel, made her numb. Her vision was speckled, her body tingled. Junaid’s form lumbered before her dangerously.

She would end this fight now. She waited for him to attack, and when he moved to kick her, she was prepared. She shifted to the side, slipped her hand beneath his kicking leg, and struck his groin with her fist. Then holding his leg, she swept his remaining leg out from under him and dumped him to the ground. Leaping onto his fallen form, she straddled his torso and put him in a chokehold between her arm and his shoulder. She could feel Junaid buck beneath her, trying to create space between them to escape. She pushed harder now, a bit frantically. If he would not submit, what was she to do? How was this fight to end?

Beyond the din in her head, she heard Rashid’s gleeful voice. “Kill him, Zayn, and you’ve won.”

Was it her heartbeat that pulsed through her desperately, or was it Junaid’s? Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh… With what strength remained, she flung herself from him, rolling to the side and away. As she stood, she heard Junaid gasp, cough, wheeze. She stepped toward Rashid, seeing only a blurry form, a phantom. She untied the crimson sash about her waist and pulled the tunic from her back. Crumpling the clothes into a ball, she dropped them at his feet and turned on her heels, knowing the flimsy undershirt she still wore did nothing to shield her breasts.

The heavy doors opened for her, as if by magic, and she didn’t look back. She hurried to the stables and readied her mare. She was leaving Masyaf. Now that she’d ruined her chances of becoming an Assassin and thoroughly bludgeoned Junaid, she had no reason to stay. Her heart still racing from the spectacle at the initiation ceremony, she mounted her horse and cantered to the main gates of the castle.

A sound behind her made her look back. Junaid limped toward her, hailing her. As he approached, shame assailed her—his eyes were swollen purple, and his mouth was caked with blood. He stood beside her mount, breathing heavily, his expression unreadable on account of his injuries. “Congratulations,” he managed to say, his voice congested. He held her crumpled Assassin tunic and sash out to her.

Tentatively, she took them, debating on what to say. But he gave her no opportunity to speak, turning on his heels and limping back toward the castle.

…

Aysha frowned as she examined Zayn’s face. “Hmmph. I suppose it’s healed well enough.” She stepped back, scanning Zayn carefully from head to toe. “I still think it is too early to send you to Jerusalem, but the men have spoken…” She rolled her eyes upward and sighed.

Zayn stood quietly, resisting the urge to defend the decision. She was itching to leave. She had been at Masyaf for seven months. Normally, neophytes trained for years before initiation, but Zayn was no normal neophyte. For all intents and purposes, her training was complete.

A month had passed since the night of her initiation, a long, uncomfortable month. She continued to train, but she and Junaid had exchanged no more than a handful of obligatory words to each other. She felt relieved and sorry and angry all at once when she saw him and his injuries. Why had they made her do that to him? What had they proven?

Clearly, she had “won.” She still didn’t completely understand what had happened that night, what had been staged and what hadn’t. Had she proven her faithfulness to the Assassin cause by refusing to kill Junaid? She wasn’t sure how, but she didn’t dwell on it—notwithstanding Grand Master Rashid’s thinking, she could not kill an innocent man, let alone one who had mentored her. She didn’t care that the Grand Master had ordered it. She sensed that perhaps Junaid had something to do with her acceptance into the Order, despite her refusal to obey Sinan. Junaid must have convinced Sinan she was worthy.

Now, as she stood with Aysha fretting over her, she had to smile. She missed being mothered. If she hadn’t been so eager to leave, she would have gladly curled up at Aysha’s side and let the older woman nurse all her various wounds.

“You would never have her leave,” a familiar voice said from the doorway, and the women turned in surprise to see Junaid. He looked only at Aysha. “She is as ready as she’ll ever be.”

Aysha clicked her tongue. “As I’m sure you are so eager to be rid of her,” she snapped, her bracelets jingling as she waved a dismissive hand at him. She turned back to Zayn and said, “Remember, keep your eyes down. You always want to look people in the eye, and this will give you away. Eyes down! And be sure to bathe alone, or as alone as you can manage. There is no need to draw attention to your body, with its scars and muscles.”

Blushing furiously, Zayn mumbled her assent. Did Aysha have to speak of her body in front of Junaid? And… Is Junaid not eager to be rid of me? She tried to hide her frustration. She’d spent far too much time puzzling over Junaid’s actions. She had no idea what to think, how to feel about him. Sometimes she hated him, secretly smirking over his bludgeoned face, and other times she craved his approval. Not his affection, she told herself. Anything but that.

He looked impassively at Zayn. “Your horse is waiting.”

Aysha nodded and gave Zayn a small smile. Her eyes shone. “May God be with you, Zayn.” Zayn swallowed and nodded back, then turned to follow Junaid from the room, controlling the desire to turn and fling herself into Aysha’s arms. They walked in silence into the courtyard and to her mare. She wore the clothes of a merchant-class boy, which would aid her in getting to her various stopping points in Tripoli, Tyre, and Acre. Only then would she become Sara Zachariah, the niece of John Zachariah, a prominent Christian noble in Jerusalem and a member of the Syrian Court.

Before mounting, Zayn pretended to adjust her saddlebags. “You knew my mother,” she said softly, knowing that Junaid heard her.

He inhaled audibly. “Yes.”

She turned to look at him, accusations in her eyes. “You loved her.”

He didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“If you loved her, why did you bring me here? Why not kill Guy yourself?”

“Because I needed you to find a reason to persist.” He swallowed. “I needed you to become an Assassin.”

The words made her chest hurt, her throat close. “Did you know my father as well?”

His gaze faltered. “It is complicated.”

“Junaid, who was my father?” Her voice was rising with her desperation.

“I need you to return,” he replied, stepping toward her. “You are not expendable. We are not sending you to die for a single knight. We want you to come back to Masyaf, to continue to fight for the Order.”

“I never said I wasn’t returning.”

“I am keeping the truth about your father hidden from you to protect you,” he said, “and to ensure that you return.”

Zayn turned abruptly and mounted her mare. Taking the reins, she looked down at her teacher indignantly, frowning. “Very well, then.” She had one last question, one that had burned to be asked since Junaid had shown her The Testament of Solomon: am I a jinniyah? But she could not utter it, for fear of what he would answer. Instead she said, “I make no promises.”

Junaid looked up at her, his dark eyes illuminated to a ruddy brown in the sunlight, his bruises faded to a faint yellow. “Make just one,” he said. “Trust no one, not even other Assassins.”

She flashed him a wry smile. “That is the only thing I can promise you.” She kicked her mare into a gallop, and within seconds Masyaf Castle was behind her. She was alone now, she was free—ostensibly. The threads of the Assassins’ influence still bound her to Masyaf like an invisible cobweb. In a way, it reassured her. She did not trust herself to be truly alone. She wasn’t certain yet that she wouldn’t crumble.

After riding throughout the day, she would stop at night at her given locations, farms and village homes where Assassin agents lived their duplicitous lives. She left the Assassin territory of Syria and reentered the Kingdom of Jerusalem, stopping only in the Christian villages that dotted the Frankish lands. The agents were farmers, potters, tanners, smiths, bakers, butchers, and sometimes even village headmen. Oftentimes, their wives and children were agents as well, meeting Zayn’s eyes with complicity, occasionally reverence.

She was not tempted—not even for a second—to visit Rafaniya. Rafaniya, the village of her birth, had never felt like home. Miriam had been home, and Miriam was dead. There was nothing in Rafaniya for her to visit.

Farther south she went, deep into the heart of the Kingdom. She rode along the coast, stopping often to marvel at the sea. The coastal cities sat tilted toward the Mediterranean, their flat-topped roofs and domed churches surrounded by walls and studded towers. Frankish galleys and lateen-rigged fishing boats bobbed together peacefully on the sparkling water. In Tyre, she stayed with a fisherman and watched in awe as he drew his nets, glittering with the scales of twisting fish, from the waves and into the boat. She could have stayed longer there, for the salty air was a wonderful antidote to her dark moods. But her mission pressed her on.

Acre, the foremost port of the eastern Mediterranean and the primary source of the Kingdom’s wealth, left her breathless. Its domes, spires, and minarets shimmered white in the sun, contrasting brightly with the aquamarine water. Ships from Venice and Genoa and even farther away crowded the harbor, a forest of galleys and pinnaces, all laden with goods. A caravan of bedouin camels traipsed through the dust, carrying bolts of silk and bales of spices. The low houses and narrow streets sprawled in all directions and teemed with activity, making Zayn feel tiny and insignificant. This is the world outside Rafaniya. I am finally here. As she made her way through town, her eyes rested on the enormous citadel in the distance, the massive walls that protected the city, the Jerusalem Cross flapping in the wind.

John Zachariah’s manservant, dressed as a textile merchant, greeted her as planned. Within the privacy of his shop, she transformed from merchant’s boy to noble’s niece. She was given a large chest of clothing that belonged to “Sara,” and as Zayn rummaged through it, she held her breath. Silk gowns of green, blue, pink, and russet were carefully folded inside, fit for a princess. A woman emerged, plump and unassuming, carrying a bowl of scented water. Her name was Heba, and she eyed Zayn curiously, with a hint of awe, as she helped sponge the young girl down. Annoyed, Zayn wondered why the woman stared so, then remembered that the Assassins had never had a woman among their elite ranks before. Certainly, there were lesser female agents among the Assassins who spied and reported back to Masyaf, but there had never been a female Faithful One, an agent trained in the art of murder. Zayn was the first, and therefore, a source of wonder to any of the minor agents of the Order.

Heba passed her a light cotton chemise and began to arrange her damp hair. Zayn’s thick black hair was parted in the middle, braided into two plaits that were folded and brought around her head, then fastened at the top with a fillet. All the while, Heba eyed the girl’s taut brown body, ruined by so many scars, and frowned. Zayn could feel Heba’s disapproval like hot iron on her skin and had to will herself not to rip away. Rather, she focused getting dressed quickly in order to leave sooner. When Zayn finally donned one of the silk gowns, she heard Heba’s sharp intake of breath. Zayn bristled, irritation shooting through her at the sensation of the gown’s tight, soft caress. It was form-fitting, hugging the curves of her breasts and hips, and she wanted nothing more than to tear it from her body. She’d grown fond of the freedom and concealment men’s clothes had given her. She was no longer genderless, wearing this gown. She was very much a woman, and she hated it. Filth. Filth.

With a braided belt around her waist, a fine veil over her hair, and just a hint of kohl around her eyes, Zayn was prepared to reenter the world as Sara. She threw on a light riding cloak and was back on her horse, following Gabriel, John Zachariah’s manservant, out of Acre and to Jerusalem. Two men, servants of Zachariah who were armed with crossbows and swords, accompanied them. They are meant to protect me. She could not contain the insolent smile that broke across her face as she traced the outline of the dagger she’d slipped beneath her cloak.

The ride from Acre to Jerusalem lasted only a day, but the day stretched endlessly beneath the desert sun. Zayn watched the Frankish pilgrims, some on horseback and some on foot, trudge bleakly toward the holy city. Among them were knights, monks, merchants, and peasants; dirty-faced children with cracked lips lay listlessly against their mothers and fathers, flies swarming about them. One woman, her face bright red and drenched with sweat beneath her heavy woolen cloak, swayed on her feet and crumpled to the sun-bleached ground. Zayn tugged at her skirts and hopped from her horse, much to the dismay of her escort, and dumped the contents of her water skin on the woman’s face and into her mouth. The woman’s husband approached, his toothless mouth open in surprise, and Zayn snapped, “She needs water. Remove her cloak, for heaven’s sake, or she will die under it in this heat!”

They continued to ride down the pilgrim road, when suddenly out of the bone-dry brightness emerged Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock, scintillating like a golden mirage on the horizon. A mass of pilgrims poured through David’s Gate, and Zayn gazed at the armed guards on the ground and above, on the wall and in the tower. She couldn’t help but count them, assess them. Muslims and Jews were forbidden in Jerusalem, and Zayn felt very much like a spy entering the lion’s den. The streets within the walls were crowded with both human and beast, jostling for space to move in the narrow, winding roads. What Zayn had seen of cities had not prepared her for this, and she was assaulted by the stench of human excrement. Beggars pulled at her skirts, stretching their disfigured hands out to her in supplication. Blind, legless, leprous—they were all there, hiding in the shade. A one-eyed woman, cradling a tiny baby, peered up at her from within a worn, sun-beaten face. Zayn tossed down her coins and tried to shut the woman—all of them—from her mind. She had never seen such human suffering. And this in the holiest of cities.

Pressing their way into a thoroughfare that was vaulted with stone, they found themselves in an open market, surrounded by shops and stalls selling everything from honey-drizzled sweetmeats to fresh fish. Zayn was dazzled by the vast array of people, as colorful as the clothes they wore. A pale Armenian shopkeeper counted his bezants as a swarthy farmer in a green turban stood by waiting. A sable-haired woman, her hands stained with purple dye, carried a basket of cloth on her head past an enormous Frankish knight in mail, the yellow cross on his shoulder. The knight debated something with an infantryman wearing leather breeches and a Danish axe. Beyond them, a Norman nobleman, dressed in silk and velvet, rode his Arabian steed through the crowd, pushing past donkeys and camels. Zayn shook her head in wonder. All these people, going about their daily lives together, in peace.

Gabriel led her and the guards down the thoroughfare and after several turns into impossibly narrow streets, stopped at a house some distance away from the bustle of the busy markets, in the Syrian Quarter. The house was ensconced between others similar to it, all flat roofed and wooden doored, sharing smooth stone and mud walls over which flowering vines crept in a beautiful cascade. They dismounted, and Gabriel rang the copper bell that hung beside the door. Gabriel ushered Zayn inside, past the turbaned doorman, as others led their horses to the stables. Inside, the house was dark and cool, and she heaved a breath of relief. As she removed her mantle, she glanced around at the paved marble floors, white-washed walls, and exquisite Persian rugs. There were wooden chairs and benches inlaid with mother-of-pearl and padded with embroidered cushions. A large cross of polished wood adorned the center wall.

“Ah Sara! Welcome!” John Zachariah padded quickly down the hall to her, then took her hands in his. He was not a small man, broad-shouldered, if soft, and he wore a long white robe and indoor shoes. He had a cropped, graying beard and very black eyebrows. Though he smiled warmly at her, something about his eyes made Zayn believe he had once been a Faithful One—a killer. Like me.

“You must be exhausted from your journey,” he said. “Please, come and sit. Have a refreshment.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Zayn replied, following him from the hall and into the courtyard. Gabriel nodded to her from a corner and disappeared. She could hear water spilling from fountains and rushing through channels that ran into the houses. Behind the sound of running water were the voices of women in conversation. Sitting in the shade of an orange tree were three women, one older than the other two. Aunt Yasmina…cousins Elisha and Eve… The older woman, Yasmina, rose and kissed each of Zayn’s cheeks; the younger ones dutifully followed suit. She sat and graciously accepted a cup of sherbet, answering Yasmina’s questions about her trip, Acre, and her “father,” Safed, just as she had rehearsed with Aysha. Over the course of the afternoon, it became clear that Yasmina understood the ruse, whereas her daughters did not. Elisha, who was Zayn’s age, kept gazing at Zayn sidelong, suspicious, as though appraising her competition. Zayn hid her smile. I’m not going to steal any of your handsome suitors, Cousin, don’t worry.

Both she and Elisha were going into service at King Baldwin’s Court, but Elisha was to serve Baldwin’s sister, Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem. Zayn could tell that Elisha was full of self-importance on account of it. As Zayn readied for bed that first night in Jerusalem, she thought about Elisha and living among women and their petty dramas for several months. She would have to learn to cope and even participate if she wanted to blend in. She lay against the sumptuous feather mattress, picking at the skin of her lips. How would she learn to concern herself with her appearance, to giggle over young men, when those very things made her skin crawl with self-loathing?

The answer to her question awaited her in the courtyard when she finished dressing the following morning. The maid who had helped dress her slipped from the room, and the sound of men’s voices outside compelled Zayn to crack open her door and peek out. She caught a glimpse of the back of a knight as he spoke to Uncle John, and her blood ran cold: he wore the unmistakable white mantle emblazoned with a red cross.

A Templar.