The Serpent's Veil

Blood Promise

Tears which had crawled back into her eyes now emerged again, trailing down her oily skin. She had never felt so ugly and helpless and broken.

She closed her eyes and cried silently into the night.

X

They rode hard and fast back through the city, Rehan on a black gelding with one hand on the reins and the other clutching his shoulder, and a soldier with the boy on another. The boy pressed his neck to help stifle the slow bleeding, the cut was not deep but if not attended to could be fatal. Rehan pushed the horse on, each jolt from its gait squeezing more blood from his wounds. The pain was blinding now, every part of him screaming for release. The lights grew brighter as they approached the western quarter, the polished tiles of the blue mosque reflecting the orange incandescence of flames. They were almost there.

"Open the gates!" the Reyan shouted from behind. Rehan hadn't even noticed they had already arrived at the governor's residence. The gates flew open just as their horses rushed past the threshold, startling one of the gamesmen. Rehan's vision grew blurry as he slowed down to a trot and tried to manoeuvre around the bushes through to the entrance. There was a light up ahead, a torch, someone coming out.

"Sayyidi!" Sharan screamed and ran forward as the reins slipped out of Rehan's hands and his body slid off the saddle. Sharan broke his fall with his own body, the white of his qamis staining deep red, a bloodstained cloud. "Rehan, Rehan! Stay with me!" He held the Prince's head up, his eyes were half lidded as he struggled to lift his hand and point to the guard.

"The boy," he murmured.

Yahya was upon them immediately, helping Sharan hoist Rehan up by either shoulder. The guard followed behind them with the boy, careful to make sure his wound was under control as they made their way inside. Amina had set up a temporary bed in one of the nearby alcoves just as they entered. They manoeuvred Rehan onto the thin bedroll as she directed them.

Rehan looked on the verge, his torso was completely drenched in blood, and the wound in his chest had only opened wider from the strain of riding so hard. His hair was soaked with sweat and grime, sticking together in places where it was caked with blood.

"Take off his shirt," Amina said, handing the Barmakis a pair of shears. Her voice was level and radiated absolute calm, in contrast to the Barmakis frenzied anxiety.

Amina pressed two fingers against Rehan's wrist, then his neck. "Get me a long knife and a firetorch, please," she said to Sharan. He hadn't the will to care for her lack of title in addressing him, and was away at once. Meanwhile, Amina procured her bag and pulled out a jar filled with a runny gel, a mixture of honey and blackseed oil, which she slathered all over the smaller cuts and bruises on Rehan's exposed torso. Once Sharan returned with the knife and the firetorch, her expression turned grave.

"Hold him down."

She poured some water on the wound in Rehan's chest to clean it, then held the knife in the fire for a time, until the iron blade was glowing a blistering red-orange. Sharan held Rehan's shoulders down so he would not thrash from the pain, though he was nearly unconscious, and Yahya moved to hold down his arms. Amina carefully aligned the flat end of the blade with the wound and pressed down.

His scream pierced through the hall, reverberating against the vaulted ceiling as his torso jerked forwards against Sharan's palms. Yahya strained to hold his arms down, silently pouring power through where their skin made contact.

Don't move. You're fine, you're fine, there is no pain. You're fine.

Rohan's eyes met Yahya's, then slowly fluttered closed. His arms finally relaxed as the maladious scent of scorched flesh rose from the cauterized wound. Amina took a deep breath, and reached into her bag again. This time she pulled out a flask and a towel. She soaked the towel generously with the liquid and gently pressed it against the wound.

"Show me the boy," she said after a moment, looking up to where the guard was still pressing against the wound on the child's neck. Yahya and Sharan paid no attention as she slathered another thick paste on the boy's neck and wrapped it in gauze. She returned to Rehan's side moment's later. His chest was rising with agonising slowness, but at least it was rising.

"He is going to be in unimaginable pain when he wakes up, he won't be able to move his arm at all.," Amina stated, her voice cold and clinical. "We need ice and black nightshade for the swelling, turmeric, eucalyptus oil, and cloves for the pain. I have all of these with me now but it will run out soon for a wound this large."

The Barmakis, now completely red with Rehan's blood, did not move.

"Please, sahib, your friend needs you," she said, touching Yahya's arm.

"He is not our friend, he is Crown Prince Rehan al-Mahdi, a vessel of the Prophet and heir to this kingdom" said Sharan. He was neither angry nor morose, merely tired. Amina's mouth fell open in shock.

Yahya placed his hand over hers. "We will procure everything you need, sahiba, thank you for your service."

Amina was still reeling. "I... yes, I will remain here then." This was the last thing she had been expecting from a late night call.

"We should call for Tahir," said Yahya suddenly, looking at Sharan. His eyes widened fractionally.

"Yes, I will go." The coops would have pigeons for Baghdad, it would probably take them two days to deliver their message and Tahir another week to reach. Still, it was to their advantage to have him, no matter how late. "We need to see whether the men need reinforcements too," he added.

Yahya turned to the soldier and dismissed him, leaving the little boy alone with him and Amina. His neck had been thickly bandaged, the red dot of blood hardly the size of a fingernail now. He seemed calm for what he had just witnessed.

Amina tried to reassure him with a smile, and beckoned him away from Rehan's unconscious body. But the boy did not follow her, instead he walked up to him and looked down at his face, at the gore of his cauterized wound. He opened his palms, kneeled, and prayed. Yahya and Amina looked on with shocked expressions, but did not reprimand or pull him away. Once the boy was finished he turned to them, fidgeting with his fingers. They would have to decide what to do with him.

"Do you have a place I can stay?" Amina asked. "We need to move the Prince somewhere clean and spacious where I can continue monitoring him."

"I will have to ask Firaz." He paused. "Actually there is a wing that is empty, the diplomat's spousal wing, but it is far and isolated from the rest of the residence, I don't know if it will suit your purpose."

Just then, the man himself descended upon them with a retinue of servants trailing behind. "Oh I lament this day!" He exclaimed upon seeing Rehan's body lain on the thin, blood-soaked bedroll. "We must move him up to the private halls." He gesticulated to the servants behind him, then suddenly said, "Amina! What a relief they called you, pleased follow us."

The servants, with grunts of effort and strain, slid Rehan's bedroll onto a wooden palanquin they would lift by hand. Yahya and Amina, with the latter holding the boy's hand, followed the group as Firaz led them down a set of halls Yahya was still not familiar with. They finally stopped at a nondescript door and Firaz pushed it open. The room was already lit with candles, but was otherwise untouched. The men fanned in and manoeuvred themselves so they could carefully slide Rehan's limp body onto the bed without disturbing his wound. After the chaos calmed, Amina asked for more supplies, and she and Yahya got to cleaning Rehan's remaining wounds. The boy watched from the other end of the room in silence. Suddenly, when the pair had almost finished their work, he whispered, "Long live al-Mahdi."

The silence heard it.