Footfalls on the stone floor, the soft crush of fabric rumpling, metal clinking in sheaths, and the rumble of voices cut through the deafening silence as the rebels approached, the distant ember of their torch growing into a steady lick of flame.
Rehan's body thrummed with anticipation, his open hand flexed and shoulders rigid. He knew they could not retreat; there was not enough time to make it back to the first tunnel without being discovered.
That left only one option.
Rehan could not speak to the men to relay orders, nor see a hairsbreadth in front of him, so with his heart clenched in his chest he held them by their arms and moved them in the narrow space. Two stood in front, and Farhad crouched between them. The rest stood behind, with Rehan in the centre. He dare not loose a breath until they were all in position.
Shrouded in darkness, they waited. The rebels' chatter reached them in waves, thick with a dialect Rehan did not recognise, and the closer they got, the faster his shallow breaths came. Was this fear?
He had never feared battle, even when he was barely a boy and leading an entire legion, but here in the dark, crushed so close together with no sky illuminated by sun or star, he felt his limbs tense against his will. If he did not think before striking, he could cut down one of his own.
He could cut down Yahya—
No, he could not let himself nurture the thought. Not now.
All too soon the rebels were close enough that he could discern their faces. Rehan counted five, but there could have been more obscured in the dark behind them. Their leader passed the fork in the tunnel leading back to the tearoom, waving the torch back and forth as he gesticulated to the others, still unaware of the lurking ambush in front of them.
With a deep breath of thick, stifling air, Rehan braced, and leapt off Farhad's back into the light of the flame.
He brought his blade down with a ferocious slash, cutting the leader from neck to stomach in a single stroke. The torch fell from his hands, casting his open mouthed face into sharp relief as he crumpled to the stone floor in a heap of blood and torn flesh.
They surged forward to meet the bewildered rebels. Rehan's bones shook from the crash of steel reverberating in the narrow tunnel as he arced his sword into another man's back, yanking it free in the same breath.
Blood sprayed onto his face, metallic and sweet where it dripped onto his lips.
Slow down. Control yourself.
The torchlight was fading, but there in the corner of his eye he saw a flicker, a faint outline of a dream.
"Runner!" Rehan screamed, pointed his bloodied sword in the direction of the fleeing rebel.
It was Nadir who emerged from the fray, bounding down the tunnel like a sandstorm and arresting the rebel in his choking grip.
The men were panting with exertion and fear, but it was already over. Their nine had easily overpowered the five, and the one shadow-man who was foolish enough to try and run.
Rehan dragged his sword against the stone as he walked, shearing the new silence into two. He paused to pick up the sputtering torch, now hardly brighter than a candle, and brought it to the rebel's face.
Their eyes met in the low light, and Rehan was surprised to see the man was not afraid. Only still.
Rehan felt the urge to draw blood coil around him.
"Your orders, Sayyidi?" Nadir's iron grip held steadfast, but the rebel did not flinch. His brows only creased briefly, likely in recognition of the royal title.
"Take him back for questioning," Rehan said through a clenched jaw, turning his back to them.
"Inteh mu malaki!" the rebel spat.
"No!" Yahya yelled, arm extending, but it was too late for his compulsion to take hold.
In the brief second Rehan took to look over his shoulder, the man had snatched a blade from Nadir's sheath and shoved it into his own neck. Nadir gasped and released his grip, and the rebel's body fell to the ground.
His blood leaked copiously, flowed and meandered along the dips and crevices in the stone, a red-black river cutting through a grey desert.
"What did he say?" Rehan finally murmured.
As the last of the embers threatened to wink out, Yahya loosed a long breath. "You are not my king."
X
It took hours to clear out the tunnel. They returned with fresh torches and thick burlap sacks to pull the limp bodies out, and a bucket of water to wash out the blood as best they could. The weapons they carried in hand, rusted and blunt things worn with age. They never stood a chance against the Reyans.
Rehan's face was still caked with blood when the men re-emerged from the tunnel with the sacks hoisted on their backs, mouths pulled into grim, determined lines. Yahya came through last, nodding once. It was done.
Rehan's gaze roamed over them absently as they filed out of the basement, and his eyes narrowed as he counted the men leaving.
Perhaps it was the light playing tricks on his mind.
Yahya proffered him a wet cloth and leaned against the wall beside him as he wiped away the bloodstains.
"Did Sharan give us seven or eight men? I remember seven of them came in with us while Amin waited outside, but now I see seven including him."
His friend's eyes drew downwards, half his face obscured in shadow. "Observant as ever, Rehan. Seven were Sharan's, the eighth was mine. He left before we went back in to clean up the mess."
Rehan scoffed. "To inform your father, no doubt."
"No—"
Rehan pushed off the wall and made to leave. "I trust you, Yahya. Completely and without hesitation. But I am not a child to be looked after." He tilted his chin, cutting a silhouette against the glowing light of the tearoom streaming down.
"If you deceive me again, it will be the last time."
X
The governor's estate rose around Rehan in swathes of green and white, a lush painting against the dusky pink sky. He ran his hands over the cool, smooth marble of a pillar, the watery ghost of his reflection staring back intently.
You are not my king.
The words were a slow poison replacing his blood, drowning him from within. He could hear nothing, see nothing beyond them. The bright garden flowers and gilded stucco dulled to grey smears as his vision blurred, pointed rage heating his cheeks.
He could not even recognise the dialect the man had spoken, yet his soul knew their meaning even without Yahya's translation of the dialect.
You are not my king.
Not my king.
King.
He was the only king. It was an absolute truth, made irrefutable since the moment of his birth. He had no brothers, no cousins, no uncles who could rule after his father. His mother's sisters had sons, but without a blood-bond to Al-Mansur, they could no more vie for the throne than the Barmakis themselves.
There was none other than him, and him alone.
You are not my king.
How dare such blasphemous words ever be uttered.
Rehan's fist clenched against the cold marble, and he pressed his knuckles into its unyielding surface. The veins in his forearms swelled from the tension, a map of blood rising beneath his skin that traced the path of who he was.
All at once he released his hand and let out a long, low breath. Unbridled anger would do him no good, so he turned away from his reflection and headed inside. He needed to eat, rest, and remind himself he was not alone here.
Sharan, Yahya, Firaz, all were here to guide him, though after Yahya's transgression today, Rehan did not know how much he could trust him any more. There was still something his friend wasn't telling him, and it silently scraped at the ironclad bond that held them together. Fear settled on his shoulders, mingling with the anger and stirring his thoughts into a torrent.
The hallways were mercifully silent, but Rehan knew it was only a brief respite. When he pushed open the doors to the hall of private audience he was met with a burst of raised voices and the clamour of seats shifting.
"Sayyidi," Firaz gasped, nearly tripping over himself to reach the Prince's side, then blanched at the sight of blood smeared over his face. "You are injured!"
"Peace, Firaz," Rehan sighed, "It is not my blood."
His gaze fell on Sharan, seated at the ashwood table nursing yet another cup of tea.
"No sympathy from you, old man?"
Sharan peered at him over the rim of his cup as he finished a long sip. "I have more sympathy for your assailants."
The Prince smirked, but there was no humour in his eyes as he took the closest seat and splayed his fingers over the smooth white wood. Finally, Firaz drew his shoulders back and took the seat beside Rehan's, once more the poised governor.
"Where is Yahya?" he asked.
"Still with the others. There was a lot of... cleaning up to do."
Already Rehan felt the drain of the their curious stares on him, sucking out his vitality. "We found the entrance right where your map said it would be, Firaz." He sighed again, avoiding their eyes as he spoke. "We ran into a group of themdown there... they didn't wear white but they spoke in the dialect of Damascus. Five died in the assault, and one killed himself before we could bring him in for questioning."
Finally he looked up at Sharan's face, expecting to see disappointment, rebuke even. But the Barmaki was ever pensive, his cold brown eyes seeing far beyond the room they were in.
"Is there any indication they could know you were ever down there?"
Rehan's brows creased at the unexpected question. "No... I don't think so. I told them to clear out the tunnels, remove all evidence, but—"
"The stone may yet cling to the memory of blood," Sharan completed his thought, nodding to himself. "Nevertheless, you did well."
Rehan let out a long breath, tapping his finger on the white wood. Again, he thought of the last rebel, the ferocity of his gaze in his final breaths. Could they have done something to stop him? Perhaps if Nadir had not spoken his title, the rebel would not have known the man who stood before him was the future Caliph.
Yet somehow he knew, even if he had snatched the knife away in time, bound and gagged the man so he would pose no harm, Rehan would have killed him with his own two hands just for uttering those words.
You are not my king.
"I think 'well' is a little too generous to describe the heap of dead men left in the tunnels, Sharan," Rehan finally said,"No survivors means there is no one to answer our growing list of questions, nor use as leverage against the Umayyadleaders. We still have next to nothing."
The clink of Sharan's teacup when he placed it down echoed in the hall, and in the same moment the curtains rustled, as if the sound was powerful enough to ripple across the room and send the wind dancing, calling all to attention. "We have far more than nothing, Prince Rehan."
This time, the Barmaki locked his gaze with him.
And his eyes. They all but sparkled, all but danced with mischief. He was pleased.
Even Firaz, who had thus far been a nervous tangle of energy, allowed himself a smile and said, "I know you are disgruntled, Prince Rehan, but this is good news. The rebels do not yet know that we have discovered their means of escape. For the first time since you got here, we have the advantage."
Yet despite the apparent delight of his advisors, Rehan remained tense as an arrow waiting to be loosed.
"I want to agree with you, Firaz... but I am still concerned about the blood marks. It will only be a matter of time before they discover their companions are missing."
"You are right, they will find out eventually. But you must trust that we have a solution to it."
Rehan all but scoffed. "And what solution is that, pray tell?"
The old men exchanged an inscrutable look between them, and it was clear they had already been sharing the same thought since this conversation had started. Rehan was the one playing catch up.
"We follow your instructions, Sayyidi, and announce your presence to the city. Publicly and with bravado," Sharan said.
Firaz nodded, his shoulders bobbing up and down with the movement. "It will draw attention away from our discovery, leaving us to plan an offensive."
His truth warred with theirs in his mind, sand meeting sea, but their idea slowly washed over him, quenching his doubt by a fraction. "Okay," he sighed, "What do you propose?"
Sharan shook his head. "You should rest first. Eat, bathe, sleep and we will talk in the morning."
Rehan was about to retort at being dismissed from his own war council, but a hand gently squeezed his shoulder. "You did well, young one. Leave the rest to us for now," Firaz said, smiling.
He peered at him, suddenly more tired than he'd ever been."Are you certain?"
Food, a bath, and a long, long sleep sounded like paradise to his tired bones, his clouded mind. But if he was needed here, he would push past his fatigue for as long as it took.
Firaz smiled, the first Rehan had seen since he set foot in these halls. "Us old men know a thing or two about war. Trust in us."
Sharan's mouth twitched upwards, the closest to a smile he would ever allow. "Rest, Sayyidi. You have more than earned it."
X
By the time Rehan reached his chambers, a plethora of servants had already come and gone; a tray of steaming meat and vegetables had been laid out, accompanied by a tall jug of ice cold jallab. The mixture of scents enveloped him as he crossed the room, suddenly ravenous.
He lifted the freezing jug and drank several gulps, letting the berry-red liquid pour over his lips and stain his cheeks and nose. The coldness shocked his senses into alertness as he sat on the cushions with renewed vigour and began shovelling food into his mouth. All too soon the plate was mopped clean and the jug emptied.
Rehan sighed with satisfaction, watching the still night sky through the curtains for a while before stripping off his clothes and going to bathe.
He skimmed his fingers through the still water, sending ripples through his reflection, distorting his tired features into something monstrous.
The water enveloped him in a frigid embrace, piercing his skin like twice-sharpened needles; Rehan's muscles immediately stiffened and his jaw clenched so tightly he could not open it. He was not aware of time passing, did not notice the water growing cloudier or his own body turning numb in the shock of the cold.
Eventually, he sunk into the water until his face was submerged. The patterns painted on the ceiling distorted when he looked up, turning into phantom lines and shapes. Shadows drifted and warped, faded into the plane of a cheek, gleam of pupil, jut of jaw.
The planes tilted, shapes altered, until the gaunt and ragged countenance of the rebel stared back at him, cold and vacant as if hewn from marble.
Something tightened around Rehan's throat, pressed against his chest as he stared up into that stoic, unmoving gaze. He was aware of small bubbles floating up in his peripheral vision, the air escaping his lungs and rising to the surface, but he could not move.
In the moments between blinking, more figures emerging behind this one, all draped in white. An army of rebels, getting closer and closer until it was all encompassing.
A distant sound echoed through the water as the image faded into grey smudges, the bubbles ceased, and his leaden body would not let him rise for the air his chest was screaming for.
Was it a voice? Or just the wind?
It did not matter. In seconds, his vision would fade from grey to black and he would not have to think any more.
The last light of the Caliphate.
Extinguished.
Then the world lurched, and Rehan blinked his eyes to blinding light. Someone's hand was tangled in his hair, had pulled his head out of the water at the precipice of losing consciousness.
Coughs racked his body as water spewed out of his mouth, his chest heaving with pain. He gripped the sides of the tub tightly, as if to make sure it was real and tangible. To make sure he was still alive.
"Have you lost your mind?!" Yahya bellowed at him.
The feeling of fear, of torment, the ceaseless words of the rebel echoing in his head were fading so quickly he almost forgot he had experienced any of it at all. Yahya's touch had erased every disturbing image and emotion.
He wiped his face roughly, squeezed his eyes shut. "I saw—"
"I know what you saw," shadows flashed across Yahya's eyes, "And I promise you, we will never let that happen."
His usually serene features were marred by a deep frown, his jaw stiffly set, but beneath the veneer of anger Rehan saw true concern, even fear.
Neither of them moved for a time, unable to meet the other's eye. Yahya stood above him, an arms reach away, yet the distance between them had never felt so vastly chasmic, as if they were on opposite ends of the world.
Rehan looked down at his pruned fingers. Suddenly he felt so small, so embarrassed to be caught in this vulnerable position, both his mind and body naked.
Without a word, Yahya turned around and reached for the towel hanging by the tub.
"Get out before you think of doing something stupid again."
"I hate it when you do that," sighed Rehan. He rose from the tub, the swish of water breaking the silence as he took the towel from his friend.
Still, Yahya did not face him. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"When you know what I'm thinking, how I feel, everything I am, when sometimes even I myself do not. I don't like being so... exposed."
Yahya's back was motionless, but there was a change in his aura, an almost imperceptible weight settling on his shoulders. "I'll let you get some rest," he finally said, and started for the doorway.
Again water splashed as Rehan stepped out of the tub, staining the stone floor a dark grey. A night breeze tickled his skin, sending gooseflesh rising across his exposed limbs.
"Wait, Yahya. Who did you mean, when you said 'we will never let that happen.'?"
Yahya stopped, turning his chin slightly; the flickering candles threw his eyes in and out of shadow.
"I meant all of us. Me, Sharan, Firaz, every man on the aqueducts, every man down in the tunnels with us today. We all fight for you."
Rehan nodded and smiled softly. "Thank you."
"Good night, Rehan."
When he was alone again, he dried and dressed, trudged to bed, and finally fell into the sheets. Though his friend had cured his mind of the earlier burdens of the day, a new, more disturbing thought arose.
Yahya was hiding something.
Now, he was certain.
X
Thanks for your patience while I wrote this chapter. Please let me know your thoughts in a comment or message.