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The traveler’s lodge was an old building, slowly peeling its paper and mud. The thatched roof looked fresh, covering the interior courtyard with meaningful shade. The yard was empty but I heard voices from inside the Han’s main hall.

A line of stables ran down the walls of the front yard. A working fountain in the middle. I washed myself and scrubbed down the mule also, rubbing cold water on its neck and hind. Every time my eyes fell on my reflection, I flinched and cursed under my breath. The masked man didn’t appear again, though. It had to be a vision. A fever dream from the pain and no rest. I could have been on the road for days for all I knew. But why were you wearing the mask?

A man’s cackling drifted in from the main hall and a young woman’s too. After the mule was secure in a stall, I checked my bandages. The bleeding had been contained. My stomach grumbled violently and distracted me from my thoughts. I continued through into the main hall, limping into the darkness, and my eyes took a moment to adjust.

The sitting hall was dark and cool, the only light poking in from the vents in the roof along the corners. A few braziers were lit in the middle to avoid shadows in the center of the hall. My sweat felt cold against my skin.

Silence fell as I limped into the room and stared down who I assumed to be the Hankeeper. He wore a Turkish coat and cap, a long grey beard that was well combed. He glared at me but I assumed that was just his normal look. There was another old man beside him, with a completely opposite demeanor. While the Hankeeper was quiet and cautious, this old farmer smiled from ear to ear, “And the Angel of Death arrives for me!”

The woman beside him, his daughter I assumed, poked him in the ribs, “I told you don’t talk like that.”

“We can’t help you, man, go talk to the militia,” the Hankeeper said and waved me away.

“I’m fine—”

“Go to the northern gate.”

“I’m fine, brother.”

“Leave the boy be,” the farmer said.

“Do you want some coffee?” the woman rose, adjusting her blue shawl around her head.

“Look, my daughter-in-law does your job for you,” the old man reprimanded the Hankeeper.

The woman wore robes of the royal colors, of purple and gold, with an embroidered songbird that seemed to flutter as she crossed hall. The way in which the parted silk waved, and the grounded hem of gold glittered in the dim light, the braziers seemed to flicker, and I couldn’t help but imagine a cool breeze brush my face.

“May I be your ransom,” I said as the young woman offered me a hot bowl of strong coffee. I took the the bowl and settled down on a cushion by the entrance and looked up to find all of them still staring at me.

“Looks like a thug, talks like a prince,” the old man said. “Where you from?”

“Hims,” I said, and hoped they wouldn’t ask me anything further about it. The old man got up from the Hankeeper’s counter and hobbled over. The young woman helped him sit down beside me and I offered him my cushion. He patted my hand away, “I prefer the ground.”

A shock of emotion ran through me again at the old man’s touch. It wasn’t enough to linger but I felt his excitement for a moment. He was happy to chat up a stranger.

I rubbed my hand, where Musa’s fingers had connected. I could still feel the remnants of his mood, like a scent hanging around me, and I could taste the flavor. Excitement, joy, curiosity. I was the source of this magic. Not this farmer, or Yaseen. You can’t touch anyone. Not anymore.

“My name’s Musa,” the farmer pointed to himself, “this is Mina.” He motioned for the woman to join them as well. “Are you looking for a wife?”

“Ignore him,” Mina said, “He tries to marry me off to anything with two legs.”

“Anything’s better than being stuck with me, girl. You need someone.”

“Stop it!” Mina said, a little embarrassed this time.

They’d lost a son or a husband. It seemed I was not a part of this conversation, not really. Musa was using me to get to this poor woman. What is he planning?

Musa leaned over to sniff my bowl.

“Let him drink his coffee, aba,” Mina said.

“You’re hurt!” The old man pointed at my thigh, where my makeshift bandage was spotting. “Have you been fighting?”

For the first time, both the man and his daughter-in-law looked fearful; like they’d made a mistake sitting with me. Use this. Make them go away.

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“It’s under control,” I said quickly. “Yaseen went out to fetch a physician. Maybe I should go after him.”

“The Abbasi boy?” they said together. “You know him?” Mina added.

I nodded, “I met him earlier when I was… when I arrived.” When you forgot your name of all things. When you were too weak to walk. When you had to depend on the mercy of a child!

“That boy probably got distracted by a rabbit and you’ll bleed to death,” Musa said with a chuckle, “Is there a maneater about?”

Maneater was a middle kingdom phrase. I immediately thought of the word Yazid-zai, a northern word for big game blight. That meant I was from one of the free cities of the north. Shayzar.

“No, I fell off my horse,” I said. Which would explain my sword as well, I hoped. They’d been eying it too but hadn’t asked. “But I’m not a cavalier,” I explained; no point claiming titles before I even knew my own name. Or your face.

A chill fell on my shoulders again at the thought of the man in black in my own reflection. You know what you saw. You were wearing the golden mask.

“No shame in an Arab carrying a cavalier’s sword,” Musa carried on, thinking I’d felt unworthy. “It’s our tradition. The first cavaliers were Arabs. The best still are! These easterners think they can come in our land and force a spear on us to guard the market stalls like their personal hounds.” The old man recited these words like a well-practiced speech he’d given many times before. “We’ve let them run all over us.”

“Maybe we should do what the Bedouins do,” Mina replied sarcastically, “live like it’s the blessed years and pretend no one else exists.”

Musa continued unfazed, “They’ve killed us all in their wars. Yaruq the Tall was the only one who—”

“Uff! Not this again, aba.”

“No, no. You don’t respect the fight—”

“Please let the poor man drink,” Mina tried to end the argument. She seemed increasingly uncomfortable and I worried it was my presence. But something told me they’d had this argument many times before and Musa’s words came practiced and quick. So why should you feel guilty for her discomfort? It was her own father-in-law arguing with her.

But I couldn’t help feel her shame gathering around me. She bit her lip, averted her eyes. She felt exposed and I was intruding and Musa didn’t see it, or didn’t care to stop.

“It’s about unity,” Musa continued forcefully, “That’s what we were fighting for. What Usman was fighting for.” His voice cracked when he mentioned that name, and Mina reacted sharply.

“I need to head back,” she stood abruptly, and the old farmer shut his mouth; perhaps realizing he’d gone too far.

“Sumayra works you too hard,” Musa replied.

“Yes, well, one of us has to pay for your beans,” Mina said, trying to speak lightly again. She bowed to me, “I’ll make sure Yaseen has gone to the bimaristan for you.”

“Thank you,” I said while Musa muttered under his breath, “Better a coffee addict than a hashi.”

As Mina left, Musa took another strong sip of my coffee and handed back to me an empty bowl. “What’s your name, again?”

“Munqidh,” I replied, not giving a family name after it. You don’t have a choice in your ignorance.

“You’re related to the Abbasi family?”

“No, I—”

“Well, son of the wind, you must come to my home. It seems I owe you a bowl.”

“Thank you for the offer, aba. Can I ask you a question?”

“Are you looking for militia-work?”

“I need to ask you something about a man wandering the roads here.”

“Who?” Musa asked, eyes squinting under his thick, grey brows.

“He was armed and blocking the road to Salamiyya, He wore a golden death mask.”

“A death mask?”

“Yes, and black clothes.”

The old man scratched his chin. “Cavaliers around here don’t dress like that. A death mask? Are you sure?”

“Yes, why?”

“Death masks are a very Shayzari thing to do. Those are the only bastards who still wore those during the war.”

Balak…

“Balak wore a death mask of his victims,” Musa continued, and my breath caught as he repeated the name that kept coming up in my thoughts in different voices in different times. Musa gestured for the Hankeeper to bring him more coffee. “Another cup for you?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said casually and wiped my sweating forehead. Balak…the name was familiar. I repeated it several times in my mind until it seemed I’d heard it often in my life. But always in different voices. And they called to you, didn’t they?

“Were you there?” Musa asked.

“Where?” I replied. The Hankeeper was standing over us, filling Musa’s bowl with a fresh, sweet smelling roast.

“Did you see them fight?”

“Who?”

“The duel!” Musa exclaimed. “When Balak killed Yaruq the Tall.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. At the same time, faint memories of Yaruq swam in my mind. I pictured the tall Atabeg of Hims towering over his footmen, a head taller than most horsemen. Green flatlands stretched into twin mountains behind him. His head turned and I felt him looking straight at me. I stared into my cup, hoping the burning steam on my forehead erased his face from my mind. I knew what he looked like. I must have been there… Close.

“My dear Usman, was with our Atabeg, the man who is our Emir now,” Musa continued. “We sent our men out to Hims near the end of the war. It was suicide.”

“What happened then?” I asked, trying to pay attention to the farmer’s words but Yaruq’s eyes still bore into me in my mind. Was it hate that I saw behind his eyes? No, he must have feared you.

“Like I said, we sent all our men out there, and then heard nothing for weeks,” Musa paused, “You sound Aleppan, if I may say. No offense.”

“Your son. What happened to your son?”

“We all waited for ransom notes, letters, anything at all but no news came. Eventually the Emir declared they were all martyred following Yaruq’s death.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, a part of me wondering if I was truly remorseful. You were the victor. Be grateful for that.

“The Emir gave us all an olive tree and told us to get on with our lives.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

“Some lives we lead, eh?”

“It seems like a quiet town.”

“Quiet?” Musa laughed, “We find ways to bicker. And the Bedouin goats keep eating our green.”

“At least there’s no blight.”

“Very few blight attacks, that’s true,” Musa nodded in agreement. He sighed, wiped his lips and made himself a bed on the floor with cushions around us.

Slowly, he curled up with his thick woolen shawl. I helped him pull the brazier closer to warm his feet. “There’s something about coffee that makes me sleep, Munqidh. And then I wake up an hour later and the moon is above me and I want to kiss it. But it moves away,” Musa reached reach out to towards my face. “I try to touch it’s shining white face, but it pulls away.”

The old man flicked my nose and quickly pulled away, chuckling like a little boy. “You barely flinched! There is something wrong you.”

He mocks you. “What do you mean?”

“How’s your leg? Still bleeding?”

I lifted my cloak and tugged on the wrap. There was no bleeding but the wound still pulsed with a dull pain. “It’s fine.”

Musa sighed, “Well, I’m shutting my eyes for a while. Try not to die too loudly if the physician doesn’t show.”

***