Something ancient emanated from Arassan.

I caught a glimpse of the city through the evergreens as we rode up the winding mountain path. To the east, towers and minarets rose into the skies. The whiteness of the skies was reflected in the stolidness of the rocky cliffs across, an inane stillness held in its walls.

At the edge of Khardin’s world, this distant cliffside region smelled of seamoss and salt. Even this scent felt ancient to me, as old as the ocean and the things beneath the surface.

It was a land of winding alleys as unruly as the ocean it faced, stone houses scattered along narrow roads in a crisscross of tenements. The weaving hilly roads within every nook of the cobblestoned paths and hidden steps through passageways.

Among these streets had grown the poet Shamsi who’d penned the The Age of Kings, which recorded the long wars and battles for the region of Khardin; where Abu Saran the great philosopher and physician had arrived from his village in the outskirts. Astronomers, artists and philosophers walked these streets amongst cotton traders, zardozi weavers, woodworkers, and sugar merchants alike. This is where the Era of Light was born.

Yet as we rode down the gates to the twisting city streets into the Jhansari region at the edges of Arassan, hollow eyes followed us. From behind carts, over latticed balcony windows and from doorways, street merchants, mothers and children watched with wary eyes. The grass was brown, and flowers nor weed grew on the land. Sharp bones poked through the ribs of the scattered goats and cattle that wandered through the roads.

“How unreal it feels to return,” Tariq said. “After so many years.”

Next to him, Surayyah murmured, “It always feels unreal to me, no matter how many times I return.”

Tariq’s next words rushed out as if he could no longer hold them in. “I am sorry, sister. I did not know the hell I must have thrust you into at the time.”

Surayyah looked straight ahead, head held high, stiff as stone, hands holding the reins. “It does not matter, brother. I know you were doing what you thought was the best for me at the time. For us.” But there was a hardness to her tone. Tariq shied away from the pain in her voice, unable to look at her any longer.

When no one else spoke, Imraan whispered, “Why is everything so damn still? Where are the humming of the spire-birds, and the flowers that grew each spring along the coastline? They are blackened! This could not have been from the Shayfahan, could it?”

“The Wraithtaint has changed many species of life around here, brother,” Surayyah said.

A man holding the rein of his oxen carts along the road quickly averted his eyes from them, and pulled the reins, rushing the oxen to move faster.

“They have really grown wary of strangers, haven’t they?” Imraan said.

“But I am not a stranger!” Tariq exclaimed. “I am only just returning home…” he whispered to himself. “And yet…it is a stranger to me.”

Ahead, market shops were scattered down the rows of streets, harried market-goers testing produce along ramshackle stalls and muttering to merchants; yet it felt as if the entire town existed in hushed whispers.

Along the close quarters pushing in on us from all angles, we unhorsed and walked up through the rest of the way further into the city, where haphazard shops and terraced tenements gave way to rockier, deserted paths. In the distance, the cliff rose, Abbasid’s Keep suspended over the horizon.

It rose over the city, its many towers soaring into the heavens. Its layered multifoil arches were visible from miles away.

I halted Zur’adi — I did not know whether I was yet again dreaming or awake. The silhouette of Abbasid’s Keep was as it had appeared to me in my sleep: the precise structure, the location of each tower. One of the towers on the north end blew aflame, but when I blinked and looked at it again, it was gone — instead it was in ashes, blackened with smoke and rubble.

“What’s wrong?” Imraan asked. “You are looking at it as if you have been here before. Is that something else you have not told us of, sorceress?”

“I have never been here,” I said, starting up the hill. “But I feel as if I have.”

Imraan followed me. “It is a place I have dreaded returning to.”

“Why?”

“There is someone I thought I could never face again,” Imraan said as he began the climb. “Yet it is he who called me here.”

____________________________________________

Along the cliff, species of heath curled up around us, reaching to tangle our limbs at any moment. I looked down to the sheer drop below, straight down to the city streets.

We were breathing hard by the time we reached level ground over the edge of the cliffside leading to the great iron doors of Abbasid’s Keep.

Four young men loitered outside, one of them leaning against the trunk of a winding hornbeam tree as the others laughed. When they saw us clambering up the hill, they straightened, nudging each other and shuffling over to stand before the entrance gate. They had no armor, but daggers and sword-sheaths were strapped at their sides. I realized now that some of them were merely boys.

The tallest and seemingly the oldest, with shoulder-length hair and a thin mustache, put up a hand. “What business do you have here, strangers?” He eyed our dust-and-mud stained clothes. “Where are you traveling from? The Abbasid’s Keep is under tight watch and no one is allowed in besides the scholars.” He said the final words with the tone of one who had practiced them several times and had gotten the chance to finally utter it.

Imraan approached them. “Your scholar Irfan ad-Din called for us. Tell him Imraan has arrived.”

The young man narrowed his eyes. He turned to the others behind him. “Nilo, go inside and get Scholar Irfan.” A scrawny boy with disheveled hair rushed inside.

We stood for what seemed like a long moment while the three mismatched guards watched us.

“Where do you come from, bhai?” One of the younger boys asked Imraan. His eyes were a pale blue, with long hair and warm, honey skin; he wore a sky blue shalwar and tunic.

The older boy with the thin mustache pulled him back. “Don’t ask questions and don’t be friendly, didn’t I tell you, Firthun?”

“I come from Ifsharan,” Imraan said.

Firthun’s eyes widened. “That is the Shayfahan palace.” His voice was laden with fear now. He turned to the tall one. “That is where the Shayfahan are from, Hazari.”

“We are not from the Shayfahan,” Imraan said quickly. “We heard of what happened here –”

“I’m sure you did,” Hazari said, looking at us with increasing mistrust. He raised a hand against them. “Back away now.”

Imraan raised both his hands. “Brother, we are here because we have been called here—”

“I said back away!” Hazari shouted, leaning forward to Imraan now as his hands went to the sword hilt at his hip.

“Hold on, there is nothing to get riled about –” Imraan said.

Surayyah pulled Imraan back by his collar. Tariq and I took a step back. “Yes, yes, we’re backing away,” Surayyah said. “You see?”

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Hazari did not blink, his hand having drawn the steel a few inches from its sheath.

The younger kid with the blue shalwar pulled Hazari’s arm. “They’re not posing a threat, bhai, calm down.”

Hazari’s furious glare glided over the boy as if he had not seen him.

The bronze iron gate creaked opened. The messenger boy was followed by a man in a long grey khaftan robe and a navy chador around his shoulders; his brown hair was greying at the temples, accentuating his deep-set features. He strode down the weed-strewn path beneath the misty greying skies, eyes locked on Imraan.

“Put down the blade, Hazari,” the man announced. “You don’t want to attack our guests now, do you?”

Hazari’s lithe form shifted from his belligerent stance, sheathing the inches of steel.

“But I do appreciate the dedication, my boy,” Irfan ad-Din nodded to Hazari.

“You have quite the protection stationed here,” Imraan called.

Irfan turned to him. For a breadth of a moment, the two men stared at each other, and I could feel Imraan stiffen next to me.

But the next moment, Irfan Ad-Din said, “We had to, didn’t we?” and slapped a hand on Imraan’s shoulder. “It has been a long time. You went off to Ifsharan and never thought to come back, hae?”

I saw a flicker of confusion cross Imraan’s eyes, a questioning gaze for just a moment before he laughed tentatively, uncertainly. “Ifsharan has a charm, you know, my brother,” Imraan said.

“Ho, now! Something we don’t? Now tell me, why does Ifsharan have a way of doing that? Always stealing the best of my friends. I had Mahmuddin leave several years after you did – went off to the Scholars’ Tower, what a betrayal that was. He said they ‘pay better.’ Well of course they do, the royal bastards!” He shook his head.

Behind them, Firthun whispered to Hazari, “I told you they were alright, didn’t I? I have a knack for these things, bhai.” He put a finger up to his temple to indicate the source of his perception.

“And who are your companions?” Irfan ad-Din asked, surveying the others. “Surayyah sister, welcome back.”

“Under any other circumstance, I would say it is good to see you, Irfan bhai,” Surayyah replied.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Indeed it would.”

“This,” Surayyah said, “is my brother Tariq. He has returned to Arassan after nearly ten years himself.”

“Another son returned,” Irfan exclaimed. “Good, good. It is not all a lost cause, hae?”

“And this is Rahena Ansary from Ifsharan,” Imraan said.

“Salaam, brother Irfan,” I nodded.

“She was a calligrapher at the Scholars’ Tower, can you believe it, yaar?” Imraan said. “I was surprised Ardashir ever allowed such a thing.”

Irfan ad-Din studied me, his face growing solemn. “Ardashir?” His eyes hardened. “That one has too many spies.”

“Believe me, brother Ad-Din,” I said. “I’d rather throw myself into the Al-Sahb mists than spy for Ardashir.”

“Ardashir was about to execute her,” Imraan said. He turned and grinned at me. “See, Ansary, that can work in your favor for you after all.”

“Hm.” Irfan turned towards the gate. “Come now, then.”

We went on up the path to the soaring arches of Abbasid’s Keep.

He led us through a vast hall worked in golden kufic calligraphy with interlacing ghiri patterns and Suriyan knotwork from the second century. It reminded me of the Ifsharan Scholars’ Tower, but Abbasid’s was unabashedly more regal, more ancient, whereas ours had been stout in comparison. Fires hung in braziers along the hall, lighting the Keep in a warm glow that opened up a realm different from the cold Arassan city outside.

Several men wearing shalwars with rusted talwars at their hips wandered the halls. They nodded at Irfan ad-Din.

“I don’t know if we would survive another attack. They are a good lot, the four boys,” Ad-Din said. “But you see, they are merely commoners we hired. Abbasid’s Keep never kept guards in its entire lifetime. Nor did we ever ask for Shayfahan support.”

“Why haven’t you?” Tariq asked. “Wouldn’t it have allowed the Keep to thrive without worrying about Salman?”

Irfan scoffed. “Hah! We prided ourselves on keeping our distance from the Shayfahan, of being free from Salman’s reach. The bastard on the throne can’t stand it, and I thrive on that knowledge.”

“You have always been a bit foolhardy, Irfan,” Imraan said, shaking his head. “But I suspect you get it from the air of this place. Abbasid’s Keep thrives on recklessness, doesn’t it?”

“Bah, I would rather see one standing institution that hasn’t given in to their control. What is the purpose, I ask you — of knowledge, of science, of learning — if it is twisted in the hands of the throne?”

“Your words remind me of someone I read once,” I said. “Someone who was banished by the Scholars’ Tower.”

Irfan Ad-Din looked at me. “So you have witnessed yourself the stakes of what happens when you seek knowledge and truth for its own sake. You speak, of course, I suspect, Rashid Humayun.”

“You knew him?” I asked, unable to stifle my shock.

“No — I knew of him. All the scholars did. They banished him when I was a young apprentice myself here at Abbasid’s. I remember hearing of what he had done, and I marveled at his bravery, hae? If you can believe it, I remember where I was when I heard of it; that is how striking the news was for us. I was sitting, in fact —” he pointed ahead. “Up there on a cushion reading Abu Saran when my friend Hamed rushed up to tell me what had happened. I remember thinking to myself how utterly foolish Rashid was, even as I admired him. But perhaps a certain level of foolishness is required for courage.”

We emerged into a high vaulted library. A domed ceiling evoked the heavens: the galaxies which the astronomers studied, the artists captured, and the philosophers contemplated. It was apt, Irfan said, as the various towers of the Keep belonged to a domain of scholars, including mathematicians, historians, and the once-thriving Raqini artists.

Around a central rotunda rose hundreds of thousands of shelves of books in the circular sphere, from the ground rising up all the way to the ceiling, low cushioned seats leveled along the walls. On the fourth level, several young men in robes sat in a corner inspecting a text, discussing in urgent whispers that cut off when they saw us emerge.

I gazed up at the towering spires up to the dome. Qamarah whispered in my ears: “Look at the symmetry of it all! The breathtaking geometry!”

“Let us go and you all can wash up from your journey,” Irfan said. “The Raqini towers are mostly empty now.”

“I have never seen a library so vast,” I remarked.

Irfan glanced up at the shelves above. “Oh, we have some of the most ancient manuscripts, some of them salvaged from the invasions centuries ago. Let me show you.”

Irfan led us up a set of winding staircases to the upper shelves. Illustrations from Abu Saran’s The Canon of Medicine lay spread out in display, and copied illustrations of the ancient geographer Muhammad Al-Idrisi’s map of the world lay open, vivid blue against beige land. It was the map that had led to the explorations of numerous voyagers, sailing beyond the horizons, Irfan said.

After on our way up to the Raqini Tower, we passed an observatory which opened up to a high glass dome, bleak light shining through. A young man sat nearby a telescope at the front, the only lone figure in the observatory during the daylight hours.

“It is from here that we study the heavens,” Irfan said. “Salaam, Muhammad, beta,” he greeted to the young man, who was so entranced by the notes he was scribbling that he glanced up distractedly.

“Salaam, uncle Irfan.” He noticed us and mumbled his salaams. “Sorry uncle, I come to write here in the afternoon because it is too busy in the laboratory room at this hour. I can focus better here.” He took off a pair of spectacles, wiping them on his robes before he went back to scribbling away again, his face scrunched in contemplation.

“Muhammad studies with old Osman,” Irfan told us. “Say Muhammad, how is old Osman’s studies going? This recent one fascinated me.”

“It is…mind-boggling, to say the least, uncle Irfan,” Muhammad replied, glancing up from his notes. “It…I don’t know how to explain it to you. Not even Osman does. The light…what we seem to be discovering is that light particles…they defy our observance of them…”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It is as if they are…organic, conscious.”

Irfan scoffed. “How could that be?”

“It sounds insane, I know,” Muhammad said. “But it is as if they do not want to be known. They shift of their own accord…” Muhammad seemed in a daze, gazing off up through the light filtering in the glass dome, his mind seemingly as far away as if with the sun.

Irfan laughed. “Ho, that Osman. What new thing he is concocting up, who knows. Maybe his brilliance is leaving him with age, hae?”

Muhammad swiveled to face him. “No, uncle Irfan, you do not understand. I have seen it too. I have witnessed it with my own eyes.”

Irfan grew somber, the laughter evaporating. “I will have to talk to Osman bhai myself.” Irfan turned promptly, leading us away from the observatory.

How could light act as if conscious? I wondered as Irfan shook his head, muttering to himself.

Through a narrow tower staircase, we climbed up to the northeastern section of the Keep.

Cool grey simple stones discarded the intricacy of the arabesque ghiri work. With each step, it was as if they were shedding the glorified, golden warmth of the first step in the Keep.

“The eastern Tower is the least known of all — no one much ever comes here, so you can stay here without being bothered. It has been a long time since the Raqinis were at the height of their glory. Now as they say, the Raqini are extinct. What a horrendous thing to say, yet I believe it is true,” he shook his head. “The Raqini Tower still takes up space in Abbasid’s Keep because Al-Yaser still lives. And we have all devoted ourselves for a long time to protecting the Raqini, so it is good that not many outside of the Keep know of her existence.”

“Al-Yaser is an intriguing figure,” Surayyah said.

“Oh yes, well-respected at this age, exerting influence over the lot of them up in the Order.” Irfan gripped the banister tightly with each step, his grey-brown robes brushing the stairs behind him. “But we know that the Raqini will end — once Al-Yaser is gone. Sometimes Al-Yaser thinks that it is for the good maybe.”

He halted halfway up the stairs, staring at a corner of the stone.

“What is it, Irfan?” Imraan asked.

Irfan cleared his throat. “Here is where they struck down Hamed. He was going up to warn Al-Yaser.”

As Irfan strode up the steps with Imraan, Surayyah and Tariq, I leaned down to examine the corner.

Pristinely cleaned, it was cool to the touch. As the others’ footsteps echoed away, I tasted the fear, rich like blood flooding my lungs. Through the crack where the wall met the steps, I saw a line of tinted red, left behind despite the scrubbing of the floors after the massacre.

No matter how you tried to rinse bloodshed — in the end the taint still lay beneath the walls.

I rose and walked on ahead, my lone footsteps echoing in the isolated tower.