As Zur’adi clambered up over the rocks, I could not see the beauty of the stretch of mountains and the valleys anymore as I had on the journey here. No, I could only see Firthun’s eyes in the moment before they were empty of light; they would not leave me.

“Waqar Marouf is a strange man,” Imraan said as he nudged his horse to move faster over the cliffside. “But he is one of the most reliable men I know.”

“What in the name of the Creator makes you trust him?” I said. “He could be an infiltrator for all you know. The damned man served the emir. He was a Shayfahan.”

“Kutulun was Shayfahan.”

“And I never trusted her for a second.”

“Yes, I saw that when you had a dagger to her throat.” Imraan let out a sound like a half-laughter. “But you have to understand…that they were able to defect, to choose to leave the Shayfahan…they have shown more honor than most.”

I did not want to hear of their honor.

The feeling of my own powers surging through my fingers into the soldier’s neck, the feeling of my own sense of disregard for the emotions I felt of my enemy, of anyone…I had never felt that before.

And the bodies scattered in the square.

Despite the Shayfahan’s strength and armor, once Imraan led the rising Jhansari towards them, the remaining Shayfahan began retreating from the sheer volume of the crowd bearing down upon them. And that was our advantage, you see, Imraan said after, they had not expected the Jhansari to rise.

We lay Irfan down, but he would not open his eyes. No one knew what the mizaran helmet had done to him.

When the others had gone, I watched Imraan from around the corner of the doorway, kneeling by his friend’s bed. “Damnit Irfan, wake up,” he kept saying, holding his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry that I took Liassam that day. I’m sorry I took him from you.”

Sometime the next day, Irfan ad-Din opened his eyes.

He was alive, but when he tried to sit up, he screamed. Asfan, who had been sitting with him at the time, thought it was the helmet again.

But it was not the helmet, as it turned out. No, the historian, the scholar who knew nothing but his books and his writings and his ink, could not move his fingers. The damage to his mind could no longer send signals to his hand.

For days, Irfan stared at the wall as if he wished he had died after all.

Imraan could not bear to see him, and when we left from Arassan to head for Faisalgard, he left without a word.

“Why couldn’t you at least visit him for a second?” I demanded, but Imraan wouldn’t answer me.

He was quiet the rest of the way as we set off towards Faisalgard, where we would meet the defector named Waqar Marouf to build allies for the Jhansar’s rebellion.

Surayyah stayed behind to train the recruits, and Tariq said he needed to be in homeland again for a little while.

And so we set off towards the city south of Arassan, known for its rains and its endless range of fruits and delicacies brought over from the sea trading routes.

Imraan rode away from me, his eyes dark, the half-laughter from a moment ago already faded.

“It was not your fault, you know,” I said after some time.

The narrow mountain road led us close to a cliffside wall on the right and a sheer drop to the left. We had to ride so close to the right that we brushed the wall of lush green ferns drenched in dew. I could closely see each crevice of rock which had become home to varieties and shades of mosses of all forms. Everything smelled damp here, and the misty fog sank into the fabric of our tunics and cloaks, cooling on our skin.

“I took their brother from them, and —” Imraan’s voice broke. “Ali…Asfan’s son, Rahena —”

I rode up alongside him as close as I could on the narrow uphill path. He stopped Yur’a quickly, reining her in. “What are you doing?” he cried, turning to me. “You’re going to fall off the edge, Rahena!”

But I stopped Zur’adi, too, and this time she listened calmly, pawing the ground for just a moment.

I looked him in the eyes as we stood still upon the mountain shrouded in fog, with barely the next step visible before us. Hints of fragmented green peered out through the fog, but everything else was given up to the whiteness.

This close, I could distinguish the fleck of warm yellow in the man’s umber eyes, shaded by dark curved lashes. His scar appeared deeper here, upon this grey mountain with its lack of light that did not pierce the mist. The scar ran down from below his eyes in a slant ending halfway to his jaw. The dark gleam of his hair framed his features.

“You ignited hope, Imraan,” I said, my voice breaking. I held in my eyes the taut thread that was his gaze, so powerful that I could feel its pull. “And that will change the course of everything.”

I pulled away from the tug of the thread, and it broke. He said nothing, and I reared Zur’adi backwards to the edge. We continued on up the hill.

By the time we descended through the fog into the shrouded city, the light had faded. Here, you could hear the roar of the distant sea and the bleating of wayward lambs.

We entered a muddy crisscross of roads lined with low shops and cottages. Everything smelled of the earth, brought forth by the incessant rainfall.

The evening had brought clusters of men laughing and smoking by the entrances, warm light spilling out from open doorways.

As I looked closer, I saw that every doorway was unique, adorned in the center with bronze-work carved in the heads of falcons, foxes, lions, and even what seemed like mardhykhor beasts in the shape of a half-hawk and half-lion. Yet the rest of the structures were simple, made of clay or stone.

“They have the best lemon sweets,” Imraan was saying as we walked down the muddy streets with the horses’ reins in our hands.

“They make it with this combination of bellflower, it’s unbelievable,” Imraan said, watching the shops. “And their dewberries with honey, you’ll love them. I need to remember to take back some ma’moul figs for Maryam and Omar. The little demons won’t leave me alone if I forget.”

The people of Mazandran did not seem to care about travelers and newcomers. The trade posts at the southern coast brought all sorts of foreigners from across the Ardth, from across the sea from Orasan, the islands of Al-Asriya, and even distant lands like the Shan’asa. Textiles, exotic fruits, crafted pottery, even certain strange books were brought forth through here.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“The bellflower,” Imraan said. “Was exported here directly from Shan’asa, until it became part of many Faisalgard recipes. And a blessing it was, too.”

The men did not even cast us a wary glance as we passed through towards a ramshackled caravan-house house. The door was marked with a carved mardykhor head, the sharp beak of a hunter bird with the mane of a wild lion.

Inside, men gathered across every corner amidst plumes of tobacco smoke and tea.

A boy of around fifteen ardth-circles’ with braided hair carried two trays of steaming cups in both hands; another tray was balanced in a gap created by a chador wrapped around his waist to his shoulders. He whirled around the room as he dropped each tray off to their destinations. “Make way for the chai, make way for the chai!” He called.

We sat down in a cramped corner with a dish of mutton in date-sauce and a honey-drenched cube of what Imraan described as a bellflower delicacy, complete with yellow leaves.

As we ate, I felt eyes upon me and glanced up. Two men smoking their tobacco from a corner watched us. They seemed to be laborers, dirt and soot staining their faces.

They were at the edges of a group gathered around a corner, listening intently to a tall man sitting in the center. How had I not noticed him before? For now I saw who the tall figure was — he wore the intricately-worked zardi-robes of the Royal Ministrels, complete with the golden band encircling his arms that marked his position as a royal traveling ministrel.

I had not set eyes upon a Royal Minstrel in a long time, not since one had appeared in Bayrun years before the Second Purge. Curious, I tried to distinguish his words over the raucous, swaying crowds as Imraan dug into his mutton.

But I noticed the men’s eyes still roving over Imraan and I.

“Imraan,” I leaned in to whisper to him. “ I think we are being watched —”

A black gloved hand settled on my wrist. My eyes followed the hands up to black leather-covered arms up to a hooded face. I knew that face.

And I hated it.

My hands scrambled for my dagger at my sides, as Imraan eyed the stranger.

“You,” I whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Kutulun,” Imraan said. “What on the Ardth. You’ve come here all the way far from your horses?”

Kutulun’s high cheeks and dark raven hair peered out beneath the shaded features, a sharp light in her eyes. Her cool voice emerged from the hood as she still gripped my arm: “I swear to you I am not here to hurt you, Rahena of Bayrun.” She gestured to the dagger at my hands. “You better put that away, because you will want to hear what I have to say.”

Reluctantly, I did so, but my eyes did not leave her.

“Come with me,” she whispered. She headed towards the back of the room behind a standing wooden divider, where crates of yellow bellflower leaves were piled high.

“What is going on, Kutulun —” Imraan began, following her.

“I have been tracking you for the past day and a half. You can’t stay here, Imraan,” Kutulun said.

“And why ever not, dear begum Kutulun?” He folded his arms. “You’re dragging me away from my bellflower sweets.”

“I am serious, Imraan. They know where you are now,” she said. “Listen.” She motioned behind the divider.

Hidden from view by the crowds, we were closer to the group I had been watching gathered around the Royal Ministrel. I could pick up the traveling Ministrel’s voice now over the din:

“…as he butchered children in their sleep and bashed women’s skulls in. Imraan the Traitor led the massacre of Arassan, and the blood is on his hands,” the Minstrel’s liquid voice murmured.

“A sick monster,” someone in the crowd said. “That man is not human, I tell you.”

Imraan’s features remained smooth, but I saw his fingers curl, and something cross his eyes.

Kutulun said, “Do you see what I speak of? Across every town and city the Royal Ministrels are spreading this.”

“…and the sorceress joins him in his rampage,” the Ministrel continued. “She is said to kill with just a touch. They have no mercy. Keep your eyes open for them, the Traitor’s scar and the dark-eyed witch. Emir Salman will reward you for your honesty to the empire.”

“Oh, we’ll find them,” another voice said. “We will show them a taste of their merciless work.”

Kutulun grabbed us, heading through the back where only a single candle on the wall illuminated a room lined with crates of dried herbs and more yellow flowers and dates. Kutulun pushed open the back door and we were out in the cold damp night air.

“Every region miles away from Arassan is looking for you,” Kutulun said. “You need to leave.”

Imraan began to laugh. Kutulun and I stood there watching him as he laughed so hard until he was sitting on the muddy ground holding his head.

Kutulun slapped Imraan’s arm. “Have you been smoking the blackwater? What’s wrong with you!”

Imraan held his stomach. “What else am I supposed to do?” he said. The laughter had left him and his throat sounded hoarse. “What else is there to do but laugh at the madness of it all, Kutulun?”

“There’s no time to be an idiot, Imraan,” Kutulun said.

I knew Kutulun had returned to help us, out of guilt and a sense of responsibility or whatever it was that she thought brought her here, to compensate for her sins, and so on. But I still could not bear to look at her.

“So what would you have us do?” I asked, meeting her eyes. “If you know so well what is best for us.”

“Go back,” Kutulun said. “You both need to be as far away from Arassan as possible. Return to Ifsharan.”

“Are you mad?” Imraan exclaimed.

“The news about the massacre and the Jhansari revolt has reached Ifsharan,” Kutulun said. “The city and the village-locals are growing bolder in defying the Shayfahan.”

“I need to stay here to mobilize my forces,” Imraan said, rising from the ground. “I can’t go back now. I understand you are concerned for us, but we can handle a few lies about us. Haven’t I done it all my life?” He turned to head back inside.

“They are heralding Adnan Ilman as a ruler, protesting in the streets in Sakina Ilman’s name,” Kutulun called. Imraan halted, his back to us. “Bloodshed is inevitable there now. You know Salman will not let this go, Imraan. You know what he will do. I know him. I…” Kutulun’s voice shook. “I know what I’ve done in the past. I cannot take back the violence my hands once committed. But if I can stop something else from happening…”

A haunting grief radiated from her, a feeling of sickness. It made me angry. Not at her, no, but at myself — for feeling a shred of empathy, of understanding, for her. I didn’t want to feel it, yet I did.

Imraan turned, and I saw something in his face I had not seen before in the little time I had known him: fear.

Yet when he spoke, I knew it was not for himself that he felt it. “The unrest might spread to Cypress House,” he whispered. “They will be in danger.” He moved abruptly then, running his hands through his dark hair, his limbs agitated as he paced back and forth. He ran his hands down his face, the grey eyes wide with rushing thoughts.

“If Cypress House is in danger,” I said. “I’ll protect them with you.” He studied me as if he had never seen my face before. It was the first time I had exhibited full faith in him, the first time I offered myself willingly to do something for him.

A resolve settled in him. “Yes,” he whispered. “I suppose we must.”

Kutulun seemed relieved, relaxing her shoulders. “You’ll have to take a different route. I’ll get you safely through the south, and then you can take the road around through the ironwood forest. It is out of the way, but it is not so heavily patrolled as it emerges from the south. My people have protected those roads for decades.”

Voices came from behind the door, and the next second, it slammed open. The two men who I’d seen watching us earlier stood framed by the doorway, with three others behind them.

“It is you,” the first man said. “I knew I was not mistaken. Imraan the monster and the witch.”

The five of them emerged, carrying an assortment of sharp wood and fire tongs in hand. The leader motioned his head to another, and the man ran off inside.

“Do you really want to fight me?” Imraan said. “I hear I’m quite bloodthirsty.”

Kutulun’s hands went to her hips; but she did not draw her weapon.

A second’s worth of doubt rose in the man’s eyes. But he raised the long fire tongs in a motion of bravery.

“I don’t think you want to start this, brother,” Imraan said, his own hands at his hips now.

The man raised his metal weapon, and Imraan drew his sword, blocking it.

Kutulun grabbed my hand. “We need to go,” she whispered.

I ran with her, back around to the tree where we’d tied the horses. Quickly, I untied Zur’adi. Upset by the rush and the commotion, she reared her hooves up, slowing me down. “Calm down, Zur’adi!” I called.

“Get on the horse,” Kutulun said. “I’ll get Imraan.”

She ran off, and I untied Yur’a too and waited.

Zur’adi was huffing now, nickering and pawing at the ground restlessly. I watched the corner of the karvansary, my heart beating.

From within the open doorway, I could see others inside begin to head to the back.

The seconds stretched long and the voices rose higher. Shouts came from the back, and I thought I would not see them again. I nearly jumped back down to the ground to find them, when Kutulun emerged followed by Imraan.

The men appeared behind them a second later.

“Ride!” Imraan said.

He leaped upon Yur’a, kicking her flank, and we rode off again into the mist.