Chapter 26 #2
Shay places the last cleaned plate on the drying rack and dries her hands on her apron.
She leans against the counter, listening to the clamor of snores rumble through the walls.
Unlike Ghita, the brothers revel unapologetically in their afternoon naps.
They're not opposed to morning or evening naps, for that matter.
Shay always thought a mother's love was the ultimate expression of affection, a mirror of God's care and mercy toward his creation. How was she blind for so long to love's other forms?
The love of companions who appear in your life when you need help most, and perhaps because they need you just as much.
The love of a mentor who shapes and teaches.
The love of a friend who feels like a sister, like two patterns cut from one cloth.
And the budding potential of romantic love, the kind that feels both like flying and like falling.
Unfortunately, she's learning that any love, even the most sacred, can be twisted into something that feels more like a disease, where every interaction leaves you battered and bruised. A love that consumes and consumes and consumes you.
And loving someone means that when the unimaginable happens, when you don't know what is happening to them and are helpless to intervene, it feels like your heart is being snapped in two, over and over and over again.
Shay doesn't hear Kabeer silently enter the kitchen until the swish of his long cape gives him away. She turns to find him peering out from his hood, his ghoulish features molded into a stern expression.
“That boy is at the door for you,” he says, wrinkling his nostril slits in contempt.
While Shay has been nursing Hind, she's heard no news of Khawla, but now hope rears in her chest. “Shadi?”
Kabeer grunts in affirmation, then clears his throat. “Do I need to have a discussion with him about his intentions?”
“That's very sweet of you, but no.” Shay can't help but chuckle at his almost-brotherly concern. “I shall remind you that I can take care of myself. Besides, you don't have anything to worry about. He's the last person who would ever harm me.”
“All I'm saying is, a little threatening goes a long way.” Kabeer cracks his bulbous knuckles with menace.
“Please don't.” Shay throws him a pleading look before she hurries to the front door.
Shadi has arrived with a riding cart and a donkey, a petite creature with delicate hooves the size of saltshakers and strong, steadfast eyes fringed in long lashes. Shay goes straight to the animal and pets the coarse fur between its shoulder blades.
“I see you've met Mufeed.” Shadi's voice is light, but his face looks grim.
She has never seen him look so serious. Her heart drops, her fragile hope already waning. “Is it Khawla?”
“No, no news on that front.” He tries to smile, but it's clearly an attempt to allay her fears, to ease the blow of whatever message he's been sent to deliver.
“The Morchidat has summoned you. When someone requests to join the Sisterhood, there are certain initiation protocols.
As a safety precaution, initiates aren't invited to the Sisterhood's main headquarters until the assessment phase is complete. This preliminary meeting will take place at a secret outpost.”
“Wakha.” Shay nods. That doesn't sound so bad …
He holds up a silken black cloth between his fingers, his smile turning apologetic. “It is procedure that you be blindfolded for the journey.”
Shay stares at him for a moment. It's not that she doesn't trust him. It's just … if these procedures are meant to impress upon her the enormity of her decision, it's working. “How many initiates make it through this assessment phase?”
Shadi gulps so hard, his throat bobs. To his credit, he doesn't avert his gaze. “About half.”
An uncomfortable itch spreads over her, like walking through the web of a king spider.
She was so preoccupied with whether she felt ready to join the Sisterhood, she never considered the possibility they might reject her.
Though she's sure a large number of those who go on to be rejected apply under false pretenses to start with. Hence, the need for precaution.
“What happens to the other half?”
He takes a moment to stare at her now. “I won't let anything happen to you.”
Not an answer. But Shay is no longer sure she wants one.
She feels each slope and sway of the cart, the comforting squeeze of Shadi's hand, the press of his thigh against hers.
He smells fresh and earthy, like apples and cardamon and rain.
The daytime sounds of Ard Al-Ghul are more like her medina than she would have thought.
Muted voices chatter. Feet thud in a heavy rhythm. Livestock squawk and bray.
In time these noises fade. The tenor of Mufeed's hooves changes, indicating they have traded the clay road for another surface. The clomps carry a hollow echo that sounds like wood. Below that, the faint ripple of water. A bridge?
Her legs are unsteady when Shadi finally guides her off the cart. Tall grass swallows her knees and clings damply. She hears the thrum of insects, feels them bump and bounce off and around her. Salt and mud scent the air. A door creaks, and Shadi instructs her to watch her step.
He guides her across a floor with wobbly boards and gently pushes down on her shoulders until her bottom meets the hard seat of a chair. Vague light flickers through the blindfold.
“I'm going to wait outside,” Shadi whispers near her ear. “My mother will be with you soon.”
Soon turns out to be long enough for Shay to perceive the temperature around her drop, an indication the sun is setting. A cool breeze brushes her skin, she assumes from an open window. It carries in the ongoing insect chorus, now swelling to a raucous volume.
“You can take the blindfold off,” the Morchidat says. Shay heard no one enter the room.
She reaches behind her head and unties the fabric.
The only light is the soft glow of a candle, but even that leaves her blinking as her eyes readjust. The space is cramped and utilitarian, obviously designed for temporary accommodations.
Opaque curtains cover a single window, but when the wind ruffles them, Shay glimpses dark stretches of greenish water, the gray bark of trees.
Trees that appear to be growing in the water. A swampland?
“Tea?” The Morchidat sits opposite Shay across a square table.
It takes Shay a moment to decide which sister is which.
Yara, sitting on her mother's right, isn't smiling the way she did at their first meeting.
Her eyes are red and weary. Shay thinks she may have cried recently.
Over Khawla, or Walid, or something else, Shay can only speculate.
Marjan sits to her mother's left and glares at Shay accusingly.
She gratefully accepts the warm glass she's offered, letting the minty steam waft into her face. It soothes away some of her disorientation.
“What news do you have to report about the hjabats?” the Morchidat asks, getting right into it. “Has Hind provided useful information?”
“Not yet, Sayeda,” Shay says meekly. “Her state is fragile. She is with child and deep in the throes of withdrawal.”
“So you haven't asked,” the Morchidat says flatly.
Shay sips her tea, thinking there's no good way for her to respond.
The Morchidat certainly doesn't want to hear about her issues with Hind.
And it's no excuse, is it? She should have been more direct instead of waiting for the right moment to broach the topic.
Of course, it would have been difficult to ask her anything when she was at her most ill.
But she was well enough to talk earlier today.
Well enough to pull the lynchpin of Shay's world with a few well-timed words.
The Morchidat sighs. “Yassine tells me you wish to join the Sisterhood.”
It takes Shay a moment to remember she's referring to Shadi. She sets her tea glass down, nodding. “Yes. I want to do whatever I can to help bring Khawla back. I've already been inside the kasbah once; I can do it again.”
The Morchidat is quiet, sipping her tea while regarding Shay over the rim of the glass. Lowering it, she says, “It's your fault she was taken. You owe me a fighter.”
She states it without accusation, as though it is a point of data to be calculated.
Marjan crosses her arms over her chest. “Khawla is worth ten fighters.”
Shay's throat burns, and not from the hot tea. She nods again, firmly. “I'll get her out of there.”
“No.” The Morchidat wags a finger. “Khawla can take care of herself. Yassine tells me we have someone on the inside who will assist her. You will take Khawla's place until she returns, and as a new recruit, you must perform a task to prove your worth.”
“S-sayeda …” Shay stammers, confused. If not for Khawla, wouldn't the Morchidat want to send a team in to save her son? “I believe the women held in the kasbah are being abused. It is dangerous for Khawla to remain there.”
Shay sees Yara biting down on her lip in a struggle to maintain her composure. Her eyes glisten, but no tears fall. If the Morchidat notices her daughter's distress, she ignores it.
“Khawla will have to wait.” The Morchidat's tone brooks no argument.
She flattens her hands on the table and takes an even breath.
“Our astronomers have predicted that in one moon's time, there will be a portentous meteor shower, the likes of which have ushered in many historic events. They say the success of our mission hinges upon having all the hjabats in our possession at the time of this celestial occurrence.”