Chapter 11 #2
Ilham beckoned her to the balcony that overlooked the courtyard, and sat her on the tiny bench.
She watched people drink, laugh and dance.
As if the citadel had not started burning itself from the inside.
As if none of them had witnessed the blazing fire that had engulfed the cistern and blackened the sky with its smoke just that morning.
But perhaps that was why they partied now.
To forget, even if it was for a few hours. Aicha wished she could do the same.
Instead, she sat in a peaceful silence with Ilham, who had offered her the bowl of watermelon.
Juices dripped down her hands, making her fingers sticky, and reminding her of when she was a child.
Her baba would laugh at her damp chin, wiping away the sweet, sticky substance as she would fight against him.
The memory soothed her, like a wet cloth cooled skin on a hot day.
The tension in her spine slowly eased, the dull ache in her arm becoming slightly easier to ignore, as she just… existed in the moment. Fatigue took hold of her then, making her eyelids heavy and her head begin to drop.
That was when something flickered in the corner of her eye. A shadow, dark and looming behind a group of laughing shawafas in the courtyard. Aicha’s spine straightened as she blinked, startled awake, but it was gone. As always, it could be described as a figment of her imagination.
“Do not fear it,” Ilham said, placing a palm on her cheek and caressing the soft skin. “They can’t hurt you.”
So she hadn’t fabricated the image, but when Aicha looked back, it was still gone.
She felt almost like a child, then, with her mouth hanging open and lost for words.
Ilham dabbed at Aicha’s face with her own sleeve to clean up the sticky juices that dribbled down her chin. When she looked up at Ilham, she found her smiling softly, uncaring of the fact she had ruined her gorgeous, intricately designed kaftan.
“It was a jinn,” Aicha stated, not really needing clarification but seeking it out all the same as she pointed towards the fountain. “I shouldn’t be able to see them.”
Fear clogged her throat, but so did fascination. All of the terrors that had plagued Aicha’s dreams, and the constant feeling that something resided inside her, accompanied her every footstep, had just been something she had only ever seen or felt. But with this, it somehow felt… validating.
Something gnawed at her then, a guilt that told her she shouldn’t feel settled by the fact Ilham saw what she saw.
Ilham was a shawafa, a person who communed with the dead and with spirits beyond their realms. All acts forbidden for Aicha.
If she chose to feel this kinship with Ilham, to accept that, maybe, whatever was inside was not just in her imagination, it would seal her fate in the afterlife.
It would pull her away from her family. But Ilham didn’t look at her as something to be feared, or something forbidden.
She simply looked at her as if she were just a young woman.
“Jinn have never walked in this realm, and so they are envious.” Ilham’s voice was almost sad, she realised. “Many fear them.”
“But you pity them,” Aicha confirmed. “You make them sound… lonely.”
Naima had once referred to them as shadows to Aicha.
She had described their gait as heavy and slow, as if they had all the time in the world.
She’d said their forms were black, but never solid, and Naima could only ever describe them as akin to smoke—fingers long, almost sharp.
It should have scared her, but instead it left fascination blooming in her chest. Deep down, Aicha was forced to admit that she always knew what she occasionally saw was a jinn.
“It is wise to not fear them,” Ilham said, “a smart shawafa can bend them to her will if she does not fear them.”
“But…” Aicha stammered, her brows furrowed in confusion. “We’re not supposed to see them. I’m not supposed to see them, it’s haram.”
“You worry too much,” Ilham said quietly, voice tender as she placed a hand on Aicha’s shoulder, pushing her hair back. “Merely seeing beyond the living realm is not a sin.”
Lala Ilham seemed to forget how much time Aicha spent with Naima though, because she knew that jinns gravitated towards shawafas more, lingered within their vicinity. As if eager for company, a desperation to taste the world of the living in any capacity possible.
The idea that everything she had seen in her dreams, or had felt in her most anger-fuelled moments, was because she could be remotely like Naima and Ilham turned her blood to ice.
Pain emerged in her head, resurfacing any and all memories she had tampered down.
Any time she had ever thought she’d been imagining dark shadows in the corner of rooms or large crowds in her youth sprouted to mind.
Panic clogged her throat, and Aicha knew it reflected in her eyes, because Ilham’s gaze softened considerably.
“If you wish me to tell you that you are not a shawafa, then I can assure you of it. Shawafas spend years perfecting their sight, and whatever you can see barely scratches the surface. You have not failed your god, Aicha.”
She picked up another slice of watermelon, pointing it in Aicha’s direction. “Now, eat.”
Aicha did as she was told, pulling her feet up onto the stool, and resting her forearms against her knees.
She let Ilham’s words stew in her head, leaving her to consider whether she was telling Aicha the truth, or simply lying to ease her worries.
She would have asked her if that were the case, but the chance was stolen as the door to Ilham’s bedroom was suddenly pushed open.
Aicha had a direct view of it from her spot on the balcony, and the lithe figure of Naima came into view. Silky hair draped across her shoulders.
“Oh good! You are here.” Naima’s soft, melodic voice rang out, and as she stepped into the room, another figure emerged behind.
Shorter in stature, but as easily recognisable as Aicha’s own shadow.
Samira pulled her hood back, short hair tumbling free and obscuring her eyes, but Aicha could still see the fury that burned in her dark gaze.
She was livid, and Aicha was evidently in incredibly deep shit.
“Are you an idiot?” Samira seethed, slamming Lala Ilham’s bedroom door behind her.
“It depends on the day,” Aicha quipped, but she quickly realised that humour would not be the smartest way of disarming her sister when Samira grinded her teeth.
She took menacing steps towards her, and Aicha couldn’t remember the last time her sister had appeared so visibly angry with her. Grabbing Aicha’s good arm, she yanked her up to her feet. For a moment, Aicha stumbled, bare feet tripping over her gandora, and she blinked at her sister.
“This place is crawling with settlers and soldiers who just witnessed their general beat our baba without consequence, and you thought it smart to visit?”
Somehow, Aicha sensed that it would not be wise to tell Samira her thoughts didn’t take her own safety into consideration.
Not because she hadn’t thought of it, but because she did think that a good punch might be the least of what she deserved for what had happened to her baba.
The image of Duarte’s fist repeatedly smashing into his face flashed through her mind, and Aicha forced it down before that familiar, uncontrollable rage resurfaced—like it had in the cistern—insisting she slit open the throat of any who harmed her family.
Her baba was lying in a dark room to stave off the headache while his bloodied face remained swollen. That was her fault. But she didn’t say any of that to Samira; instead, she shrugged off her grip and rolled her eyes.
“They barely noticed my arrival, if at all. Most of them are drunk. Anyway, if any of them did try to hurt me, Naima and Lala Ilham wouldn’t allow it.”
She didn’t have to look at either shawafa for confirmation, but she could see both nod out of the corner of her eye.
“Of course,” Ilham said. “I have strict rules within these walls. No fighting.”
Samira didn’t listen, and grabbed Aicha’s wrist to pull her towards the door. “We’re leaving.”
“You’re in the safety of my personal quarters, now,” Lala Ilham called out. “Stay, have some atay and melon. When the festivities die down, you can leave.”
Samira’s steps faltered, and Aicha took that as a sign that she was at least considering it.
“If you’re that worried about being caught, she’s probably right,” Aicha pressed, and she knew she’d won when Samira’s grip faltered.
When Samira looked back at her, Aicha whispered something only for her sister’s ears.
“I couldn’t see him like that for another minute. Let us stay for a little longer, please.”
Being the eldest must have been a nightmare, Aicha thought.
She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be responsible for a younger sibling, and watch them share pain that they hoped you could fix.
Because really, Aicha wanted her to fix it.
She wanted Samira to know every dark, unsavoury feeling inside, to tell her that everything would be okay and that she would make things right.
Samira visibly softened, enough that her hold on Aicha’s wrist now felt companionable, rather than controlling.
“Just until the party dies down,” Samira pressed, and Aicha nodded a little too enthusiastically.
Naima guided them back to the balcony, where Samira tentatively accepted a glass of hot atay. Aicha tried to hide her smile at how quickly her sister reached for the slices of fruit, a stone’s throw away from salivating over it.
“Have you decided on whether you will stay once the King and his armies have fled?” Samira queried, visibly more relaxed since settling into her seat. “We have a bet running, and I would rather like to win a bag of coins.”