1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Dagher Revision 2

Name: Helene Dagher
Genre: YA Fantasy
Title: Reborn


Ever had it been that the young woman knew darkness. She was hardly of age; bony, bare legs sticky with blood. It had trickled into the chamber pot below, and melded with the stench of her prison. With her neck chain bolted to one wall, her flea-bitten hands grasping at air and feet teetering on a narrow beam, she could not adjust her position without penalty of death. She would suffocate on her collar, the fate that had befallen the four rotted men decorating the cavity where she hung.

She chose to survive. Sleeping while standing, testing the limits of her reach, gobbling what food and water was provided. To pass time she depended on the strength of her imagination. She was often disappointed.

All that remained was memories of her brother. His crooked smile, regal posture, jutting chin; how he paled at the sight of blood and stuttered before crowds but fought for peaceful change —

The rusty door squeaked open. She tried to shield her eyes from the sudden light but lost her balance and flailed like a newborn still attached to its cord. Callused hands restored her to that damned perch, and searched her knee-length tunic despite her disadvantage. Were her mind focused, she would not attack nine men.

When she was freed, she hesitated; her jailer did not. The behemoth lifted her to the floor, wet with excrement. Her legs wobbled — had he not seized her arm, she would have fallen to her knees. Throat dry and heart shivering, she was too weak for self-defense, for any assault. Strategy could not unmake these cold facts: her wrists and ankles manacled, soldiers towering over her. Swords readied, daggers hidden.

Her past was well known.

Light sliced across the crest of dancing lions on their plated armor. A royal contingent. If she had been summoned, they would not risk harming her. The king did not tolerate disobedience. Where logic normally comforted, a dead calm settled. She would need to draw on her reserve to counter whatever tactic al-Fat'h used next.

Enclosed by the troop she clanked past the moaning of other prisoners, the criminal stacks of hardened bread and shriveled dates. Several times they had to stop so that she could catch her breath—and sneak glances at their surroundings, though her aching joints and blisters were a distraction. Her training had not conditioned her to the pain.

Trudging through the courtyard was an onslaught of sensation. Immaculate grass crunched beneath their boots and stabbed her feet. A sea-breeze whipped through the ivy and reed ridden towers and into pine trees, their needles budding in the recent spring. Over the murmur of water, the slap of sandals on stone, the jeers echoed; a dishonored prisoner so loftily escorted! An officious gaggle of veiled women and men in coats of mail laughed from beside a fountain of a dragon, its eyes scorched with fire.

She stared. The statue held her gaze while she was dragged past cultivated gardens and stationary knights. Finally they reached a familiar lavish room.

The morning glinted through the stained-glass windows, a mockery of all that she had lost and would find in these sun-favored soldiers. Intricate arrangements of bluebells draped the long chamber, leading to a stately man with blonde hair seemingly fresh from a chamomile oil wash. Robed in red and gold, the prince reeked of hyacinths.

Already much too like al-Fat'h, al-Hashim had led several of his father's conquests. Before she had been imprisoned, he was known to have journeyed to the farthest edges of Albinar where the borders were not enforced. Villagers had whispered of his adventure and the treasures he would bequeath upon his return, earning their loyalty without the taxing choke-hold that his father had embraced. Certainly his guards looked well-fed and unwavering beside the north exits, stairwells and alcoves tucked twenty paces beyond their arches. Al-Hashim leaned forward so that his curls concealed his broken nose while she stood on her cold feet, waiting.

It appeared that he, not his father, was to interrogate her. Either al-Fat'h had grown into an invalid since she had last seen him, wheezing, or a fortunate event had occurred. She would confirm her suspicion.

"Sahar," al-Hashim said.

She considered his calculated tone, his palpable impatience. He watched his men for the slightest reaction to the false name. Most Albinariyye citizens knew what she had done but not who she was. He was searching for her accomplices among his trusted soldiers, for she could not have committed treason without extraordinary help.

"O wise and generous prince?"

"King. My father has finally passed, thanks to you." He noted her smile, and his jaw clenched. "Impudence will not aid your cause. What do you know of Ibn Shaddad?"

Aside from the guards, she had had but one visitor. He had shared kindness, not information. For once she could plead ignorance—it was unlikely that an enemy of the king would have access to her cell. Sahar shook her head.

"You have no knowledge of him?"

Al-Hashim gestured, rings gleaming in the shards of light. Ridiculous trinkets. Albinariyye commitments were consecrated with firmer means. Rubbing her palm, she stared into his dirt-colored eyes even as her own watered from the hyacinth-heavy air.

"Why," said Al-Hashim, steady, studying her face, "just last night the rogue pillaged the castle kitchens."

This royal persistence was more ridiculous than those rings. Once she had shared his arrogance, keen to fulfill her unrealized potential. She had yet to earn her freedom after that folly.

"I watched my brother and his advisers die." A deep breath; she would not show weakness. "In the prison that your father had designed for me. Tell me, my fanciful friend, when I would have had the chance to meet Ibn Shaddad or plan this crime."

His expression hardened. "Well then, tell me of my sister."

"What of her," Sahar croaked, "O merciful savior?"

"Where is she?"

"Rue for both of us." Sahar lifted her chains. Her wrists were sore, and well could she remember previous beatings. Rarely did her dishonesty please these foreign sovereigns. "As I told your father, your sister may have drowned for all that I know."

"You dare—" He clutched the knobs of his elaborate throne, studded with sapphires and rubies and stained crimson from the windows. "And what of your brother's body? Shall I burn his remains? Will that ensure your cooperation?"

Had his father not intervened, she would have joined her brother. She could never forget how his cheeks had puffed, his arms had flapped and his bulging eyes had met hers across the putrid prison air: green slashed with red. Staring at his body—and the other three—was revenge from al-Fat'h, punishing her for the months that he had spent in pain before dying, his daughter still missing. No one, even al-Hashim, knew what to do with Sahar.

Above his right eyebrow curved a claw-shaped scar. Staring heightened her focus: the three paces between her and the nearest guard, and the fifteen paces needed to pierce his regal throat with a well-thrown dagger. Killing al-Hashim would satisfy the anger that she had learned to bury, but his death would not honor her brother.

Al-Hashim expected her meek, likely disobedient. Though she had ensured that he could not kill her without dire consequences, he could return her to that eternal torment. She would need his favor.

"How may I please you, O compassionate crusher?"

Like an eagle among rukhs, al-Hashim glided toward her in a monstrosity of trailing cloak. He had the build of a military commander but the finery of a fat sultan. "I want peace. I want my sister returned. Most of all, I want to know the extent of your foolishness. My father locked you away. Perhaps that is not the answer."