The road stretched on in front of the merchant caravan; to Jehane, unused to such travel, it felt endless, bordered left and right by lifeless desert, seemingly the same stretch of land for miles and miles. There was, at that time, plenty of opportunity for Jehane to regret, and remember. Although the trip itself had been easier than anticipated, Jehane would never again, she was certain, face something quite as hard as leaving Fezana, and saying goodbye to her mother while her father stood unmoving beside her.

A silent, almost accusing presence, he had not acknowledged either his wife or his daughter in the telling of the news of Jehane’s leaving. Velaz had helped with the packing of some of the most important herbs and poultices she would not be able to find or make on the road. She had also packed dried bunches of antiseptic leaves, and pain-killing seeds from the opiate plants, which she wasn’t sure she would even be able to find so far south.

They had left on the first day of spring. According to Ibn Jubayr, this would allow them to profit from the gradually warming weather on their way to Genoa, where, if they were lucky, they would find a merchant boat to take them south to Jerusalem before the winter. After that, the road was much traveled, and Ibn Jubayr assured her the voyage from Jerusalem to Damascus would be easier and as pleasant as such travel could be.

Jehane was more than a little sceptic about that claim. Although they hadn’t encountered many people on the road, those she had seen from her vantage point in the back of the caravan had seemed poor, and worn from their trek. They had crossed quite a few other caravans, and she guessed their road was taking them through the merchants’ paths, doubling back this way and that to accommodate their horses and carts. The peasants had at first kept closer to the forests, and following their departure from her hometown she could see trails leading into the woods, well-worn from travellers’ boots and mules’ hooves. The mountain passes were closed to large carts and, as such, they had to go many miles out of their way to circle around to flatter, easier terrain.

She sat now, at the very back of the caravan, gazing eastward as they circled a large expanse of land she had been told was owned by a very rich man who didn’t at all appreciate travellers going through his settlements.

Another small hurdle, a tiny bend in the road, which added days to their already long path.

Ibn Jubayr seemed restless now, sometimes getting off to help the merchants push the cart over rougher ground or simply walking beside the carts. He seemed to her now an almost alien presence, unfathomably in his element, comfortable and happy on this dusty road. He was an altogether different man than the one she’d met in Fezana, almost giddy and childlike in his excitement. In the city she had almost laughed at his awkward gait and wizened skin, but on the road he was a different man; he came alive, and seemed to grow taller and more confident. He conversed easily with the merchants and passersby, sometimes speaking their native tongues, then slipping easily into dialects she had never heard, all strange guttural noises and unfamiliar syllables.

His smile now was infectious, and although she herself had discovered she had no passion for the road, she couldn’t help but feel optimistic. She knew, more or less, where they were headed, but wondered what might wait for her along the path, and Jubayr’s easy mood helped her feel adventurous. She essayed a few tentative talks with the driver’s wife and struck an easy friendship with her eldest daughter.

But the monotony of the road, the weariness of unaccustomed travel and the long dusty days were starting to wear her down, and she surprised herself with her yearning for excitement; she missed the city already, its many sounds and smells and busying people. Her father’s absence was a constant ache, and she yearned even a little for Velaz’s comforting, grumbling presence.

Damascus. Weeks and weeks away still.

* * *

The guard struck a blow to the side of his face with his armoured glove, sending his head snapping violently to the left. Altaïr cursed under his breath, spat blood onto the quickly reddening stone floor and waited. There were now three guards in the cell with him; the rest had climbed up the old stairwell back to street level.

His arms had been tightly bound behind his back; one of his shoulders was a bloom of pain and he suspected it had loosened from the socket. Blood seeped from a deep gash in his thigh, a painful and throbbing reminder of the fight he had lost on the rooftops. Down in the cool cellar, it congealed in a puddle at his feet and made standing upright difficult.

The men guarding him were alert and very happy to have him in their care. He’d been raiding guard-posts all over the city, at his master’s request; many of those now in Saladin’s service ran corrupted through the streets of the city, using their influence and power to take advantage of the people in the poorer districts. Using their weapons and rank to steal, rape and torture those who had no voice, they were allowed to roam free within the city and wreck havoc with its inhabitants. Al-Mualim had had no choice but to send a warning to others who would follow suit; the creed dictated they should help.

Altaïr sighed. He’d been careless as he’d fled the compound he’d been sent to raid and had assumed the rooftops would be clear of guards, ensuring an easy escape route. That he had been captured was insult enough; that he could find no hope of escaping now was torture.

Another sharp blow sent him reeling to the floor, twisting his dislocated shoulder. A groan escaped him as he fell to his side, panting. The guards snickered above him. The youngest one, with a look of pure hatred on his face, was removing a leather and iron flail from his belt. The one who had first struck him approached and ground his booted foot into his injured leg.

“Get back up, cur!”

Altaïr moaned something unintelligible and laughed, coughing up blood. The guard turned to look at his brethren. They shook their heads. “Speak up, you whore-son!”, he stepped forward and lowered himself to grab Altaïr’s tunic and pull him up.

Which brought him in range of the assassin’s knee. Twisting his upper body backwards and using the floor against his back as leverage, Altaïr brought his healthy leg up, snapping into the guard’s face and crushing his nose and brow. The man staggered backwards in shock, disbelief on his disfigured face.

The remaining two guards stared at their falling comrade and only reacted once the man had hit the floor a choking, gurgling mess. The closest guard managed to reach Altaïr before he could right himself and drove his elbow into his stomach. As the assassin bent double in pain, the soldier unsheathed his dagger and followed his blow with a vicious jab of his blade into Altaïr’s already injured shoulder.

As his vision blurred and the world swam perilously around him, Altaïr heard the thunder of boots on the stonework staircase, and saw, dimly, the men frantically trying to help their fallen comrade. He managed to stumble to his knees weakly as the captain of he guards staggered through the doorway, sword in hand, staring for a moment at the fallen guard, then at him.

The man removed his helmet and threw it at the nearest guard, who straightened up just in time to catch it in trembling hands. He barked for his men to drag the dying man out of the cell, then motioned for the others to stay back. Advancing towards the assassin, he reached back with his gloved hand and sent Altaïr’s head reeling with a vicious back-handed blow, his armoured glove splitting open a large gash across the assassin’s cheek and lip.

Altaïr managed to stay upright, but his head swam crazily, and he stared at the captain’s boots while waiting for the world to come back into sharp focus. His breathing was ragged now and he fought to keep his grip on consciousness.

“That will cost you, dog. You have killed many of our men; don’t think for a moment this death will go unpunished.”

Unbidden, and against his better judgement, a chortling laugh rose up in his throat and Altaïr braced himself for the second blow he knew was coming. This time when the captain’s glove connected with his jaw, he couldn’t force himself to stay upright and he crumbled into a graceless heap at the man’s feet, his arms still bound behind his back.

The man pulled him up by the chain connecting his hands, sending a wave of tearing pain through his dislocated shoulder. As he was forced upright, he couldn’t hold the scream that traveled up his throat. Blessed silence followed the echo of his howl and for a few seconds darkness overtook him. When the ringing in his ears finally subsided, he was standing weakly and a dull throbbing in his shoulders and arms indicated that he was being held up by the chain that bound his arms; someone had hooked it to a peg in the wall and he hung weakly, knees barely supporting his weight.

The captain of the guards still stood motionless in front of him; all the others had left, as he was now in condition to put up a fight. Altaïr managed to focus on the man and raised his head to meet the other’s gaze.

“You will get nothing out of me.”

The man laughed, softly, and shook his head. “What makes you think I intend to make you talk? We have already been paid for capturing you; getting any information from your worthless corpse will not fall to us.”

He paused, and sent the assassin a chilled smile.

“The Templars will come for you soon. In the meantime, we have been allowed to keep you here as we see fit. Trust me, when I am done with you, you will beg for the knights to steal you from my care.”

The captain moved his arm, signalling for another guard to come out of the darkened doorway.

Altaïr tried to control his ragged breathing as the man approached him. His heart was now beating a mad rhythm in his chest, and he struggled to remain calm, to call up the wall inside him that kept him detached and safe. The younger guard, barely out of childhood, stepped around his leader and reached for the flail at his waist. Then he stepped towards Altaïr, his face a mask of hatred, and swung for the assassin’s legs.

As his knees buckled under him from the force of the young man’s blow, his entire weight dropped unto his shoulders and arms, and this time Altaïr’s scream echoed around the walls of the cell for what seemed an eternity.

When at last the world faded slowly into oblivion, Altaïr closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.

* * *

Although the boat ride from Genoa to the southern coast had only taken a little over two weeks, to Jehane it had felt like years. The roiling movement of the sea had immediately made her feel unwell and despite Jubayr’s constant reassurances that she would get used to it, time seemed only to aggravate her uneasy stomach. She had appreciated little of the voyage, and had spent most of her days below the ship’s deck, comforted by its dark and cool interior.

The stench alone would have been enough to make her sick. Combined with the constant rolling of the floor it made her voyage an unending nightmare, and she could only glare at Jubayr when he came down to see her, an unfamiliar youthful grin on his face. He was enjoying himself on the voyage, and his lined and weathered skin seemed to melt into a young boy’s features; his eyes were alight with excitement and although Jehane couldn’t match his enthusiasm, she relented to his nervous chatter.

When he came down to visit her, he’d spend most of his time extolling the virtues of the places they would visit, and Jehane tried to smile with him, letting his own sense of adventure wash over her.

It did little to dispel her sickness, but at least it passed the time. They made a short stop at Messina, following the trade route south. By the time they finally disembarked in Jerusalem, Jehane had lost a good deal of weight, and felt weakened and weary; the clothes she had brought with her from Fezana seemed to hang off her slight frame now; however nothing could have diminished the joy she felt at finally setting foot on solid ground again, and even the thought of embarking on the road so soon after finally arriving couldn’t sully her good cheer.

Jubayr himself was glorious in the midday sun that beat upon the docks at the edge of the city; he seemed more alive and excited every day, and Jehane tried to forget the long days spent in the ship’s hold. This far south, the driving sun seemed almost choking and dusty and it quickly warmed and invigorated her again. They set off the very next day after a short rest, wasting no time in the holy city. Jubayr promised her they would visit it again on their way back, before leaving. Here, there were many caravans leaving and going into the city itself, and Jubayr had no trouble finding them a means to get to Damascus.

Their day had dawned bright and early and Jehane had waited by the side of the dirt road while her caretaker had spent the early morning bartering with merchants for a ride north and east to Damascus. It hadn’t taken long for him to find someone to take them, and as coins had exchanged hands, Jehane had been motioned forward, and had climbed up the back of the merchant’s cart with some difficulty, sitting herself atop the man’s cargo of dried fruits and heady, perfumed wines.

They had set off soon after that, leaving behind the gates of Jerusalem to travel the road that would take them to Damascus. As they’d left, weaving among the throngs of people going both in and out of the city, she’d sat, perched up on the back of the cart, watching the lines of weary travellers pass her by. They hadn’t taken the time to truly rest, and Jehane felt weary herself; it had been days since she’d been allowed to have a true bath and in the rising heat she felt sticky and unpleasantly warm. Her wavy red hair was a mess of tangled curls, and it clung thickly to her forehead and neck.

She’d known the trip would take a while, but hadn’t expected she’d grow tired of the road so soon. The way through the mountainous terrain was extremely tedious, and they encountered little except for wary travellers and the occasional small town. For the first few days, she kept mostly to herself, only seeing Jubayr when they stopped to rest and eat. She soon discovered the merchant himself to be pleasant enough company, and by the end of the first week, she often found herself engaging in conversation with the older man. He was wizened and used to the road, and kept her entertained with stories of his travels, elaborate tales of encounters with bandits and thieves told by firelight. His stories both delighted and frightened her and he often laughed at her naivete, assuring her that, despite his extravagant exaggerations, the road they were on now was quite safe, and guarded by Saladin’s men.

She heard quite a lot of the kingdom’s ruler through the merchant’s accounts of his travels. Nodding by their campfire, she’d ventured her opinion on the man’s leadership and politics, and Jubayr excused himself more than once. When she finally got up the nerve to ask him why he was apologizing for her behaviour constantly, she was told in no uncertain terms that a woman should keep such opinions to herself; things were different here, and women were not supposed to be so boisterous and opinionated. Jehane scoffed at his answer, and retorted that he’d be fairly hard put to shut her up if he expected her to behave like a shy little flower.

He’d laughed at her, but she’d known he’d been serious. By the time they finally arrived in Damascus, Jehane had made up her own mind about her place there, and had vowed to herself that she’d do everything she could to make her own place, despite the fact that women were not valued as highly as they were in her native Fezana.

As they finally approached the city, more than three weeks after they’d first left Jerusalem, Jehane was finally silenced, awed by the size and grandeur of the walled metropolis they were nearing. The merchant laughed at her open-mouthed stare and he spurred his tired horses forward, driving them towards the gates.

The city itself was majestic in the dying light of the setting sun, a rambling, shambling huge beast of a town. People of various colours and dress were queuing up at its gates, and several guards kept watch at the open doorway, scanning the crowd with a wary eye. In the distance, past the fortified walls, Jehane could see, rising above the other brick buildings, towers that rivalled the most majestic monuments in Fezana. There were dozens of such towers, and she felt like the smallest thing in the world, sitting behind on the cart, as they were slowly led towards the gates.

The guards there inspected the merchant’s cart carefully, asking him what he was carrying and why. When they were finally let through, the man breathed a sigh of relief and spurred his horses towards a small gathering of similar carts. He jumped off once the cart stopped advancing, gesturing to Jubayr, who trotted to a stop beside him.

Jehane jumped down and made her way to them. As she walked towards the pair, she noticed several passersby staring openly at her, and she hurried forward, dismayed at garnering so much attention.

“Here we are then,” the merchant said, brushing one hand absent-mindedly against the neck of the lead horse. “You’ll find the district you’re looking for that way.”

Jubayr nodded, and coins were once again exchanged as Jehane watched on. “Thank you, for taking us this far. I know my way around the city.” Jubayr’s smile was as infectious as ever, and he and the merchant shook hands good-naturedly, grinning at each other like boys.

“Have a good stay in Damascus, friend.”

They parted, and Jubayr made his way to her, grabbing her elbow as he passed and pulling her with him as he walked away from the cart and merchant. Jehane looked back to the man who’d brought them here, sending a small wave his way which he answered with a wry grin and a wave of his own.

“You’ll find that most women here cover their hair. It might be beneficial for you to do so as well.”

She blinked at Jubayr, uncertain. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It is part of their custom. You have very… distinct hair, Jehane. It will keep the people here from staring at you. I will find you a veil once we are settled at Ma’mun’s practice.”

She nodded at him, noticing once more that people were starting to stare. “Thank you.”

He led her away, weaving past the crowd, keeping his arm on her elbow. They eventually reached a quieter part of the district and he released her, walking ahead of her. She followed, still a little unsure of her feet after so much time spent on the road. Around her, the sounds of the bustling city seemed deafening, and she was surprised to find so much activity so late in the day; Fezana, it seemed, went to bed a lot earlier than Damascus.

The few women she saw going about their business were veiled and never alone, travelling with other women or with a man. The realization that she’d just entered a very different place hit her then and she wondered for the first time whether she would have trouble adjusting to life here in Damascus. She missed her family terribly, for a moment, and fervently hoped Ibn Ma’mun was a kind man, one that would be patient and understanding with her.

Damascus was huge; it was quite different from what she’d imagined in her mind. As she followed Jubayr further into the district, she hoped with all her heart that she would adjust here, fit in with the other people, and eventually find her place within this sprawling city.

Jehane politely avoided questions, and told people that she herself had never met the man. She went on her rounds, now limited to picking up medicinal herbs and fresh linen, trying to avoid people’s gazes. Her father’s practice had been closed for months now, ever since his maiming at the hands of King Almalik himself; a gift from a sovereign for saving his first wife from a deadly pregnancy. The only patients Ishak received now were people whom Jehane could treat herself, and even those were few and far between. She’d been in the middle of her training and apprenticeship with her father when he had been called to treat Almalik’s wife.

Blind and mute, her father now spent his days in the darkness of the cellars of his house. He hadn’t reacted to any of them since he had lost his most precious senses; not his wife, not Velaz, his confidant and servant, and not Jehane, his daughter and friend.

It was a hot day at market, and Jehane made her way to the docks slowly. The sun was merciless even at this early hour, and her tunic clung to her uncomfortably. Her long red hair, left unbound in this poor Jewish part of the city, framed her face in damp curls.

Lost in her thoughts, she realized someone had been calling her name. She looked out at the nearest merchant’s stall.

A man she knew well, who was selling ash and oil for soap-making, brandished a small glass vial at her, all crooked smiles and good-natured deviousness. “This one is for you, if you would but tell me of Jubayr’s reasons for coming all the way down here from the Caliphate.”

Jehane managed to force a small smile past her lips, and rearranged the heavy basket containing the morning’s purchases on her hip. “I am sorry, Mas’ud ibn Karif. If I knew why Almalik’s secretary deems my father’s house worthy of his visit, I am sure I would tell you.”

Ibn Karif stared at her, taken aback by her tone. When he realized why she had snapped at him, he blanched, shook his head, and thrust the vial of oil into her unresisting hand. “I apologize Jehane; that was careless of me. Don’t mind this old fool’s memory.”

She took the vial, sighing, placed it into the basket at her hip. “You need not apologize, Ibn Karif. I am made short-tempered by all this noise; it is mostly silent now at my father’s house.”

The older man sent her a pained look. “I am sorry, child.”

She smiled at him again, to show willing, and wished him a good day as she turned and walked back towards the docks, where her father and his silent grief awaited her in the dark.

* * *

When she got home later that morning, she found her mother and Velaz deep in conversation with Husayn ibn Jubayr, who had managed to slip by neighbors and curious onlookers and was seated in the hall of her father’s practice, his two guards standing by the main door.

Their conversation stuttered to a stop as Jehane entered, and she felt their eyes on her back as she made her way into the room slowly, not acknowledging the man.

She leveled the basket up onto a workbench and started emptying it of its contents. She laid each item down slowly, delaying a meeting she dreaded; fresh linen from the Muslim weavers, several bunches of fragrant dried herbs, bottles of purifying unguents, a small sharp knife to replace her father’s pitted blade and Mas’ud’s glass vial of oil. She took a moment to open it gently and smell its contents.

She sighed and stoppered it again. Lavender and jasmine, sickeningly sweet and absolutely useless. Perhaps my mother will find a use for it, she thought.

“Jehane.”

She turned and glared at the man, then forced her gaze to her mother, who had spoken.

“I know this will be hard for you, Jehane, but Ibn Jubayr is here to see you.”

Ibn Jubayr, under a sudden stare of green puzzled eyes, coughed nervously. He was a thin, unfortunately balding man, but his skin was the darkest Jehane had seen in a long time, and his eyes, through dark and small, were still possessed of a childlike gleam which she would only later come to understand.

He nodded at her, shyly. “I’ve come here to offer you some small measure of compensation for what has been done to your family in the name of the Caliphate. I know it is not much, but it is all I am allowed to give you.” He gestured to an unoccupied chair. Jehane’s mother and Velaz both got up and left slowly, Velaz sending her a pleading look which she recognized as one he would give her as a child. It was a chiding look, asking her to be mild and act in a way befitting a young woman.

So, her mother and servant both knew what this was about. Ibn Jubayr had come here for her, not for her father.

She sat, reluctantly. He continued, “As you know, I have been for the last few years serving the Caliphate and our King here in Cartada. Before this, I went on a pilgrimage to the southern lands, to Egypt, and further to the East to what the Christians persist in calling the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”

She nodded. This was common knowledge. Everyone knew of Ibn Jubayr’s travels and of his written accounts of them. She herself had been to one of his readings, and had enjoyed it, much to her own chagrin. The man had obviously been changed by his voyage, and it had been an inspiring experience.

He managed to catch her eyes, and held her gaze for a moment, before looking down at his hands. “In Damascus, there are many physicians who are doing great things; I am sure your father would approve of their ideals and methods. I know of one man who is striving to better our understanding of some illnesses which are impossible to explain. Several others have made it their life’s work to find ways to eliminate infectious and virulent diseases.”

She waited, unsure of what the man’s presence here now meant. She realized with a start that her heart was beating an unknown fast rhythm, and that her throat felt clenched and sore. She knew she didn’t want him to finish his thought, his sentence.

But he did.

“It is a good place for a young physician to learn, Jehane. I am traveling south and east again this year, and I want you to come with me.”

And the world turned to ash around her.

Due to the fact that one of the two works used as reference in this fanfiction is apparently obscure and unknown, some explanation and basic setting are needed.

This will be an AU fiction, based mostly in the world of Assassin’s Creed, where characters from GGK’s Lions of Al-Rassan travel to the middle east and meet up with our friendly assassins. I took some liberties with Mr. Kay’s characters, his settings, the way he described his people and the actual timeline, because most of it was vague enough to allow me to get away with it. In Kay’s novel, the names of the major religions are changed, and although I understand his reasons for doing so, I switched them back for the sake of simplicity. For those of you familiar with the novel; Jaddites are Christians, Kindath are Jews and Asharites are Muslims. GGK’s book takes place in Moorish Spain roughly around the time of Assassin’s Creed, give or take a few hundred years.

I can only ask forgiveness of Guy Gavriel Kay for abusing his characters such, but I thought that a brief trip to the middle east might explain some of Jehane’s later behavior and sturdiness and Altaïr’s lack of morals and patience at the beginning of the game.

With a bit of research, I even found a convincing historical character to take Jehane south and east.

I just had to do it. :)