The Winding Ascent

Chapter 4

"Disaster!" the man screeched, the whites of his eyes flashing out against the red of his face. The wind threw a fine mist of grit swirling around his feet, as though cowering before the ominous words. "Another Outlander Raid! Muslims massacred!"

Eyes narrowed, one hand clutching the richly embroidered curtain, the Caliph watched the streets below him, staring as a pool of people seemed to form around the Town Crier, faces pinched with fear, the lines around their eyes like taut thread.

"Northern village razed to the ground!" the Crier went on, oblivious to the fearful glances he was receiving, but still turning his head slowly from side to side so that his voice would carry. "No survivors!"

Other sights and sounds rose to Mazin's senses as he watched, the giggling of the children as they darted in and out of the crowd, blissfully oblivious to the fear settling in the air, the shutters of the windows of the nearby buildings flying open as waste water, discarded by busy housewives, splattered into the empty narrow passageways. Castleton was brimming with life and the Caliph was grateful that they'd decided to hold their meeting here in the local resthouse rather than at the palace.

The meeting itself had left a sour taste coating his tongue. Despite all the eager reports of increased trade and income, the Caliph couldn't help but feel that something had been torn from the heart of his people ever since he'd signed the accord with the Outlander Emissary. Or was it, he mused, that something had actually been torn from his heart?

Unfurled flags, depicting the crest of his family, fluttered in the breeze above the window as Mazin's eyes found the Crier once again. "Outlanders rejoice as Muslims defeated again!" the man said. "Outlander Prince denies all responsibility!"

Mazin's gaze dropped to the surging throng of people pushing and prodding to get close to the Crier, as though they were leaves cast aloft by the wind. Seeing the familiar angle to their faces, the minute habits that singled them out as his own people, the Caliph felt a rush of fierce love burn into his heart. And yet, there was something out of place, too. He studied them closer, saw that, despite a general adherence to the attire of the Believers, many had adopted clothing worn by the Outlanders themselves. Curious that they would rush to embrace a people that seemingly hated and feared at the same time.

The Caliph, his lips pursed in a thin line, turned away from the window, the gentle hum of the town falling away behind him. "Why is it," he asked as he slid into a chair at the table, "that these criers only ever give bad news?"

Midafternoon sunlight poured in through the small window, washing the room with a burnt orange light. Beside the table, spread out on the floor, was the remains of their meal, unfinished bread resting inside stained earthenware bowls.

The buzz of conversation withered away at Mazin's question and Umair, meeting the eyes of Junaid, AbdurRahman and finally the Caliph himself in turn, licked his lips before speaking. "Commander of the Faithful," he said. "I'm not sure I understand the question?"

Mazin winced inwardly. He was tired of playing this game. It was, after all, his Vizier who had been the most passionate supporter of this new policy. "I think you do," Mazin said simply, gesturing with his hand.

Umair picked at the table for a moment, then gave a slight cough. "We've found that the people are more receptive to that kind of talk," he said, his words slow as though explaining a simple equation to a child. "Keeps gossip up."

"But spirits down," Mazin replied quickly. He held his Vizier's gaze. If it wasn't for the fact that his own father had made him promise to keep Umair in such a dignified position, Mazin would have entertained serious doubts about his Vizier by now. What was he thinking? He already was entertaining such doubts. The zeal with which Umair was taking to recent developments was disconcerting to say the least.

"Lowly spirits lead to a healthy economy," Umair said. He quickly averted his gaze as the Caliph arched an eyebrow. "People need to find solace – and we give them solace with the Horns. Almost a thousand sold in the past month. Is that right, Junaid?" The big man gave a short nod. "We're working on a newer, better design – then we can flood the market once again. I do not believe our people can get enough."

"Still…" Mazin said, his eyes dropping. Waves of shadow flitted across the wooden table as the sun began its descent. The air was musty, warm, the stifling heat of this late summer's day seeped into his bones, lethargy tugging at his eyelids, begging him to sleep.

Images danced through the Mazin's mind as he tried to keep focused– pictures of lush forests, breathtaking mountains, sparkling waterfalls. Knitting his fingers, he rested his hands upon the cool surface of the table, then shook his head. "The world isn't like that," he said. "I mean, not like how the criers are depicting it. The world isn't a dark place at all. The people are getting a distorted view, filtered through…" He sucked on his teeth as he flicked a quick glance at his Vizier. "…whoever it is that is writing their scrolls for them."

"True!" They were all surprised to hear the normally stoic Honour Guard, AbdurRahman, finally speak his mind. "There's honour out there, and goodness and kindness. And taqwa!" The Honour Guard's hand curled into a fist and Mazin thought he saw Umair twitch for just a heartbeat. The fist struck the table, rattling the wooden frame and making their mugs tremble. One cup spun, tottered on the edge, then fell clattering to the floor, rolling away to be swallowed by a corner of the room draped in shadow.

Mazin favoured his Honour Guard with a smile. "Go on."

AbdurRahman stared around the table, his eyes widening a fraction, as though he, too, had been shocked by the outburst. Noisily clearing his throat, he continued, his voice measured and calm, his words slow, as though drenched with forethought, then picked off a tree.

"If the Criers spoke of this," he said, "this taqwa…this wholeness, the people would be filled with hope and joy." He hesitated. "At least I believe that they would. They would be praising Allah constantly – what certain people," he said those two words with a hint of subtle force, "have done is fill them with despair and gloom. Now they walk with fear, their shoulders slumped with lethargy. They've been given them an illusion to be afraid of, instead of reality that, no matter how bad our condition, would still fill them with love for Allah!"

The Caliph almost raised an eyebrow yet again. Strange that this near spiritual stream had winded its way into his Guard's life. A cold net, clammy in its seeping doubt, fell over his soul. What did he really know about any of them after all?

His Vizier, apparently struggling not to fume, caught the accusation in the Honour Guard's voice. "What certain people have done? Let's not mince words, you mean what I have done, yes?" he said, touching his chest with his fingers. "What I have done is keep the people on their toes." He leaned back in his chair until it creaked. "Besides – we know that they're safe."

"They don't know that," AbdurRahman mumbled.

"Maybe they shouldn't!" It was Junaid now, growling. The Caliph frowned, almost shrinking back from the big man's presence. Another of his Vizier's projects. A strong show of force, that's what he'd said, to show the people that the Caliph had real men under his wing, just as the emissary had had.

Happy to see that he had everyone's attention, his chest swelling visibly, Junaid went on. "They should be aware of what's happening in the world, so that they can prepare for the great fight. Anger and a sense of revenge are just the fuel that our armies are missing, if I may say so myself."

"No." AbdurRahman's eyes were thinned, the light from them burning. An orange mask, set upon him by the sun, fell across his face. "Those qualities are the last things we need."

Junaid barked a rough laugh. "Then where will they get their motivation? From adab?" He almost spat the word, Mazin noticed. Umair, too, seemed to be leaning forward, as though he were actually watching the two soldiers in battle.

"That," the Honour Guard replied calmly, "is where they'll get their tawfeeq." He paused for a breath before adding, "Unless of course you believe that the Lord of the Worlds Himself comes to the aid of bloodthirsty warriors whose hearts are filled with rage?" His words smouldered with conviction, though he not once raised his voice. "That path leads to bitter defeat after bitter defeat."

MashaAllah! The Caliph almost grinned; there was truly more to his Honour Guard than had first met the eye.

"How would you know?" Junaid countered. His Vizier, Mazin noticed with a touch of dismay, was nodding wildly. "Have you even tried?"

"I do not need to try." Again AbdurRahman was the very picture of serenity. Had it been a verbal joust within the Amphitheatre itself, the Caliph was certain that his people would side with his Honour Guard. At least, he mused as doubt hooked into his heart, he hoped that they would.

"Ridiculous," Junaid added with a dismissive gesture. He slouched back in his chair. "How can you not possibly rage at the deaths of the Believers?"

"Our dead are in Jannah, theirs are mostly likely not. There's nothing to despair of. Perhaps when we see their reward on the Day of Judgement, we would wish we'd been in their place." AbdurRahman's words, gently delivered, still split the air like razor tipped knives. "All is good for a Believer."

"Then what use are the mujahideen?"

"The mujahideen are tools in the Creator's Hands," the Honour Guard's voice took in an insistent tone, "but unless they've rid their hearts of everything but Him, they're no better than animals."

Junaid bared his teeth, rising out of his chair. "How dare you-"

Umair raised a hand for calm, stilling the big man instantly. The Caliph, still a silent spectator, found his head beginning to swim. Inwardly, though he found himself agreeing with his old Honour Guard, another realisation had dawned upon his heart, one that intensified the chill he already felt. Battle lines were being drawn here. Umair and Junaid on one side, himself and AbdurRahman on the other.

"None of this of any consequence," the Vizier said. "What matters is this – the people are afraid and so, as I said, to quell their discontent, they spend more on Ivory Horns and more at the tournaments. This, then, leads to more coins for the Treasury. Tawfeeq itself, if I may so myself."

"Ivory Horns," AbdurRahman muttered, glowering. "Worthless invention."

"Oh?" the Vizier replied, wearing an expression that mimicked a hunter closing in on prey. "It was the Caliph's decree that we construct and sell them. Surely you, of all people, are not going to find fault with the Commander of the Faithful are you?"

The Honour Guard coloured instantly, a stricken expression exploding over his face and, turning to Mazin with eyes lowered, he muttered a hurried apology.

The Caliph, feeling distinctively uncomfortable, raised his own hand, and forced a smile. "No apology is needed," he said. A molten surge of determination jolted through him. This would not do. This would not do at all. How had he become so quickly enslaved to the whims of others? No, he vowed, no matter what game was being played here, he would show them that he would not be led around by his nose. He would show them who was still in charge here

Sincerity flowed into Mazin's smile, and he felt his shoulders relax just a tad. "And…" he said. "A wise man once said that only we can open the paths to the accursed one into our hearts. As such, I think it is only right that we close one such path - the Town Criers cease their dire pronouncements, effective immediately. If people only hear of the evil, they will feel helpless, and this will lead to despair."

Umair bristled instantly. "But-"

Mazin silenced his Vizier with a hot glare. "Is there something the matter with what I said?" He flicked an amused glance at his Honour Guard, then turned to face his Vizier with a broad grin. "Surely you, of all people, are not going to find fault with the Commander of the Faithful are you?"

The Vizier's lip twitched then, as the bulge in his neck bobbing as he swallowed, he sank in his chair. "No, of course not." His voice was hoarse. "It will be done, insha'Allah."

"Good!" Mazin smiled at each of them. "Well, that's settled then."

As they all shuffled to leave, the Commander of the Faithful, noticing his Vizier's surreptitious glare of pure venom, couldn't help but feel that he was prey trapped fast in a slowly tightening snare.

*

The veil of night fell upon Castleton, and with it came the sounds of a city at peace - the insistent wail of a newborn, the hopeful laughter of a freshly married couple, the metallic trill of dropped merchandise. Umair tightened the hood around his face as he marched through the cobbled streets, winding and weaving his way through the crowds.

Lantern light smudged the darkness with fingers of light, molten flame that seemed to reach into the surrounding gloom. As he passed each one, a flickering fire sputtering within the dirty glass, heat would blossom upon his face momentarily, then grow ice cold, then blossom up once more. It didn’t bother him. A different type of heat, hungry and impatient, raged in his heart.

Umair gave a quick glance over his shoulder. His eyes drifted upwards, past the old trade quarters – the gold souk here, the fruit souk there - past the freshly minted buildings standing unoccupied – paid for with money born from his foresight - past the old, withered warehouses, past the people's Meeting House, now derelict, until he came to a stop on the silent form of the palace itself.

It hadn't been easy, pretending to be taken ill so that he could ostensibly retire to his quarters. Then, of course, hooded and cloaked, he'd had to sneak out, hitching a ride on one of the hay carts – the stench still assaulted him even now – until he was free to walk the streets.

Umair let out a small sigh. The deception was necessary – he was sure Allah would understand. After all, wasn't he simply trying to bring fortune back to the Muslims? A thrill of pride trilled in his heart – of course he was. There was no way Allah would disfavour him. Actions were by intentions after all.

Stopping outside a resthouse, Umair heard a wave of noise- laughter, conversation, merrymaking – ghost out from within. He took in another breath, then with a gentle push at the door, he entered. Warmth enwrapped him, bringing blood rushing back to his skin. While the summer days of Castleton were stifling, the nights were bitter in their chilly bite.

The Vizier's eyes trailed across the room, searching, searching, as he chewed his lip, his heart thudding in his chest. Very few people noticed him as he stood there, and for those that did, their gazes did not linger.

His eyes came to rest on the series of lights set into niches in the wall, glass lanterns that held in burning wickers like entrapped, twinkling stars. He then shifted his gaze, peering through the curtain of cooking smoke that hung in the air, and saw a crowd of men huddled around a wooden target piece, cracked and stained from many summers of use.

Umair shook his head. This wasn't what he'd come for. He tried to shut out the noise of the resthouse, the hum of voices, the conversations that would crack into bellowing laughter without a moment’s notice, and then, with a jolt to his chest, he found the one he was looking for.

Hooded and cloaked like himself, the soothsayer sat by himself in one corner, his lips moving as he declined invitations from others to join them, no doubt wondering why any Muslim would want to be by himself.

Umair slowly approached the table, cursing himself as his legs began to tremble. Everything seemed too loud now – the whispers, the squeak of cloth as it rubbed against a shining glass, the hiss of the lamps. All of a sudden, the Vizier felt that everyone was watching him – that glance there, did it linger? That flicker on a furrowed brow – did someone recognise him? It felt too hot, the air, like the atmosphere, stifling. Umair suddenly wanted to leave, but his legs treacherously propelled him onward.

It was a dangerous game he was playing, he knew. If it became common knowledge that the Vizier was secretly visiting a soothsayer – condemned in the Law – he would be finished. But how, given the help he'd received from his man, could it be possibly wrong? The Muslims had benefited from the knowledge Umair had gained, and after all, he was doing it all for them, wasn't he? Still. It irked him that the soothsayer insisted on meeting with him here, so out in the open.

"Peace," he said as he dropped into the chair opposite the soothsayer. The other man, a mug filled with sloshing liquid in his hands, said nothing, his face hidden in shadow.

Umair felt a prickly sensation on his neck. "I suppose you want the money first, then?"

The soothsayer took a sip from his drink, licked his lips, but still offered no conversation.

Biting back a sigh, the Vizier reached into his belt then pulled out a pouch, bursting to the brim with coins. "As usual," he muttered, then dropped the bag onto the table with a dull thud. The pouch opened slightly, flashing its contents, metal clinking against metal, before it was swept out of sight in an instant.

There was a moment's pause, then the soothsayer leaned forward. Umair shifted in his seat, eager to listen.

"The news from the Jinn is not good." The soothsayer's voice was hushed, raspy.

Fear struck the Vizier's heart, mixed with the murky sense of the surreal that accompanied him whenever he conversed with this man. "What? What is it? Will it all go wrong?" He paused as thoughts rushed into his head. "Is it the Outlanders? Or that fool, the Honour Guard?"

"Nothing of the sort," the soothsayer replied. He paused and leaned back, slouching casually over the back of his chair. His eyes made furtive glances all around them.

"Tell me," Umair insisted.

"It would seem-" The soothsayer's words died as a serving boy stopped at their table, eyes wide with enthusiasm, and asked if either man would like any refreshment. Umair waved him away impatiently, then turned back to the soothsayer. The other man lapsed into silence.

An itch of irritation bit at the Vizier's heart. "Time is short!"

There was a ripple of quiet laughter from another table. A quick glance told Umair that it wasn’t directed at them.

The soothsayer lowered his head. Time seemed to slow, the air around them appearing to shimmer, like the sand under the desert sun. Umair cursed himself for his foolishness – what childishness was this? And yet, still. He couldn't quite release his chest from whatever it was that was clutching at it at that very moment.

"Someone is coming," the soothsayer said simply. "Someone who will- if you'll pardon my way with words - be a thorn in your plans."

Brow furrowed, blood pounding in his ears, the Vizier leaned forward. "Who?" he whispered. He was surprised to feel his clothes clinging to him, sticky sweat coating his skin.

The soothsayer straightened in his seat. "One from-" One of the patrons walked by and soothsayer fell silent, gazing at the floor as he waited for the man to pass. Umair felt his jaw clench, felt yet more sweat spring up on his palms. Finally, the soothsayer spoke again. "One from outside," he waved vaguely towards the direction of the city's gate, "and from within." He gestured towards the palace. Like stars peeking through the shroud of the night, the man's eyes suddenly appeared from within his hood. "They will put an end to everything."

Confusion throbbed in the Vizier's head. His throat parched, when he spoke next it was in a harsh whisper. "What do I have to do?"

A smile joined the soothsayer's eyes. He tapped his fingers against the table, licked his lips once more, then said simply: "I'll tell you."

The Winding Ascent

Chapter 3

Abdullah found himself in an ever familiar position: standing with his head low, his insides shrivelling with humiliation as Mina scolded him, her words cracking the air like a whip.

The mistress of the kitchens glared down at him, her hands on her hips. "Late!" she snapped. "Not once today, but thrice! Three times!"

Behind her, set into the wall, a fire crackled, tendrils of flame licking the blackened stone as the other maids and scullions watched, silent as the pyre cloaked their faces with flickering honeyed light, while they hid their smiles behind their hands. Abdullah felt his ears burn as resentment rose like a tide, engulfing his heart. His clothes clung to him and he had to bite down, resisting the urge to scratch his skin.

Mina's blue eyes blazed out from under her hijab. "And, as usual, you neglected to watch where you were going when you decided to leave the kitchens in a huff. Broken crockery everywhere!" She paused for breath. "That is your punishment for this afternoon- you'll be clearing all that up just before you start on cleaning duty at the stables."

His instinctive reaction to grimace vanished as a jolt of alarm hit his heart. Abdullah snapped his head up quickly. "Not this afternoon!" he pleaded. "I was going to go the Amphitheatre today; I saved up for weeks, you know that. Please!"

Seeing the lines around Mina's eyes soften slightly, he pressed home his advantage. "I'll clean the stables today, tomorrow and the day after – if you'd just let me go to the Amphitheatre this afternoon." It was a tremendous sacrifice, he knew, and he wasn't looking forward to being knee-deep in filth for all that time, but he equally wasn't about to let go of this chance that he'd been waiting so very long for.

A flicker of doubt crossed Mina's face then, with a shake of her head in resignation, she said, "Very well. Be off you, then. But if you break your promise, you'll be in the stables for the rest of your life, clear?"

Abdullah grinned. "I won't break it!" he said. "Thank you, Mina."

She waved him away, turning back to the others and barking out, "And what are you all looking at? Back to work!" She clapped her hands, once, twice. "Chop chop!"

Abdullah bounded down the spiralling staircase that led to the lower levels of the palace, his footsteps ringing out against the stone, the cool air a sharp reflection to the smothering heat he'd just endured.

It had been months since his visit to the Shaykh in the Library and his initial enthusiasm had been snuffed out by the whirl and humdrum of everyday life. The words he'd absorbed, then fresh with a piercing clarity, had now become dull and indistinct, like watching the faint traces of a mountaintop in the distance, as though the mountain itself were a painting.

Painting. The thought prodded at a memory and, like a flood of pent-up water released from a dam, some of the words returned. Prodded on by the Ustadha, the Shaykh had, somewhat reluctantly, continued to read for a little while longer after they'd performed the sunset prayer, and Abdullah remembered that the text had expounded further on the matter of Allah Names and the universe.

"When you see a painter creating a painting of a landscape know that this is only happening through Allah's Name, the Creator. When you see a wind tearing apart fields well-tended, uprooting orchards planted with care, know that this is only happening through Allah's Name, the Powerful and, depending on the state of the owners of those plantations, it may even have occurred through His Name, the Avenger. Everything is existing through one or more of Allah's Names, if you would but look."

Abdullah paused mid-step to gaze through another slit of a window. He was still high up and could see the tips of the forest beyond the city's gates, could see them stroke the sky as they swayed gently in the breeze, silent sentinels to the bustle of life all that surrounded them.

If he squinted hard enough, he could just make out the shimmering crystal blue form of Lake Zaytun as the sun beat down on it, waves lapping the shore in lazy strokes. Tipped with a halo of sparkling haze through which birds were soaring, the lake seemed as remote as the idea of ever finding a Friend.

More words dropped into Abdullah's memories: "Time is short! The universe reflects His Names, and you were created to decipher those Names, so that you would come to know Him. The trail is dangerous, filled with thorns, but a safe path has already been made – the way of the Prophet, upon him be blessings and peace."

A large maid, a quivering mountain of dirty laundry in her arms, came into view, breaking Abdullah out of his musings. He shifted to one side, casting his gaze upon the floor, and let her pass. As her footsteps faded behind him, he picked up the thread of thoughts.

"The Prophet!" the Shaykh had read. "He knew Allah, he was the true khalifah of Allah, but he also knew how to reach the Lord, and that's what he had been charged to deliver to us. Whatever he bid you do will help you in your aim, whatever he forbade you is a poison to the heart that will make you lose true sight – do not underestimate any wrong action! Do not be content to be of those still in islam – their actions conditioned only by reward and punishment and nothing more – but be the people of ihsan, of excellence. The former are blessed as are the latter, but if the former think that what they have is all there is of the deen, that there is nothing higher than what they've reached – ah, then they have truly underestimated Allah! The Friends of Allah have inherited from the Prophet, upon him be blessings and peace, and can show you the way…"

Abdullah let out a breath. He'd tried, subhanAllah, how he had tried! Fasting for three days in a row, he'd asked Allah in every single prayer to bring him one of His Friends. Each day Abdullah waited in eager anticipation, as though the Friend would appear in a puff of smoke, and each day he'd been disappointed.

In the distance, Abdullah watched a bird swoop down through the sky, disappear into the haze, then peck the water, gliding back up gracefully, a silver fish wriggling in its beak. What did it all mean? He couldn't see the Names of Allah anywhere around him – so why should anyone else be able to?

And besides, he was barely a true worshipper, how could someone like him become a Knower? No, it had been a silly idea altogether- he felt the familiar burn of foolish shame tighten around his insides – and he was better off without it.

The words, the whole notion of finding a Friend, all of it now seemed like a distant dream, smouldering ashes glowing on a dead fire. He had, he mused, as he finally made his way down then out into the streets, far more pressing matters at hand.

The sting of Mina's rebuke still bit at him, and Abdullah dragged his feet, kicking stones, all thoughts of Friends lost. Fractured sunlight stroked his face as the spicy scent of the town floated in the air towards them – musk and incense twining with the tang of rotted fruit and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat.

A steady hum of buzzing voices - irritated shouts mixed with the eager cries of the traders, honey pouring from their tongues as they tried to coax people to buy their wares – drenched the air. It had rained the previous night and water dripped from the rooftops in torrents, tapping rhythmically against the ground, the occasional droplet catching the glint of the sun.

There was one constant in every person and place Abdullah's eyes rested upon – the Ivory Horn. He wasn't quite sure what it did exactly, but all he knew was it was everywhere. People hung it from their belts like a trophy, or displayed it in their shop windows or in the centre of their homes; some, daringly, used it to play music on, entertaining all around them.

City Criers, newly appointed by the Caliph, spoke through it, the Horn amplifying their voices almost a hundred times louder than usual, telling the hushed crowds about the latest Outlander raid upon the Believers, the number died, and sometimes even the horrible manner of their death. A chill washed over the youngster as he recalled each announcement; remembering how the listening women had drawn their children close to them, fear dancing their eyes.

The grumbling protests of those that found the Horn a remarkably silly thing had been silenced as people pointed out that without it, how could they learn of what was going on in the world in such a short time?

And what a world it was. Listening to the Criers always filled Abdullah with despair, tarring his heart with a darkness that shut out any shaft of light. How, he mused, could this sick, twisted world be any reflection of the Names of Allah if such ugliness occurred each and every day?

But that, again, was the least of Abdullah's worries. The only thing that mattered to him now was that everyone else had an Ivory Horn and he did not. Envy fought with hope in his heart, and he remembered that a visit to the Amphitheatre wasn't the only thing he was saving his hard earned coin for. As soon as he had enough money, he would buy the best Horn ever – then, he concluded, people wouldn't look down on him anymore. Joy plumed in his heart like a fountain, an intoxicating sensation that almost made him giddy. Yes, as soon as he had the Horn, life would be so much better.

With a smile on his face, the kitchen boy trotted over to the Amphitheatre.

*

It had been an impressive feat. To house the now regular tournaments and games that drew the people of Castleton in droves, the Caliph had ordered the construction of a massive structure now known as the Amphitheatre. Named after a similar building the Outlanders had, the people now felt that they were on an equal footing with the People of the Book in at least one matter of the dunya.

His first visit to the cavernous building, Abdullah, jostled here and there in amongst the crowds, dearly wished Ali was here to share it with him. His friend, though, had not been lucky in his errands for the day and had had to decline.

Lips pursed, the throb of noise drilling into his very bones, Abdullah stood on the tips of his toes to get a better sight. And what a sight it was…

The Castleton Amphitheatre was awash with colour; curling ribbons of a myriad shade swooped through the air, cutting a path through the spinning rain of confetti and silk. Sharp sunlight, golden and twinkling, streaked through the flawlessly blue, cloudless sky as a wave of noise, eager and in merry spirits, rumbled from within the massive building.

It was, Abdullah mused as she took in a deep breath, an exhilarating sight, more so because it was such a pleasant day, too. A tingle of anticipation touched the small of his back, his fingers drumming against his thigh as we waited to see what would come.

"Is it a joust today?" he said to no-one in particular.

A pudgy man nearby, eyes twinkling with excitement, smiled at him. Abdullah had to strain to see him. "Not today, no," the man replied. "Today is a race. A horse race. Today we get to see Khubayb."

"Khubayb…" Abdullah tested the name out on his tongue. "Who's that?"

"One of the riders," the man said, rubbing his hands. "The best…ah, if I had a daughter I'd marry her off to him in an instant." His eyes seemed to spring open. "Here he comes now!"

Abdullah strained his neck to get a peek. It was difficult; at first, he saw nothing but a blurred patch of sand poking out from in front of the heaving mass of men in front of him. Then, finally, he saw him - an immaculately dressed rider, held aloft on a bier, entered the arena, beard glistening and turban almost glowing. Abdullah felt his breath catch in his heart - but more than that, he noticed the whispered awe that rippled around the crowd. That was it. He was enraptured. He wagered, with a twinge in his heart, that a person as grand as Khubayb would never shatter crockery or be forced to work in the stables.

Two other riders appeared – he quickly learned that their names were Amaar and Sayim – but Abdullah hopes were only set on Khubayb. Sitting astride his mare, Khubayb soaked in the adoration of the crowd, waving and smiling all the while. Abdullah almost melted – what a life that would be.

He licked his lips, trying to still the itch of impatience that thrummed through his body as the riders took their places. Abdullah felt tense, edgy. Anticipation churned in his stomach. The voice of the crowd became nothing more than a dull throb, the world falling away in his eyes. He swallowed but no moisture came to his mouth.

Khalifah of Allah…

Abdullah blinked. Where had that thought come? He tried to bat it, just as he swatted at a fly buzzing close to his face, but he found that no matter how hard he pushed, the thought had lodged in his heart. It was there at the back of his mind, tickling him with a sense of uneasiness that threatened to overshadow the happiness he was feeling. Abdullah, in a valiant effort, desperately tried to ignore it, tried to cling on to his more positive emotions.

I am happy. I am enjoying myself.

A man, an Ivory Horn at his lips, stood in the centre of the track.

"Three!" he called.

Abdullah wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his tunic.

"Two!"

He could hear the rush of his own blood pumping in his chest. He ignored it.

"One!"

Not for this were you created…

"Go!"

The crowd roared, all thoughts melted and, in an instant, Abdullah imagined himself in Khubayb's place, dust churning under galloping hooves and flecks of grit, riding the oncoming wind, flying into his face. The rhythmic thuds drummed into his mind and Abdullah could feel his face contort into a rigid scowl, teeth clenched as he willed his chosen one on to victory.

"Oh, Allah," he whispered under his breath. "Let Khubayb win."

The riders veered around the first corner, close enough to the crowd that they could hear the spectators jeers, cheers and taunts. Abdullah saw Khubayb snap his head around, catching a glimpse of Amaar on his heels, then turning back instantly. To his left was Sayim, his horse snorting head as he inched into the lead.

A spike of icy fear stroked Abdullah’s heart, threatening to pierce through and let despair run free. He was going to lose the lead! With a cry of joy, he saw Khubayb kick his heels, and crushed the treacherous thought like a snuffed flame.

Another corner approached and Khubayb, the sun on his back, pulled to the left, hoping to cut across the Sayim’s path. Clods of baked mud flew into the air, scratching his skin, but the charismatic rider seemed to ignore it all.

Abdullah's heart froze once more as he saw Khubayb's mare draw level with Sayim's, saw him flex his knuckles as he prepared to pull ahead. Closer now – Abdullah imagined he could hear the panting of the two horses, the rumble of their hooves like thunder, the sand-stained ground beneath a blur.

Another jolt struck Abdullah, a gasp flying free from his lips, as he saw Khubayb slip, his horse careening dangerously, almost toppling over.

I'll weep! Abdullah vowed inwardly. I'll weep if he loses, and and…I'll never worship again! He shook his head instantly, the familiar heat of shame boiling in his cheeks. No…I'll just…I'll be bitterly unhappy, that's all.

Snarling, Khubayb righted himself, then gave chase. He took another corner, smoothly this time, and the final stretch of track, awash with sunlight, came into view. Onwards he pushed, his shoulders clearly aching from the effort. Sayim was in his line of sight, Amaar far behind. Like felled trees rising from the dead, the crowd rose to their feet, Abdullah amongst them, their cries at fever-pitch.

Khubayb's gasping ride reached Sayim’s horse, going level with its hind legs. The finish line was drawing nearer and nearer and…

“Rah!” Khubayb yelled, squeezing the last bit of strength into his efforts. Watching with wide eyes, the world spun in Abdullah's vision, sweat pouring down his face. Khubayb's horse veered slightly to the right. All that was needed was a little…extra…push…and…

…Abdullah erupted with pure joy as Khubayb crossed the finish line. A song burst from his lips, and he almost danced from sheer happiness. From the corner of his eye he saw the supporters of the other riders weep, and he grinned, satisfied.

At least for a moment, that is. His sense of well-being quickly began to evaporate, like the unravelling of a ball of string. A smile still on his face, he watched as Khubayb's right hand lifted a trophy, his other hand shaking a fat sack full brimming over with gold coins. For some reason, Abdullah felt compelled to look down at his own hands…and saw nothing but emptiness.

An emptiness that was now beginning to seep into his heart, a dark liquid that clouded soul. Abdullah ignored it. He was happy. He was content. As he began to walk away, working out exactly how he was going to taunt Ali for missing the spectacle, a part of him couldn't quite decide what to choose – a life adored as a rider, or a life saving up his meagre earnings to attend more of the same games. How was a lowly kitchen boy meant to choose?

People pushed past him, their faces reflecting the delight he himself felt. "I haven't cried like this since my mother died," one man was saying. "I didn't even weep as much as this when my mother died," another replied.

That struck Abdullah as odd, but he decided he didn't want to dwell on it. He wished he could capture the clouds of his joy in a bottle, then unplug them any time he wanted. He would need to, too, considering he was going to be spending most of his time in the stables for the next few days.

Sad, then, that those very feelings were fading fast, like the blunted edge of a once razor sharp sword. Somewhere deep inside of him, something gnawed at him, something that, if he had any insight, he would have expressed in the following words: Not for this were you created, Oh Khalifah of Allah!

The Winding Ascent

Chapter 2

Morning found Abdullah and Ali back at their errands; the sun, pale and watery, looked down on them through the windows of the farmhouse as they approached a pair of brown cows. Wrapped in an extra thick cloak, Abdullah perched himself upon a rickety stool, kicking a dented tin bucket under one of the animals and began milking away with easy familiarity. He shifted his seat, making sure a wedge of light fell upon him, tickling his skin.

"He said I should find a 'Friend'," Abdullah was saying as the cow eyed him with mild disinterest. "Ajeeb! I don't even know what means, but he frightened me half to death."

"I could tell!" Ali said, another bucket in his hand. Water sloshed over the edge as he spoke. "You were groaning and turning in your sleep – kept me awake while you were at it, too."

Abdullah flicked him a sour glance. "Well, I do apologise for disturbing the high-and-mighty Ali."

His friend grinned, falling into the joke. "And so you should." He yawned in mock exaggeration. "Now I'm too tired to work. I'll blame you if Mina asks why I couldn't get anything done."

Finished with the milk, Abdullah next went to the water pump, rusted and dented as it was. "Here," he said. "Put the bucket under." Ali did so – the bucket only being half full – and then pushed down on the lever, the pump groaning in protest in response. A few drops teased their appearance from the spout then, a moment later, a steady stream followed, splattering against the mud and tinkling into the bucket.

"You shouldn't yawn," Abdullah said.

Ali raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because…" Abdullah frowned, struggling to give voice to his thoughts. "You just shouldn't. That's all."

Licking his lips, Ali scooped up the pail by its handle, then stared at his friend. "He really affected you, didn't he?"

Abdullah kept his gaze fixed elsewhere. "Who?"

"You know who." Ali kicked a clod of soil out of his path as he drew level with his friend. "He's just a madman. Why listen to him?"

Staring into the distance, Abdullah tried to sort out the myriad thoughts whirling around his head. "He just…sounded so certain." Sighing, he sank to the ground in a crouch. "He seemed to imply that the pious ones had it all wrong. That there was more to the deen than…than that." The thought prickled at his heart. If the pious ones that he admired and respected so much were not true, then who were?

Ali crouched, too. "But what did he mean then, by finding a 'Friend'? How would a friend help you?"

Glancing up, Abdullah saw the concern flooding his friend's eyes and hated it. He didn't need to be treated like a jinn-possessed child. Fear stabbed at his heart. Is that what was happening to him? Was he going mad, too? "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice rough. "He wasn't speaking any sense." Something caught his eye up ahead. "Tell me…" he said, his smile returning. "Do you think you could reach…oh, that door there before I could? And…carrying one of these buckets, too?"

Ali grinned in response, peering ahead with theatrical flourish. He set the pail at his feet, then folded his arms. "You want a race, is that it?"

Abdullah nodded.

"I'll beat you like I always do."

Abdullah's eyebrows arched. "I don't remember you ever beating me." You need a Friend. The voice blazed through his mind like a raging fire. The deen…is a means to know Him. Ah…how many have never realised it? Abdullah felt his breathing grow ragged, felt tears – how he hated those tears – blur his vision. What was this? He'd never experienced anything so vivid before in his entire life. He kept his smile in place as he turned to Ali. "Confident as always." He hopes his voice didn't come across as too strained. "And misguided."

"I let you win last time," Ali said. "Not this time."

Friend. Know Him. "What if we race…and make sure we don't spill either the milk or the water?" Friend. Abdullah felt something in the core of his heart, a tugging that made him want to…turn back? He shook his head. It made no sense. And, more importantly – what did it matter? He'd still be kicked around and ordered, no matter what the solution to the madman's riddle was. After all, that's all that mattered, the only constant in his life.

Ali frowned, glancing down at the buckets. "I'd forgotten about these," he moaned. "Mina would kill us if we lost anything."

Abdullah grinned. "We could get some more."

"It'll take too much time. I don't want to be la-"

"Ikhwan!" They turned as another kitchen boy, his face flushed and his clothes in disarray, bounded over to them. A gust of wind blew through the farmhouse, scattering dust and unsettling the broken stalks of straw left strewn across the ground."Have you heard the news?"

"No," said Abdullah.

"What news?" asked Ali.

The boy turned from one to the other, his face a mix of joy and grief, as though he was bursting to set free a secret, but was ashamed at feeling so happy for doing so. "The majnun!" he gasped. "The old man has finally died!"

*

The crack of wood careening into wood rang out in the practice chamber as a group of soldiers sat watching two swordsmen circle the other. AbdurRahman flexed his fingers against the hilt of his wooden blade, his eyes tunnelling in on his opponent, his breathing short but kept steady under his icy control. Tensing his muscles, he peered through his visor, the world revealing itself to him from within metal bars. He feinted left, twitched to the right, then pounced, lunging in with a thrust. His opponent, eyes widening a fraction, responded with liquid speed, knocking the blow aside at the very last minute. The Caliph's Honour Guard rode with the momentum, twirling gracefully before swinging in with another strike. The other man flung his arm up to block, droplets of sweat flying as wood smashed against wood. Pushing forward, he hit back with a riposte that AbdurRahman easily parried, before finding himself driven back as the Honour Guard thrust once more. Another parry, another stalemate, and then the Honour Guard stepped back, a smile peeking out from beneath his steel visor.

"Good," AbdurRahman breathed, lowering his weapon. He nodded at the others. "That's all for today." He blinked as slanted beams of sunlight, pouring in from the tall windows set high in the walls, fell into his eyes, dazzling him for a heartbeat. When his vision he returned he saw one of the servants slip into the chamber, a large basket of fruits in his arms. "It seems we have some refreshments." All eyes turned to the newcomer. "Eat."

The other soldiers, normally the most fiercest of men, stood awkwardly, casting furtive glances at each other as the servant set the basket on the floor. AbdurRahman lifted his visor, flecks of rust coming off under his touch, then dabbed his face with a rag. He knew very well what had given them pause. "Eat," he said softly. "There's plenty for everyone."

"But," one soldier replied, "you should take the first-"

The Caliph's Honour Guard held up a hand. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Eat, in the name of Allah."

After another heartbeat of hesitation, they crowded around the basket, easy conversation flying from their lips once more. AbdurRahman felt his heart warm at the sight. Not only were his men adept at the art of fencing, but adab – the proper manners – had been drilled into their hearts so that it flowed easily from their actions. He was, he mused, old-fashioned in that respect. No matter how well-trained an army was, AbdurRahman believed that without honour, without adab and discipline, then the blessings of victory would not rain down upon them from Allah.

He waited until everyone had taken a fruit, then peered into the basket. One solitary apple, slashed with an ugly brown scar, stared back at him, a wholly unappealing prospect indeed. Next to it sat a small bunch of grapes, drops of water glistening on their ripe, olive skins. Glancing around, AbdurRahman saw that his 'opponent' – a young solider named Munir – had yet to take any food. "Eat, Munir," he called, gesturing to the young man.

AbdurRahman, watching as the soldier approached, reached in, took the apple in his hand, then bit into it, smiling all the while.

The door opened again and the Honour Guard glanced up to see the Vizier, Umair, come inside, a larger man at his heels. AbdurRahman suppressed a grimace. Even though both were intimates of the Caliph, AbdurRahman felt a coldness towards the Vizier he couldn't quite put his finger on. There was always something calculating behind the man's eyes. He pushed the unworthy thoughts away as the pair approached and greetings of peace were exchanged.

"I trust," Umair said with an affable smile, "everything is going well here?"

"Alhamdulilah," the Honour Guard replied. He glanced at the bigger man. "Is there something you needed me for?"

The Vizier smiled again. "To the point as always," he said. "No wasting pleasantries with you, is there?"

The Honour Guard kept his expression neutral. "I have other things to attend to," he said, as calmly as possible. "But if I've caused you offence, please accept my apologies."

"None are necessary," Umair replied with a dismissive wave. "I do have a request, actually." He gestured to the big man at his side. "I hope you can accommodate my friend Junaid here into your mujahideen. Excellent archer and tracker – we hope that he will join you as an Honour Guard to the Amir himself."

AbdurRahman gave Juniad a quick look over. "I don't need any more men," he explained. "And there are others who are more ready to step into the role of Honour Guard."

Another one of those smiles flashed on the Vizier's face. AbdurRahman was beginning to tire of them. "I don't think I've made myself quite clear," Umair went on. "It is the Caliph's wish."

The Honour Guard held the Vizier's gaze for a moment, a wall of silence between them. "In that case," he said slowly, "I accept."

"Good," Umair said. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted." He lifted a small ornament in one hand – AbdurRahman recognised it as the gift that the Outlander emissary had brought. "I have things to do. The Ivory Horn," he nodded at the ornament, "has a great future ahead of it."

"But what," AbdurRahman asked, echoing the Caliph's earlier sentiments, "does it do?"

"Never you mind. You do what you have to do, and I will do what I have to do. Peace."

The Honour Guard watched him leave, the Vizier's sandals slapping against the floor. He noticed that his men had huddled over at the far side of the chamber, whispering amongst themselves. Pursing his lips, he glanced up at Junaid, but before he could say anything, the big man spoke.

"Have they left then?"

"Who?"

"Our visitors. The People of the Book. It was making my skin itch to know that they were in the palace."

AbdurRahman raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more than, "They've gone, yes."

"Alhamdulilah." Junaid's face sagged with relief. "They shouldn't even be allowed here in the first place. Doesn't it make your stomach churn to know what these filthy people did to our brothers and sisters? Does it not make you wish you could cut them down with your blade?"

The Honour Guard pondered this for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I only do what Allah and the Commander of the Faithful bid me to do," he said softly.

There was a hint of a scowl on the Junaid's face. "If I were in command of our armies I would drive them headlong into the enemy and make them taste of that which they gave us. It's a good thing the Haramain are still safe, or else I don't know what I would do." His eyes widened, his voice almost growling. "Our brothers and sisters are suffering – suffering!" AbdurRahman flinched as flecks of spittle landed on his face. "And so it's only fair that those who oppose us should suffer, too. That would be justice."

"And would you have us be destroyed?" AbdurRahman replied, a hard edge in his voice. "They outnumber us."

Junaid let out a breath through his lips, a dismissive gesture. "Remember the Battle of Badr! The Believers were outnumbered then and they were granted victory."

"They were fighting for Allah."

"And what do you think I'm fighting for?"

AbdurRahman gazed at the other, taking in the man's heaving chest and reddened cheeks. "I don't think you know."

Junaid twitched, opening his mouth as if to say something, then snapping his jaws shut as he thought better of it. His expression softened, a smile on his face. "Forgive me," he said, his voice light. "It seems we've begun on the wrong foot. I apology…ignore my words as frustrated babbling, nothing more."

"Understandable," the Honour Guard replied. He held out his hand. "Peace."

"And upon you peace," Junaid replied, wrapping his hand around AbdurRahman's. "Let's talk of other matters."

"Yes, let's." They walked back towards the other men, but the Honour Guard couldn't help but notice that there was a trace of a smirk still lining Junaid's face. He would, he knew, have to keep a very close eye on proceedings from here on in.

*

The double doors to the Library shook as Abdullah rapped upon them, dust flying free from the veins and cracks of the wood.

"Why do you think the Shaykh will know anything about it?" Ali asked, standing by his side.

"I don't," Abdullah admitted. "But maybe's he's read all the scrolls and books in here. Maybe he knows something."

He could feel Ali's eyes upon him, but didn't bother to turn. Finally, his friend said, "I really don't think he's read everything."

Abdullah said nothing. It was true, he knew, that the Shaykh wasn't an alim, one of the doctors of law, but the old man did have a lot of knowledge on other, more mundane, matters. Indeed, it was mostly because of his age that he was referred to as a 'Shaykh', but perhaps he could help Abdullah puzzle out the issues of these 'Friends.'

The door swung open with a creak and the Shaykh – old and thin, a gray beard hanging down to his chest – shuffled into view. "Peace," he said. "And if it isn't Abdullah."

"And upon you peace," the two friends replied in unison.

"The day has passed, you know," the Shaykh went on in a kindly tone. "The day you were waiting for, remember? The one you kept asking about every single hour, even though it would have been much easier for you to just count down each morning from the time I had said there were only ten days to go."

Abdullah felt his cheeks burn. Perhaps he should just go, perhaps he was too stupid to learn about anything more important than how to milk a cow.

Noticing the young man's discomfort, the Shaykh smiled. "But what does it matter? It was always nice to have a young one come to the Library. Sometimes I feel it's only ever a refuge for two elites – those steeped in knowledge, and those seeking to escape their lives through words."

Abdullah blinked, confused.

"Forgive my rambling," the Shaykh went on. "What is it I can do for you today?"

Shuffling uncomfortably, the carpet brushing against the soles of his sandals, Abdullah smiled, then said, "I need to find a 'Friend.'"

The Shaykh raised an eyebrow. "In the Library?"

"No, no," Abdullah explained quickly, shaking his head. "Not that type. You know the majnun? The madman from the masjid?"

A dark shadow fell over the Shaykh's eyes. "I know of him, yes," he said, his voice strained. "I heard he passed away this morning. To Allah we belong and to Him we return."

"He told me I had to find a 'Friend',"

"Did he now?" The Shaykh's voice was flat.

Abdullah began wringing his hands together, the blunt edge of doubt nudging against his heart. "I was wondering if you knew what he meant."

The Shaykh stroked his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought. A torch crackled in a niche in the wall, popping and spitting, throwing dancing crimson shadows onto the old man's face. "I may be able to help you, insha'Allah," he said at last, his voice measured. "Though you may not like what I have to say. First, though…there's a small matter that I wish to discuss."

Happiness and relief bubbling in his heart, Abdullah said boldly, "Name it!"

"Well," the Shaykh explained. "It would seem that yesterday I had to spend most of my time rearranging all the scrolls in the Library." He peered down at the two youngsters. "Do you know why?"

Abdullah felt shame burn him once more. He hung his head low. Ali, idly scuffing his foot against the ground, began to take an intense interest in the wall.

"No?" the Shaykh teased. "Hmm…well, it would seem that a pair of young men decided to take a trip through the Library. Not only that, they attacked my person and overturned one of the tables. Shocking, isn't it?"

His jaw slack, Abdullah could only nod in glum melancholy. That was it. There was no way he would find any help here. Tears stung his eyes again, and he winced at himself angrily. Why was he so weak?

"But, of course," the Shaykh added, a twinkle in his voice. "If another pair of young men would help me undo the damage, then perhaps I will forget all about the little incident." He smiled broadly. "And perhaps I could help those young men with their little endeavour, too? Hmm?"

Closing his eyes, his body sagging with relief, Abdullah could do nothing but agree wholeheartedly. The task took them all most of the day from the noon prayer to the mid-afternoon one. Ali, as per usual, complained, pointing out that their absence would be noticed. Abdullah tried to reassure him, but found the whole matter heavy going himself. Neither he nor Ali had been taught to read so the Shaykh careful instructions on how and where the scrolls should be placed did nothing more than bewilder him. Parchments rustled against each other, scroll handles clicking as they were slid into place, and the air was filled with a musty scent, dust tickling their eyes, firelight stroking their cheeks.

Finally they finished, and Abdullah and Ali collapsed into a heap, their muscles weary, hunger gnawing at their stomachs. The Shaykh, a thin smile on his face, wandered around the room, inspecting everything with a sharp eye. Abdullah felt a vice pinch his heart whenever the Shaykh stopped to peer up at a scroll – what if he'd made a mistake? What if they had to do it all again? In the end, though, his fears melted when the Shaykh turned to them and said, "A good job, my friends. Masha'Allah, a very good job indeed!"

Whereas the day before the Library had been plunged in darkness, today the blinds had been raised from the windows, and the two friends saw that sunset was fast approaching, the sky outside blurred scarlet, the clouds haloed with a lining of gold. At the far end of a room, hidden behind a curtain, they could hear the chant of the Qur'an reciters - soft,feminine, but crisp, too -the faint sound floating in the air.

"The Ustadha is holding a class," the Shaykh explained when he noticed their glances. "We would do well not to disturb them." Turning to the rows of books and scrolls, his eyes scanned the titles, the ink of the stylised handwriting now dry, tapping his chin with one finger as he searched. "Now then…the 'Friends'…ah!" He slid a leather bound tome from the shelf, the books parallel falling against each other with a soft thud, then sank into a chair, drawing a table close to him.

Laying the book flat on the table, he pushed it forward slightly, then peered down at it. "I think this may help." He then reached for the floor, his hand rummaging around in a small sack, then pulled free a blue bottle, liquid sloshing inside. "Where are my manners? A drink? Pomegranate juice… from the finest yield."

The two young men sat patiently. "No, thank you," Ali ventured, "may Allah reward you well, oh Shaykh."

The Shaykh shrugged, then opened the book. "The Friends…" he murmured. Abdullah noticed that the Shaykh's face was now half-hidden in shadow thanks to the failing light. Somehow, though he didn't know why, this chilled his heart, and he almost would have shivered if the Library itself wasn't already so warm; a warmth that pulled at his eye-lids, making him feel drowsy. The Shaykh trailed a finger down one page, dust trailing behind it, then stopped suddenly. He jabbed his finger at the relevant sentence. "Here we are…tassawuf. Hmm…" He began to read: "Have you seen the one who speaks like so: Islam says this and Islam says that, but never speaks about Allah this and Allah that? What a wonder!"

Brow creasing, the Shaykh shook his head. Abdullah leaned forward, rapt with attention.

The Shaykh read on: "Have you seen the one who says 'Islam is beautiful' but his heart hasn't yet beheld the beauty of Allah? A marvel!" Chewing his lip, the Shaykh said, "Ajeeb!" He tapped his finger on the page, then continued to read: "And have you seen the one whose heart blossoms with love when he performs an act of obedience, but does not reflect on the meaning of it? For the love he feels is created by Allah and tells us of Allah's love for Himself. Creation is full of meanings; meanings that tells us something about our Lord, if you would but polish your heart and look!"

Glancing up, the Shaykh looked from Abdullah to Ali. "Nonsense." He sniffed, shuffling in his chest. "Are you sure you want me to continue?"

"Please," Abdullah replied. For some reason his heart thudded in his chest.

"Hmm." The Shaykh was almost growling now. Abdullah briefly wondered where the kindly old man that had met them at the door had gone to. He glanced surreptitiously at Ali, who gave the briefest of shrugs in response. Taking in a deep breath, the Shaykh reached forward, swiped the bottle from the table, unplugged the cork, and then took a quick sip. He peered down at the waxy yellow page, crackling as he touched it. He read on: "Know this! We were created to worship because through worship we know Allah. Everything in our deen is designed to help us in this aim. Following the Law to the letter with complete sincerity opens up the paths of the heart. The meaning of His words 'I have created men and jinn only to worship me' means "only to know Me." This interpretation has reached us through a chain from Ibn Abbas himself, may Allah be pleased with him – only the hard of heart can deny it."

The Shaykh coughed as dust caught in his chest. Abdullah glanced once more at his friend, saw that his eyes were wide with excitement as much as his own.

The Shaykh went on as the shadows lengthened. "Our father Adam, Allah grant him peace, knew all the Names of Allah – And He taught Adam the Names, all of them – and so he could see His Names reflected in Creation and in His own self, thus he became the khilafah – the very representative – of Allah on the Earth, and thus he earned Jannah."

Pausing briefly for another sip, the Shaykh continued: "The universe reflects the Names, and the human being was created to decipher the Names, but the Names are only revealed to and reflected in a polished heart, one that has subdued his nafs, his very ego. This has reached us from the shuyukh of the Path, this is what the Shaykh al-Akbar and Rumi taught. We shall show them Our signs on the horizon and within their own selves until they know that He is the Truth. That we have this potential to know Him and to be His representatives is why He loves us so – melancholy is not our lot, our existence is continuous joy, praise and gratitude. How could it not, when every day there is always something to learn about the Eternal, when everything in Creation has a meaning related to Him? Time is short! Find yourself a Friend of Allah who can show you how to find Him. The Prophets donned the robes of this khilafate, as did the Companions of the Chosen One, as did the Friends-"

The Shaykh snapped the book shut, a puff of dust pluming into the air. Abdullah blinked, dazed, the world coming back to him in a rush. An eerie scarlet cloak hooded the Shaykh's face now, and outside the window Abdullah could see the clouds churning in twilight's purple light, candles and lanterns from the city winking into life with a soft glow. "Why did you stop?" the young man asked.

"Deviants." The Shaykh spat the word as though he had something bitter on his tongue. "This isn't the way. All you need to do is to obey Allah."

Abdullah felt molten anger run through his veins. He bit down – it would be a severe breach of adab to speak back. Controlling his breathing, he said, "But they mentioned the Qur'an. And Rumi-"

"-was mistaken," the Shaykh said. "He was just a man. He can err."

Abdullah sat back, shocked. His mother, before her death, had always regaled him with tales from Rumi's Mathnawi, tales that had delighted a long buried part of his heart, and to hear of him spoken of in such a cold matter cut into his soul. But, more urgently, was the question that had risen to the front of this thoughts - was Rumi a Friend?

"Is something the matter?" The new voice was gentle, feminine. The trio turned to the curtain, saw it flutter slightly from the draught.

"It's nothing, Ustadha," the Shaykh replied. "I was just answering some queries."

"And who is asking?"

"Abdullah…a kitchen boy…I was merely," here he twitched, "merely humouring him."

"He won't learn that way," the Ustadha replied. Her voice was clipped, formal, but still gentle. "Bring him here."

The trio walked over to the curtain, then sat on the ground. The Shaykh glanced at the two boys, then pointed at the floor. Understanding instantly, Ali and Abdullah lowered their gaze, keeping their eyes fixed, their heads low.

"What is it," the Ustadha asked, "that you wish to know?"

Abdullah swallowed, his throat tight. "Mother," he said, his voice hushed. "I wish to know of the Friends of Allah."

There was the slightest of gasps from behind the curtain. "An immense matter," she replied. There was a pause, then, "Do you know that mankind is split into three? Those of the Left Hand; their fate is clear. Those of the Right – and these, if Allah wills, is ourselves. The righteous who wish for reward and fear punishment. Perhaps you've met many."

Blinking, Abdullah felt a weight lift from his chest, felt a tight knot unravel, leaving only sweet relief. This was certainly who the pious ones of the masjid where. He was glad that they were not so lost after all. "I have," he whispered.

"And the last group - those Foremost, Nearest to Allah."

Abdullah picked at the carpet. "Who are they?"

There was a smile in the Ustadha's voice when she replied. "They are the ones who know Allah, who worship Him for Him to know Him and to seek Him. They know the meaning of His words 'Allah created you and all you do' and they know the secret of His words 'It was not you who threw when you threw, but Allah who threw when you threw.'"

"What is it that they know?"

"They know that their actions belong not to them, that Allah creates their acts of ibadah for them, simply out of His concern for them." Another pause, then, "They know they are not in control, the veil of illusion lifting from them. They know that Allah, out of His pure Generosity, created their acts of ibadah only so that He would be worshipped and so He could become known." Another silence, as though she were reflecting. "Once this is realised in their hearts, once they melted in gratitude because of what Allah was doing for them, they could do nothing but fall in love with their Lord." Her voice seemed to break, but she quickly recovered. "Do you know how to escape Wrath, oh Abdullah?"

"No, mother."

"It's when you no longer see yourself in your good actions, that you only see, with the eye of your heart, Allah Himself creating your good actions even as you perform them. It is that you worship Him as if you see Him. Others, whose tawhid is on their lips and not in their hearts, they are the ones who suffer Wrath – in reality, Rahma – because they need to be purified before they return to Allah." There was a shift in her voice. "Oh Shaykh! Read from the page in front of you."

The Shaykh cleared his throat. The darkness was thick now, and his body a mere outline. "True freedom," he read, "is when you are a slave to no created thing – especially your own nafs."

"And again!"

"There is no islam until both your inward and your outward have submitted."

A sob escaped from behind the curtain. "We should never be content to just be those of the Right, and we certainly must not be content for us to be of the Left – we should aim to be of the Foremost, then let the Mercy of Allah speed us to our destiny."

The call to prayer pierced the air like a speeding arrow, faint and strong at the same time. "Mother," Abdullah asked quickly. "How do I find a Friend?"

"Oh, Shaykh!" the Ustadha replied, her voice so light that Abdullah thought it may even float. "Read again!"

"All you have to do to find the one you seek," the Shaykh read, " is but ask."

Ok…here's chapter 1 of a possible new story. I've pretty much got the plot worked out in my head, so there shouldn't be too many delays in updating this, insha'Allah. I still don't think it's the best I can do, and Allah knows the truth of that, and I know the ideas are a little simplistic, but let me know which story you prefer…

I've 'modernised' the dialogue a little. The country and people are purely fictional, but I was thinking 'Muslim Spain' while writing this. Musa – and all the insights from the other story – will be in this one, but will come in a little later.

A quick disclaimer: a lot of the concepts in the story are from what I have understood from my teacher. However, this does not mean that my understanding is neccesarily correct: one should always seek out a qualified scholar in order to understand the deen correctly.

Let me know what you think…

The Winding Ascent


Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim

As I sit in the cold, a thin cloak wrapped around my shoulders, I watch the flickering candlelight dance on the waxy scroll before me. The parchment crackles as I rest my hand upon it, the nib of my quill glistening in the faint light.

Some may wonder why I wish to preserve these words in ink; others will no doubt wonder if what they are about to read rings with any semblance of the truth. All, perhaps, will ponder as to whether I experienced everything I said I experienced, or whether my words are embellished with delicate brushstrokes of the finest varnish.

None of that, I beg to propose, is in the slightest bit important. It matters not whether these people, places and misadventures actually ever existed. It matters not whether I witnessed it all, or whether I pieced it al together from hearsay. What matters is the light reflected therein, what matters is that a once blazing fire of love has almost become extinguished, and it is hoped that these words will be the flint that sparks in people's hearts once more. No more wondering, no more discussing, no more words - instead reach out, stand up, and grasp for the fruit of that experience for your own selves, insha'Allah. The tree still stands.

For me, too, it is a reminder, a signpost on the way, a standard often forgotten in the illusion of life.

But I digress. Time is short.

A breeze slips under my door, scattering dust and playing havoc with the tiny flame. It scatters, licking the air as it gasps, then clings to what it knows instinctively is real, becoming whole once more, finding peace and serenity.

Think of the flame as your own life…

Errors are from my nafs; rare kernels of truth are from Allah. These words are not to be taken as a guide for life. The summit is high, the path is treacherous, enemies looming on all sides – yet there are those who make camp on the lowest slope of the mountain saying to themselves: 'This is all there is. There is nothing more to see.' It is to them that these words are addressed. Not a guide for life, no, but an oft-forgotten signpost, one that says in big, bold letters: Look up!

In another time and another place, the Believers resided in the land of Zaytun, so called because of its rich produce of olives. The calm centre in the eye of the storm, they found themselves encircled by their enemies, ever encroaching in on their land. In the centre of the centre stands the city of Castleton, named simply for the immense fortress palace of the Caliph, Mazin ibn Abdul Karim…

Chapter 1

The sun split the murk of dawn, a spider' s web of crimson fractures spreading through the darkness. Smeared light crept up the rough walls of the palace, glinting off the pools and fountains, and bouncing off the rows of polished marble arches that led deep into the fortress, making them shine with an almost incandescent glow.

Like a forest animal waking after a winter’s long sleep, something had stirred amongst the people of Castleton in response to the news of the immanent visit of an emissary from the People of the Book residing in the Outlands. Eager whispers leapt from tongue to tongue, people gained an extra spring to their steps, and the warm glow of hope rose like the morning sun. A change, it was said, was as good as a night’s rest and the people were ready for it.

After years of insecurity and doubt, after decades of being smothered under the damp cloak of fear, the door of peace had opened a crack, mercy spilling in like light. Or so they hoped. Why else would an emissary come? Now their crops and livelihoods would be safe. Now trade routes would be opened, and the clink of gold and silver would ring out once more.

They didn't have to wait long. The low drone of a horn piercing the mid-morning air told them that their expected visitor had arrived. Those in the palace rushed into their long-rehearsed positions, grins wide and faces flushed. The Caliph's guards marched to the gate and then, with a flick of a wrist from the commanding officer, the steel bolts snapped apart with metallic thuds, the wizened wood of gates creaking slowly open, flooding the forecourt with golden light.

From a curved balcony high above the palace courtyard the Caliph Mazin watched the newcomers approach, courtiers rushing around him, the rhythmic murmur of their excited voices in the air. A wave of noise – chattering voices, shouts, sighs, barked orders – hung on the breeze, then washed over him, as though the heavens themselves buzzed with anticipation.

"There's less than I thought," Mazin said through pursed lips. "I mean the entourage is quite small."

Umair, his Vizier, looked on, a hand over his eyes. "The people are smitten, though. Look how they welcome them. I've never seen so many garlands…or such joy. At least not since you ascended to the Caliphate, Commander of the Faithful."

Mazin's lip twitched. High above from his vantage point, the people of Castleton seemed like ants crawling over the land. He had to admit, though, that were going about their work with a renewed sense of purpose. As though, he mused, they'd found a well of hope after their previous one had run disappointingly dry. His people…

"Sad that they greet such a one with such enthusiasm." The Caliph leaned forward, gripping the smooth handrail in front of him, the polished wood cold under his touch. He glanced at his advisor. "Don't you think?"

Taking in a deep breath Umair stood to attention, a light breeze cutting through the few strands of hair that peeked out from under his turban. "You have to forgive them," he said. "Our people only admire the Outlanders for their wealth, nothing more, nothing less." He paused as the rhythmic tapping of horseshoes grew closer. "Had our own fortunes been so blessed they would not be so welcoming, I assure you."

So. Even his own Vizier clung to the same belief his people did – that the Believers fall from grace was wholly the fault of the Caliph's.

Mazin's sharp eyes looked on. The assembled throng peeled apart like skin from a fruit as they gave the Outlanders free passage. The emissary, surrounded by a small, heavily armed phalanx, came to a halt, churning dust as their horses shook their heads.

Seeing the soldiers made Mazin glance to his right, where his own Honour Guard stood, silent and with eyes narrowed, his long beard freshly oiled. Mazin almost cocked an eyebrow. It wasn't like AbdurRahman ibn Hamza to dress up for an occasion.

The Caliph was snapped out of his musings by the sound of his Vizier's voice once more. "In fact," Umair was saying, "I'm sure a fruitful result from today's meeting – say, regarding trade routes and whatnot – may win you back the heart of Castleton."

Inwardly, the Caliph winced. "What you are trying to say," he opined, "is that the oil that runs the state machine needs to be replenished, are you not?"

Umair smiled a crooked smile. "Something like that."

Mazin felt the muscles in his jaw stiffen. Whatever happened to the Golden Age? Did it even exist? "It didn't used to be like this."

"Times change, and we change, too, unless we wish to be swept away." The Vizier breathed heavily, a drop of acid in his voice. "It is but by the Grace of Allah that we've survived this long."

This was, Mazin mused, a day for surprises. Not only had his Honour Guard decided to respect his foes by taking care over his appearance, but his Vizier was now having an uncharacteristic flirtation with religion.

"What is it?" Umair asked, noticing the Caliph's expression.

"I think," Mazin replied, the whisper of boots crunching on gravel greeting his ears, "that I'm going mad. Come," he gestured to his Guard and courtiers, "it's time to greet our guests."

*

"One!" Abdullah bounced down the first step, the soft carpet springing under his feet. "Two!" He hopped to the second, a grin spreading over his face. "Three!" Snapping his head up he spotted the small slit of window, a shaft of twinkling light bursting through, then pooling onto the floor below. A gleeful thrill of anticipation thrummed through his heart. The coast was clear – everyone else was otherwise occupied with the visitors.

Abdullah spun on his heels, and snatched at his companion's sleeve. "Come, Ali!" he chirped in a cheerful tone, tugging at his reluctant friend. "We can see the soldiers from here. Those foreigners are said to be fierce warriors, and we don't want to miss taking a peek."

Ali, a mournful expression hanging from his face, held up a basket that he had tucked in the crook of one arm. "We have to deliver this to the kitchens, remember?" he moaned, his eyes flitting from left to right as though watching for spies. "We're certain to be punished if we're late. And you just know that they'll notice our tardiness of all people."

A light laugh floated from Abdullah's lips. "No, they won't!" He glanced at his friend, winking. "Insha'Allah, they won't!" Pulling Ali to the window, he crouched at the sill, licking his lips. "They'll be too busy anyway."

Ali pressed his back against the wall, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back. "I know we're going to get into trouble, I just know it." He flicked at the loose, stiff strands of wicker that had escaped from the basket's intricately weaved form. "We're going to regret this."

"No, we won't," Abdullah protested. He wasn't going to let anyone dampen his spirits this day. Ever since he'd heard of the visit, he'd rushed every day to the Shaykh of the Library – apparently skilled in the knowledge of the passing of time – to ask how soon he had left. The Shaykh, enthusiastic at first for the attention, then slowly growing more and more irritated, had obliged.

Excitement made Abdullah almost jump as he gazed eagerly through the window. Only a glimpse, he knew, would satisfy him. Besides…people like him and Ali were not meant to be seen on days such as this.

"Look!" he gasped.

"We shouldn't," Ali countered, then, with a twist of melodrama in his voice, he added: "This way leads trouble."

"Ssssh!"

"We should go."

"Come, just one look!"

"Did I mention that we'd regret this?"

Finally, anger sparked in Abdullah's eyes. "You'll regret missing this!" he hissed. With a quick glance and a sigh, he softened his tone. "It'll only be for a few minutes. We can run to the kitchens, don't worry."

"I'd rather walk," Ali replied, his voice sour. Despite his protests, he lifted himself up to peer through the thin opening.

They were at the lowest level of the palace, the forecourt spread open before them, a veritable feast of breathtaking splendour. Bright flowers of a myriad shade swayed in the breeze, an explosion of colour blanketing the ground. Fountains, shaded by tall, thick trees, gushed into the air, shafts of sunlight spearing the water in a sparkling haze.

Abdullah, biting his bottom lip in awe, watched with wide-eyed admiration as the foreign soldiers stood to attention, their armour tinkling from their ever-so-slight movements. "Look at that," he gasped. "Look at the way the people respect them, admire them." His hand closed into a fist. "What a feeling that must be…"

Ali cocked an eyebrow. "Well, be sure to tell me all about it," he said, the barb in his voice spiking his words. "Kitchen boys aren't the most beloved of people, in case you've forgotten. Especially not orphaned kitchen boys."

Resting his chin on folded arms, Abdullah ignored the jibe. "But perhaps we could join the army one day-"

"- what? With the People of the Book?"

"No, no!" Abdullah grinned, working a lone pebble between two fingers. "With the Muslims, of course. But still…" His eyes were drawn to the thin swords hanging at each soldier's waist, the sun catching the curve of the blades like liquid fire. "Beautiful…"

Ali, his attention now rapt, gazed at one of the trees jealously hanging over a pool. He watched as a solitary leaf broke off a branch, spinning slowly down, until it came to rest on a bed of curved cherry blossoms, tinted pink and gently bobbing up and down on the surface of the water. Small birds glided overhead, landing on trembling branches, darting their heads this way and that, then flying off in a blurred flutter of wings. "Yes…" he said softly. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

Abdullah grinned, happiness blossoming in his heart. At last, his friend was throwing himself into the spirit of things. Abdullah's narrowed eyes focused in on the swinging swords once more. "Look at the curve on that…"

The heady perfumed scent of the flowers floated through the air, making their noses twitch involuntary. Ali, transfixed by a lone petal twisting this way and that in the churning emerald froth of water, could only say: "So well-designed…"

Smacking his hand against the sill, a puff of dust erupting as a result, Abdullah chimed in happily: "Exactly! Now how can you possibly say that being a soldier isn't the finest of all pursuits?"

Blinking, his brow creased in confusion, Ali glanced up at his friend. "What?"

Abdullah held up a hand. "Imagine…adored, respected…" His voice was hushed as his eyes glowed. "No one telling us what to do, no one pushing us around, trampling us underfoot."

"I think you'll find," Ali said, his eyes narrowed as he drew himself upright, "that soldiers do have people telling them what to do."

"Not like that," Abdullah replied, shaking his head. "Their orders are noble, just. Much better than 'deliver the flour to the kitchens.'"

"Speaking of which," Ali said, walking off, "we're going to be late."

Abdullah sighed, his heart deflating. As much as he loved his friend, Abdullah couldn't quite understand why he was so adamant to tolerate the vice that Fate had put them in. Surely, he mused, there was more to life than this. More excitement, more riches, more glory. Who would want to work in the palace kitchens for the rest of their lives?

Not me, he vowed inwardly as he ran one hand through his hair. I'm going to be somebody.

Watching Ali scuttle off down the corridor, Abdullah took one last lingering glance at the soldiers, then sprinted off to catch up to his friend. He spun on his heels as he reached Ali, walking backward for a moment. "We won't be late," he said, grinning once more. "I know a short-cut."

Ali's eyes flickered. "What do you-"

Abdullah grabbed his sleeve once again. "Come on!"

The two young boys, their sandals slapping against the floor, ran down the twisting, turning passageways, ducking under arches and dodging the people, angry curses ringing out in their wake.

Abdullah, his chest heaving and his brow glistening with sweat, came to a sudden stop in front of a pair of double doors. Noticing Ali's quizzical expression, he lifted a finger to his lips. "Ssshhh!"

Placing his hand flat on the polished surface, Abdullah gingerly pushed open the door, then slipped inside, Ali in tow. Darkness swallowed them. Abdullah sniffed, a musty sense of warmth enwrapping the two friends, making them twitch. Their footsteps light as they crept in, they heard the door close behind them with a soft click.

"Where are we?" Ali whispered, his breathing harsh.

"Library," Abdullah said, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. "It's been closed for today." The faint outline of another doorway came to his eyes. Beckoning to his friend, Abdullah sprinted across to it, then pressed his back against the wall.

From the corner of his eye he saw Ali follow suit and, when his friend had reached him, Abdullah craned his neck, peering into the next room.

Nothing.

The curved shape of a small table formed in his eyes, standing still a little way ahead of him. With another gesture to Ali, he ghosted over to it in a silent sprint, then crouched, using it as cover. His narrowed eyes peered in deeper. Still nothing.

The friends, their ragged breathing echoing a little too loud, then padded across the lush carpet. Ali brushed against another table, making it wobble, its legs uneven. "Look," he whispered.

Abdullah nodded, spotting yet another doorway, this time framed with light, an almost eerie glow seeping in from the cracks. Somewhere in the deepest recess of his mind, the young man began to wonder whether this was such a good idea after all. Doubt's icy touch nipped at his heart, the steady thud of his heart a roar in his ears. Somewhere nearby something ticked, faint and steady.

With a sudden flash the entire room was engulfed in golden light. Abdullah froze, Ali stiffening instantly beside him. His mouth dried instantly, his heart hammering now in his chest.

It took them but a moment to realise that the door they'd been concentrating so intently on was now open, a silhouette of a large man now standing in the opening.

The man started. "What are you-?"

"Run!" Abdullah grabbed his friend once more, colliding into the newcomer shoulder-first. The man, gasping as the breath left him, toppled to one side. His shoulder stinging, Abdullah ran into the next room, the lamplight burning into his vision, bringing tears to his eyes. He spotted another opening and, with a flourish of his arm, he overturned a nearby table, sending scrolls and parchments flying into the air.

The two friends ducked, weaved and sped down the new passageway, the air whispering past their ears, their urgent movements rustling the tapestries that hung to the wall. The corridor opened out and they fell into another room, the sweet scent of freshly baked bread mingling in the air here with the sharp tang of roasted meat. Pots clanged against each other, knives chopped against wood.

"At last." Abdullah and Ali looked up to see Mina, mistress of the chambers, gazing down at them with cool azure eyes. She brushed her hands down on her front, then plucked the basket from Ali's grasp. "I thought for a moment you two weren't going to come." She turned, her long skirts swirling, pausing only to add, "Well, chop chop. There's plenty more work to be done, you know."

Abdullah turned to his friend, grinning once more. "I told you," he whispered, leaning in close so he could be heard over the din. "Allah always helps the righteous."

Ali, turning ever-so-slowly to address his companion, managed to put on his most sourest of expressions. "And that," he said, "is us, is it?"

*

For what he supposed was the hundredth time that day Mazin watched the sun perform a theatre of light on the patterned floor of his meeting chamber. Looking up, he followed a trail of ivy, weaving and twining, as it crawled up the walls, spinning dust motes floating lazily through the air.

A low drone drilled at his head, a humming that began to throb even as he tried to concentrate. Mazin's eyes found the emissary – Yahya, his name was, or at least, that's what he'd introduced himself as – and tried to focus once more. SubhanAllah, the man could talk.

Yahya leaned back in his chair, the leather crinkling from the movement, and brought the tips of his fingers together. "And that," he said in his soft, cultured tones, "is our proposition."

Mazin's chair screeched as he pushed away from the table and stood. He began to pace, feeling Yahya's eyes upon him, his boots tapping against the marble floor. "I still don't understand," the Caliph said, waving at the table, "what this is."

Before them there sat a curved, intricately designed ornament, almost like a horn in its shape, its surface polished and slick. "I mean," he went on, "what exactly does it do?"

"It doesn't matter what it does," Yahya explained, "all that matters is the people will want it. My people do. Your people will."

A frown creased the Caliph's face. "But why?"

Yahya's eyes took on a hard glint, as though they'd turned instantly to granite. "We will make them want it."

Mazin stopped short. "How?"

A small smile danced on the emissary's lips. "Leave that to us," he said. "The people will want it. They will help make it – we have vast, vast chambers already where citizens are hard at work in my land – then they will buy it. More work, more trade, more money and," here his eyes almost sparkled, "more prosperity."

Mazin felt something catch at his heart. He glanced at his Vizier, standing one side – his Honour Guard on the other – and didn't like the almost hungry look on Umair's face. "Go on."

"A veritable feast of new guilds will spring up. The criers who will proclaim the wonder of our new wares, the constructers, the traders – all we ask is that, in return, you let us introduce this trade, and that we receive a share of the profits."

Slowly, the Caliph sank into his chair once again. It sounded neat, precise…alluring. Something gnawed at his heart, though, a twist of disquieting doubt. "It does not seem like very…noble…work. I'm not sure my people will take to it."

Another quick smile flashed on and off the emissary's thin face. "We will distract them…tournaments…games for them to watch at the end of an exhausting day. My people loved them." He flicked at a frosted glass sitting in front of him, making it sing.

Mazin tapped his fingers on the table. The wood, gouged and stained with age, rocked slightly under his touch. "Tournaments?"

"Very popular, I assure you," Yahya replied, his eyebrows arching. "Not only that, but the populace become wildly infatuated with the jousters themselves. They literally hang on their words, or even imitate their habits." He raised an eyebrow. "Imagine the influence you could wield."

"Why," the Caliph asked as he idly scratched at his wrist, "would anyone wish to imitate those they know nothing about?"

Yahya gave a slight shrug. "Sometimes it is easier to live through others than to live life itself."

Mazin sighed, shaking his head. "No…the ulema would never accept it. Nor the more conscientious of the people."

Placing his hands flat on the table, Yahya leaned forward until his knuckles cracked. "We had the same worry with our priests. But…it was child's play in the end. Have them argue endlessly over theology – amazing isn't it, how religious minds are so determined to crush their opponents in verbal battle, don't you think? – and set group against group, sect against sect. Not physically, of course…but just so much that they spend all their energies towards that one aim." He let free a short chuckle. "That's the beauty of it – while they talk about changing the world we – me and you – we will actually do so. Prosperity will be yours, as it was ours, and you will be forever remembered fondly, both, I'm sure, in this world and the next."

"Indeed!" Mazin was surprised to find that it was his Vizier who had spoken.

"So," Yahya said, his voice cheerful, "do we have an accord?"

The Caliph glanced from Umair's smiling visage to AbdurRahman's stoic one. Whispered voices floated in the air outside the room. Somewhere in the castle, someone dropped something, the metallic shimmering echoing for a moment. Mazin closed his eyes with a sigh, a dark shroud falling over his heart.

*

"As-salaam alaikum wa rahmatullah…as salaam alaikum wa rahmatullah."

Abdullah blinked as the prayer came to an end, as though waking from a deep slumber. His mind had been elsewhere – specifically, the battlefield and, more importantly, the admiring glances he would receive as a returning hero.

The excitement of the day had ebbed into a dull throb, still tingling in his heart, but no longer striking him with a bolt of pure awe. The Outlanders would be leaving in the morning, he knew, and that would probably be the last glimpse he would have at the foreign soldiers. Abdullah found that the prospect wasn't as disheartening as he thought it would be.

He leaned back on his hands as the air buzzed with first dhikr, and then conversation. Stifling a yawn, Abdullah glanced through a window set in one wall, a spill of stars streaking across the night sky, sprinkling pinpricks of light onto the prayer mats in the masjid.

Lamps, dented and stained thick with oil, blazed in their niches, stretching the shadows so that they appeared as dark cloaks, black as the night itself. Abdullah gazed around the room, his eyes falling upon a bundle of rags lying in one corner, its thin form softly rising and falling.

Majnun, madman, that's who it was. Of a peculiar notoriety all of his own here in Castleton, Abdullah knew that the madman hardly even left the masjid. Dimly, he wondered how the madman lived – he looked so frail that it was a wonder he wasn't already dead.

As if on cue, the madman's head snapped up, eyes that blazed like fire pinning Abdullah with a hard stare. Cold sweat sprang up on the young man's forehead, and he tore his gaze away, his breathing suddenly rapid.

"What is it?" Ali asked softly by his side.

Abdullah shook his head. "Nothing," he said. His eyes swept the room again, then stopped, an idea unfurling in his heart. "Look." He pointed at a trio of young men sitting to one side, obsidian beards long and emerald turbans tall. "The pious gather."

Ali smiled. "Looking for blessings?"

Grinning, Abdullah stood. "We need them, don't we?"

"Ignorant," one of the pious was saying as the two friends came to sit at their feet. "Jahils."

"Apparently," the second said, "they cavort with women and don't even know how to pray."

"And they call themselves Muslims!" the third added.

All three shook their heads. Abdullah and Ali watched in rapt awe.

"Listen to this," the first said. "I heard one jahil say that Allah had put the desire for women in his heart, so he had no choice but to follow 'His Will.'

"Pathetic," the second one added.

"Disgusting," the third said.

The first one brought his fingers to his temples. "Ah…what a world we live in," he said, melancholy coating his words.

"I know," the second sighed, somewhat theatrically. "You know in Ramadan, they all come to pray tarawih – and they can barely do wudu correctly, never mind the prayer."

"I watch them, too," the third said, "Out of the corners of my eye. When it comes for witr and they go into ruku instead of reciting the Qunut…I have to stop myself from laughing out loud – I know I shouldn't, but…ah! Such jahils!"

"I heard something ajeeb," Abdullah said, smiling. The trio turned to him, waiting expectedly. "There was one man…he said that the prohibition of wine was just for the time of the Prophet – upon him be blessings and peace – and now there was no need for it!"

"Ah!" the first pious man replied. "It breaks my heart."

"Mine, too," the second interjected. He patted Abdullah's shoulder. "Just ignore those people, my friend. Stick to your deen."

Abdullah flushed with pleasure, a rose tint rising to his cheeks. Watching the three pious men give him approving looks, the youngster was almost giddy with pleasure. Perhaps, he mused, there would be no need to join the army after all. Perhaps he could get the best of both worlds right here.

"Brothers," the third man said. "I have some news…" He paused, smiling, as all eyes fell upon him. "Shaykh Hasan is coming."

Faces lit with joy at the man's words. "Alhamdulilah!" the first man gasped. "The last time he came, hundreds attended his sermons."

"Such a moving speech it was, too," the second one said, his eyes turned inward as if reminiscing. "The whole chamber was in tears at the end."

"I know someone who stopped listening to minstrels just from that one discourse," the third man said. "At least…for two weeks."

"Ah…" the first man replied. "Well…perhaps he'll do so again after the Shaykh's next visit. We are, after all, all sinners…though, I am clearly the worst."

"What are you saying, akhi?" the third man said, astonished. "I am truly the most disgusting of Allah's creatures. You must pray for this sinner."

"No, no," the second one interjected. "If you knew my sins, you would cast me from your presence in the blink of an eye."

Abdullah, feeling something heavy suddenly press down on his chest, excused himself, the two friends leaving the pious ones to their discussion, stepping out into the night, the cool air pinching their skin. "You go on ahead, Ali," Abdullah said. He flicked at his belt, a small pouch clinking in response. "Mina gave us a small gift," he explained, grinning. "I'll get us some sweetmeats for the night."

Ali nodded, spinning on heels as he ran back up the path towards the palace. Gazing at the large building, Abdullah followed the path of the tall, crimson towers as they speared the night sky, the tiny sliver of a new moon, razor thin and sparkling silver, peeking out from behind.

Glowing fireflies danced around his face, and Abdullah took in a deep breath, the warmth of contentment wrapping itself around his heart. Orphan and kitchen boy, he may be, and with a very slim chance of becoming a soldier, but at least he had a home and, most of all, at least he was a Muslim, guaranteed Jannah, and the best of all nations.

Whistling softly to himself, Abdullah turned into a side street, away from the bustle of the main path where lanterns hung and cast a glow that left no place to hide. Smoke from cooking fires clung to the air here, curling slowly skyward. He grimaced at the sight before. This was not a very well-preserved part of Castleton, but it was the shortest path he had to the souk, and he had to get there before the last few traders shut up shop.

All he could see were broken crates, stained with the sludge of rotted fruit and smelling just as bad, littering either side of the path. His tunic fluttered in the breeze as old scrolls - the monthly ones that detailed all the relevant news of the land -swirled around his feet.

Abdullah's interest in the army now no more than the smouldering ash of an almost dead fire, he reflected back on his encounter with the pious ones. There…there he'd almost tasted a sense of belonging, where he'd been regarded as an equal. Isn't that what Islam was anyway? Equality before the Lord of the Worlds? Allah knew his life was unfair…do this, don't do that, fetch this, deliver that. Abdullah sighed…subhanAllah, why did people regard him as dirt?

Thinking back to how the pious ones had treated him – 'My friend!' that's what they'd said - he again felt his heart surge…but then, as his face crinkled in a frown, he wondered just why he'd felt darkness smudge his heart at the very end of the discussion?

Shaking away his thoughts, Abdullah peeked at the main path in between the narrow, cobbled criss-crossing streets, and – as luck would have it - caught sight of the three pious ones, this time helping an old man who had stumbled in the road.

The young man smiled. They were good people…perhaps, it wouldn't be too hard for him to be just as religious as them. Then, surely, no matter how bad the people treated him, he would know that Allah held him in high regard. Puffing his chest out, Abdullah grinned his ever-present grin. What would matter what the jahils thought of him, when Allah would love him for his piety?

Like a liquid-black snake, a hand shot out of the darkness and clutched his wrist. Abdullah reeled in shock, a needle of icy fear spiking his heart. His eyes widened as the madman peeled out of the darkness.

Abdullah's mind raced. What was he doing here? Why had he followed him?

"You," the madman said, his voice surprisingly controlled, "need a Friend."

The youngster struggled against the vice like grip, but achieved nothing more than burning his skin red. "I have one," he gasped. "I have plenty!"

"Deen."

"What?" Abdullah gritted his teeth as his head began to pound, hot tears stinging his eyes.

"Deen," the madman went on, not missing a beat, "isn't that." He pointed at the pious men with his free hand. "Or this." He pointed at Abdullah's heart.

"I don't understand!"

"A means," the madman explained, "not an end. A means, if you were so inclined," and he flicked another glance at the pious ones, "to make yourself feel superior to others, even though you may not realise it."

Scree scattered under Abdullah's feet as he continued to struggle. He glared at the madman. What was this blasphemy?

"Or," the madman breathed, his eyes shining once more, "the deen can be used for what it was meant to be used for – a means to know the very Creator of the Heavens and the Earth."

Abdullah felt his heart slow, felt himself be drawn to the light in the madman's eyes.

"Ah…" the madman whispered, "pity the one who spends his life in worship, but his knowledge of Allah increases not one jot."

Mouth dry, the youngster could only listen in a helpless thrall. His struggle ended. He felt himself drop, as though plunged into an ocean of serenity.

The madman smiled. "Pity the one who sheds tears from a mere sentimental attachment to 'Islam' but never tastes the Love that would shatter his heart and transform both him and those around him. Ah!"

Abdullah watched, his wide eyes blinking, as the madman appeared to stifle a sob. The man's fingers, a bracelet of bone, snapped tighter around Abdullah's wrist. Eyes burning, the air shimmering, the background hum of voices melted into an incomprehensible blur as the madman spoke again

"Listen to me, boy, listen! Time is short. Do you even know what your life is?"

Silence descended between them. Abdullah looked straight into the man's eyes…lit not with insanity, but with…something he couldn't quite place.

"Not for this were you created…" The madman paused, waiting to see if Abdullah was paying attention. Satisfied, he went on, "Not to just give a few rak'at, not to argue subtleties of belief or wonder at other people's wrong actions – this is nothing more than making the deen an extension of your own nafs."

Abdullah's head began to swim, the heat growing under his skin making him feel nauseous. He couldn't comprehend the madman's words, but they seemed to ring in some deep vault in his heart. His brow burned. All he wanted to do was go home. The towers of the palace beckoned invitingly in his mind's eye.

"No…" the madman went on. "Each and every one of us were created to be a reflection of His Names, to be His representative on Earth, to give up ourselves so we're nothing but a tool in His Hands, doing His Will. Ah…what a matter to be created for? What a responsibility…"

Abdullah felt the madman's grip slacken. A part of screamed at him to flee, and he felt the muscles in his legs tense, ready, but another part of him begged him to stay. The wind brushed against him, prickling the cold sweat on his skin. The silence ended.

"How many have died without realising it? How many are hurtling headlong towards their graves without striving for it? How many have a low opinion of their Lord and believe that it's not even possible to realise it, that it's not even worth to try?" His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You need a Friend. Only a Friend can show you the way."

With that the madman released him, his eyes flashing one last time before he sank back into the shadows. Abdullah stumbled, his wrist throbbing as the blood rushed back in. Gasping for breath, the young man wiped a lock of hair from his eyes, then peered into the darkness.

There was no one there.