Night Voices
by Tevish Szat
Status: Public


Fahima bint-Talibah al-Hazid stopped when she heard it: the Azif – the eerie whistling of wind and sand that all her folk had said meant Djinni were near. Quickly she unrolled a small mat across the sand and knelt down on it. As the sound grew, she laid out bowls in front of her, and in each one placed some bread and smoked meat and a more than fair offering of precious salt. When she was done with that she sat up straight as she could, one hand fingering the iron talisman about her neck and the other laid upon the swell of her belly that had made the journey so hard, yet so necessary.

Fahima did not know her child’s father, not even as the women who might lie with a soldier and not ask his name before he departs on the morrow would fail to know who sired their babe, for as she was aware she had not laid with any man. Only strange, erotic dreams that had come upon her suddenly and vanished just as swiftly some time after gave any hint, and when she found she was with child she thanked all good fortune that she had told her mother of the dreams and might have some support in accusing a Sahir or other sorcerer of abusing his magical arts to have his way with her and no one the wiser.

She had not, however, told her mother of her plan in that dark night, beneath the gibbous moon, for she knew in her heart that it was mad. Good people did not seek out the Djinn, and prayed most dearly for their distance. Perhaps they would treat one well in a chance encounter and hope their kindness would be rewarded by being spared any wrath, but they did not present the aerial spirits such offerings as they desired and beseech them answers. The Djinni answered only to Sahir, and to no one willingly.

As Fahima waited, the Azif quieted and stopped, and over the nearest dune walked a trio of travelers in purple-grey robes who, she noticed, left no footprints upon the sand. When they reached Fahma they knelt down in front of her, each one at one of the bowls she had laid out. Fahima inclined her head to them as a greeting, and they returned the gesture. One held his hands over the bowl before him, and Fahima spoke

“All that is in those vessels,” she said, “I give to you.”

At this, each of the three men took up the bowl in front of him, and bowed his head more deeply than before, silent thanks for the hospitality that Fahima offered. Fahima burned to have her questions answered, but knew better than to speak out of turn. If the Djinni left, she had wasted time and salt, meat and bread, but if she gave offense to them the iron talisman she carried might not protect her from their wrath. Swiftly, they ate the meat and the bread, and tasted the salt, collecting every grain they did not consume.

“You have been a generous host.” One of them said at last, setting down the bowl, “Is there a way in which we may repay our hospitality?”

There, Fahima thought, was the opening she so dearly needed

“You have the look of wise ones.” She said, “I would avail myself of your wisdom on a certain matter.”

“Speak,” Said the first.
“Ask your questions,” Said the second.
“We shall answer,” Said the last.

“This child I carry,” Fahima said, “Was got on me by the foul deception of a sorcerer. Though I was powerless, and though the child is blameless, it brings shame on my family and I do not know what I should do.”

The first of the Djinni leaned closer, and stretched out his fingertips towards her.

“The future is like the wind,” he said, “ its direction may shift, and to the uninitiated it seems arbitrary and without pattern while the wise might learn its character. I see it is a daughter you carry. There is power in her… yes, I do not doubt it could have been a Sahir to father such a child. Yes, probably a Sahir. But from the violation, a gift – if she grows, she shall have talent for magic. To raise a sorceress would bring honor to your family, so I counsel you to endure until then.”

Then the second of them leaned closer, and held out his hands as well.

“There is more.” He said, astonishment entering his breathy whisper, “The future is like a serpent, winding through the ever-shifting sands. Nothing is certain, but possibility may be known. This daughter you carry could be a great sorceress, yes. She could even be like unto the One Made of Five – in nature, if not in power.”

“The One Made of Five?”

“A foretold sorcerer,” said the third of Fahima’s guests, “The most powerful there would ever be… and more. Beyond sorcerer, beyond Sahir, beyond Djinni; with a power that opened worlds beyond imagination. We wise men can only dream of the things the One Made of Five could reach.”

“Your daughter will not have the potency.” The second said, “Only the One Made of Five could possess such strength. But, if she is fortunate, and the future finds its way upon the restless dunes, perhaps the worlds will be open to her in the same way. Yes, perhaps they shall be opened. I counsel you to endure this shame for that possibility.”

Then, the third of them leaned close, and spread his fingers as the others had done, and spoke to her.

“The future is like a river,” he declared, “Its course is uncertain, but its character can be known. It may flood its banks or change a particular bend, but in the end the greater picture is the same, and in broad strokes we may know its behavior. For the blessings the companion sees, there are costs. Should your daughter be a sorceress, she shall wed herself to knowledge and never upon Rabiah to a mortal man. Should worlds be opened to your daughter, she shall go to them, and never again shall you see her. I counsel you to endure, but know that each day is itself, and not beholden to improve on the day before.”

“Thank you kindly for your wisdom.” Fahima said, “I shall heed your words well.”

With that the three stood, bowed to her, and walked away. Fahima watched until they passed over a nearby dune and the Azif again began whistling, slowly fading into the distance. Then she picked up the bowls, rolled up the mat, and began her travel back to town

***

Amah Ash-Shahid bint-Fahima al-Hazid trailed close behind her mother. Both she and her mother were dressed in their best dresses, made by her uncle the tailor Abd al-Muizz ibn Abd al-Khabir al-Hazid from the finest silks her other uncle, Masud ibn Abd al-Khabir al-Hazid the trader could provide, for they were headed towards a great and rich place and it had been impressed upon young Amah Ash-Shahid that she needed to look and act her very best.

Amah, as most of her family and those few other children she could stand to be around often called her, had not been told the reason for their trip, only that it was very important and she ought to look her best and be on her best behavior for the duration.

It was late evening as they ascended the steps of the great academy, the sky already dark save about the horizon which glowed in violet and crimson. They walked carefully through massive halls lit by crimson fires that burned heatless in marble sconces. Here and there they came to a doorway that was guarded by massive eunuch ogres, and at those check-points Amah’s mother declared her name and said that she would be expected, the truth of which the ogres seemed to tacitly accept. Gradually, the rooms became smaller, from those at first that had arched seemingly as high as the sky to the inner chambers which, though broad and airy for their open vistas that looked upon the darkening sky, were not, Amah thought, so large that their size alone should be a thing of wonder.

Finally, they came to a set of solid doors, carved of ebony wood and banded with teak, fittings in gleaming brass, and when her mother spoke to the ogres there, one entered and only after a long moment returned and opened the way for mother and daughter. Eight steps of the mother they walked into that room before Fahima knelt down and pressed her forehead to the carpeted floor, and Amah, knowing not the reason, followed suit.

Then there came a man’s voice, thin and reedy, from the space before the two of them, on which Amah was frustrated she could not lay eyes without breaking her mirror of her mother’s pose.

“An entire year now,” he said, “I have been hearing the requests of Fahima bint-Talibah al-Hazid come through my servitors, insisting an audience would soon be necessary on behalf of her daughter. Knowing my servitors, I do not doubt they were ignoring your pleas for another year before that. But you were persistent, and persistence I reward.”

Here he paused.

“And humility, as well,” he said after a moment, “to know better than to raise your head without my express permission. But these virtues aside, I do not reward foolishness. The younger of the women I see before me cannot have even her tenth year. She could not even have had her eighth when first you began to pester my servitors for this meeting. Tell me, what made you think one so young would be a fit addition to a place of learning?”

“Oh mighty one, who binds a dozen Djinni to his name,” said Fahima, “I say to you that I am her mother and ought to know my daughter well, that her mind is quicker than any child’s and that she is ready to learn as your illustriousness would teach. But, lord of sorcerers and spirits, I say also I had known this day would come, for the wisdom of those spirits of the air that serve you was given me, to say that magic would be my daughter’s sole calling.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the eerie, ethereal whining of the wind across the countless silken curtains, not unlike the Azif upon the sand, the voice of Djinni, but then the man with the thin voice spoke once more.

“And, little girl,” he said, “Lift your head that I may speak with you.”

Amah gladly raised her head, and her first thought was that the man speaking to her did not look so great. He was as thin and drawn as his voice, his long beard streaked with grey, skin wrinkled, dark bags beneath his eyes. He sat amidst a mass of cushions in blue, gold, crimson, and violet, with young slave-girls arrayed around him in silks so sheer they could barely be said to be concealing, fanning the drawn man as he looked down at her and drew a great breath of smoke through the long, flexible stem of a hookah held steady by one of the women.

“Hm.” He said, in a way Amah had not expected. He looked at her quizzically, his eyes locking with hers for a long moment.

“We do,” he said, “Take in some children your age, sons and daughters of families with great wealth and prestige, or who have the greatest capacity for magic. You are, assuredly, not the former, for I know all the great families, and those who are rising to that station, and those who have fallen into disgrace from it due to the excesses of their heirs, and never has al-Hazid been among them. But are you the second? To look at a person it is hard to say, and one could not at sight tell a beggar from a Sahir were they dressed the same.”

Slowly, lazily, the man raised one arm, and to that there was a swirl of wind, and a creature appeared. It was an ugly thing, with the upper torso of a man and no lower body to speak of, a shock of white hair to the shoulder from a head with two mouths and a jewel upon the forehead, and its left arm shriveled and ending only in a hooked claw rather than the bony, elongated hand of the other. All the same, it fascinated Amah, and she wondered what it could be and why any creature would look like that.

Most of the slave girls, Amah noticed after a moment, were cowering before the creature, and even the stalwart ogre eunuchs that waited in the wings averted their gaze, which Amah could not understand. The man upon that pile of cushions, though, did not even look at it. He was still looking at her, the intensity of his gaze having only grown.

“Do you know what my slave here is, girl?”

“It’s ugly.” Amah said.

“It is an Efreet of Serendib.” He replied, seeming somewhat perturbed “Among the most powerful of their kind, and I have bound it to my service inexorably, to do as I say in all matters.” He paused a moment, “Does this not impress you?”

“It’s interesting.” Amah replied. She guessed it was supposed to be a great achievement, but Amah did not have it in her to marvel at the matter so much as to wonder how it was achieved.

The man considered this answer. “Interesting.” He said, “Just interesting? Now that is… different.” He shook his head, “But it has nothing to do with assaying your talents. So, women of the al-Hazid family, I propose this test. My loyal slave Al-Qadir abd Alohnim shall determine what potential this child has. If he sees in her the faintest chance that she might become mighty enough to bind him to her service as a Sahir, she shall be enrolled here at once to foster such talent. If he does not see at least that potential aptitude, he shall devour her on the spot. What say you to that?”

“Oh mighty one,” Fahima cried out, “you who have such power to control the spirits of the air and the land, master of the arcane, I beg you to reconsider, for we have come to you in good faith and meant no trespass against your greatness.”

He seemed to consider this, taking a breath from his hookah, and then turning to Amah.

“And you, small one?”

Amah sized the creature up. It was larger than a man, at least as much of it as there was, but she did not find herself intimidated by it. Indeed, her uncle Masud presented nearly as imposing a figure, and more than once she had climbed upon his shoulders and pulled his hair until he had cried for mercy and begged Amah’s mother to take her back.

“You think that can eat me?” she asked, incredulous, “Because I don’t.”

“Then,” the man said, “We shall see. Al-Qadir abd Alohnim! Look into the soul of this child and the streams of time and prophecy. If in no future would she have the strength to bind you as I have bound you, you may consume her. Else, set her down and tell me of what you have seen, then be gone from my presence for you are frightening my concubines.”

At this, the efreet flew to Amah and with its good hand grasped her about the waist and lifted her to its face, staring at her as its two mouths gnashed. It looked for a long moment, and raised its crooked claw and with that noisome appendage brushed the hair from Amah’s face. Then, with her, it flew up next to its master, then set Amah down on her feet before him. Slowly, it bent over, and then spoke in a croaking voice that came intermittently from either side of its face.

“O master of masters,” the Efreet Al-Qadir abd Alohnim said, “By all the wisdoms that are mine, I do not think it even possible that the child should lack the strength to subdue me as you did. The power she possesses, whether you would teach her its uses or no.”

Then the efreet vanished into a gust that blew across the terrace. The man drew deeply from his hookah, and when he spoke his words brought forth a torrent of smoke as though there was a fire lit in his belly.

“Well,” he said, “It seems we have a new apprentice this day.”

***

Amah Ash-Shahid bint-Fahima al-Hazid had not seen her mother for four years – not since that fateful night when she had been brought before Sahir Malik ibn-Faysal al-Amit and his Efreet and been judged worthy to enter his school for mages. But, every seventh day since then, she had been brought a letter from her mother and swiftly written one back for immediate delivery, and every other letter had always arrived with a sample of her mother’s baking: Baklava, pistachio cookies, delightful finger pastries when dates were in season, or any number of other wonderful treats. It had been fourteen days since the last such delivery, and in four years her mother had never failed.

Thus, Amah did not at first look up when one of the slave girls, who waited hand and foot on the young ladies of the academy because she had a small scar beneath her left eye and Sahir Malik did not want her for himself any more, entered the room and knelt, and called out her name. She was starting to bestir herself, having finished the paragraph of the book she was reading when another of the girls bolted up.

“I’ll take that!” Raja bint-Noura al-Malak, the spoiled daughter of an exceptionally rich trader, whom Amah and, she suspected, Sahir Malik only tolerated for the sake of her somewhat talented brother, declared. She moved quickly, and snatched the bag from the slave’s hands, knocking the letter to the ground and stepping on it carelessly as she trotted back to one of the low couches.

“That’s mine!” Amah shouted, “Give it back!”

Raja stuck her tongue out at Amah. “I got it first!” she declared, “Plus, you’re just a peasant. I should be the one getting treats.”

“You take that back!” Amah shouted, picking up the letter and tucking it in the sash at her waist as she approached Raja.

Raja turned her back to Amah. “Fine.” She said, “But these are still mine.” She tore open the bag, “Ooh, cookies.”

“Those are my cookies!” she shouted, “You’ll give them back!”

“No.” Raja said. “They’re mine. I wanted them, I got them, They’re mine, and I’m going to eat every last one and not share just like you always do.”

Then, Amah pounced at Raja’s back. For a moment, the two girls struggled on the couch, but Amah was a year older and a little bigger and soon had the upper hand. She tore the open bag from Raja’s grasp and stood gall, grinning with her success, until Raja rebounded and tore out the bottom. The cookies spilled on the floor, and before Amah even realized what had happened, Raja was stomping them into crumbs.

Trying to steal something of worth was one thing, and Amah could almost have forgiven Raja for it, but that spite, it was beyond anything she could accept. It was pointless, destructive, and disrespected her and her mother alike. And Amah Ash-Shahid bint-Fahima al-Hazid had learned very swiftly under the tutelage of Sahir Malik ibn-Faysal al-Amit what was done with such flagrant disrespect.

First, she knocked Raja flat, and then, she began to feel the power swelling within her. The shadows in the room grew darker, and as Amah remembered the deep basements of the academy and the dark alleys of the city of brass, and the power that coursed through each of them, the shadows around her seemed to take on a dimension and a life of their own. Amah had suffered Raja’s spite, and now it was her turn to deliver.

She waited until Raja looked up at her, the other girl’s anger and frustration turning to fear upon seeing Amah’s visage. Then, Amah released the magic. For a moment, the shadows cleared, and Raja looked confused and a bit relieved.

Then Raja looked at her hands, and began shrieking at the top of her lungs, for they were covered in pestilent sores that had not been there a moment before.

Amah smiled, and examined the floor. She picked up the few cookies that had survived the struggle, and savored her mother’s gifts until one of the ranked sorceresses was summoned and forcibly led Amah and Raja away.

Hours later, Amah was still sitting outside the chamber of Sahir Zahid ibn-Hadil Fakhr, who upon being put in charge of the mess had loudly declared that Amah ought to be ashamed of herself. It seemed like it ought to be near dawn by the time he called her in.

“Sit down.” Sahir Zahid said, and Amah obeyed.

“You know,” Sahir Zahid said, “There is a reason why we do not usually teach the black magics to students as young as yourself. Though a mage of the crimson is more prone to outbursts, of all the magics, they are the most dangerous should you be unable to control yourself.”

“I know.” Amah groaned.

“And,” Sahir Zahid said, “An exception was made for you because of your natural talent, in the hopes that teaching you spellcraft would encourage you to be able to control it.”

“I did control it!” Amah protested, “I meant to give Raja boils and sores, and I did!”

Sahir Zahid frowned very deeply. “That is controlling the magic, perhaps,” he said, “But it is not controlling yourself. You are more willful than a Juzam Djinn! And I should know, having held one under my sway once and you in my tutelage!”

Sahir Zahid glared harshly at Amah, and she met his gaze, locking her deep emerald-green eyes with his. Then, Sahir Zahid rolled his eyes. “I will not say you were not provoked, and at least we are able to cure young lady al-Malak’s affliction.” He sighed, “But I must still recommend to Sahir Malik that your promotions be held back at least a year, which is a very minor punishment when considering what could be done.” Amah nodded sadly. She could earn that year back if she was good enough, she told herself. It would not be that hard.

“And,” Sahir Zahid added, “I must insist that you refrain from cursing any other students with leprosy.”

“Technically…” Amah began

“Or anyone at all with any similar blemish or ailment!”

Amah sighed, “Fine,” she said, “I won’t curse people with miserable diseases, even if they really deserve it.

Sahir Zahid frowned. “I suppose that will do if you hold to it. You are dismissed.”

Amah Ash-Shahid trudged back to the quarters she shared with the other girls. All of them were asleep, and the place had been rendered immaculate since the altercation. She sat down, and by a small conjured light finally read the crumpled letter from her mother. It made her smile to know that her mother was proud of her, and cared about her despite their long separation. While she had been nearly falling asleep outside Sahir Zahid’s door, she felt she had a little strength in her yet. She went to her things, and drew out ink and quill and parchment, and began to compose her reply.

***

Amah Ash-Shahid bint-Fahima al-Hazid was seething! Furious! Practically sick with rage! She stomped up and down the room, watching the other girls nod their pretty, empty heads. Sparks of mana leapt from her fingertips that might have started actual fires were she attuned to the magic of the high mountains.

Yet again, Amah had been passed over for promotion to the inner circle. Yet again she had been denied access to the depths of the secret library, in which the most important books, the ones with the uncensored knowledge of magic and of Rabiah, were held. Amah needed to see those books! As far as she was concerned, everyone needed to see those books! Too dangerous, the Sahirs had said. Bah. It was nonsense, no less drivel than refusing Amah herself access on the grounds that she had ‘no respect for authority’ and ‘need to be a woman and not a girl’ before she could lay eyes upon such volumes. What harm ever came from reading a book?

They were paranoid fools, and what was more was they were wrong! Amah was very much a woman, seventeen years old and pretty enough for her needs. Why, a year earlier Aziz ibn-Fadl al-Malak had written her a love poem – a sloppy, amateurish love poem that seemed to suggest her forest green eyes were unique on all Rabiah when heredity said her father at least had to have the same, but a love poem none the less! If she was woman enough to provoke such a gift, she was woman enough for any cause.

Thinking about it, Amah’s fury subsided somewhat. She had indeed been cruelly and wrongly denied access to the special collections… but Aziz had been promoted and given the key to do with as he pleased, and the two of them had been on friendly terms since Amah had afflicted his sister with boils. Apparently, there was no love lost between those siblings.

Why, Amah wondered, had it not dawned on her sooner? She did not need to possess the keys to the depths of the library herself if she could convince someone else, particularly Aziz to let her in! So she straightened herself out, and combed down her hair, and went to find Aziz ibn-Fadl al-Malak.

It was Amah’s good fortune that Aziz was alone when she found him, in one of the private chambers aside from the commons. Amah did not announce herself, but simply walked up to him.

“Aziz.” She said.

Aziz jumped, startled by her sudden presence

“Amah?” he asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have a favor to ask, Aziz.” She said, seeing no reason to not cut straight to the point.

“Ask it.” He replied. So eager to help – he was one of her more favorite acquaintances.

“You know that below the main room of the great library,” she said, “There is another library, the one in which the books are kept that some think should not be free for all to know. A gate bars entry to those collections, a gate which I have long sought to pass and to which you, my… friend, now have the key?”

“If there is something down there,” Aziz said, “I might research it for you, in honor of our friendship, but it will take some time, as there are volumes there that can bring the ruination of the soul.”

To this, Amah scoffed. “They’re just books.” She said, “No evil ever came from reading a book, only from applying the knowledge therein badly or to bad ends. I ask you to take me down with you into the vault of the collections, the secret Library, that I may read for myself from the tomes that I choose.”

“Amah,” Aziz replied with a pained sigh, “I cannot do that. Though I have not been expressly forbidden it is clear that the masters do not intend any uninitiated to be brought within, and it would be better to wait until they promote you as you richly deserve. What is more, I would not have any harm befall you, so such a quest I cannot condone.”

Well, thought Amah, that was a bother. She had not marked Aziz for a fool, to be taken in by such talk of dangerous tomes, but she supposed he must have kowtowed to the opinions of their teachers, or he would not have been granted to key in the first place, so it was a little foolish of her to expect him to give her what she wanted just for the asking.

Amah had a thought of how she might persuade him. She paced around and seated herself next to him on the low bench, then leaned a little behind and draped her arms over his shoulders as she had seen the concubines of Sahir Malik ibn-Faysal al-Amit do for their master.

“Well,” Amah said, trying her best to mimic a seductive tone yet suspecting she was somehow off, “If you would promise to go down to the library with me, I would be… very… grateful. And I can think of a few good ways to show my gratitude that we would both enjoy.”

For a moment, Aziz relaxed, and he seemed ready to accept her offer. And why not? This was the man who even a full year ago left her a love poem in broken rhymes, so Amah had honestly thought the matter of persuading him so would be easy. He leaned back slightly, and breathed in deeply and slowly.

Then, he shook his head, and sat up straight. “Amah, no…” he whined, “I cannot betray our masters so and cannot lie with you only to let you go to such danger.”

At this, Amah’s fury was reawakened. She shifted quickly, and pulled Aziz back, and locked the inside of her elbow against his throat as she had seen blackamoor slaves do to each other when fighting for the amusement of their masters.

“You will get me in to that library!” she hissed, “Or at least your keys will, for if you deny me again, then so help me, no one will ever find your body!”

To this he gasped and choked for a moment, and Amah loosened her hold very slightly.

“Enough!” he said with a cough, “I yield, Amah, I yield!”

“And the library?” she demanded.

“We must go when it is dark, and most are asleep.” He said, “The night is best for concealing us, and if we are fortunate we will be able to enter and leave with no one else the wiser.”

Amah released him and laid back herself, confident that if he tried to bolt from the room, she could use her magic to prevent escape.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll stay with you until then, because I cannot have you running off to our masters and informing them to wait in the library tonight.”

“I would not do that,” Aziz said, “Believe me when I say that my refusal was in good measure in honor of our friendship, for the love of you.”

“Then did you forget that I might be addressed as a Sahir?” she asked, “For I held a ghoul to my service for three days before releasing it. Is a living Djinni not more dangerous than anything comprised of ink and paper?”

To this, Aziz looked very sheepish.

Amah laughed. “Do not worry for my safety.” She said, “It is my own concern.”

After a moment, it occurred to her that she may have been a bit over-harsh, even if it was necessary.

“Well,” said Amah, “As unfounded as your concern might be, I suppose I can appreciate it. If you give me no further troubles, perhaps I should reconsider my first offer.”

She smirked his way, and hoped that would put them back on better terms, for she did not suspect a single coerced visit would sate her curiosity.

That night, deep in the darkness, Aziz made good on his promises, whatever threats or rewards had produced them, and lead Amah carefully through the dim hallways. First he lead her into the great library that sat at the heart of the academy, beneath the upper terraces set aside for Sahir Malik ibn-Faysal al-Amit’s pleasures or the entertainment of guests, surrounded by the somber reading-rooms, the resting places, and the classrooms that made up the bulk of its function, shielded from light and wind and sand by thick walls of stone and heavy doors of ebony wood.

In that library were countless volumes, but not the ones that Amah sought. No, there were watered-down abridgements and superficial summaries of the real knowledge, which itself was secreted away a room below. Aziz lead her to the brazen gate that guarded the unassuming steps down into the deeper darkness below.

“I ask, Amah,” he said, “And will accept your answer, but ask all the same if you are certain you wish to go down there.”

“Aziz, darling,” Amah said sweetly, before sliding her tone to harsh “If I had second thoughts, we would not be here. Open the gate.”

And this Aziz did, and conjured light, and lead the way down into the darkness.

While the library above was, when well-lit, bright and shining, with alabaster pillars and golden edging on the carven shelves, leather-bound volumes with gilt or silver-edged pages in perfect alignment, the library below was anything but. Here, the close, dark shelves were packed with tomes of various sizes and construction, few possessing the embellishments of the carefully copied manuscripts above. Here and there were scrolls, or loose sheaves of paper stuck haphazardly between two tomes. Carefully, Amah examined one of the shelves.

“Ah!” she cried, seeing one of the texts she had heard much of but never had the chance to read, “Voices of the Azif!”

She picked up the volume, brushed some dust from its top edge, and opened it. Within was what had been promised – a record of conversations with a ruinous djinn – how it was compelled to speak, and how the questioner survived to write it down, Amah could not tell from the small excerpt, but the Djinn was induced to answer questions key to the heart of the world, and the page she opened to started half way through this spirit’s explanation of the nature of their kind.

She closed the book, and slipped it into her pack.

“Amah?” Aziz asked, very clearly worried by her action.

“I will need some time to read it front to back.” Amah said, “You do not expect me to do all my reading here?”

Aziz shifted, but did not protest further.

The next volume she located was much deeper in, set in a glass-fronted cabinet that was itself mercifully unlocked.

“Alf Layah wa-Layah.” She proclaimed, hefting the oversized tome. “I knew they had a copy here. They had to.”

“That… That book contains-“ Aziz began

“Tales that supposedly tell the history and fate of all of Rabiah.” Amah said, grinning at her find. “This isn’t something that should be hidden away! It should be taught to children!”

“Amah,” Aziz said, pleading with her, “some things are secret for a reason.”

“Well,” Amah said, sliding Alf Layah wa-Layah into her satchel, “when I find something like that, I shall let you know.

Thereafter, another book caught Amah’s eye, not because it was a volume she recognized, but because it sat on a stand, open for reading.

“Well,” she said, “This is interesting.” She walked over to it, and checked it for a title.

“The Book of Impossible Names.” She read, and then stood at it to pursue its contents,

“Amah!” Aziz cried, “Amah, that contains secrets man was not meant to know!”

“Well,” Amah said, leaving a marker on what it had been open to and flipping through the other pages, “It’s a good thing I’m a woman, then.”

She found the start of one very early section, and began to read.

“Zhiran, the Archmage, the Teacher, the Ancient One. Date of birth but none of death. A date of ascension, though. Perhaps he did not die?” she flipped through the pages “And something of a biography, it seems.” She frowned, “I wonder why this man was so important?”

She flipped forward, towards what might have been the middle of the volume, though it felt like she passed more pages than existed

“Freyalise.” She read, “Mother of the woods, protector of Fyndhorn and of Skyshroud, born…” she began to summarize “A very long time ago. Ascended a very long time ago too. Died…”

Amah looked incredulous

“Died… that is no more than a century ago!” She looked at the book very carefully, “This tome is older than that, I’m sure.”

“Let it go, Amah.” Aziz said, “It is probably magic.”

“Well, then,” Amah said, “I should do my best to understand it.”

Finally she reached the end – not of pages, but of text. A good amount of the book was blank!

“Ah!” she said, “They are still adding to it. Someone must have been revising the entry it was open to. These people, these Impossible Names… they must have something in common.”

She picked up the book with one hand and then tried to turn the page with her other, only to cut her finger on the corner.

“Bah.” She said, and growled angrily at the book, before looking at what had been the blank spot where the text had ended.

“Hold on.” She said, “Perhaps it is magic after all. Something new is being written.”

Aziz’s own curiosity must have overcome his fear. “What does it say?” he asked.

“A moment.” Amah said, “It is still too faint to make out, just let it…”

And then she began to read, and what she saw astounded her

“Amah Ash-Shahid bint-Fahima al-Hazid.” She read, “It is my name, and my date of birth! Ascended…”

She read the date. It was the present day.

In her astonishment, a dark wind seemed to lift her, and then Amah Ash-Shahid bint-Fahima al-Hazid soared through the Blind Eternities, leaving a dark library in a single Rabiah, full of secret books and a terrified young man, behind.

Now, thought Amah, this was a mystery she could stand to learn more about.