Chương 198: Extra Chapter: The Chains of the Mind

That early morning was incredibly cold, just as all of them were in the ancient city of Jabalya, nestled in the entrails of a sandstone mountain that rose like a sleeping giant in the middle of the desert. The wind, which during the day was a scorching breath, transformed at night into a freezing breath that seeped through the cracks of the huge houses carved into the rock, carrying with it the smell of cold sand and distant stars.

The streets, narrow and winding, were a labyrinth of shadows where the light of the oil lamps flickered like watchful eyes. A boy, with ebony skin and afro hair like a crown of dark clouds, ran through the narrowest corridors with the anxiety of the errand he was carrying directly. His breathing was a rhythmic gasp that blended with the echo of his bare feet on the cold stone.

The envelope he held against his chest, protected from sweat and dust, was more valuable than his own life: it bore the seal of the great library of Al'Miraj, the beacon of knowledge in the vast Sandstrohm desert. The smell of damp earth and spices intensified as he approached the palace gates. The sandstone walls, polished by centuries of wind and human touches, reflected the first flashes of a sun that had not yet crowned the horizon.

The colors of the stone, from pale pink to deep ochre, created a natural mosaic that seemed to vibrate with the promise of the new day. Upon reaching the immense gate of the open-air palace in the middle of the rock, a huge and fierce Kalb pounced on him. The reptile, with scales that shone like wet sand under the dim light, knocked him down without hesitation. Its eyes, with straight and vertical pupils, fixed directly on his face as the animal tilted its head, sticking out its bifid tongue to sniff the air.

The smell of raw meat and hot breath wrapped around the boy, paralyzing him. —Sukar, come here —said the Xulamán, while his armor of hardened leather plates and burnished metal gave off flashes to the first rays of sun that were beginning to crown the summits— You did a good job. The huge animal turned immediately, stepping away from the child and leaving its tail pointing toward him, looking at him out of the corner of its eye, alert to any threat.

Its sand-colored scales moved slightly, a reminder of the ferocity that lay beneath its apparent calm. —Easy, girl —said the soldier, while stroking the beast's chin with the familiarity of someone who has shared battles and nights of vigil. He thrust his hand into the leather pouch and gave it a rodent; the long tail of the little mouse was sucked in between the animal's teeth with a wet crunch— You are the best Kalb I've had in years, Sukar.

The little boy who was on the ground got back up little by little, the dust from the stone adhering to his clothes. But upon standing up, the Kalb made a feint with its tail, a quick and threatening movement that made the child kneel down again, fear freezing his blood. —Identify yourself —said the Xulamán gravely, while keeping his hand on the pommel of his scimitar, the curved blade gleaming with a lethal sheen— Who are you? Where do you come from? Why do you come to the palace of the Al-Husani?

The little one brought his head to the ground, the cold stone grazing his forehead, feeling the rough texture under his skin. With a trembling voice, which he barely managed to keep steady, he said: —The great masters of the City of Mirrors have sent me as the bearer of good news for the great family of the sharif. He pulled out the letter with the seal and extended it so it could be seen his trembling hands holding the precious object.

—The lord's young daughter has been accepted as an apprentice in the prestigious library of Al'Miraj —he continued, and his voice gained a little strength as he recited the message he had memorized— The great Khāzin al-Kutub says that she is exceptionally prodigious with languages despite her young age of seven years. The man stepped closer until he took the envelope. The magnificent seal, of golden and violet tones, depicted books, paper scrolls, and quills intertwined in an intricate design.

It was the seal of power and knowledge, one that even the most ignorant of soldiers knew as the mark of the most absolute erudition. —Stand up, young Barid —said the man, bowing slightly and bringing a hand to his heart in a gesture of respect— May Al'Shar bless you and the good news. My name is Ashad, acting as gatekeeper, as you see. Follow me and I will have Murad guide you to our sharif. But keep in mind that, despite your seal, Sukar does not know what it means.

Behave yourself and you will have no trouble at all. The little one nodded, his throat dry from tension, and followed the man behind the gates. Once there, another Xulamán guided him through the corridors to the waiting room. The scent of incense and Linaz water floated in the air, blending with the smell of Tazim wood and dyed wool tapestries. The walls were adorned with colorful tiles that told stories of battles and love, of the sun god, and of merchants crossing endless dunes.

Next to a man of exquisite Yubba garments, whose white robe embroidered with gold and silver threads spoke of wealth and power, there was a little girl in a Thawb of simple black color. The garment, like a long flowing dress, covered even her hair, leaving only her face exposed. Her eyes, large and clear like honey, reflected the light of the lamps with an uneasy shine.

The girl was nervous, evidently, turning her bracelets over and over, from one side to the other, the small silver and turquoise beads tinkling with a rhythmic clatter that marked the beat of her anxiety. The sound blended with the first songs of the Tayr-Karim, birds of sand plumage, of soft gold and small black spots, their warble filling the room with a melody unique to Jabalya, a song that seemed to come from the very foundations of the mountain.

The boy crouched down to the floor with his head directly against the exquisite Tiraz carpet, soft and plush under his forehead feeling the silk and wool threads. He extended the envelope and said loudly, as loud and deep as a child could say, his voice echoing in the room like an echo of hope: —Samira Al-Husani, sharifa of Jabalya, our great library of Al'Miraj congratulates itself on accepting you as one of the ten elite students under the command of the great Naṣṣākh Farah.

The air in the room stopped immediately. Time seemed to suspend itself, and the only thing heard was the running water from the well in the inner courtyard, the songs of the birds, the sounds of the morning insects awakening with the sun. —You are one of those chosen by Al'Shar and blessed by the great Vizier Al-Rashid —continued the boy, his voice full of the solemnity of the message he carried— Miss Samira, your great mastery of Erahari makes you a woman capable of translating like no other.

The girl let out a sudden scream, a high-pitched sound full of joy that seemed to break the spell of silence. Followed by many little squeals, fluttering among the huge carpets like a farasha caught in a flower garden. Her eyes filled with tears, shining like stars in the penumbra, until her father took her from behind and crouched down to her height.

—Calm down, my little Tharid —said Umar, the sharif, with pride contained in every word, as his fingers passed through the girl's veil, pushing aside a rebellious strand— First remind us how we nobles ought to give thanks. Samira went straight toward the boy. She took the letter between her fingers, feeling the weight of the parchment and the seal, and stored it in one of the pockets of the pouch belt she wore at her waist.

She then straightened up, and with her voice full of solemnity despite the tears that still glistened on her cheeks, she said: —The great sun blesses us with its light. Those of us who descend from them rejoice in the good news. She made a formal bow, her long dress grazing the floor of the carpet, the perfect gesture of a girl who had been educated in protocol since the cradle.

—Stand up, boy —she continued, and her voice now had a tone of authority that belied her age— Your head must shine with the light of Al'Shar, for one of the families that in its antiquity had Al'Savia blood recognizes you as worthy. The boy finally stood up, with tears in his eyes, and upon looking straight ahead, the first thing he saw was a girl with a smile so luminous that it made any inconvenience he had suffered until now worth it.

It was a smile that promised friendship, that spoke of a generous heart, that shone with the light of the desert in its purest form. A loud applause came from the sharif, a single clap that echoed in the room like a signal. Instantly, from the doors on both sides, maidens emerged carrying silver trays. Tazim fruits with their potent smell of potassium, their orange pulp gleaming like jewels. Jariz, which were always surrounded by bees buzzing around their sweetness.

Slices of golden-yellow Mawini and thousands of tiny seeds that crunched upon biting them. The scent of fresh fruit, honey, and spices filled the room, blending with the incense and creating an olfactory symphony that was pure celebration. Then the girl finally pulled out another thing from her little bag, one she had saved for the moment. It was a moist bread, but it was drenched in molasses, a molasses from the thorny bushes of the dunes, dark and thick like the desert night.

She extended it to the boy's hands with a gesture that was at once an offering and a blessing. —May this Tharid witness the celebration —she said, and her voice now had the cadence of an ancient ritual— May this Tharid begin the good news. The boy received it with an ear-to-ear smile, the warm, sticky bread in his hands. The sweet taste of the molasses blended with the salty taste of his tears, a flavor he would never forget.

Only then did Umar interrupt her, saying with a proud voice as he lifted her into the air, his strong and secure arms raising her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. —You are one of the prides of my life, sweetheart —he said, tossing her into the air and catching her while she laughed, a laugh that was like the tinkling of glass bells— I hope your brothers learn something from their little younger sister.

The sun was beginning to crown the summits of the mountain, bathing the palace of Jabalya with a golden and warm light that promised a day of blessings. In the midst of that light, Samira Al-Husani, a seven-year-old sharifa, began her journey toward knowledge, with a letter in her pocket and a smile on her face that illuminated more than the desert sun itself. The six legs of the Rixam echoed on the hard stone of the road with a hypnotic rhythm, a constant drumming that marked the tempo of the journey.

From the hawdaj, little Samira looked at the animal's beautiful pincers, her honey eyes following the movement of the huge claws that opened and were close to the rhythm of its walk, as if greeting the desert wind. Until, in a rough step, the Rixam jumped more than usual. The abrupt movement made the girl hold tightly onto the edges of the saddle, feeling the rough leather dig into her palms.

Then, upon recovering her balance, she fixed her view directly into the distance: behind the dunes, like a dream made of stone, rose immense circular towers of red sandstone. Their walls were just as tall, encircling each of the structures like protective arms. But what hit her hardest were the reflections: the huge copper-green domes, polished by centuries of wind and sand, hit her directly in the face, casting flashes that danced on her skin like little suns.

The girl smiled firmly, a smile that was at once wonder and determination. Her fingers gripped the edge of the hawdaj more tightly, as if fearing that the marvel might vanish if she let go of reality's anchor. Then her lala, Shajarat, leaned toward her with the composure of someone who has cared for a girl for years, and carefully brought to her hands a bottle of pure silver with Zulal.

The herbal smell, full of notes sweet and bitter at the same time, hit her senses first, a perfume of wild na'naa' and dune honey that awakened the deepest memories. —My lady Samira, drink —said Shajarat in barely a whisper, her voice laden with reproach and concern— You have gone hours without doing so, it worries me. The woman, her face marked by the sun and the years, had her eyes fixed on the girl as if she could see through her, through the time and distance that would soon separate them.

—Please, my lady —she continued, and her voice broke slightly— You know I won't be able to take care of you once we reach the library. The great sharif expressly asked me to let you grow by yourself. Samira sighed deeply, the hot desert air filling her lungs with the taste of sand and distance. Then she took the bottle with both hands, feeling the coldness of the metal against her skin, tipped the liquid up and drank two good gulps.

Immediately, the bitter taste brushed her tongue and did not go away, the sweetness barely diminishing it. Frowning as she made faces, she looked at Shajarat, who was looking at her with evident reproach, her dark eyes shining with the light of the setting sun. —I'm sorry, Shaja —said the girl with a sigh, her fingers still clinging to the silver bottle— You know I hate the taste of this, but I'll do it, so you'll be at peace. Only this time it's for you. She paused, and her eyes moistened slightly.

—I hope Dad keeps you in our service when I come back in two years to see you. The woman nodded but said nothing. There was too much in her eyes to be put into words. When finally, the huge sand flier carrying her on its back set its legs down behind the walls, passing numerous checkpoints where guards examined every parchment and every bag with the thoroughness of those who guard ancient secrets, Samira said goodbye to Shajarat in tears.

The woman, already elderly, also did so with an embrace that seemed to want to transmit all the love and wisdom of a whole life in a single gesture. She climbed down from the back of the huge arthropod, and there the immense library displayed itself in all its splendor. The towers and the domes of the astronomical telescopes were what stood out the most: the red of the sandstone, the oranges and the greens of the bronze mixed together creating the symphony that to the girl were the colors of wisdom.

In the background, however, the huge rooms of pearly white could be seen, with lapis lazuli blue columns blending with the white in an eternal dance of spirals. It was as if the building itself were alive, breathing with the rhythm of the knowledge it harbored. A man then interrupted her view. His aljuba was of a completely sober sandy tone, merged with the color of the stone surrounding him.

The only things that stood out were his sleeves, stained with black and blue ink, a silent testimony to hours of work in the copyists' workshops. —Miss… —inquired the man, raising an eyebrow with curiosity— I don't recognize you. You're new to the great library, right? The girl smiled again, focusing her gaze on his face while avoiding the sun that still punished from above. —I am new, sir —she said, and her voice was firm despite the emotion bubbling in her chest.

She pulled out her letter, the parchment rustling softly between her fingers, and the man took it, starting to read it— As you see, it says I should start by getting to know the halls. Once familiarized, I must prepare for the round of tests in the various disciplines. Ahmad smiled, a warm smile that illuminated his dark face, weathered by the sun. He crouched down then, getting to the level of the girl's face, his breath smelling of larhaj tea and old paper.

—Well done, little one —he said, and his voice had a trace of genuine pride— or rather, great scholar of Erahari. He chuckled softly and saw the girl make a face. —Don't take it personally —he continued, raising a hand in a gesture of peace— but it is the most common language spoken here. I'm glad you did it at that age; I didn't learn it until I was twelve. Then he took her by the hand, and Samira took it with a gesture of disgust barely disguised due to the sweat covering the man's palm.

—Don't stray —said Ahmad, and his tone turned serious— The tour is quite an event that happens only once. Once he left her in her room, the girl with her bags began to organize her clothes. The piece of furniture in front of her was totally exotic, made of a red wood, almost as if it were coralline, with grains that seemed to shine brighter under the light of the oil lamp. The smell of Tazim and incense filled the space, blending with the scent of her own clothes, still impregnated with the trip.

It was then that her door knocked again: it was Ahmad. —I forgot one small thing —said the man with evident concentration, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember— Do you remember everything I mentioned? Samira nodded, and the words flowed from her mouth like water from a spring. —Up top we have the rooms of the astronomy towers —she cited from memory, her fingers counting the points— We have three and two smaller ones. Added to them, we have the watchtowers, one at each cardinal point, plus two at the gates.

She paused, brought a hand to her veil and adjusted one of her stubborn strands that had escaped. —The school and the lodging are this building where we are, added to the baths and showers —she continued, her voice gaining confidence— In the basement we have the manuscript repositories, in the main hall. The copyists' workshops, bookbinding, and instruments, as well as the air-cooling room. She caught her breath for a second, and the man in front of her nodded with every word, his smile growing.

—The reading and copying rooms, lastly, the reserved chambers with restricted access only for library staff. —It is perfect, little Samira —said Ahmad with pride, as if his entire mission were fulfilled. But he extended his hand to the right and from there came another girl, a blonde with light blue eyes who looked like an apparition from the north in the middle of the desert— As I said before, I forgot something. That something is this little one. She will be your roommate.

As you see, she is a foreigner, and no less than a Miss Khelganor. His tone became more serious. —Treat her with respect, despite her being different. Her name is Branwen Skarð-Varg. Now, if you'll excuse me, girls, I must continue attending to the new ones. He said goodbye without further ado, hurrying off with a firm step, his sandy aljuba getting lost in the hallway like sand carried by the wind. However, the pale, blonde girl did not move from the door.

Her eyes, the color of ice in a deep lake, observed Samira with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Samira approached her carefully, like someone approaching a wild animal, and said: —Is it true that in Khelganor people learn to fight from the cradle? Curiosity had overcome her before caution or decorum. She brought a hand to her forehead and sighed, regretting her lack of tact. —I'm sorry, I'm a fool. Could you come in? If you want, we can talk.

The girl turned red little by little, more and more, from her neck to her forehead, a blush that contrasted violently with her pale skin. She spoke in the least fluent and extremely awkward Sahric Samira had ever heard, the words stumbling on her tongue as if they were stones on an uneven road. —Not know much what to do —said Branwen, shaking her head vigorously, her blond hair swaying like a field of wheat— No, I not know all the words.

Samira held back her laughter tightly, her lips pressed together, her shoulders trembling. But it was a battle she lost with a crash, and laughter erupted from her mouth like an unstoppable torrent. Branwen, however, only had her eyes grow teary, but she did not move from her spot. In the face of the girl's laughter, she said in a language that was neither Sahric nor Erahari, with a fluency that contrasted brutally with her previous stutter: —Ažani mojeje rěče njerěčiš a zwawaš so mi do obliča, ty naduta holca.

Then the girl switched languages as if it cost her nothing at all, her words now flowing with the ease of water between the stones of a river. —S'besoj as që ia din emnin kësaj gjuhe, e ti comportohesh qashtu. She raised her chin conspicuously and turned her face, a gesture of disdain that seemed taken from a manual of noble pride. Only then did she say, as if she were a native speaker in Erahari: —Ne dheis-si me gno-tor, kwid-pe derk-si yod bha-mi kwet-wor al-i-anse dng-gwans, dwis ghos-tis tu-bhi.

Samira stopped laughing immediately. Her expression changed from joy to anger in the blink of an eye, her cheeks still flushed but now out of indignation. Then, with the venom of offense in her voice, she said in Sahric, each word a dart: —Even if I don't understand you in your native language, nor in Theossian, I know them. Erahari I speak fluently. Don't be stupid. She crossed her arms, defiantly. —Do you understand me like this, or do you prefer I translate it for you? Although it was not words that came back.

The precise punch to the eye from Branwen arrived before anything else, followed by a leg lock that left her immobilized, screaming in pain while the world tilted around her. Only then did the Khelganor whisper in her ear while someone could be heard running toward the room, her lips almost grazing Samira's skin. —I learn to fight from cradle —pronounced the Nordic girl in Sahric, her grip firm as a promise of steel. The naqib burst into the room with a strong kick, throwing the door wide open.

Her dark blue robe, with golden trimmings that shone under the light of the lamps, moved with the violence of her entry. She took the blonde girl by the arm and pressed her nerves, a precise point on her wrist, so she would let go of Samira. Once she separated them, the Sandstrohm native was left weeping bitterly on the floor. This had been her first fight in her entire life, and one in which she had lost disastrously.

—Explain yourselves, both of you —said Aisha, her voice sharp as the edge of a scimitar— before things get worse. Then she pointed an accused finger at the Nordic girl. —Especially you, Miss Khelganor. We do not want a diplomatic incident. Do you know you attacked a sharifa? The girl shook her head several times, her blonde hair flying in all directions.

Only then, after wiping her tears and speaking in her awkward Sahric, did she say between sobs: —Not want hurt, —her fingers intertwined nervously as she looked at her sandals— but she mock me. I only want be friend of her, even willing to teach my language, but laugh. Aisha looked with a furrowed brow now at Samira, who lay weeping in a corner bitterly, wiping her nose with the sleeves of her multicolored Thawb, staining it all over.

—I didn't want to laugh —said Samira, half choked by tears while rubbing her leg from the pain— I also wanted to be her friend. But she made fun thinking I wouldn't understand her Erahari. She called me a fool, and arrogant too. Aisha finally sighed, a long, tired sound that seemed to come from the deepest part of her being. She sat on the bed that belonged to Samira, feeling the texture of the embroidered bedspread under her fingers, and called both of them with her hands.

They approached quickly, like two small storms meeting in the eye of the hurricane. —Apologize to each other, —said Aisha, and her voice was now a whisper laden with authority— or by Al'Shar I swear I will have you expelled. The woman sighed deeply this time, taking both of them by the hands and putting one's hand over the other, a bridge of flesh and bone over the abyss of their misunderstanding. —Now, girls.

—Sorry for laughing at how you speak —said Samira as she blew her nose on her sleeve again, her eyes still red. —Sorry for call you stupid —said Branwen while wiping away her last tears, her pride wounded but her heart open— Sorry for hurt leg. Then Aisha stood up, placed her hands on both of their heads, and said with regret, like someone pronouncing a sentence she knows is necessary but painful: —No mistake should go unpunished, girls.

She then pointed to the Rixam stable in the distance, where the huge creatures rested under the shade of the canvas awnings. —Tomorrow, before dawn, both of you will be cleaning the stable. Remember that the test for both of you will start at noon. If the stable is not clean, I will make you clean it for a month.

The two girls looked at each other, and in that crossing of gazes, between tears and bruises, something was born that neither of them expected: the first thread of a friendship that would last beyond the tests, beyond languages, beyond distant borders. That morning the yahj sang in beautiful warbles. Their exuberant plumage, of colors ranging from emerald green to deep blue, shone in the skies like living jewels, creating flashes that danced on the waters of the pond.

The first sounds of the flutter of the khunfas' elytra filled the air, a rhythmic humming that blended with the murmur of the water. The insects headed directly toward the huge flowering cacti, whose flowers of an intense red and golden yellow gave that characteristic greenery to the garden of the City of Mirrors. The smell of damp earth, nectar, and pollen floated in the air, a perfume that was the very essence of life in the desert. A blonde girl, white as paper, snapped her fingers in front of her friend.

Branwen realized she would not pay attention to her and splashed water on her face, the fresh, crystal-clear drops sliding down Samira's cheeks like dew tears. —Samira, look at me —said the Khelganor, speaking almost without an accent after two long years of practice and living together. Her voice, which before was a torrent of clumsy words, now flowed with the smoothness of learned Sahric— In two weeks we will be able to go see our families again. You must be anxious after so much…

Branwen's words hung in the air, suspended like the dust of the dunes on a windy afternoon. The gaze of the young scholar, now nine years old, was focused on her, but her eyes did not see her friend; they saw something further away, something that only existed on the horizon of her concern. —You haven't received the letter yet, right? —Branwen sighed with great heaviness, a sound that dragged the weight of months of shared waiting.

Then she continued, taking her hand with a firmness that was at once an anchor and a promise— My dear friend, don't worry. Whatever is holding it back, don't worry. At least you will see them. On the other hand, I… You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. She left the words in the air, and the silence that followed said more than all the identical conversations they had had over the months. The Nordic girl would not see her family for at least a decade.

Samira did not remind her; it was already enough to hear her cry some nights when they slept in the same bed, when the shadows lengthened and the distance became an ice wall between her and her home. —Soło Škardiš njech liberated twóje wutrobu wot zymy a twóju dušu wot zrudoby. —Samira hugged her gently, feeling the warmth of her friend's body against her own. The blonde hair caressed her face, soft as the finest silk— You will see them again.

I have my strong faith in Al'Shar, even if you don't believe in him, I hope the goddess of the northern winds fills you with the strength that I am not able to transmit in Norrun. The blonde girl smiled, a silly and lively smile, but in her eyes, there were contained tears, an ocean of longing that refused to overflow. The only thing she was capable of pronouncing after that was: —I have failed as a teacher. You still have the accent of a Kíl-Vík fisherwoman who hasn't known any other fish than a Sél.

Branwen stepped back a second from her friend's arms, adjusted one of the strands escaping from her veil and said, her voice now a whisper laden with gratitude: —Thank you, Samira. But I won't let you play with my favorite doll… well, maybe just once. Samira laughed while looking at the Khelganor's face, and she laughed upon seeing the immense smile on her face. It was a moment of light, a flash of joy amidst the uncertainty that always lurked at the edges of their lives. What interrupted them was something else.

A Barid was running straight toward her, on his belt a wide package of letters over his pouch. His steps were long and precise, marking a rhythm that spoke of years of training and thousands of kilometers traveled. Once in front of them, the tall man of almost two meters and slender, imposing with his ebony complexion shining before the sun, stopped.

He pulled a letter from his belt, read to whom it was addressed, and then knelt down, extending it before her with the reverence of someone who knows he is delivering not just a message, but a destiny. —To my lady Samira Al-Husani, I deliver this package into your hands —said the man, his voice deep and solemn, like the echo of a distant drum. He bowed his head lower with respect— Dear sharifa of Jabalya, I hope the news is favorable to you and that the divine sun guides your resolve.

Samira took the letter quickly, the smile on her face growing larger and larger, a sun expanding and illuminating her features. She turned for a second and Branwen winked at her, complicit, smiling as well. —Stand up, esteemed Barid —said the young scholar, and her voice now had the authority of someone who has learned to be heard— Your service is appreciated. Then she pulled out an oasis shalac, the cobalt blue ceramic coin shining exquisitely before the sun like a fragment of sky fallen into her hands.

—May the divine sun protect your next path —she continued, reciting the blessing with the cadence of someone who has heard it since the cradle— May the sand not burn your feet and may you find crystal-clear water at every spring. The man stood up and left with solemnity, the speed of his trot evident, an urgency that spoke of other messages waiting to be delivered. Only then did Samira break the seal of her letter. The red wax cracked with a dry snap, and the smell of ink and old paper filled her nostrils.

She unfolded the parchment with fingers that began to tremble, read attentively, her eyes traversing the lines with the greediness of someone looking for life in a message of death.

"May peace, the mercy of God and His blessings be with you and your house. I write this letter to you wishing that health and prosperity accompany you by the grace of Al'Shar. I make publicly known to each of the children that the period has expired, what was agreed was to settle the amount of 100 sayl, corresponding to the loan received and delivered five years ago in the month of Pyr through the Maṣrafi.

I remind you of the words of the prophet: 'The unjustified postponement of payment by one who has the means to settle his debt is an injustice'. I kindly request that you hand over the indicated sum to the Masrafi of Jabalya, the esteemed representative Ahmad ibn Malik. He will issue the formal receipt of the transaction in your presence. If the family is facing setbacks in their business or trade routes, let me know through a letter sent with the utmost urgency to agree on appropriate terms to the Rêya ronahiyê.

May God bless your business and preserve our commercial alliance. Written on the 12th of Pyr of the year 4984 E. R." Her hands were trembling violently. It was not from her father, nor the good news she had wished for after so many weeks. The years she had spent learning languages, immersing herself in the secrets of grammar and syntax, were now only clouded by the tears that began to fall from her eyes, smudging the ink of the letter and blurring the words into spots of pain.

She did not need anyone to explain it to her. She knew about the Rêya ronahiyê. It was inflexible. The debt would be collected one way or another. Her father would not write to her, and she would not know of him. The foreboding in her chest was inflexible, a knot of dark certainties that tightened with every beat of her heart. Branwen, without saying a word, stepped closer and hugged her with the strength of someone who knows that words are useless in the face of pain.

The warmth of her body, the texture of her blonde hair against Samira's cheek, the rhythm of her breathing, everything was an anchor in the middle of the shipwreck. In that embrace, the young scholar understood that, sometimes, the only language that truly matters is the one that needs no words. Ten years after what happened that day, Samira had not heard from her father again, she had heard sparingly from her brothers.

The letters she was waiting for never arrived, and the messages she sent were lost in the silence of the desert like sand carried by the wind. However, she had continued advancing with a firm step in learning, every day one more stone in the building of her knowledge. By her side her friend had remained, Branwen, alongside her, providing her strength, a strength that many times she was only capable of asking for in prayer to Al'Shar.

Alone in a distant place, books, languages, translation had become her home, and knowledge of her only family. The desert heat was beginning to wane that afternoon, and the room of the talib was completely silent. Breathings were the only thing heard, a collective whisper that became palpable with every tick-tock of the pendulum clock in the hallway. The sound, rhythmic and constant, marked the tempo of the wait.

The smell of old parchment, beetle ink, and tallow candle wax floated in the air, a mixture that Samira had learned to love like the perfume of her true home. The silence was interrupted by the deep and bored voice of ustadh Avicenna: —Two mirrors placed facing each other reflect the image infinitely between themselves. Is that how the agent intellect relates to the human intellect, or is there an asymmetry? Define your stance.

The ustadh of philosophy and epistemology crossed his arms in front of the girl, waiting for the answer. His golden-white aljuba, with silver thread embroidery that captured the afternoon light, moved with the light desert breeze that seeped through the open windows. Samira smiled. It was just what she expected. —I maintain that there is asymmetry —she began, and her voice, clear and firm, filled the silent room— The correct image is not mirror-mirror, but sun-mirror.

Two facing mirrors reflect each other with equal mutual dependence, but the agent intellect cannot depend on the human as the human depends on it, or we would have two equal causes of the same perfection. She paused, letting her words settle in the air like gold dust. —The agent intellect is like the sun —she continued, and her gaze met directly with Avicenna's— It is light in act, which does not need to be illuminated.

The human intellect is like the polished mirror but in the dark: pure potential until the light actualizes it. Then she looked straight into Avicenna's face with the same weariness the man had. —And if you object that this reduces the soul to mere passivity, —she said, and a spark of defiance shone in her honey eyes— I answer: the mirror does not choose to be polished, but the soul does actively participate by purifying itself and reasoning toward universals. Avicenna smiled, but only on one side.

His eyes lost severity, and he approached her slowly, his golden-white aljuba waving again, now almost as if recognizing the achievement in her. The smell of incense and old paper intensified with his proximity.

Then he pulled a silver quill from his bag, raised it in front of everyone and announced in a loud voice that echoed in the room like an echo of eternity: —Samira Al-Husani of Jabalya, —he said, and his voice was now thunder announcing a dawn— today, by the grace of the greatest god that exists and under the eternal witness of the prophet Yaqub, I declare you Turjumāna with specialization as a scribe and copyist authorized by the blessed Sultan Mansur al-Mu'tazz. Everyone applauded in unison.

Palms collided like a shower of precious stones, and the faces of the students lit up with the reflection of another's achievement. Branwen looked at her friend from the corner of the room with all the tenderness a proud friend can have, her light blue eyes shining with contained tears. Samira could barely contain her desire to jump, so much so that under her long Thawb she was already on tiptoe, her sandals barely grazing the stone floor.

Avicenna raised a hand; silence reigned among the thirty-seven talib occupying the room. The gesture was minimal, but it had the power to stop time. —Today I hand over to you the silver quill with which you will copy, translate, and write your whole life —he said, and his voice was now a whisper laden with the solemnity of centuries.

He raised it until a flash of sunset sun hit it making it shine like a star fallen from the sky— The divine sun grants you the blessing of its luminary so that each of your letters can teach ancestral knowledge to others. He lowered the quill and put it in the girl's palm. The cold, smooth, and perfectly balanced metal seemed to vibrate with a life of its own. Samira closed her fingers tightly, clinging to what had taken her so many years to achieve.

Only once the teacher stepped away did she take the small hops she had kept in, while the others applauded again, a roar of joy filling the room with echoes. The ustadh extended his arm and the line of four people standing to one side passed forward. In total they were now five: two women, one blonde and another with black hair, added to three mulatto boys. The smell of sweat and emotion mixed in the air as they stood before the master.

—Of the forty-two who have tried today, —said Avicenna, and his voice was now a reproach that cut the air like a blade— only five of you have been competent enough to be decorated. He looked at the others with an admonishing expression, his dark eyes sweeping the room. —The competence of the great library does not depend only on your language talent, —he continued, and each word was a brick in the wall of warning— but on the competence given in conjunction with knowledge of other branches.

The illumination of the sun does not concentrate on a single spot in the desert but bathes the earth with its magnificence. The man kept silent, letting the words lodge in the hearts of the rest of his students like seeds of wisdom.

—In particular, one of our students, despite not being a native of our land, understood it better than many of you —he pointed at the blonde Khelganor with one of his fingers, and his voice softened slightly— Her competence in Norrun, Theossian, Erahari, Sahric, Tal, Veritasilba, Khel-Ghur, plus two nomadic languages, T'zur and Valante, has turned her into an unequaled scholar. She has mastered, in turn, the rhetoric of our land, astronomy, geometry, comparative arithmetic, and the philosophy of the great prophet.

Branwen lowered her head as a blush rose to her cheeks, a pink tone that spread from her neck to the roots of her blonde hair. However, Samira nudged her lightly with her elbow and in a whisper that was barely a breath, told her: —You need look at them —and the Sandstrohm native had to stifle her laughter by pursing her lips. The Khelganor girl, upon hearing her friend, could no longer hold back and went from embarrassment to hearty laughter.

Her shoulders betrayed her first, trembling with contained laughter, until she could not stop laughing loudly, a clear and crystal sound that broke the room's solemnity. Everything ended when Avicenna stood in front of them and, in a low voice, said: —I was going to send you together to your first collection mission. He sighed deeply, aggrieved. —But I will no longer be able to because of your behavior. Both grew quiet in unison. There were no longer chuckles, but rather in their meeting gazes there was regret.

The joy of the moment faded like a mirage in the desert, leaving behind the bitter taste of missed opportunity. So, sighing, they nodded at the punishment. After so many years, they were already used to their friendship getting them into trouble. However, the master continued with his speech after the impasse. When night was already reigning high in the sky, its stars twinkling like diamonds on the dark velvet of the desert, he brought the protocol to an end.

Just as Avicenna had promised them, the next morning they were given different places to go. Branwen would go south to the tropical city of Shari'aj, a tough journey of at least four months. From there she would take a ship toward the Al-Anwar archipelago, where she was to collect legends and myths of the Ayn sailors. Samira, however, knew before anyone where she could be sent.

She only mastered one language of the nomadic peoples, the Wind Wanderers of Wasteland, who lived along the border of Erabergh, the great thousand-year-old kingdom in the center of the continent. Rimal-al-Azal, the great desert of orange dunes was implacable. The driest in all the known world, where every man feared for his life and where legends of creatures that ate much more than flesh hovered everywhere.

The girl brought her hands to her heart upon learning it, feeling her heartbeat accelerates under her fingers. What they feared most in reality was that in that desert, every night, a very real terror lurked for each of them. The Sîya dawî, the imposing feline, was native to those sands. And its eyes, shining in the dark, were the last memory of many travelers who ventured too far. Samira took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the silver quill in her hand, and knew that her true journey was just beginning.

After six weeks of travel, the sands changed color brutally. They went from the completely familiar region of Rilamhad, which ranged from gold to white, to deep blacks near the huge volcanoes of the east. Now, what reigned on the Nishapur route were pale pink colors, intense orange, and some soft reds, a palette of eternal sunset that stretched to the infinite horizon.

The young scholar, amazed by the landscape, remembered the Rilamhad region for its persevering vegetation: cacti that stood like sentinels, small shrubs that clung to life, tumbleweeds that traveled with the wind, and endemic animals like the great Zahaf lizards that slowly devoured its flowers and roots at dawn. Now, she could only sigh before the rugged landscape of Rimal-al-Azal.

In the entire journey they had advanced through it so far, the animals were of two extremes: small, from twenty centimeters or less, or huge, up to two meters long. There was no middle ground in that desert of extremes. So, resigned to the other week she had left until the camp of the wanderers, she could only look at the huge pincers of the Rixam that was transporting them.

It was exactly like that every day of the week she had left; every night they stood watch with the caravanners who accompanied her, watching their backs from the Sîya dawî. Although the imposing endemic feline of the sands never appeared, everyone trembled when at night, clearly, an animal imitated sounds of screams at the top of the dunes, a spine-chilling echo that dragged through the wind like a foreboding. They arrived on the night of the eighth day at the wandering camps.

Their tents were illuminated by something that the scholar had never seen, yet she knew from the Altovida zoology books she had read about Erabergh. The beetles in jars shone with a bluish light so distinctive that, instantly, with their flickering, a single word came whispered from her lips. —Vesperas. Her eyes opened wider and wider as they approached, the blue lights blinking like stars fallen from the sky.

Then she said to the Rixam guide, her voice a thread of fascination: —Have you ever seen that coleopteran before? The man frowned, shook his head several times until, after clearing his voice, he said: —A coleo-whatever never, but vesperas yes. He kept directing the Rixam with the pheromone rod, his expert fingers guiding the beast through the compacted sand. —The T'zur always use them —he continued, and in his voice, there was a respect that went beyond simple admiration— It is one of their most marked traditions.

Many of them, in other towns, are called the bearers of the blue fire. Samira nodded slowly, without saying another word. Upon getting down, she noticed it: the tents that looked like a simple sand color from afar had different types of woven wool, giving each one a unique pattern. Some showed spirals that recalled the wind, other lines that imitated the dunes, and some, the most elaborate, told entire stories with their colored threads.

A man in a simple light linen tunic and a blood-red turban received her in his large tent. The entrance was decorated with bone beads that jingled in the wind, creating soft music that was the prelude to the welcome. —It gladdens us to have a Turjumāna from the City of Mirrors —said the man, bowing his head and bringing his hand to his heart— As Sheikh of the T'zur, I welcome you under the watchful gaze of Solendri.

The man, with the solemnity that only some devout people have, traced the perfect circle over his heart, a gesture that Samira had seen in the merchants of the neighboring kingdom. —I hope, young lady, that our ancestral knowledge of the northern deserts is favorable to you —he continued, and his voice was a whisper that seemed to come from the sand itself— May our myths and legends be preserved. The man took a pitcher; the liquid inside sounded before he said what it was.

Its smell of balao was strong, a sweet and intoxicating perfume that mixed with the aroma of firewood and spices. —Liquor of the balaos of the deserts —he said, and a warm smile illuminated his weathered face— A small toast to the relationship that goes beyond a simple celebration, which will preserve us. The man served her in a clay cup, the rough clay warm under her fingers. Samira took it without hesitation, tipped it up, and drank with resolve.

The liquor, smooth and sweet, sang in her throat like a complicit touch, a shared secret between two cultures. She smiled at the man; only once that had happened did, she bow in reverence. —The divine illuminator has sent me to this place so that your culture may be portrayed and remembered, —she said, bringing both hands to her heart— Al'Shar grants us this cultural exchange through his kindness. The Sheikh smiled, clearly pleased with the politeness and respect the woman presented to him.

Then he took her by the shoulder, his hand firm and warm, and led her through each of the tents, introducing her, giving her a specific day to talk to each elder man and woman of the tribe. They, however, showered her with gifts: intricate textiles that told stories in their patterns, exquisite rugs that seemed to capture the movement of the dunes, tender and juicy Ghanam meat, and a precious veil, transparent like water, but which under certain light shone as if the stars were in it. The days passed with languor.

One Ferul, she spoke with old Scheherezade. The old woman, caretaker of the Ghanam, looked at them from afar with her eyes clouded by age but still full of wisdom. Meanwhile the young scholar, seated beside her, took notes on her paper, the silver quill shining under the sun like a fragment of moon.

—The first one I heard was from the mouth of my dear grandmother —said Scheherezade with a frown, her gesture demonstrating how much effort it now took her to remember— She always used to tell it in front of the campfires at night, looking at the southern stars, at the Qiqa'us constellation. While Samira wrote, the old woman began to narrate. Her hands told a parallel story with gestures, making it just as rich as the words that flowed from her lips.

The myth told the story of Yusuf ibn Hamid, a man who had married a Sevin, a supernatural creature capable of taking human form. She agreed to live among humans under three conditions, the most important being that Yusuf never sees her sleep. During the years they lived together they had children and led a seemingly normal life, until he breaks the prohibition and discovers the true monstrous nature of his wife Zaynab.

Having seen her as she truly is, the Sevin can no longer remain in the human world and returns to the place she came from, leaving behind her husband and her children. Another of those days she collected various legends, until one night of Thyll where everyone gathered at the campfire. The sharing of food, drinks, and alcohol was the initial vibe, the few flutes gave a particular ambiance to the place, and the smells of sweet fruits surrounded everyone with the wood smoke.

This time it was the old Sheikh Jaldún who stood up to tell the only story she had left to transcribe, the one that the old tribal chief only told every eight waning moons. The man began while the children interpreted his words with wooden masks, carved with the patience of artisans who know the value of time.

—In the days when humanity was young —began Jaldún, and his voice was the echo of an antiquity that preceded empires— when kings had not yet known power and no oasis had been claimed as a resource, a man from Basrun ran desperately through the sands of Rimal-Al-Azal. He paused, and the silence filled with the crackling of the campfire.

—He wandered through the huge desert for forty nights and forty days —he continued, his eyes shining with the reflection of the flames— until, on the forty-first, the moon guided him to a hidden cave among the dunes. The children, with their masks, represented the man's search, his faltering steps on the imaginary sand. —Upon venturing into the darkness, —prosecuted Jaldún, and his voice dropped to a whisper— he was only able to hear the silence. However, he felt the gazes of thousands of eyes surrounding his skin.

One of the masks, the most elaborate one, represented the figure from the cave, a dark silhouette that seemed to absorb the light. —When morning finally arrived, —said the old man, and his voice rose— all that remained in that darkness was the figure of one of the shadows. Covered in dark clothes and hidden in the gloom of the cave, the boy spotted him: his feet did not touch the earth and, when he spoke, his lips did not move. His voice, however, resonated in the young man's heart.

The Sheikh's words floated in the air like stardust: —You wish to find that which you have left behind. The young man answered, and his voice was the echo of an eternal doubt: —The nights and the days have passed, but I am unable to remember. Then the man in dark clothes granted it to him without hesitation. Jaldún paused, the silence filled with the sound of the campfire and the wind.

—Then, the boy's memories returned like a torrent —he continued, and his voice became more intense— the fire, the lost land, the consumed love, and the mission he had forgotten. With the great power of his imagination and the knowledge he had recovered, the man conquered, built, and united humanity. His voice turned deep, laden with warning. —But everything must be paid for in the cold transactions of those who are prior to the gods. The children, with their masks, represented loss, sacrifice now.

—So, of his descendants, he took all. One by one, he consumed their souls, and the sadness of his people fed him. The man, now aged and powerful, swore upon the tomb of his last descendants that he would end that creature. Thus, once more, he entered the cave where everything had begun, ready for murder. The old Sheikh raised his arms, and his voice resonated like thunder in the desert.

—However, what he found and resonated in his chest once more was only a name, one that everyone must remember: Zarvok he called himself. Upon finishing transcribing, the young girl was now smiling with the music of the setting. The few flutes were finally joined by tambourines and rustic Ghanam skin drums. The party lasted until most were unable to stand up because of the balao alcohol.

Even Samira had retired upon feeling the progressive dizziness, the world spinning softly around her as she made her way between the tents illuminated by the blue fire of the vesperas. Like every night, she retired to one of the beds in Scheherezade's tent. The old woman had taken her in, a space of rugs and cushions that smelled of incense and Ghanam wool.

Living with her were also her two granddaughters, her daughter, and her son-in-law, who was the one who stood out most from the group, having Eraberghian features: brown hair and silver eyes. No one could deny the lineage of the man, whose presence in the middle of the desert was like a reminder that borders, in the end, only exist on the maps of men. However, that night, what woke them was not the first warbles of the few birds that were in the inhospitable desert.

It was the sharp shrieks of the Ghanam, a heartbreaking sound that cut the silence like a knife. Upon getting up, the first thing she saw from the small door of the tent was many of the animals leaping in a desperate flight, their plantigrade paws raising clouds of sand under the pale light of the moon. Further in the background, a Kalb could be heard hissing with strength and ferocity, a guttural sound that spoke of an ancestral danger. The men took torches, those who could keep standing.

All prepared to see what on earth was happening, many of them took their spears, others small scimitars of burnished bronze that shone with the reflection of the flames. The smell of fear and sweat mixed with the aroma of burned firewood. The sounds did not cease, so they ran to where they came from. Upon arriving there, they saw two dead Ghanam, bled out solely from the neck.

One of them was full of thorns in its long plantigrade paws, it had stepped on them, but all around the camp there was no such type of shrub. The smell of fresh, metallic, and sweetish blood impregnated the air like a foreboding. Then, the old Sheikh Jaldún raised his voice upon returning to the camp, speaking to all the women and children: —We will go look for the remaining herd of Ghanam —he said, and his voice was thunder that admitted no argument— They cannot have gone very far.

He pointed with a finger toward old Scheherezade, his movement firm and definitive. —You will stay in charge of the women and children —he continued, and his eyes swept the circle of frightened faces— Everyone can stay in my tent. If something happens, burn salts from that sack. It will release red smoke that will alert us. The woman nodded firmly while taking her granddaughters in her arms, squeezing them against her chest as if she could protect them from the whole world.

Everyone stayed in the large tent as soon as the men left, following the path of the Ghanam footprints. They realized that it led to a narrow passage, and upon venturing into the darkness little by little, they noticed how sharp stones pricked their feet. They knew it with certainty: only one thing could do this. A felis of the dunes. Upon venturing deeper and deeper, they found the carcass of a small devoured Ghanam. The animal had left almost most of its meat, eating its organs.

Upon noticing it, Jaldún said loudly enough: —Do not trust the pitiful sounds that come out of the crevices —he warned, and his voice was the echo of a wisdom forged in decades of desert— The Sîya dawî will try to confuse us and make us fall into its traps. It can imitate sounds. The men beside him nodded, their hands gripping their weapons with white knuckles. —Pay attention to this —continued Jaldún, and his gaze swept the group— if anyone needs help, we will shout our name. Only our name.

That way the animal will not be able to imitate us. Do not follow any crying, whether human or animal, I remind you: you will die if you do. Many of them trembled, but they did not stop. That livestock was all they had as wealth in the world. If they did not recover it, they would not be able to survive. There is nothing man fears more than losing the future of his family, of his children, of his people, and those animals were that to them.

They walked through the dark corridors of reddish stone for at least two hours. The echo of their footsteps resonated against the rock walls, multiplying into phantom whispers. At the end of the tunnel, they finally found them: the whole herd of Ghanam was huddled together, frightened enough and with their hair on end. Many of them had released their sphincters, and the place gave off a sharp, penetrating odor that mixed with fear.

In the darkness of the night at the T'zur camp, while the men had left after half an hour, the Kalb hissed loudly while sticking out its bifid tongue time and again into the air of the tent. Scheherezade stroked it under the chin, feeling the trembling of its body, while with her other hand she made everyone keep silent around her. It was then that a crying was heard. First, like that of a baby Ghanam, a weak and pitiful bleat that seemed to come from the darkness outside.

But it was the old woman who shook her head, to clarify whispering afterward: —It will try to make us all go out by imitating us —she said, and her voice was a thread of sound— but rest assured that no animals remain here, or old Jaldún would not have left with everyone. She stood up and took one of the women who hesitated, trying to look, by the arm. —Remember —she whispered, and her fingers dug into the woman's flesh— it is its strategy. They always use them.

Half an hour later, the sound that reached them was the crying of a baby. This time, it came with the crackling of fire. They could not ignore it. Old Scheherezade poked her head out for a second to look, and upon doing so, what she saw was that one of the tents was on fire and the sound of crying came directly from inside. She turned to the others immediately with speed, while everyone's eyes were expectant and the children huddled together, each hugging their mothers.

—I need two who go to help him —she raised her hands pointing to the most robust among them— It must be quick, as much as you can. Both women stood up. Khadija, a firewood gatherer alongside her husband, had a powerful back that spoke of years of hard work. She was, without a doubt, the most robust woman of those there. However, Lubna was not far behind; and despite being only a weaver, her constitution had always made her seem naturally strong.

They took their copper knives and left the tent quickly, their steps echoing in the night. Samira peeked out to see them alongside old Scheherezade. As soon as the women were lost in the tent and its high flames, what they saw was a long-charred branch placed directly on the cloth of the tent. There was no baby there. When both ran out, what caught them was a huge beast. Its thick fur was sand-colored, blending with the desert like a living shadow.

Its imposing whiskers were almost like thorns, and their size close to the height of a Rixam. Its ears bore hair pointing upward almost like brushes, and its paws were imposing, it seemed they were too large for its body. Its hind legs were a bit longer, making it look steep, a predator's stance ready for attack. Its huge fangs slit Khadija's throat with incredible agility. At the same time, it placed its huge right paw on Lubna's chest.

The woman, desperate, moved the huge butcher knife in all directions while screaming desperately: —Help! Her crying intensified as the huge feline brought its head closer to her face. The knife she had tried to plunge into the animal's skin was not capable in the slightest of harming its hide. —Mom, I don't want to di… She was not able to finish. The huge felis of the dunes had bitten her skull. With dread on her skin, Samira ran to the circle of women in the center of the tent.

The Kalb, restless, slipped from old Scheherezade's hands. Upon arriving before the huge felis, it did not fear. Its protective instinct led it to attack it directly with its claws first, but the feline pushed it, ripping its scales with its huge and powerful claws. The reptile, adopting the classic defensive stance, turned its back on it, leaving its tail directly toward its face.

But the felis advanced and, despite receiving the tail whip that sounded like a snap, what followed was only the Kalb's lament, deep and almost as heartbreaking as that of both women had been. The old woman placed herself in the doorway of the tent as the felis advanced harshly toward them. Being in front of the old woman, the only thing Samira managed to see of her were her legs faltering before the huge feline, looking for the last time at her grandchildren before fate.

The felis, with its needle-thin eyes, changed upon smelling something in the air. Its thin eyes became complete, extremely complete. It ran directly, ignoring the old woman, running her over with its fast stride. When it reached where its nose had guided it, it easily broke the wood of the chest. What it pulled out in its snout was not meat: it was hide. Of the same sand color as its own, it was the hide of a cub.

With the hide in its snout, it now unsheathed the claws of its two paws, directly at the circle of women. Scheherezade placed herself in the way of its paw to prevent it from harming her grandchildren. The mother felis ran her through with overwhelming ease, ripped her flesh leaving all the rugs and the cloth walls with the crimson of blood. However, what was heard next were many steps, too many even for the men who were from there.

The felis turned upon hearing it, before any of the women, and with the hide of her cub in her snout, she ran. Everyone trembled in the cold night, drawing steam from their mouths, while hugging, time passed slower than it should. When at last, Samira felt a hand on her shoulder, she screamed desperately at first. But upon turning, what she saw was the sand-colored uniform of something that transported her to Jabalya to her childhood: it was a Xulamán. —What happened, miss?

—said the soldier while another handheld the pommel of his scimitar, the cold metal shining under the light of the torches— You can be at peace. We have come to help. After everything calmed down with the passage of hours, after each woman explained what had happened with the felis of the dunes, the men had finally arrived at where they were. Samira, although uneasy and with her heart still in her hand, addressed the same soldier who had spoken to her.

—I am sorry for not answering sooner —she said, and her voice was a thread of sound— I was as you know… She did not finish saying it, however, her eyes slid across the symbol on the Xulamán's uniform. It was a goblet with a scimitar underneath, the symbol of the Sultan. —I wanted to thank you for the help —she continued, and her voice gained firmness— I had never feared so much for my life. The man smiled, then stood up from the rug where he was seated. He was tall, her head barely reached his chest.

—Call me Rashid —he said, his voice deep and warm like the sand at sunset— I am the Qaid of the army of Nishapur. He bowed his head very slightly. —May the divine Al'Shar give you peace and his blessing. —You may call me Samira Al-Husani, sharifa of Jabalya —she said, bowing this time, and the man did so again to the same level as her— I have come here to work for the great library of Al'Miraj as a copyist and transcriber. That is why I have been able to translate for you what they have gone through.

Rashid evaluated her this time; in his eyes shone a bit of surprise. It was clear he did not expect a sharifa there, but that she was a copyist explained everything. He weighed that in his mind for a few seconds and, seeing that she was waiting, said: —We have come here, esteemed sharifa, because we are going to the capital Al'Quemar. The Qaid sighed deeply, almost as if all the weight fell before him.

—Our beloved Sultan Mansur al-Mu'tazz has departed to the eternal light —he continued, and his voice cracked slightly— Together with the great prophet, he rests in the bosom of Al'Shar. We were ordered that a fourth of each branch of the army must go to bid him farewell and welcome his heir son, Jalil al-Muntasir. Upon leaving the place, Samira accompanied them on a long journey back, parting ways only at the fork in the road to head to the library, longing to see her friend again.

She did not know it, but Jalil al-Muntasir would establish, as his first law, the ancient tradition of women as bargaining chips, a trade that Umar, her father, would take advantage of to pay the huge debts he had accumulated over the decades, her education giving her the value of an incomparable asset.