Chapter 287: Broken Wings
Laila watched Abigail, and it had already been thirteen days.
For an Assassin, thirteen is not considered too long a number; people often describe Assassins as carnivorous spiders hiding under bricks and stones, in the mud, skilled at concealment, able to endure prolonged silence and darkness until the prey enters their hunting range, then leaping up to swiftly and accurately take their lives.
For any Assassin, thirteen days, thirteen weeks, thirteen months—as long as they can complete the work assigned by the elder, it is an utterly ordinary matter.
But with the failure of negotiations with Saladin of Egypt and Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road, aside from those young people still immersed in the fantasy of ascending to paradise upon dying in battle, served by seventy-two virgins, the slightly older and wiser ones could not help but have a layer of worried mist cloud their eyes and hearts, becoming bewildered.
Even their elder Sinan was no exception. What path should the Assassins take? Should they really, for the sake of the Assassins’ existence, as Sinan had originally planned, allow this Land of Milk and Honey to continue in a state of turbulent division?
Was this fulfilling the Prophet’s charge, or defiling the Prophet’s name? They did not know.
Laila had also been thinking constantly, especially about what happened the previous evening.
As a woman with devil-like white hair, Laila had always been a special existence in the Eagle’s Nest.
Male Assassin members rarely interacted with her, or rather, they did not know how to interact with her.
In the Saracen world, women were of only two kinds: one was the modest lady, who should be respected and protected by them; the other was the lowly whore, who should be spat upon and humiliated—but the latter was also something they could not do without.
As a colleague, Laila should receive their respect, but likewise, as a woman, Laila acted like a man, including mingling among many men in the identity of a Qiyan, and she had indeed gathered intelligence and assassinated targets on the bed.
For the Assassins, this was just a means and a way of acting, like other Assassin members disguising themselves as Christian monks to assassinate some important figure among the Christians, reciting their scripture, kneeling before their Cross and holy images—these were all things to be forgiven.
But for these men, it was incomprehensible; they did not know what to do with her—accept her, ignore her, or despise her.
It was mostly despise.
In the evening, when Laila entered the Assassins’ branch in Damascus, someone immediately questioned why she had delayed this simple task for so long.
Laila wondered if she should explain; these Assassin members had eyes and ears—how could they not know Abigail’s situation here?
Indeed, the Duke of Antioch Bohemond was extremely disappointed in his son. But no matter what, he had only this one only son; Antioch had only that one heir, and the Princess Sibylla of Ayyarasa Road had only this one husband.
In any case, Abigail would not be the first chess piece to be discarded.
Bohemond had even transferred the most trusted and powerful knights by his side to Abigail, ensuring that a blessed knight always accompanied him, even when he went to the “prayer room”—that is, the toilet.
Even though Abigail complained endlessly, the Duke of Antioch Bohemond never relented.
“But there must be some situation where you can be alone with him.”
A male Assassin member said with some provocation and contempt; the several assassins around him averted their gazes—though they did not echo or agree, their deep concurrence was evident.
Compared to them, was not Laila’s greatest advantage that she was a woman? And one with devil-like beauty at that.
If she resumed her identity as a Qiyan and approached Abigail, no doubt Abigail would unhesitatingly pull her into the tent, and while the two reveled wildly, even with the duke’s orders, the knights would not dare to stare constantly at the reveling man and woman.
Would Laila do that? If she really could not find an opportunity, perhaps she would.
But she had to consider that in Damascus, there were not a few who knew the Qiyan Laila, and several who knew her true identity.
But such an explanation was not for these people to hear; she said nothing and stepped forward. Before anyone could react, she shot out a kick, striking the opponent’s shin; the intense pain made that male Assassin member collapse to the ground immediately, but he was after all an assassin, and as he fell, he drew his scimitar and slashed.
It struck—Laila’s afterimage.
Laila had already leaped behind him; she drove her knee into his lower back, which immediately caved in. If this assassin had not received the Prophet’s revelation, this blow would have killed him, but now he could still howl.
And before the people around could pounce, Laila had gripped his nape—the hands that had countless times caressed virgins in the paradise deep in the Alamut Mountains were as soft as rose petals; he almost dared not use force, that slender wrist so fragile, even trembling unsteadily when lifting a golden cup, unable to bear the weight.
But the hand that fell on his nape was like a black iron shackle, like a venomous snake; it strangled him, instantly making his vision go black and his mind muddled. Amid people’s cries of alarm, Laila sliced off his headscarf with one stroke of the knife; the blade flashed, and the man who had dared provoke her was left with only half his hair.
His head was bald on one side, while the other still had thick black hair remaining; his mustache on the lip and cheeks was the same.
Laila wiped the blade on his neck, then with a flick of her fingers sheathed the scimitar again; she tossed the assassin to his companions like discarding trash, then walked expressionlessly toward elder Sinan’s room.
Elder Sinan had long heard the ending of the matter from his attendant; he could not reprimand Laila, but likewise would not pursue the Assassin member.
“Consider it a trial from Allah for you.”
“It has been a trial many times.”
Laila’s retort brought a hint of anger to elder Sinan’s face. “You are a woman, Laila. You should know that to keep you and your sisters in the Eagle’s Nest, I have already paid a great price.”
“He humiliated me.”
“Half of it was true, and your mistake is not just that, Laila. That was an Assassin member who received the Prophet’s revelation.”
“You know what I mean.”
Laila nodded woodenly.
“If you are suspected again and the other Assassins’ elders question me, I will no longer protect you.”
“You must pay the price for your wrongs.”
“You are my favorite student; you are clever, agile, brave, but you cannot challenge your destined fate because of that—unless you can leave your current body and be reborn in a man’s.”
“But!…”
“This is the law set by Allah!” Sinan said sharply. “Laila. Even among the Christians, their women are not allowed to enter the church to pray for the saints’ protection; they have no such right, no such possibility.”
“Like them, in our tribe, women who rebel against the law can only be seen as devils. Laila, I do not want my final judgment to be to put you to death.”
Elder Sinan stood up, turning his back to Laila—these past few days, he was mentally and physically exhausted; his schemes against Baldwin and Saladin had both failed, even being turned against him by Saladin. His opponents seized this rare opportunity to deliberately stir discontent within the Eagle’s Nest against him.
But even at the height of his power, he would not have rebuked an Assassin member who received the Prophet’s revelation for Laila’s sake; he had already done his utmost for Laila, almost more than for his own daughter; he could not give more.
“Laila,” he said, “do not return before killing Abigail. I will not see you again.”
Laila opened her mouth, seeming to want to say something more, but in the end, the light in her eyes dimmed along with the elder’s figure, which never turned back.
“As you command, elder.” She said softly, then turned and left without hesitation.
Perhaps she should have done this long ago, as those people expected, using her advantage as a woman—this was not the first time, nor the last.
Laila even had an impulse to leap out from the wild grass concealing her figure and charge at those Christian knights; she might kill Abigail, but she would inevitably die under the siege of these men likewise blessed by God.
She knew her end would not be a bright one.
While those male Assassin members yearned to ascend to the paradise served by seventy-two virgins, she knew she would inevitably descend to Hell—and every female member among the Assassins would face such an end; they had violated the Prophet’s admonitions to women, burdened with sin, unable to receive forgiveness.
But why? Laila often asked herself this in the darkness of night. Had she really done anything wrong? No.
When her father decided to throw her into the ditch, she was still an infant, and when she was treated as goods to be sold, she was only a child. Those things seen as crimes—were not the men doing them too? Even more than her.
Things should not be this way, Laila told herself, but what should they be? She did not know either.
A knight galloped up swiftly, drawing Laila’s attention; she was downwind of the group to avoid her scent alerting the hunting dogs. And with the wind came fragments of conversation…”Saracens, caravan, woman…”
No need for further thought, Laila crouched even lower. Sure enough, these knights immediately mounted and galloped off with her target Abigail toward a place.
Laila lay quietly there, waiting only until they vanished from her sight before swiftly leaving her hiding spot, going to a secret place, and untying her mount’s reins.
She followed the scent and sounds carried in the air; soon, she saw the caravan under siege by Christian knights led by Abigail. The caravan had dozens of burly guards, and to Laila’s surprise, among them was even a “scholar” who had received the Prophet’s revelation; she could not help but feel a shock.
But she immediately thought this might not be an ordinary caravan, but a disguised delegation, or a convoy escorting some emir or Fatah family members.
She guessed right, for soon someone tried to break out protecting a woman in the caravan, but they failed. The woman had to retreat back into the convoy, and during the clash her headscarf fell to the ground. Before the attendant picked it up and returned it to her, with her falcon-like eyesight, Laila clearly saw the woman’s face.
Laila’s heart sank sharply; she had once been ordered by elder Sinan to spy on Sultan Saladin’s whereabouts. Though they all knew Saladin’s assassination attempt had nothing to do with the Assassins.
Saladin was well disguised; prayer voices, the scent of medicine, and spice smoke always lingered in the tent.
And the one who came out during that time to meet those scheming emirs and Fatah people was not Saladin’s brother Turan Shah, but his sister Emina—this was truly unexpected.
For this reason, Laila had observed her several times, even once disguising as a maidservant in the camp and speaking with her; Emina left a deep impression on him. Though it was said she had quarreled fiercely with her brother Saladin over returning to her husband, Governor Holmes, when Saladin truly needed help, she was the first to stand up resolutely.
Though Emina was a woman, few dared belittle her; she lacked Saladin’s power and prestige, but she had eyes that could see through people’s hearts—it was said that in the most critical days, she even stabilized the entire situation by understanding those greedy villains, until Saladin awoke.
And now, facing a siege by a pack of hyenas, she showed no sign of panic.
Even after the breakout failed and she retreated back into the convoy, she merely frowned slightly, then quickly rewrapped her headscarf; her back remained straight, her eyes fixed on the brutish bandits, lips pressed tight, not making a sound—doubtless, she would absolutely not reveal her identity until the last moment.
And Laila was no longer prepared to wait.
From what she knew of Emina and Abigail, this matter would not end simply after Emina revealed her identity—even with Saladin, or with the governor of Damascus, the Crusaders had already signed a treaty; by the treaty’s terms, they should respect each other’s women and children and no longer violate them.
But for Abigail…
Laila galloped away, while a knight guarding Abigail glanced suspiciously in the original direction, hesitated a moment, but said nothing.
Laila had few choices she could make.
Even if the tribal leaders around Damascus were trustworthy, Laila had no way to gain their trust in a short time and lead their warriors to aid—let alone that, due to previous battles, the nearby tribes had mostly migrated some distance away; Laila might not immediately find them.
The only city near Damascus was Bosra; it had fallen even earlier than Damascus and was now, like Damascus, filled with Crusader knights and merchants.
Perhaps she should seek the King of Ayyarasa Road; that young monarch would not allow others to break the pact he signed with the Saracens. But with her current identity, she feared it would be hard to reach the Christian king—but another person…
Given the time, he should be in the patrol group.
Thus Laila hesitated no longer, but raced like lightning in one direction, feeling the cooling evening wind like knife blades whipping past her, while praying loudly in her heart that Allah would let her find Caesar in time.
And it was as if Allah had indeed given Laila unusual luck this time, as if He too did not wish to see such a tragedy occur; before the sunlight had fully faded, Laila finally saw that blood-red flag.
