The Serpent's Veil

Truth Stone

The barracks were deserted but for four—Sharan, Nadir, Rehan, and Yahya. Sharan's white coat stood out like a moon in the darkness of the closed space. His chin jutted out stiffly. He was no longer at ease, and did not enter the holding cell with the others.

The rebel lay broken and bloody on the stony ground of the holding cell with his hands bound behind his back. His knee was shot through with a steel arrowhead, and he could no longer use that leg. Blood had seeped through his clothes and all over the ground, pooling in the dips of the stone like cups of jallab. A morbid thought.

Rehan could see through the dirt and grime that the man's skin was fair and his eyes were green. Half his head was swollen from where Nadir had bludgeoned him to unconsciousness, to Rehan's immense satisfaction.

They did not enter with a clear plan of interrogation, but Rehan had studied war since he was old enough to speak. The fastest way to defeat the enemy was to break his spirit, not threaten his body. And he knew, best of all, that his critical weakness was his tendency to grow violent, so he deliberately stood further away from the rebel than the others, swathed in layers of shadow. Firm and steadfast control was his weapon here. He would not make the same mistakes again.

"Let's get the man some water. Nadir, please." Rehan waved a hand, and a perplexed Nadir unhookedd the waterskin from his belt and knelt to offer it to the rebel. The man made no move to drink.

"You do not want it?" asked Rehan. Already he was beginning to grow annoyed, but he maintained his neutral tone.

"I do not drink from the hands of usurpers and king-killers."

"This usurper is offering you life's elixir after you just tried to kill him," quipped Rehan, "but if you will not drink, then so be it."

Nadir obediently returned the waterskin to his belt and trained his sword at the rebel's neck.

"Name your conspirators, their locations, and their numbers," said Yahya.

The man leaned forward, pressing his neck into the blade. A thin sliver of blood pooled at the blade edge. "Never."

"No one is coming for you," said Rehan, "They have abandoned you to your fate. You gain nothing by hiding them."

"I preserve my loyalty, something you would never understand. You are the rebels and the dissenters!" the man screamed with what little strength he had, shooting glares at the three men.

"Your loyalty to whom, exactly? Your king is dead, his descendant sits in Al-Andalus and cowers in fear of my father's army. Is it he you answer to? Or some other stragglers we failed to pick off during the revolution?"

The man seemed to twitch at the mention of the stragglers. Lone agents, then. Still, Abd al-Rahman may have known of their plans. It was worth including in the next missive to the Caliph.

"You will never break me," spat he rebel, though there was less vigour in it than before.

Rehan finally stepped out of the shadows. "Your defiance is admirable, but unfounded." He stalked forward with long strides and stared down his nose at the man's green eyes. "I will defeat you because I am the one on the righteous path, not you and your overseers." His words, resonating and melodious, seemed like they were sounding from two voices. One a man, and one a prophet. "God stands beside the intent of the righteous,"

"No usurper is righteous!"

"We 'usurpers' brought freedom to the people of the Caliphate, something they never had under Marwan. We treat every man as our equal, the Muslimun, the Yahud, the Nasaras," Rehan pointed to Yahya, "and my Persian brothers whom you disgustingly refer to as ajam, we all live together in harmony under my family's rule. So forgive me if I don't believe you."