Excerpt: Aicha by Soraya Bouazzaoui
TEMPTRESS. MONSTER. WARRIOR.
Aicha is the story of Morocco’s warrior goddess, her strange magic, fierce rebellion, and devastating romance. Soraya Bouazzaoui weaves an epic tale of female rage and hidden myths, perfect for fans of The City of Brass and The Stardust Thief.
“Aicha lit a whole bonfire in my belly, stole the air right out of my lungs and then left my heart in tiny little pieces. An incredible debut.” —Ellis Hunter, author of Blood Bound
Read the first two chapters of Aicha by Soraya Bouazzaoui, on sale March 24th, below!
Prologue
From the moment Aicha opened her eyes, her baba knew that she would be trouble. He often retold the story of her birth with fondness, an affectionate glint in his eye whenever he cast her a glance. It was a memory that he clung to with both joy and an aching sadness. For Aicha’s birth meant finding one love and losing another.
He claimed that Aicha’s cries were short as he held her, swaddled in a cleaning fabric, the evidence of being birthed still clinging to her skin. Aicha’s eyes opened to stare at him. Her mama, Tadla, lay dying beside them, blood seeping into the sheets that the nursing maid had laid beneath her.
Aicha’s short cries echoed around the birthing room. When her father placed his thumb in her mouth to pacify her, she suckled greedily, as if she had been starving for the nine moon cycles she had spent enveloped by her mother.
“Hungry little thing,” he remarked, eyes soft. “My little shanewla.”
She stopped crying and stared up at him again with eyes dark and clouded, yet holding a certainty that he had only ever seen in her mother.
He held the baby to his chest, as if loosening his grip would cause her to disappear completely, and bent beside his wife. He leaned his bearded cheek into her hand as she weakly raised it to caress him, her fingers already cooling as life slowly ebbed away.
“Aicha,” she whispered, her tone low and weighted with exhaustion. “Call her Aicha.”
Whenever he told the story of his and Tadla’s first meeting, fractured memories danced across his vision, blurred by the tears he kept at bay. It was one he would never tire of telling his daughters in their later years, and had created in him a certainty that true love was as real as the night sky.
The daughter of an Amazigh amghar, Tadla had travelled with her tribe from the northern mountains. She arrived in the citadel after a long journey to such scorching heat that it felt as if it singed her skin, and she demanded water from the first body she met once passing the gates. She yanked the sleeve of Fouad’s djilaba, and his wide, youthful eyes turned to face her.
“Boy. Give me water.” She was assertive in a way he seldom encountered. “Now.”
It was the confidence of someone respected, someone of a higher class, a boldness that Tadla’s mother had instilled in her, and that would be passed to both Aicha and her sister, Samira. Tadla didn’t know it then, but Fouad fell in love the moment those words spilled from her lips.
When he watched her, fingers pressed into his cheek and her gaze losing focus on both him and their daughter, that flicker of defiance she was so fond of lingered. He pulled her hand away from his cheek, and onto the soft, bloodied head of their new daughter. Tadla was too weak to hold her child, but Fouad wished to at least grant her this. The soft skin of the child she had grown and given him.
Tadla had slipped away into Janna with a smile on her face.
Eight days until the siege
Chapter 1
“How much?” the fishing merchant spat, flecks of saliva landing on Aicha’s cheeks. She wiped it off, feigning nonchalance and concealing disgust. Customers were always so dramatic.
Wealthy merchants were not rare in the citadel, the port was one of the last held by the invaders under the banner of King Joseph I of Portugal. A sea of faces wearing the King’s insignia had been a presence long before Aicha had been born.
“You know the price. I will not repeat myself.” Aicha’s tone was flat, and she occupied herself with the cleaning of a Portuguese blade behind the counter.
Fouad, her father, was a skilled blacksmith, one that many of the imperial army were fond of employing. Theirs was a family business that spanned two centuries. His side business, however, had become more fruitful for the family: selling and trading weaponry to the highest bidder both inside and beyond the walls. The Maghrebis of the city were prohibited from carrying weapons, and to be caught was a crime punishable by hanging. It left a particularly large gap in the black market, which had made Fouad’s family infamously wealthy—a wealth that Fouad had not kept for himself, but instead used to fund the rebellion that simmered inside the citadel walls.
Talks of the Sultan reclaiming land in Maghrib had incited a thirst for war.
Fouad had always taught his daughters that the less attentive they looked, the more a customer was prone to desperation. Aicha noted from the corner of her eye that the merchant’s face now exuded distress. It revitalised her more than coffee ever would.
His nose and forehead were already tinged with sunburn. Merchants who burned easily came from the north of the seas; enough money meant less time spent in the sun working. His burnt skin fuelled her desire to set a higher price, which she knew he would relent to. Aicha wouldn’t ever think twice about ripping off invaders.
“Bu-but everyone knows the citadel is on the verge of battle!” He placed both hands on her station, leaning forward. “To leave me vulnerable would be unbecoming of a Muslim.”
“I’m not Muslim,” she countered.
Aicha was lying, of course. As if she were stupid enough to admit her faith to a man whose king had eradicated their places of worship. Had forbidden any and all practices of Islam throughout almost four centuries. Any text containing their prayers was either burned or hidden away where none could find it. It was an act of sedition, according to their ruler.
The man bristled, and Aicha fought a smirk.
She loved it when they bristled, indignant and insulted to be simply told no. Her own tiny act of rebellion.
“Do you know who I am, girl?”
Sweat had formed patches in the customer’s green tunic, the colour darkening around his neck and chest. It trickled down his bald head and across his face. He had travelled for some time, having visited three previous blacksmiths, but her father’s was deep in the belly of their Maghrebi sector. Their people populated the south, cramped up against the walls. A messenger, barely the age of ten, had stopped in mere hours before to notify her of a settler haggling for cheaper prices. It was laughable, because as anyone familiar with Fouad would know, the forge Aicha worked in was one of three all owned by her baba.
“I do not care.” Her dark eyes flickered towards him, watching his lip curl in anger as he stood there.
“Take the price or leave,” she finalised. “Badar will give you the exact same price in the south-west, maybe even higher if I tell him how bihkil you’ve been.”
The merchant blanched, spluttering over the accusation that he was stingy.
While he stood and seethed, deliberating on whether to surrender the fee, Aicha busied herself with a dagger, sharpening it. She hadn’t needed to, but she had learned—from Fouad—that it would make a difficult customer squirm. And that was extremely enjoyable.
The darkness of her father’s store was only mildly lit up by the sun streaming through one small window. The stone building was kept without light as much as possible, for it to remain cool. Their home was two floors, one of the original buildings before the Portuguese had erected walls around the port citadel. Dark red in colour, the iron front door opened up into what would have been an opening sidari room anywhere else, but Fouad’s family had converted it into a showroom. Swords and daggers lined the walls, hung there as if it were art to be only admired.
His best work remained behind the workstation that Aicha occupied, always manned by either her or her elder sister Samira. The station extended from one end of the room to the other, and the door that led upstairs and to their private quarters lay behind it. Her baba’s study was at the end of the hall.
When she had finished sharpening, Aicha sliced the dagger through the air in front of her. Samira disliked her theatrics. According to her, it was embarrassing and unnecessary.
But it snapped the merchant’s attention back to her, his expression shifting into one of resigned frustration.
Not so unnecessary, after all.
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ll send one of my page boys within the week. He’ll deliver my payment.”
Aicha’s fingers wove through the roots of her dark hair, pushing the curled strands out of her face in the humidity.
“Your order will be ready for collection by then.”
He blinked for a few moments, eyes alight with fury. “You mean to tell me I cannot take them now?”
She raised a brow, placing the dagger on the workstation, holding back from laughing in the merchant’s face.
“You believed you’d be able to take a trunk of weaponry—without payment—and that I would trust your word to bring it to me later?” She finally laughed, leaning against the wooden counter. “Enta hamak.”
The merchant’s pudgy fingers gripped her forearm tightly, pulling her forward and almost over the counter. He squeezed her arm; an attempt to inflict pain, but Aicha simply stared at him.
“You dare to mock me? And call me crazy! Women like you should show some respect, especially desert firans!”
She laughed again, louder this time, and dug the fingers of her free hand into a pressure point at the corner of his collarbone, where it met his left shoulder blade. He let go, yelling out in pain and protest, collapsing onto the counter.
“Oh, do not be so dramatic. This is not that painful.” She dug her two fingers in deeper to emphasise her point, ignoring his cries. “Also, desert rat? I have never even seen the dune seas.”
Aicha leaned down so that she was at eye level with the merchant, letting him see the large grin that spread across her lips, showing her teeth. His face scrunched up in pain, eyes glistening with fury. It spiked Aicha’s irritation.
Use the blade. Cut him open, watch his insides spill out.
Aicha blinked, shaking her head as a means to push the rogue thought away.
It was not her voice, nor her thoughts, yet had been there for what felt like decades. Aicha did what she always needed to do. Ignored it, no matter how tempting it felt.
She found the merchant’s eyes again. “The next time you believe you can walk into one of Fouad Sanhaji’s armouries and speak to his daughter like this you will turn and make your way back to the filthy invaders’ country that you came from, understand?”
Her baba would administer a slap to the back of her neck for being so brazen, but oh well. She’d deal with that later. The merchant nodded vigorously, and just as Aicha began to lessen her grip, she changed her mind. Tightening it once again, the merchant released another yell of surprise.
“Apologise.”
“Wha-what?”
“You know,” she drawled, leaning on her left elbow as she watched him squirm. “An apology? Something which is said when you’ve caused great offence. I believe the occasion calls for one.”
“All right, all right, I apologise!”
She let go, a smile dancing across her brown features as the merchant propelled himself backwards, towards her iron front door, rubbing his shoulder. Fouad was fond of high security, since his secret source of income was both forbidden and expensive. The door helped keep his secret, and both daughters were equipped to defend the shop, and themselves, when need be.
“So, will payment be made within the week?”
The glint in Aicha’s eye insinuated that this was not a question, rather a demand.
The merchant nodded.
“Within the week,” he said softly, turning to leave at a faster pace than he had entered.
He left the door open, allowing sunlight and a soft breeze to filter in. Apparently, he was suddenly overcome with bravery. Screamed insults greeted Aicha’s ears from beyond the door, and she laughed as she imagined his large feet stomping towards his cart.
She rolled her eyes, circling her father’s workstation and barrier to move towards the front door, the sounds of the neighbourhood children playing outside reaching her ears. Gripping the metal handle, she hauled the heavy door back to seal it. Aicha was halted by the slender, brown hand that landed on the door, a body wedging itself in the gap. Familiar dark-brown eyes met her own.
Samira huffed, dragging her gaze from her younger sister to briefly look behind her, at what Aicha assumed was the disgruntled merchant. Samira’s brow raised in an accusatory manner. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and no sweat marks lined her features—a trait that Aicha had always been envious of. She tended to self-consciously smell her armpits before meeting Rachid.
“Are you not able to go a day without angering a customer?” Samira said, forcing herself through the door regardless of the fact Aicha had not made room to welcome her in.
“I desire consistency,” Aicha retorted, pulling the door shut behind her. The metal clang echoed as she locked it. “Also, he deserved it.”
Samira tutted, shaking her head as she headed for the back room. Her dark leathers weighed heavy on her shoulders, the protective layers helped when she was outside, in the dead of night, smuggling. Risking her life. But in the light of day, it was far too warm to wear, and Aicha was always taken back by Samira’s ability to go so long without water. Though that habit had been instilled into both sisters from birth, as a result of being denied simple necessities from the King’s guard, it was one Aicha had defied. Her sister called her gluttonous. Aicha called it common sense.
Samira peeled off her tunic, throwing it into a pile of clothing on the floor. Her layers were abundant, and dark in colour. She had been gone since yesterday evening, and the black and navy clothing was necessary for slipping through the walls and remaining in the shadows when smuggling cargo and messages out of the city. Her role within the rebellion was an important one, something she had volunteered for with Rachid despite her father’s protests. Being caught transporting weapons and secrets to the Sultan’s men outside of the city walls meant certain execution, but Samira was the best at it. And Rachid a close second.
“Please, add to my chores,” Aicha drawled, motioning to the growing pile of clothes her sister had made. “I enjoy washing your clothes.”
Samira met her with a glare, though little else. Rarely could one arouse annoyance from Samira, whereas Aicha had always had a shorter temper.
Like Aicha, dark green markings lined Samira’s chin, cheeks and between her brows. Aicha had received her first, the siyala, on her fourteenth birthday. A symbol of reaching womanhood. It was a line that began beneath her lip and extended to the tip of her chin, with a row of dots either side. Incredibly painful when she sat through it. She’d almost wanted to punch her baba while he’d marked her. Granted, he had done so only once before—for Samira—and so wasn’t as gentle as he claimed people from her mother’s tribe would have been.
Still, a punch would have felt good.
The second had been given when she’d won her first sparring battle, a talisman for protection that Fouad had called ghemaza and placed between her brows. Two and a half diamonds stacked atop one another. These were the markings their mother once received, and Fouad had been desperate for his daughters to retain some essence of her, to feel connected to her.
She pushed down the feeling of emptiness that always surfaced when she thought of her mama. It existed instead of longing, or grief, because Aicha never knew her mother. She would always feel like she’d simply had something taken from her.
Samira moved to lift the water jug by both handles, careful not to spill, and poured herself a bowl of lukewarm water.
“Do not use too much,” Aicha warned. “They have halved our daily supply.”
“Why?” Samira said, a frown etched into her brows. “I thought you collected ours before dawn.”
“I did, but the blockade and the drought mean they will ration our supply before they ration theirs.” Irritation seeped into Aicha’s tone.
The reminder of her heated discussion with a soldier when he had failed to fill her waterskins fully—and their disregard for her enquiry as to when more would be available—reinvigorated her annoyance.
For well over a month, a blockade had been enforced by the Maghrebi armies that patrolled the seas. Halting almost all of the invaders’ imports of goods into the citadel. When rumours of an attack had reached the Portuguese, they had had no choice but to close the gates. Aicha would have said they were all trapped, but it wasn’t true.
Portuguese villagers fled almost daily—if they had the coin to buy passage. Returning to the land they should have never left, Aicha thought bitterly. The general, however, was almost petulantly stubborn. So, soldiers were forced to stay, to defend walls they had no right to build and to let the Maghrebi starve first. Aicha hoped their ships sank before reaching their shores.
“Fish was all gone, too,” Aicha muttered. “They won’t let anyone go beyond the bay any more. Hamad said they barely caught a full net.”
Samira bristled, then rubbed at her face. She was able to cool her frustration much more easily than Aicha. Her grip was gentle as she focused on her task. Aicha had already smashed four of the ceramic jugs by holding them too carelessly, and Fouad had made both sisters pay for the last, because—as Aicha distinctly remembered—it was the “elder’s responsibility to make sure the youngest sibling behaved.” As if accidentally dropping a jug was a behavioural issue.
Aicha watched as Samira splashed water on her face, and around her neck, ridding her skin of the dry sand and dirt from the tunnels she had passed through. She drew a deep breath in then out, expelling a weight from herself as Aicha watched her finally relax in their home. The only place she had ever felt safe enough to release the rigidity in her shoulders.
Placing the remaining weaponry she had sharpened that afternoon back into her baba’s trunk, Aicha locked it. She lifted it with both hands and grunted as it weighed down on her.
“Move,” she huffed at Samira, who crouched in the doorway between the front room and the back. “I need to put these away.”
The elder ignored Aicha’s barbed tone, all too used to her impatience. Aicha watched Samira pick up the bowl and jug of water, taking her spot at the workstation, and sitting on her unused stool.
Aicha moved into the hallway and towards their baba’s study, pushing past the curtain that partitioned his room from the hall. She dropped the trunk to the ground and, manoeuvring his table, pulled away the rug that lay beneath it to reveal loose zellige. She pulled off the tiles one by one, with delicacy so as not to chip any, before revealing the trapdoor below. Aicha descended the wooden steps of the hidden entrance, which had been built long before her birth by her grandfather. She was cloaked in darkness, with only a slither of sunlight from the window streaming into the small cellar. Using what light she had, she plopped the trunk next to the dozens of others, all engraved to indicate the type of weaponry they contained.
Aicha headed back up the steps, the wood creaking loudly as she went. When she returned to the workroom, a slightly cleaner and less dishevelled Samira turned towards her.
“Where’s Baba?”
“At the port,” Aicha supplied, hoisting herself up to sit on the counter. “He had to make a delivery to the Filali family.”
Samira nodded, and rested her head on the counter, Aicha knew she liked to feel the coolness of the wood against her cheek. As Aicha unsheathed her small dagger from her waist, and began to sharpen it, the two descended into a comfortable silence, both exhausted by the day and taking comfort in each other’s presence.
“I need help packing Baba’s newest arrows,” Samira mumbled. “They must go out by tomorrow evening.”
Aicha groaned, knowing that the task would extend well into the night, and that their father would offer no assistance. Despite her constant moaning, and the petulant childishness she knew she was displaying, it was still a chore that had to be done. One that was boring, filled with little excitement or actual adult responsibility. This lack of responsibility was a grievance she constantly brought to her father, only to receive the same monotonous reply:
You’re not ready.
But Samira had been. Samira always had been. She shared a bond with their baba that Aicha had always been envious of, and she wasn’t proud of it, but Aicha wondered if Fouad favoured Samira because she had not caused their mother’s death.
“Fine,” she said to Samira, “but you have to do the cleaning.”
Her sister made a non-committal sound of acknowledgement, evidently too tired to argue. Aicha patted Samira on the head, both teasingly and affectionately, before she hopped off the workstation. She bent to pick up her sister’s clothing and moved into the next room, placing it in the wash basket.
“Get some rest, I have to go out,” Aicha called.
Samira released another inaudible sound, opening her eyes a fraction to give her sister a knowing look as she returned to the room.
“Tell Rachid he best not be awake throughout the night, we have to make another delivery. When he is tired, he is a liability.”
“Why would I be going to see Rachid?”
The speed with which Samira raised her head, delivering a look of both annoyance and scepticism, was almost comical.
“That big-eyed look of innocence works with Baba, but not me, little sister. I know where you sneak off to after hours.”
Aicha’s laugh was loud and jarring, a cackle that would be deemed unbecoming of a lady. It emerged as predictably as a flower in spring, a sign of nervousness when she attempted to deflect or lie.
Her denial over Rachid wasn’t convincing to her elder sister, and Samira’s scepticism showed in her eyes, a look identical to Aicha’s, one that they had inherited from Tadla. It was an expression neither of them took offence at, because Fouad had always yielded in affection upon seeing it. The ghost of their mother’s blazing defiance emanated from them both, and when it did, Fouad crumbled.
They were his girls.
Late afternoon saw the resurgence of the souk, the dipping of the sun making the heat more bearable as merchants rose from their afternoon slumber, bartering for goods brought in from across the seas, as well as those home grown. The souk was never allowed to reside in the town square, so instead, stalls were erected in their neighbourhood, lining the main streets and the alleys between their centuries-old homes. The separation between the northern and southern areas of the citadel meant that guards patrolled the divide. If a Maghrebi was found trying to cross that invisible divide, then they were interrogated for it. Unless it was for business, Maghrebis usually found themselves shoved away.
A cart, pulled by a donkey, boasted a mountainful of prickly pears. With the streets shaded by the canopies set up above the stalls, Aicha walked between traders and merchants, bartering for lower prices. Before the gates had been shut, and the blockade enforced on the citadel by the Sultan, the souk had boasted an array of goods. Fruit and meat, newly woven djilabas and gandoras that were cool enough to sleep in, and the occasional livestock. Aicha’s satchel, slung across her chest, pressed into her tunic. The sweat beneath seeped into the fabric, and she wiped at her forehead, sending a nod of acknowledgement to a merchant.
For a fraction of a moment, Aicha halted in her steps. In the distance, among the crowd of market goers and merchants, she saw it. An unnaturally tall figure, towering above everyone else, dark and simultaneously easy to see through, like smoke. Just standing there. People walked past it, unaware of its presence.
“Aicha! It is so good to see you, benti!”
The interruption caused Aicha’s gaze to falter, looking to the merchant at a stall just to her right. She smiled, and when she looked back, it was gone. As if she had imagined it.
“Salaam, Sidi Abdelhak,” Aicha greeted, stepping forwards to the stall, and ducking beneath the shade of the canopy. She picked up one of the prickly pears, gripping it a little tightly to gauge its ripeness. “How are the children, and Khadija?”
The old man, Abdelhak, nodded while scratching at his beard. “They are well. Khadija grows frustrated with my long hours. Claims that I evade the hardest part of parenting.” He threw his hands in the air. “If I am there she says I am too soft! I spoil them and do not discipline them. If I am gone, she says I do not show them love! Ya wili, tell me which you want!”
Aicha chuckled loudly at Abdelhak’s expression, his frustration and affection over his family etched between his thick brows and in his dark eyes.
“The trick, Sidi Abdelhak, is to find the balance between both.”
“When you have children, you will see that it is not possible.” He waved off.
Aicha cast her eyes over the bare table, a noticeable lack of fruits on it.
“No medjool left?” she asked, and watched as he sighed deeply.
“They will not let anyone leave the gates for trading any more,” Sidi Abdelhak explained. Though imported goods were prohibited to Maghrebis, they had always been allowed to trade beyond the walls. Strictly for the sake of the Portuguese’s need for fruits. “I will run out any day now; the pears have yet to spoil.”
Guilt settled itself into Aicha’s stomach, evicting any joy that had momentarily resided there when she had approached Abdelhak. He patted her wrist in response to her look of pity, moving to place her chosen pears into the satchel which she held open for him.
“Only a little longer,” he mumbled, as if a soldier might hear what he wished for. Aicha only shared a smile with him in response. “I hear the Sultan will attack with seventy thousand men.”
It was said as a statement, but Aicha knew he was asking. She took a step closer as she placed coins in his hand and bent her head towards him. “You would have to ask Baba.”
Since Aicha was a child, sent on errands by her father, Abdelhak had been a constant fixture in the market. His stall had been passed down for generations, before the siege of the port by the invaders almost four hundred years ago. Though originally an assistant to his father—whom Aicha had affectionately referred to as Juddi her entire life—Abdelhak had inherited the stall less than one sun cycle ago.
He nodded in acknowledgement, before patting her shoulder as she moved to depart.
“Tell Fouad he owes me a pot of qahwa!” he yelled.
She had already turned her back and started walking, but waved her hand as she headed towards the square.
Stray, moist curls of her hair escaped the wrap she had pulled it into. Though hijab and abayas were not permitted within the citadel, Aicha had taken to loosely putting her hair within the wrap, the curls splaying out over the top of her head, while the fabric collected the sweat that beaded around the crown of her head. Her sideburns were also visible in order to ensure that she did not aggravate troops who patrolled the streets.
The knot at the nape of her neck was damp with sweat, and that was where she suddenly felt a painful yank, sending her reeling backwards.
“Why is it always a daughter of Fouad’s breaking the rules?” Commander Almeida’s sneer was prominent on his thin lips as he peered over the back of Aicha’s shoulder.
Chapter 2
Shrugging him off, Aicha turned to face the elder, irritation lacing her spine as she gripped the straps of her satchel with both hands. The commander was flanked by two officers, his red and white uniform slightly discoloured by sand and sweat.
Blond hair, which had probably been combed back to perfection, was now curled at the tips. Strands rested on his forehead, sweat glistening. His nose and cheekbones were tinged pink from the sun, eyes bloodshot as he glared at her. Aicha supposed that, in the past, he was attractive. She could see it even now; the sharpness of his jaw, and his plush lips. If he had ever smiled, it might have elicited a tumble of excitement in a person’s chest. Only his sneer, and perhaps a self-satisfied smirk, was all she had ever seen.
Commander Duarte Almeida was a man far too familiar with Fouad’s family, an obsession with catching them breaking the law too intense for it to be within the realms of normality. Aicha had once joked that he harboured romantic feelings for her father, and in return Duarte had slapped her. Fouad had had someone steal all the belongings from his living quarters in the barracks shortly after. The Sanhaji family had been favoured by Captain Diego Braga—who now oversaw every commander in occupied ports across Maghreb. Or what was left of them.
Aicha’s grandfather had long since forged thousands of fine weaponry for Braga, and Fouad’s penchant for being particularly good at chess as a child had meant he’d spent countless afternoons sitting with the former commander, entertaining him. They didn’t see any invader as a friend, but it didn’t hurt to have the favour of one. It meant—as far as Maghrebis went—that the Sanhaji family were almost untouchable. Unless directly caught conspiring against the Portuguese King, or practising Islam, there was little Duarte could do to them. He’d only had the chance to unleash his wrath once.
“Hijabs are forbidden,” he stated, and Aicha only pointed at the curls spilling out of her wrap.
“It is not hijab,” she huffed, and folded her arms. Her shoulders tensed, and though a kernel of fear sprouted inside her stomach whenever looking at Duarte, she could not help the defiance that burst from her lips.
“I see the spoils of your King’s conquest go towards paying you to accost young women.”
Duarte’s juniors coughed to shield their laughter. He paid no heed, presumably deciding to exact punishment later. Instead, he narrowed his bright-eyed gaze on Aicha, grabbing the strap of her satchel to drag her forward. She forced herself not to react, not to let her temper spike like it always did.
Her baba’s protection only got her so far.
Being occasionally mouthy earned her a sneer or a backhand, but holding back her burning temper was necessary sometimes. She was not the only one that could be consumed with anger, because inciting further violence from Duarte was a slippery slope. Wrenching open her bag, the commander rummaged around inside. Fouad’s girls had learned never to transport any goods without the correct permits—they hadn’t been raised as idiots.
“Satisfied?” she asked, her tone soaked with a sarcasm he could have had her arrested for.
Shoving the satchel back at her, Duarte cast his eyes over her. “And why are you heading towards the square in the evening? Off to sell stolen goods?”
A cackle burst from her without permission and the commander’s face darkened. “Are you simple?”
There her mouth went, bypassing the self-preservation that Samira would have split her lip over. The backhand she received wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it was still a shock to her system. It collided with her cheek, and her head whipped to the side fast enough to give her whiplash. Fuck, that had hurt.
Before Aicha could caress her own cheek, or even blink in surprise, Duarte grabbed her by the throat, pulling her face close to his. Instead of gritting his teeth, or yelling, he smiled. A smile that would lead Aicha to believe he knew something she did not, that he was toying with her. Something stirred in her chest: apprehension. She hated that smile.
It was definitely not a smile that made people weak in the knees.
Use your blade.
The voice was loud, so loud Aicha did not know how anyone couldn’t hear it.
Cut out his eyes. Make him scared. Make him pay.
Instead of succumbing to it, she sucked in a breath and craned her neck upwards, laughing through quick gulps of air. “Is the heat becoming too much, Commander? You have a shorter temper these days.”
She didn’t know why she persisted in idiotically provoking him.
“One day your family name will no longer protect you,” he stated, pressing his nose against her own as his breath swept over her skin. To a passing traveller, it would look almost affectionate—with one hand grasping her neck, and the other around her waist. Like the embrace of forbidden lovers. The closeness of his body was anything but a comfort. It never would be.
Duarte was a cruel man, the tears of a child would not induce softness within him, and cause him to loosen his malicious grip. He was a man who took joy in punishment, in the same way he appeared to take joy in watching Aicha falter with a smart retort as he pressed into her body. A promise of what he could do to her, what he wanted to do to her. Not because his grip was laden with desire for her, but because he knew she would hate it.
Ice crawled up her spine, and fear settled in her chest.
Aicha realised he enjoyed this.
He had excelled in methods of torture, and so his rank within the regiment made sense. Hunting, Duarte would claim, was his speciality, and the glaring fact that he had yet to find something with which to incriminate Fouad and his family had ignited a vendetta so palpable he would strike down anyone in his way.
“Until that day, Commander, I suggest you relinquish your hold from my daughter’s throat.” Fouad’s deep, gruff voice interrupted the gathering. Relief poured from Aicha’s shoulders, sagging them as Duarte turned to him. She saw the frown lines carved into her baba’s features, burying deeper the more his gaze focused on Duarte’s hands on her body. Her gaze flickered to his empty fist, clenching as he appeared to understand what Duarte had been trying to do to her. It was obvious enough. But her baba had always been significantly better at reining in his temper around Duarte, despite the myriad ways the commander tried to elicit a reaction through his daughters.
Fouad took hold of Aicha’s shoulder, forcing Duarte to release his grip, and pulled his daughter towards him as though she were a ragdoll. She fell into his chest, gripping Fouad’s tunic as she righted herself slowly. The presence of her baba evoked a resurgence of the confidence she hadn’t had minutes ago, as if Fouad were a safety blanket that would shield her from a bushfire that she had to run through. Being the daughter of a rebel leader would do that for a person.
Aicha’s eyes keenly followed Duarte’s hand as it moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. If he unsheathed it, there would be nothing she or her father could do. Despite each concealing their own daggers beneath their clothing, both would be punished for drawing a weapon they were forbidden from carrying. Aicha tensed, but her baba did not.
He knew Duarte wouldn’t, because laying a hand on a Sanhaji would mean a visit from his superior, wanting to know why Duarte had cut off the hands of his favourite blacksmith.
“Your daughter needs to learn to hold her tongue, Sanhaji.” Duarte straightened his shoulders. “And to respect her elders.”
It was a lecture her baba had given her countless times at home, and one she forced herself to refrain from rolling her eyes at.
“I’ve taught both my daughters to respect those who treat them as they are treated. Reflect on your own behaviour if you find their attitudes unsatisfactory,” Fouad grunted.
The commander’s lip curled. His hand tightened around the handle of his sword, as if on the cusp of drawing it, before he straightened his back. Pulling away, he assessed both Aicha and her baba, swiftly replacing his sneer with a smirk. Like his fury had never existed at all. Duarte turned to his two subordinates, motioning with his head for them to move on. He pushed past the father and daughter, eyes never straying from Aicha’s until he had no choice but to look ahead.
“Have a good day, Commander. Rub cold madisha on your burns!” Aicha called after the group, emboldened by the presence of Fouad at her side.
She flinched as she felt her father slap at the back of her exposed neck.
“Baba!” she protested, hissing at the stinging pain. The contact of a flat palm to the back of the neck was a particular type of burn, one that could only be matched with a real flame. It was almost worse than the backhand she had received from Duarte. It was Fouad’s favourite form of punishment, particularly when Aicha’s tongue became too quick with disrespect.
“Continue to aggravate him recklessly, and I’ll let you spend a fortnight in their dungeons as a teachable experience.”
Aicha grumbled under her breath, choosing not to speak back to her father. He’d only strike the back of her neck once more if she countered with an irritating response. Instead, she released a grunt of understanding, placing a palm on her cheek to soothe the sting, and looked up at her father. He scratched at the skin beneath his beard, the once black hair transitioning into grey.
“Are you all right?” he asked, low and with tenderness.
Her answer wasn’t automatic, and she stared at the necklace that peeked out from his tunic. A five-point star, the same star embedded into his weapons.
Aicha wanted to say no. She wanted to say that, in a moment of what felt like insanity, she had ached to draw her blade and cut out Duarte’s eyes. She wanted to tell him about the voice in her head. The one that had been an unwelcome companion since her youth.
Aicha wanted to tell him of the dark shadow she had seen in the souk, and the ones that had come years before it. Flickering in her line of sight before disappearing. She wanted to tell him she feared she was losing her mind to shaytan.
Aicha didn’t tell him any of that. Instead, she chose the safest option.
“I’d be a lot better if I didn’t have a stinging nape to match my cheek,” she countered, finally facing her father.
Where she expected to find a look of disapproval, she instead found that his eyes glinted with amusement. She knew then that he was thinking of her mother. It was a habit for him to always mention her when Aicha was being rebellious. Apparently an inherited trait, it was the only link she had with her mama. Aicha felt a flood of warmth in her chest when he looked at her that way.
Like she was the only thing that made his days worthwhile, because she offered him a glimpse of the love of his life.
He patted the dagger hidden beneath his tunic, a reminder of the protection he carried not only for himself, but for his daughters. It had been pure luck that he had been returning home from his personal errands.
The souk was a common route for him, he liked to say hello to the vendors they had all grown up with. Though, lately, he had been much more discreet in his movements. Despite both daughters being more than capable of defending themselves, Aicha knew Fouad preferred that the family drew as little attention as possible so close to a revolt. A fact he spent every day reminding Aicha of.
“Why are you out so late in the day?” The pivot in subject threw Aicha, and the momentary surprise caused her to stammer as she tried to form an adequate lie.
Rachid had claimed once that when Aicha lied, she averted her gaze, and so she avoided doing just that. Looking Fouad squarely in the eye, she said, “To see Naima; she is not at the Gardens today.”
Fouad’s dark gaze narrowed just a fraction, but not in suspicion of the lie Aicha told. She was prone to visiting the Gardens despite being explicitly told, on several occasions, that to do so was forbidden. Allegedly, it was an environment that provided customers with a service her father deemed nefarious. One that was dipped in the sin of magic.
Fouad did not look down on the women who worked within the Gardens—Aicha’s eyes often rolled at the repeated statement he made about them possessing an undeniable gift—but he did fear them. He had argued countless times with Aicha, that who had bestowed that gift on them was the issue, and Aicha knew he desired to stay well away from the shawafas’ sorcery.
It was why she had never told him of her troubles. Her fear that he would brand her a shawafa kept her awake at night.
Shawafas were Maghrebi women, but they were not welcomed by all of their people. Their abilities, and their desire to use said abilities, made them outliers. Neither entirely welcome by Maghrebis or the Portuguese. The Gardens—a riad that they resided in—straddled the divide between Maghrebis and Portuguese near the town square. People feared the shawafas, but many sought them out in secret. Missing a deceased loved one could drive even the most religious of people into the arms of a shawafa, desperate for one more moment with their beloved.
Aicha knew why Fouad worried so much for his youngest daughter. The men and women who visited the Gardens were most commonly off-duty soldiers, poor merchants or the wives who had been brought to their lands once the invaders had conquered the citadel. They were ones not known for being particularly fearful of what awaited them in the afterlife—despite erecting churches and studiously attending prayers. The promise of riches, fertility and a prosperous marriage was too tempting. A myriad of thoughts seemed to flash through her baba’s eyes, ones that she knew would be of disapproval and a desire to tell her to return home. Yet, there was a hesitation that appeared on the tip of his tongue, as if holding back a truth he feared sharing with her. Like she was a child.
But she was twenty, an age she deemed old enough for gentle contradiction. Not that she had ever relented in her younger years, either. Fouad stared down at her with a crease between his thick brows, pursing his lips, then releasing a short sigh.
“Be back before curfew,” he said firmly, squeezing her shoulder in a bid to emphasise the severity of his order. Aicha nodded, patting the back of his hand before turning to walk away. “And make sure you keep that dagger within adequate reach.”
She smiled at his last warning, turning back to briefly catch his eye. “Yes, Baba!”
Climbing the stone steps towards the stah of Rachid’s home, Aicha took notice of the silence that engulfed the building. It was located by the docks, on the edge of their Maghrebi sector. The beige and red building stood tall, floors divided into homes that housed mostly sailors and merchants; a temporary, small space that allowed for little disturbance between journeys out to sea. When the wind blew, it brought with it the scent of the ocean; fresh and cool and staving off the scorching heat. When dawn broke, it brought the sound of fishermen and traders at the harbour, bustling around as they prepared to transport goods and sail out. Rachid required it, in order to rise early for the day ahead. The sea was always a wonderful sight from the correct vantage points, and Rachid’s guests were also granted a view of the harbour; a view especially glittering when the sun peeked out from beyond the horizon.
The staircases’ red and green zellige had begun chipping away long ago, cracks etched between the interwoven square patterns and corners. She climbed the uneven steps two at a time until she reached the stah, the metal door unexpectedly open. Aicha removed her shoes and let out a soft hiss as her bare feet touched the ground: the floor was hot after a day’s sun. If she stayed, once the moon had instead taken residency in the sky, then it would become the coolest place in all of the citadel, the stone freezing and a breeze soothing her skin as she slept. Makeshift canopies covered Rachid’s sleeping area, which became a space he shifted into a lounge once the sun rose. There was nothing of value there; no weapons, no sentimental family heirlooms, no money. It was a small space of bare necessity and anonymity, one that Rachid coveted with the utmost privacy, and Aicha was one of the few he had allowed into it.
She noticed the unnatural silence of his home when she entered, the soft breeze pushing against the canopies, and cast her eyes over the empty space.
The smell of khobz and b’sarra wafted up from the floor below, and it made Aicha’s mouth water, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since before midday. Lanterns had been lit recently in preparation for sundown. Rachid was home, he was just hiding.
Aicha stilled as the tip of a blade pressed into the back of her neck, and the grin that eclipsed her features was one only Rachid had ever been capable of eliciting.
“Allowing your hunger to cloak your assessment of your surroundings is a child’s error.”
Her hands inched towards the blade that was hidden beneath her tunic, resting under her breast. It allowed for quick access. Rachid could not see her actions from behind her.
“I could hear you from across the stah, ya hayawan,” she shot.
A chuckle escaped his lips, and Aicha took his moment of amusement to draw her blade, swiftly turning. Rachid anticipated the move, free wrist coming to block the ascent of her dagger from beneath him, while she mirrored his actions from above. They remained locked in that stance for a brief period, and Rachid grinned down at her, a hint of adoration in his gaze, as her strength pressed into her block. She never held back, so neither did he. Aicha was not a short woman, but Rachid’s lithe frame from childhood had followed him, the years of training with her father broadening his shoulders and arms until he towered over Fouad. His aquiline nose was dented, courtesy of the brawls he had taken part in over the years with the invaders. His skin, darker than her own, glowed with a sheen of sweat from the day’s excursions. His head of dark hair curled at the ends, falling into his eyes ever so slightly. The facial hair only made his high cheekbones more prominent. He was the most handsome man Aicha had ever seen.
A dance of daggers between them had always ended in a draw, both parties unwilling to surrender out of stubbornness and amusement. Yet, in that moment, it seemed to Aicha that Rachid found himself incapable of continuing. A week-long excursion relaying messages to the Maghrebi army beyond the wall had evidently made his yearning for Aicha settle deep within his stomach, she assumed. He released her, twisting the blade within his grip until the handle faced her. “I concede.”
“How juvenile of you.” Aicha rolled her eyes as he continued to grin, chastising herself for the tinge of pink that she felt on her cheeks. Still, regardless of the years they had collected together, she found herself drowning in a shy embarrassment that only he could evoke. His smile threatened to push her over the cliffs that lined the shores around the citadel, to force an eruption of all the things she had only thought about saying in her walk over to him. That she missed him in a way that bordered on obsessiveness, and that when she went this long without being held by him all she could do was wonder if he was thinking of her just the same in that moment. He always was, and he held no reservations when telling her.
But Aicha had never been brave with admitting her feelings, so she clamped her mouth shut, leaving every sentiment stuck in her heart until it threatened to implode.
“It has not even been ten days since we last saw each other,” she said instead.
“Ten days too long,” he muttered, drawing closer to her.
Aicha raised her dagger to his neck as he pressed his chest into her own. “Would you feel differently if I cut your throat?”
There was no cruel meaning behind her question, only amusement. Nevertheless, Rachid delivered an answer both amusing and irritating.
“I would thank you for freeing me of this torment.”
She scoffed, turning away from him in time to hide her grin, though it was futile. Rachid knew she was smiling.
“You’re insufferable.”
Instead of answering, he moved forward to grip her wrist, pulling her back towards his chest. He bent, placing his forehead against her own, and despite her feigned annoyance, Aicha relented and allowed him to rest there. His scent, one so distinct and which brought her comfort, settled into her as he breathed out. He smelled of the salt of the sea, sweat and the freshly forged metal of a blade. It was home, and it was fury. The two things that soothed her. Rachid’s eyes closed as he savoured the moment, his hands coming to rest on the back of her neck, nose brushing against her own. One hand settled beneath her jaw, thumb grazing her chin and lower lip.
“In this life and the next,” he murmured, and Aicha could feel the heat of his breath caressing her skin. She felt alight with fire at every one of his touches.
“In this life and the next,” she repeated, fingers gripping his leather tunic as she angled her head upwards, meeting him in a soft kiss.
“They’ve halved our rations,” Aicha said quietly, eyes staring at the red and orange fabric of the canopy from her place on Rachid’s chest. “Nearly every stall at the souk is almost empty.”
“The Sultan’s plans to starve the King’s forces and people out are working. The gates have remained closed for weeks,” Rachid mused, fingers dancing across the bare skin on her forearms. “But it means our people suffer more.”
The citadel was surrounded by water, with only one gated entry and exit point. A bridge connected it to the mainland, and though it provided protection to all who lived within the walls, it also blocked them from outside supplies. That had been the first move the Sultan had made, and if people relied on rumours, his next would be to attack and besiege the citadel. With seventy thousand soldiers.
“I suppose they regret building those walls now,” she commented drily, and received a snort of amusement. “We have to do something about the infants and elders. Perhaps on your next trip you can trade steel for flour?” Aicha felt Rachid nod.
“I will do my best.”
She shifted, turning so that her cheek rested against his chest, and released a sigh. The soft fabric, despite being dirty, was still a comfort to her skin. Soothing the ache of that blasted backhand. When she hissed, she felt Rachid shift beneath her.
“Who did that to your face?” he asked quietly, and it belied the simmering anger he was so good at keeping control of.
Unlike Aicha. Who often felt overwhelmed by hers, and the seducing voice inside her that insisted indulging in it would be for the good of everyone.
“Duarte didn’t particularly like my attitude today,” she stated plainly.
She didn’t want to acknowledge that same flare of enticing fury, if she talked about Duarte—about the way his hands had handled her body, and how his nose had grazed her own—she feared her anger would break through the surface. Not Rachid’s.
Aicha’s rage had hurt the people around her before. Her baba still had scars on his back from the lashes he had taken on her behalf.
Like a balm on a burn wound, Rachid’s movements calmed her thoughts. His fingers rested on her chin, forcing her gaze up to him, and warmth fluttered in her chest at the tenderness in his eyes. A tenderness only reserved for her. “It will not always be like this,” he said, and she felt his thumb caress her cheek, the calluses bumping against her skin. “When we are free, I will give you all that you have ever wished for.”
“An endless supply of meloui?”
His laugh caused joy to burst in her chest, swallowing the abyss of rage and keeping her warm. Pulling her tighter to his chest, and smothering her with his hold, Rachid placed a clumsy kiss on her forehead.
“If that is what you wish, then yes.”
“My wish is to stay here, with you and Baba and Samira. To wake up beside you, and not fear that every time you leave the citadel you may not return.” Rachid’s expression sobered, and the amusement in his eyes shifted into something that bordered on startled, evidently not expecting the seriousness of her reply.
“I wish that too,” he said quietly, and it seemed as if the words pained him. As if not being able to grant her anything and everything she desired brought him trouble and anger so deep that it would keep him awake. Aicha’s gaze flickered between his eyes and his lips, watching the way his jaw clenched.
The air that surrounded them had become charged since her confession; a rare moment of candour. A heat flared in his dark brown eyes, something that demanded attention. Pulling his face down to her own, their lips met in a kiss that sent a shiver up her spine. His hand wrapped around her neck, the hold gentle as he angled her chin up towards him, lips soft but his pace far from gentle. When his tongue grazed her lower lip, a soft sigh broke free, and she opened her mouth. She was lost to the intoxicating taste of him, his scent invading her senses in a way that frazzled her mind and left her dazed. With an abrupt burst of energy, Rachid rolled them over until she was trapped beneath him. A low moan rumbled in his chest as her thighs tightened around his hips, and Aicha’s skin burned with hunger from the inside out.
Their kisses became fervent, rushed in a way that made it seem as if they were running out of time. One hand remained wrapped around her neck, and the other dug into her hair, holding her head in place as Aicha’s nails dug into his shoulders. When she felt his hardness press into her, heat and desire pooled between her thighs, and the clench of them around his waist had them both panting for air.
Aicha forced her mind to clear, the haziness pulling back from the edges of her gaze as Rachid buried his face into her neck, breathing heavily. They couldn’t go that far, both knew it. They never went beyond kisses, both knew better.
She was certain that it was not just her that felt the buzzing heat of want beneath her skin. It was a rabid, incessant gnawing ache when she was around him. Rachid released a deep groan that was not born from pleasure, and it pulled a soft laugh from Aicha.
“I should go,” she said, softly weaving her fingers through his locks. She never stayed long, for Fouad had eyes across the city, and one of his daughters remaining in the home of a man—who was not family—beyond curfew would solicit far too much gossip. Not that Aicha particularly cared about gossip, but her father’s rants and punishments were too much of a hindrance on her life to risk being caught so idiotically.
“He will not notice if you return before fajr,” murmured Rachid, frustration seeping into his tone as he pushed himself off Aicha, coming to rest beside her.
“Hmm, but others will, and I have chores to complete with Samira,” she countered. “Would you also like to explain to him why you invite his youngest, unmarried daughter into your home without a chaperone?” Aicha stood, rearranging her hair into her wrap as the sky darkened. She also knew the risk of becoming carried away should she stay any longer.
“I would not need to explain it to him if you accepted my hand.” He stood now, coming to a halt beside her as he pried her fingers away from the nape of her neck, tying the wrap for her.
“With what mahr?”
Rachid chuckled. “As if you would ever accept a price for your hand. What was it you once said? ‘I am not a goat to be sold and bought.’” His fingers were gentle and meticulous, careful not to catch any hair within the knot. It was an unusual sight for any who did not know Rachid, who only witnessed the swing of his sword, or met his knuckles with their cheek in battle or training. Who were faced with his hard stare and furrowed brows whenever he was spoken to disrespectfully. Yet this softness, this care and warmth displayed with Aicha, was a rare, hidden layer reserved for her.
Guilt lingered at the back of her tongue, providing a bitter taste. Aicha didn’t know how to voice the fears she felt so viscerally that it followed her into her dreams. Marriage meant more than just the freedom to be together, it meant exposing a weakness to Duarte—because although the Sanhaji family were untouchable, Rachid was not. It meant that the small, isolated world they had nurtured between them—where nothing else existed and every moment alone together was perfect—would cease to exist. And it meant the responsibilities of a wife, creating life and birthing children. Like her mother had. That, above all else, drowned her in a fear so potent that it often choked her.
Sometimes it consumed her so thickly that she wanted to claw at her own throat, clogged and unable to inhale air.
Aicha stepped away, turning to face him once her wrap was straightened. “And I must reiterate that point.” She placed her hand on his chest as a signal of farewell and moved past him.
“There will come a day when you marry me, Aicha,” he said, spinning to watch her retreating figure. “When the settlers have been pushed out of our docks, and back to where they came from, you’ll give me your hand.” Aicha cast one last look of amusement over her shoulders, before she descended the stairs.
Aicha had been seventeen the first time she felt something beyond irritation for Rachid. Three years had passed in what felt like seconds when she thought about it, pulling her hood up to conceal her face as she crossed the citadel to return home. She’d prefer to avoid another run-in with the soldiers.
When she was younger, his presence within the Sanhaji household had doubled in frequency, and operating under Fouad’s tutelage meant he was often paired with Samira to lead training and sparring sessions. After the execution of his parents, Rachid had gravitated towards Fouad. Or maybe her baba had sought him out to absolve himself of some misplaced guilt when he couldn’t save them. She didn’t know. Neither man spoke of it, and she had never asked.
That day on the beach, three years ago, she remembered feeling her blood pressure accelerate until her head threatened to burst. Rachid’s goading tended to evoke that reaction from her. Not exactly anger, but an emotion just a slither less lethal—annoyance, irritation, whichever one that elicited the urge to only maim him. He used to watch everyone with a creased brow and tense jaw, withholding his annoyance from anyone who bothered him in training.
He grunted responses, scoffed when he disagreed, and mostly smirked whenever she opposed him. His hair had been longer back then, dark and soft, falling into his eyes and curling whenever his forehead lined with sweat. He had no facial hair then either, instead, his jaw was prominent and a small scar was visible just beneath his lip. His tunic fell open often, something that made her want to roll her eyes, because when in battle it was almost too ridiculous. Why would you not wear correct padding when wielding a sword? He possessed an overt confidence that—in Aicha’s opinion—was not necessarily warranted. Yet, infuriatingly, she would notice that same drop of sweat cascade down his jaw, onto his neck and between his clavicles. It caused his brown skin to glisten in the sunlight and, had there been more women around him at the time, Aicha was sure it would have elicited audible gasps. She’d rolled her eyes, and yet desire still flared. A current of electricity that she had yet to understand flowed through her veins to the tips of her fingers over that traitorous drop of sweat travelling over his muscles. A truth that would take her years to confess.
Rachid goaded her in a manner that made her feel incapable of controlling her emotions, poking at the most sensitive aspects of her combat skills.
“Is this how you spar with your father? With reckless abandon and a lack of technique?”
Rage had engulfed her. Fury blazed in her eyes in a way that would have been almost comical in any other scenario. Only in that moment, she felt the humiliation of never once defeating her father or her sister, of Fouad’s sigh at each of her losses. Rachid’s amusement had scraped at an open wound, fresh and deep.
In a burst of anger, Aicha yelled out as she pulled back her dagger, her free hand clenched in a fist as she punched him head-on. Pain sparked in her knuckles, rapidly spreading up her wrist until she let out a cry of agony simultaneous to Rachid’s. He fell back into the sand, dropping his head back as if ready to sleep in it. His nose poured with blood, though he didn’t seem particularly alarmed. His hands rested on either side of him.
Shaking her hand in an attempt to push the pain away, she scrambled forward and grabbed her dagger from the sand. When she reached Rachid, her dagger raised, she rested a knee against his chest. “Yield!”
“I yield,” he wheezed. “I yield, habiba.”
Confusion cloaked her anger as Aicha blinked down at him, the nickname new on his tongue. Slowly he revealed a smile, wide and endearing in any other scenario. She noted how grotesque it was when blood leaked into his mouth and mixed with his saliva, staining his teeth. His eyes gleamed with pride, and involuntarily Aicha’s stomach burst with warmth and excitement. She hated the way it made her feel.
When he rose with a washrag pressed against his nose to stem the bleeding, he offered her one of her own. She snatched it out of his hand, dabbing at her bottom lip where he’d clipped her with the butt of his sword, splitting it open. It stung, but the coolness of the damp cloth helped soothe it. He watched her closely, and she tried to ignore his presence, unwilling to acknowledge that the incessant beating of her heart wasn’t because she had just sparred aggressively with a man larger than her, but because of the flicker of pride she had found in his eyes when she had defeated him. And the way his bloodstained smile had been directed just for her. No. It was neither of those.
“You did well,” he said eventually, breaking the silence between them.
She fought the urge to sneer at him, it would only hurt her lip. “Shut up.”
“I mean it.” He laughed, pulling the washcloth away to examine the bloodstains. He said his next words quietly, as if unwilling to let any of the sparring members that surrounded them hear him. “What you lack isn’t skill, habiba. It’s focus.”
There he went, using that term of endearment with her. As if they were closer than acquaintances. As if they were lovers. She couldn’t tell if he was doing it to taunt her; developing a new method of prompting a reaction out of her. But something gave her pause, either the softness around his eyes or the lack of creases between his brows. Had he always looked at her that way? Had his playful barbs and infuriating smirks been the only indication that she believed he found her just as vexing as she found him?
She brushed the thought away.
“How, exactly, am I lacking in focus?”
“You get too caught up in your head.” He tapped the side of his own. “At first, you think too much about strategy, about counter-movements and how to behave outside of what is expected from you. So you can surprise your opponent. Then you second guess yourself, wondering if you’ve made yourself predictable, and the insecurity bleeds into how you fight.”
Her tongue was caught on the precipice of denying it, but Aicha quickly realised she couldn’t. Because what he said cut too close to the bone; it made her feel exposed, as if her entire mind was unravelled and on display for all to see. As if he knew exactly what lurked in her chest, emerging whenever her temper flared too vibrantly. When pain and fear and rage became difficult to untangle, and its voice became loudest. Like he could hear the same voice she did.
Her baba had never highlighted her weakness like that, but unlike Fouad it was a criticism free of contempt. He tended to be harsh, almost unforgiving in how he trained his daughters. With Rachid, he said everything with a slowness that belied his often offensive guard.
“Then how did I beat you?” Aicha countered, her curiosity besting her need to appear nonchalant.
“Because you acted on impulse. You got so irritated with me that you allowed instinct to guide you.”
An involuntary laugh escaped her. “The need to give you a beating consumed all my other thoughts.”
He’d given her a smile then, one void of antagonism and discordant to the moment, but it was nice. Something stirred inside her, softer than whatever emotions he had drawn from her before. Something shy, and tender, made to be coveted rather than explored. In that moment, with a smile like that, Aicha found herself unable to deny the way it made her feel.
“If it makes you a better fighter, I suppose I should keep behaving that way.”
Aicha is the story of Morocco's warrior goddess, her strange magic, fierce rebellion, and devastating romance. Soraya Bouazzaoui weaves an epic tale of female rage and hidden myths, perfect for fans of The City of Brass and The Stardust Thief.
The Portuguese empire has planted its flag across Morocco, ruling with an iron fist. But eventually, all empires must fall.
Aicha, the daughter of a Moroccan freedom-fighter, was born for battle. She has witnessed the death of her people, their starvation and torture at the hands of the occupiers, and it has awakened an anger within her. An anger that burns hot and bright and that speaks to Aicha’s soul.
Only Aicha’s secret lover, Rachid, a rebellion leader, knows how to soothe her. But as the fight for Morocco’s freedom reaches its violent climax, the creature that simmers beneath Aicha’s skin begs to be unleashed. It hungers for the screams of those who have caused her pain, and it will not be ignored.