Ana’s mind raced. Who could that be? Mentally dismissing it, she declared, “Then if this person advises you truly, you will know that Spur Lazar–”
“I know all about Spur Lazar, Ana. And you should know that his life was never in danger. Shall I tell you why? Because he was always going to make the decision he did. I knew that; that’s how well I know him.”
Her thoughts now fled to weeks previous when she had lain in the warmed sand of the dunes with Lazar, when they had made love and bound themselves to each other in a way no other vow or act of marriage could. She bristled at her captor’s presumptuousness. “You have all the answers, and all the power over me. But I will not bend to your will. Kill me now as you threatened.”
Unfazed by her scorn, he fell back into the other tongue, the ancient one he had used earlier. “It’s true, my threat was empty, but there is still a point to be made. You!” he said, pointing at a man. “Throw yourself from the roof onto the rocks below. You,” he said to another as the first man nodded and began preparing himself, “swallow your blade.” To that man’s companion he pointed. “Kill the man to your right with your scimitar and then kill yourself. You–”
“Stop!” Ana screamed.
He did not so much as look her way as he continued barking orders; within moments she was witness to seven men’s deaths, either by suicide or by a companion’s hand. And each man, before his passing, bowed reverently to Arafanz and thanked him for the opportunity to offer sacrifice.
By the time the last condemned man took his final, rasping breath, Ana had withdrawn into a squatting position, her eyes closed tightly, her hands pressed to her ears to shut out the groans of death, tears trickling down her cheeks as she made an involuntary soothing sound to herself in a vain attempt to block out the hideous noise of swords being drawn, of Arafanz’s voice hurling sadistic new torments at his men. But she could not blot the tangy, harsh smell of spilled blood from her nostrils.
In her torment her mind fled from this place–as it had once before when she had felt under siege. Pez! she screamed in her head. But he did not answer and, remembering the dwarf ’s still body at the campsite, she wondered if he was dead. She tried once more calling his name but received only silence, causing her to weep harder.
How long Arafanz left her to her own comforts she did not know, but finally she registered a soft whisper and then strong arms first cradled and then lifted her. She opened her eyes to realize she was in the embrace of one of his men. As the man lifted her, the linen covering his face slipped aside momentarily and she recognized him.
“How–” she began, confused.
“He will see to your needs,” Arafanz said, gently stroking the hair from her damp cheeks. “We shall talk again soon. But this is your home now–at least for a while, until that babe you carry in your womb is born.”
Unseen amidst the chaos of carnage, perched on a high point of the fortress, Iridor shared the horror and the revealing conversation. To hear Ana screaming for him and to feel so helpless was almost more than he could bear, but to reveal himself now would be unwise. The only help he could provide was to remain unseen and take news of her back to Percheron. His only comfort lay in knowing that Lazar had survived the attack in the desert. Now it was left to be seen whether the Spur had gotten himself safely back to the city. Without him, surely they were lost.
Iridor had failed. He had failed everyone loyal to Lyana.
Silently, but heavy of heart, he lifted into the sky. It would be a long and perilous flight back but he had to find Lazar. As he turned east toward Percheron he began to pray, begging Lyana that the Spur had survived the desert itself.
1
Herezah slapped away the ministrations of her slave. “Stop fussing! It’s hot enough without your feverish activity.”
The attendant was saved further criticism by the arrival of an Elim, who bowed. “Valide.”
“What?” Herezah’s brow creased with annoyance. “Can you not see I have taken to my bed?”
Annoyingly calm, the man simply blinked. “Grand Master Salmeo wishes to see you, Valide. May I show him in?”
“Oh, do what you will. It’s like the bazaar here today anyway. I can see that I shall have no peace.”
The Elim withdrew and moments later the doorway was filled amply by the chief eunuch, giving his best gap-toothed smile. “Valide,” he began, bowing more extravagantly than his size could comfortably permit. He’d brought her delicate ferlise blooms, fragile bells in the palest of mauves and pinks found only in the alpine regions of the very far north.
She couldn’t imagine how he’d amassed so many. And they were beautiful but she wasn’t going to let the fat eunuch know how exquisite she considered them. Instead the Valide sniffed. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“How can you say that, Majesty?” Salmeo said in a tone of feigned injury. He handed the flowers to Elza, who arrived on cue, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried off to find a vase. “I have visited no fewer than a dozen occasions and have been turned away on most.”
“I am in pain. Does no one realize that? And this heat! It cannot be summer already.”
“The weather is curious for sure. And we do appreciate your pain, Majesty, but the physics need to understand the extent of it. They are not keen to reduce your discomfort with their herbs and medicines until they are sure of what is happening within.”
“Because they are cruel!” she hurled at him.
“Because you are too precious to risk, Highness,” he soothed. “Their methods are sometimes challenging, I grant you, but you must persist and let them take care of you in the way they know best.”
She heard the soft lisp and gave him a scornful glance. “I returned with a broken ankle, Salmeo. It can’t be that hard for the physics to work out.”
“Nevertheless, Majesty,” he said, a finger raised to suggest caution. He smiled again, his chins quivering. “You seem”–he paused, frowning, searching for the right word–“restless.”
She knew it to be true; her ankle was not so troublesome anymore–although it did still hurt–but she wasn’t going to allow Salmeo any sense of smugness at knowing her so well. “Restless? Do I?”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Valide?”
“You can turn down the sun’s heat, you can mend my ankle, you can tell me about my son–who I haven’t seen in days–or you can stop second-guessing my moods. I don’t mind which you pick.”
Salmeo’s bright demeanor dimmed slightly but he ignored her sarcasm, smoothing out the folds of his pale silks as he replied. “Ah, the Zar is very busy with war preparations, Majesty. I am told he eats little, his temper is short, and his periods of wanting to be alone are long and frequent.”
“What is the new estimation on timing?”
“The doomsayers would have us believe that war has begun, but the word on the streets is that the Galinsean fleet is not yet close to our waters, Majesty. The fishermen are keeping the palace well briefed…but it can’t be long before enemy ships return.”
“When was the last time you saw Boaz?”
Salmeo shrugged. “Not in more than a week. He is preoccupied, has not called upon anyone at the harem, of course.”
“That shouldn’t surprise you, eunuch.”
“Well, your news that Ana is likely pregnant is playing heavily on his mind, I suspect, from what the Elim tell me, although the looming war must be taking a hard toll also. He is, of course, assuming she is still alive.”
Herezah nodded, tapping an elegantly buffed nail against her teeth in thought. “She has the lives of a cat, that girl. And he probably misses that wretched dwarf as much as anything else. Still no word of the freak’s whereabouts?” The huge man shook his head. “And the Grand Vizier? Is he fully recovered now?”
“He was not injured, as you know, Valide,” Salmeo replied pointedly, before softening his tone. “He is working closely with the Zar, as I understand it. Has recently been away, I gather.”
“We
ll, I wish to speak with him,” she said, pouring herself a glass of chilled minted tea and yawning, feigning distraction as she waved a hand carelessly. “Set it up, would you.” She phrased her next question carefully, keeping her voice disinterested and remote. “And what news of Lazar?”
“None at all, Majesty.”
“But surely the palace needs his input now more than ever?”
“From what my sources tell me, the Spur refuses to emerge from his house.”
“What, still?”
“He is sickening, I hear, although I cannot substantiate this.”
“Well, you certainly are the bringer of glad tidings, Salmeo. Not a single positive item have you given me.”
“I have learned not to insult Your Majesty with idle gossip. I have lived long enough beside you to know that the running of the realm is your only true interest.”
She eyed him with a look that combined contempt for and amusement at his slippery manner. “Help me up, Salmeo, I’m going out.”
“Out? Valide, you are in no fit state.”
“Oh, tosh! I’m bored. I can be in pain outside the palace just as easily as I hurt inside its walls and I cannot sit around and do nothing.”
“But what do you plan to do?”
“I’m going shopping,” she lied. “Now leave me and go make preparations for the Elim to take me where I wish. And send in Elza. She has no mistress for the time being–she can help me ready myself.”
The owl alighted on the balcony, exhausted. Would he ever remember the way back from where he’d flown? He prayed he would–as he was the only one who knew where Ana was–and with that last thought in his bird form, Iridor shifted shape and became Pez, jester to the Zar of Percheron.
The doors had been carelessly flung open to welcome the breeze off the Faranel into the house but he could see stray leaves from the nearby tall Lashada trees had blown in and evidence inside that the late-blooming reeka had blossomed deeper into the season than normal, its petals strewn over the tiles. Going by the detritus inside the house, these doors had obviously been open for a while. He tiptoed around the debris, surprised he could walk as steadily as he was doing after the long journey, and moved across the familiar chamber.
“Ho!” he called. He anticipated only silence, but heard a muffled sound from the bedroom. “Lazar?” he tried.
The voice was clear now and Pez smiled despite the tone. “Go away, whoever you are,” growled the occupant.
Pez stepped into the room, its shutters closing off the light, and peered into the murky darkness. “Lazar?”
The figure on the bed didn’t move, although the voice managed some semblance of a roar. “Begone, I said!”
“It’s Pez,” he replied.
Lazar remained silent for a long moment, then croaked, “Prove it.”
Pez limped to the bedside; he really was fatigued. He took the Spur’s cool, dry hand and placed it against his own rough cheek. “It is I, old friend, and I have found her. She’s alive–she’s all right.”
A low groan met his tidings and Pez couldn’t be sure whether Lazar wept at the reassurance or was in pain.
“Forgive me,” Lazar said, composing himself. “Welcome back–I’m glad you’re safe. I’m feeling low–I think losing Jumo is only just making its impact; I miss him. And I thought Ana as good as dead. So many lives lost that night,” he said, as mournful as the atmosphere in his sleeping chamber that was neither day nor night. Light seeped through the shutters but not enough to illuminate, and so Lazar was living in a curious void. “And this wretched illness makes my mind as weak as my limbs,” he admitted.
“Is it the same thing that afflicted you after the whipping?”
The Spur nodded.
“It will pass, then. Ellyana did warn that it would shadow your life.”
“It will pass but not soon enough. I shall need some more drezden–I’ve finished the stocks that I took from Zafira’s hut. Tell me about Ana, so I can go after the murdering bastard who abducted her.”
Pez hoisted himself onto the bed and took Lazar’s hand again. He wondered briefly how many other men the Spur might permit to be so intimate with him. He’d never seen Jumo touch Lazar; the Spur was not exactly easy to be affectionate with. But Pez felt his energy returning just to have Lazar’s presence in his life again. He was still convinced Lazar was the “difference” that Ellyana had warned about for this battle between Lyana and Maliz. Clearing his throat, he pushed away his private thoughts and focused on the present moment. “Well, she is safe, that’s the main thing. It took me a long time to so much as glimpse her. I suspect they’ve had her locked away. The strange thing is that I couldn’t reach her via a mindlink, but when I finally sighted her a few days ago, she did not look mistreated in any way. And then I dared not trust the link; I couldn’t be sure who might be listening. The truth is, from what I could see, they were treating her with deference.”
Lazar frowned. If the news made his heart leap, it wasn’t noticeable to Pez. “How many?”
“Hard to tell. I watched him organize the slaughter of seven of his men.”
“What?”
“His way of showing Ana what true loyalty means. He was criticizing Boaz–I’m not sure how the two points match up, but I think Arafanz was demonstrating his power over his people as a means of displaying to Ana that the Zar of Percheron did not have similar loyalty.”
“So we still know nothing about Arafanz?” Lazar asked in frustration.
Pez shook his head. “An enigma. I’ve never heard about him in all of my years around the palace and he reveals little, other than his contempt for the Percherese, although he speaks the language like a local. I suspect he is older than he appears but that is purely a private feeling–I could be wrong. I got the impression that he has abducted Ana for reasons of faith more than anything else.”
“A mystic?”
“Possibly. He has amassed his own renegade band of fighters and he is not at all frightened to lose them. You saw how he allowed his men to be decimated at the camp for no good reason. And again, in front of Ana just days ago, I watched him command the slaughter of more men simply to make a point. He is mad.”
“He is ruthless, I know that much.” Lazar tried to sit up and only half managed it, falling back onto his pillow. “What does he want with Ana?”
“Apart from the obvious attraction of a nubile young woman?”
Pez ignored Lazar’s sneer. “I fib. I don’t think he has any carnal interest in Ana whatsoever–not by the way he behaved toward her. She is pregnant, by the way.”
Lazar’s closed eyes shot open. He gripped Pez’s hand so tightly it hurt the dwarf. “So it’s confirmed. She carries Boaz’s heir. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure that she’s with child, yes. Her belly is swollen and Arafanz mentioned her pregnancy openly.”
“If he lays a hand on a single hair of hers or the baby’s, I shall tear him limb from limb, I will raze his fortress to the dust of the desert, I shall–”
“Well, you can’t do anything lying in bed. You need to–” Pez stopped talking suddenly, cocking his head to one side. “Hush, I hear something. Let me check.” He waddled over to the window, opening the shutters slightly to sneak a look. He returned to Lazar’s side, his large mouth in a lopsided grin. “You’re not going to believe who has just arrived. I must hide. We shall speak later.”
“Wait! Pez!”
“Say nothing of my return,” Pez warned, and disappeared before Lazar’s disbelieving eyes, adding silently: Remember, I can’t hold this trick for long.
Moments later, Lazar heard a small commotion at his front door. More muffled sounds were audible before the doors of his sleeping chamber burst open and Herezah swept into the room.
“Leave us!” she commanded her accompanying Elim, and they dutifully closed the doors behind them. Lazar knew they would be standing on the other side, that the house would be fully secured by the elite harem guard. “It stinks in here, Lazar,” Her
ezah said, regarding him from a distance and wrinkling her nose. “You stink.” She bowed. “Forgive me. Good morning, Prince Lucien.”
He hid his shock as best he could, along with his nudity. He dug deep, covered his vulnerability with sarcasm. “Hello, Valide. Bored at the harem?”
“Yes…can you tell?”
“The desert can do that to you.”
“What do you mean?”
He let his head fall to one side, holding her gaze steadily, not permitting it to roam, mindful that he was naked save the scant covering of the corner of a sheet. “Are you restless?” he asked, withholding the scathing tone he usually took with Herezah and hearing his own restiveness in the question.
Herezah gestured at a small wooden seat. “May I?”
“Of course,” he said, tugging the sheet farther across his body. “Forgive my poor manners, Majesty.” He felt so weak he couldn’t be sure he could make it through whatever conversation the Valide had in mind. And he no longer had the strength to fight her. “How is your foot?”
She waved away his apology, limped to perch on the stool’s edge, and sighed. “Lazar–I prefer to call you that, by the way–to tell you the truth I don’t know what’s happening to me. My ankle is healing fast but I can’t say the same for my mind. I seem to be sharing Zaradine Ana’s plight in chafing at the bonds of the palace. I would hardly describe myself as one of its easiest members–I too craved freedom–but the kind that power brings. Ana could never appreciate that, I don’t think.” She gave a sad laugh. “And still, in spite of her complete disregard for the ways of the harem, she has achieved the high position of Zaradine faster than most.”
Lazar remained silent, unsure of where this was leading. For it seemed to him that the Valide had set out to say one thing, but had in fact said something entirely different. He could sense her confusion and unhappiness. In spite of their past differences, he found her new vulnerability refreshing.
Herezah looked up from her lap to regard him. “Something must be wrong with me if I am being this candid with you, of all people. Can you believe it, Lazar? Us two talking like old friends?” Lazar did not answer. She sighed. “Yes, I am restless. And I think you’re right. The freedom that the desert allowed me to glimpse has done this to me. I still desire my position as Valide, don’t get me wrong, but suddenly everything at the palace feels utterly tedious and my moods are out of kilter.”
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