Unveiling the Sorceress

by Saskia Walker

  Her son could not be relied upon. Instead, she would have to play a much more duplicitous game to get what should rightfully be theirs. Her hand went to the pendant at her neck, the treasured vial that held her ultimate means to obtain power. If all else failed, she would unleash the contents. Then the people of Aleem would be sorry they had not been more forthcoming. Meanwhile, however, she needed Hanrah to be the powerful emperor his father would have been proud of. A leader who was about to bed his bride, plant his seed in her womb, and take her land and chattels as his own.

  "It seems I must instruct you how to behave like an emperor, yet again.” She kept her voice low and threatening, then growled at him, letting him feel the extreme nature of her dissatisfaction. He looked miserable enough. His father's disappointment in him was what hurt Hanrah most of all, she knew that, for he had loved his father, no matter how different they were. “Bathe and dress, then report to my chambers."

  She turned away, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, still rubbing his face, his expression petulant. Cursing Hanrah's weaknesses, she strode across the room and out the chamber door. In the corridor, she grabbed, unceremoniously, the first guard she saw and instructed. “You, fetch Sibias."

  She paused, while she reconsidered who should be present. “And bring Amshazar too.” Her son's favored friend and advisor should be there to witness this humiliation as well, she decided. Perhaps it would break the nomad's attachment to her son. She was eager to rid them all of Amshazar's annoying influence over Hanrah. “Tell them both to report to my apartments, immediately."

  The guard nodded and bowed low, his hand touching back and forth over his lips and forehead while he chanted a stream of loyal vows and backed away from her. Every member of the household knew that look of hers; she made sure of it. Mehmet was renowned and feared amongst her subjects.

  * * * *

  Amshazar sat quietly meditating in a concealed tavern amidst the streets of Lhastari. It was a dark and dingy place. The air was humid, for it was small enough to contain every breath emitted by its occupants, every scent lingering on the air and recirculated by the textile swag being wafted overhead. Even the dishes of burning musk ashes set upon the worn wooden tables could not refresh the stale atmosphere, but it was a quiet, secluded place and few inhabitants of the royal palace went to hovels such as this. They had no need to venture out, for all the comforts they might require were provided within the palace walls.

  Amshazar had gone there for a moment's peace before responding to the order he had received to attend the Empress Mehmet's chambers. He nursed his dish of wine in one hand and focused on the dim light given out by the flame of a brass lamp that hung low over his table on a dusty chain.

  What now? he wondered.

  Three hundred and eighty moons had passed since he had been sent to the exotic lands, and the threat of war still simmered all around them. He had insinuated himself into a pivotal player's stronghold, and gained notable influence there whilst at the same time concealing his true identity.

  The tensions in the Lhastari palace were increasing rapidly in the days before the greeting party's departure for Aleem, minor arguments and feuds erupting frequently. It was tiresome but necessary to be aware of the feuds. He was eager to be on his way to the city of Suzin. He had convinced Hanrah to send him as part of the greeting party, in order to get to know the Empress Elishiba as soon as possible. She was clearly a key player, and he needed to know and understand her motives soon. The waiting and the atmosphere were, meanwhile, making him restless. There were greater issues at stake than this latest squabble, whatever it was, he had been summoned to attend to. But this preparatory ground must be ridden over, as sure as the trek to a battleground must be covered before the battle may commence.

  Drinking down the sour wine, he stood up. He dropped a coin on the table and another at the feet of the small boy who sat in a corner, stripped to the waist, lazily pulling the rope that moved the swag of material overhead, in an attempt to stir the air. The boy grinned at the mysterious and beneficent visitor, waving at him as he left, calling a blessing of the gods after him, while hiding the coin in his belt in case his master, the tavern owner, should see the gift.

  Amshazar nodded at the boy, then stepped outside and drew the hood of his robes over his head, concealing his face. The sky was heavy with restless, ochre-streaked clouds. It was quickly growing dark in the passageway outside. The heat of the day hung heavy in the air but the sun was sinking, causing great shadows to encompass the narrow, high-walled streets. Amshazar passed swiftly along them, imposing and solitary.

  "Will you take a woman for your pleasures, master?"

  Amshazar paused and turned toward the voice, ready to dismiss the woman who had called to him from the shadows. She stood with one arm outreached, holding her robe open so that he could observe her figure, outlined as it was in a dancer's costume, embroidered with worn gemstones, faded and heavily soiled from her hours on the street. He stepped closer, his attention captured by something in the woman's expression.

  This woman was no whore. Even those who were not gifted with the sight would notice that much. Unlike the women of the Souk, who happily reveled in their wanton debauchery, this woman took no pleasure from her work. Her chin had lifted when he had responded to her words and he examined her eyes closely.

  "Take me with you for the night, master, and you will not be disappointed.” The woman stared at him with hope, but her eyes were dull and unhappy.

  Amshazar looked deeper, far deeper, and within moments, he saw into her very soul. There was little life within her. All that existed there were fleeting, wistful memories of days gone by, a lost lover, and the image of a pitifully thin child whom she longed to be beside. He glanced around. He had to avoid drawing attention to himself, but ... the boy needed his mother. There was no one in sight. Besides, he found people often did not see what was in front of their very eyes. He was gifted, yes, but the ability to summon the power of the magi was within the reach of every man. The ability to see, understand and tap the source was what eluded the majority.

  He lowered his head to hide his face and breathed in, deeply. He invoked the power from deep within, chanting the call of the magi low beneath his breath. He opened his hands when the power began to pulse in his veins. His palms glowed faintly in the gloomy shadows. The woman began to back away, her eyes wide with fear, a strangled cry captured in her throat.

  He passed his hand across her brow, instilling her with purpose, and erasing the nature of their encounter from her mind. The woman blinked and started, as if she had not seen him standing in front of her at all.

  "Forgive me, for I must go,” she said, turning away from him. “My child is ill."

  "Wait,” he said. “Go to the house of Luma Jerez tomorrow, for he has need of a serving woman in his kitchens, and you will do the job well. That will feed you and your child until he is strong enough to work.” With that, he turned away, leaving the woman standing, silently staring after him as he went.

  Amshazar shook his head. The province of Karseedia was filled with hunger and despair, whilst the palace itself was filled with every indulgence the inhabitants could desire. He'd heard better things of Aleem. It was a province where the rulers cared for their people and held worthy ideals. But how long would it be before Mehmet sank her claws into those ideals, and crushed them? If he did not step in, and things did not develop as he hoped they might, it would not take long at all. As the thought occurred to him, the gentle laughter of his magus spirit guide, Santor, echoed through his mind, and he smiled to himself. He was here for a reason, and its significance was beyond that of even Mehmet's understanding.

  He looked up at the spires that marked the palace out at the very pinnacle of the city. It stood at Lhastari's heart and every narrow street seemed to twine inexorably around it. The guards at the palace gates eyed him with mistrust as they always did, but stepped aside without a word when he drew nearer, swiftly closing ranks again i
n his wake. He paused a moment in the marbled walls of the entrance passage to the palace, while his eyes grew accustomed to the change in light, then moved on and closed himself into the interior world of the palace.

  The intense heat of the afternoon subdued slowly into the dark shadows of the majestic entrance portals. He detested this place, with its rancid aura of Mehmet's power. The woman had pure venom running in her veins. A wry smile escaped him. There was a certain odd fascination in observing it at such close quarters, however, and it was his duty to watch, and to influence. His own powers were implicit and subtle, compared to the blatant harridan of a woman whose land he currently abided within.

  There was a hushed atmosphere in the corridors. It was always like this when trouble was afoot. He stopped outside Mehmet's chambers and nodded at the sentry to indicate that he should announce his presence.

  His entry into her inner sanctum was met by Mehmet's harsh voice, it rankled yet provoked his spirit—she made him at once wary and cynically amused. She was standing over her son, who sat with his head hanging down, subdued, before her. Her closest acolyte and advisor, Sibias, sat nearby with arms folded, observing her with blatant admiration. The sentry coughed lightly, unable to muster the courage to announce their presence in any other way. Mehmet turned toward the door and the sentry made a hasty exit, leaving Amshazar to find his own way in.

  When she saw Amshazar enter the room, Mehmet threw the goblet in her hand onto the table, where it crashed and spilled a dark pool of blood-red wine across the white marble. A servant darted out from the shadows at the room's edge, to silently remove the debris.

  "Ah, Hanrah, your friend the interloper has arrived.” She cast a disdainful look over the man who had entered the room. Her hands went to her hips, her hair flying out in a heavy surge of rich umber, touched only occasionally with fine lines of white. Her features belied her age; she was a handsome woman with amber eyes, kept beautiful and decadent by her indulgences, yet tainted—in Amshazar's eyes—by her vindictive nature and her lust for power, both of which were so hideously apparent in her expression.

  "I suppose as his intimate,” she spat the word in Amshazar's direction, “you must speak on behalf of my son, who seems quite unable to speak for himself.” She glanced with distaste at the hunched figure before her. “Tell us if you will, Amshazar, why my son sees fit to lower and debauch himself with the celibate nubiles we prepare to service his future Empress?"

  Her harsh, accusing laughter echoed around the elaborate outer meeting room of her extensive chambers, a room decorated with exquisite painted screens imported from the far-east, and ornaments studded with precious gems and painted with gold-leaf.

  There was a sense of perverse enjoyment about her mood, Amshazar noted. He sensed she was secretly gratified to have the opportunity to vent herself on her progeny. Her overriding emotion toward her own son was annoyance. Once Hanrah had come of age, she no longer had her deceased husband's kingdom under her direct jurisdiction, although nothing had really changed—she manipulated Hanrah as easily as if he were the lowest of the province's subjects.

  Hanrah shifted his feet, but did not raise his eyes. Amshazar noticed then that Mehmet's robes were stained at the hem. She wore the finest clothing, fabrics that had been crafted over for many months by many slaves, and yet she held no value or pride in what she already had, only what else she wanted. This greedy trait was the root cause of her lack of fulfillment and bitterness.

  Amshazar smiled. “Perhaps Hanrah wanted to examine the young man who has been promised to the chambers of his future wife,” he replied, in an ironic tone. “As preparation for their mutual intimacy with the Empress Elishiba."

  Mehmet blinked, her lips tightening.

  Amshazar gave her another subtle—if sardonic—smile, as he observed her expression altering. “The use of slaves for pleasures of the flesh might be part of their future lives together, surely?"

  Her mouth opened then clamped shut again, her eyes glistening with annoyance. Hanrah glanced round at her. His ruffle of unruly curls, mischievous face and slight body, made him look more like a street urchin than a leader of men. Amshazar noted the fading red imprint of her hand on his face. It was not the first time she had hit him.

  Amshazar was his friend and mentor; Hanrah had no other because it took confidence and downright audacity to bypass his malevolent and over-bearing mother. It was the place he had sought out to best influence things, but he had grown fond of the young Hanrah. Ever since Amshazar had crossed the path of the young emperor's hunting party on the borders of Zadria, he had been in residence. He had directed the young emperor's bow and arrow with some choice words of guidance that day. The two had fast become friends. Hanrah had invited him to become part of the court circle against the wishes of his mother, perhaps the only true rebellion he had ever made—so far.

  Dallying with slaves resulted in a small harangue, compared to the outright battle of wills that had ensued over Amshazar's presence. However, Amshazar had managed to exist in relative ease since his arrival at court, much to Mehmet's annoyance. She would prefer to have him do wrong, in order to have him expelled.

  During the uneasy silence, Sibias had taken the opportunity to stand up, as if eager to end the interrogation. He had, no doubt, been sitting there witnessing Mehmet's tirade for far too long already.

  "Amshazar has a point, albeit somewhat tenuous,” he said, stroking his lengthy beard. He offered a gracious smile to Mehmet, to sweeten her in the way only he could.

  "Dallying with slave boys is no pastime for an Emperor,” she responded, angrily, her amber eyes flashing. “He has tutored concubines whom he ignores, in favor of such diversions."

  Sibias shrugged. “Soon he will have his future wife by his side. That will keep him otherwise occupied."

  "Indeed,” Amshazar interjected. “The Empress Mehmet should remember the more important events that will be upon us soon, and overlook this minor indiscretion."

  "Overlook it, again,” she replied, reminding them that this was not the first time her wayward son had been discovered with his roving eye set outside her jurisdiction. She tugged restlessly at the ornate amulet that hung around her neck.

  Amshazar looked at the pendant, quickly scrutinizing it. The vapors it held moved more restlessly than ever, as if feeding off her mood. It emanated dark and unruly power, the restless presence of the forces captured within the vial causing ripples in the atmosphere. Amshazar had long since guessed the contents, and made himself aware of its state of flux at times like this. He would be much happier if it were not Mehmet who owned such an object.

  Mehmet was waiting for a response. Amshazar gave a subtle nod, acknowledging her comment, keeping his expression impassive. Mehmet let out a disgruntled snort, annoyed that her attack had been cut short. Hanrah stood up, realizing the argument had been averted.

  "Get out of my sight,” she declared, waving her arm in the air, as if her son were a fly that had landed on her.

  He smiled amiably at Amshazar and raced toward the door, closely followed by the other attendants who also took their moment to escape the scene.

  "Will you never learn?” Sibias muttered, when they were out of her hearing. Hanrah threw him a warning glance—he resented taking instructions from his mother's favored advisor, preferring to speak with his own.

  "You could at least be more cautious, to avoid discovery,” Amshazar added, eyeing the deviant urchin-leader with amusement. He believed that Hanrah had it in him to be a better ruler than his widowed mother gave him credit for, but guiding the young man under her watchful eye was no easy task.

  "'Shazar, I don't know how she found out,” Hanrah replied, his expression perturbed, as if he had begun to question it himself.

  Sibias mumbled a hurried goodbye and left the pair of them. Amshazar noted the older man's change of mood. He obviously knew that Mehmet was having Hanrah watched. It was likely that she was having everyone in the palace watched. It took one to know one, and A
mshazar was as much a watcher as she, although his motives were different.

  Amshazar knew that she called him a “spathaka,” behind his back, for she considered him a spy within her midst, although there was little she could do about it. The friendship between himself and Hanrah continued to be her only concession to her son, one that she allowed unwillingly.

  Once Sibias had gone, Hanrah grew tense and gripped Amshazar's arm. “What of my friend, Kazeen?” His eyes looked haunted. “My mother will have him hunted down and murdered. I told him to run, I can only hope he understood. Can you help him ... for me?"

  He clearly cared deeply for the slave who had caused this latest harangue. Amshazar nodded, but did not want to say too much just then, in case they were being observed. “Come, let us sup together, we can discuss it privately."

  "Thank you, friend.” Hanrah spoke humbly.

  Resting his hand on Hanrah's shoulder, Amshazar tried to distract him from the subject until they were alone. “We must raise a goblet together, for tomorrow I leave to collect your future wife."

  The smaller man responded with a faint, wary smile and a nod. “I wonder what she will be like,” he said, as they walked on.

  Amshazar did not reply. From what he had heard said of the Empress Elishiba, she had an intelligent mind and a fiercely strong warrior-heart. She was also wise enough to fight for her country's place in the hierarchy, a fact that had brought her under the scrutiny of the gods.

  Yes, she would be good meat for Mehmet, he thought to himself, with much anticipation.

  EXCERPT

  Chapter Two

  lishiba was ready for them. She smiled to herself as she stripped off her clothing and walked down the steps into her bathing pool. On the ebb of evening, songbirds had gathered in the tranquil courtyard outside her apartments, and she granted their songs a secret audience while she thought through her strategy. She'd settled upon a plan. It relied on her bravery and her wit in the heat of the moment, but if all else failed, she would be in their court. She would die for her cause, if it came to it. She would fight to protect her people, no matter what.