by Val Gunn
His first task upon landing in Mourejar on Courós, the southernmost island in Hayl, was to find a hakima—which he quickly did.
One look at him and the healer ushered him inside her cramped quarters, demanding that he strip and bathe. She was a kind, elderly woman with sharp blue eyes. She bound his broken ribs and applied a salve to the raw skin on his legs. In addition, she supplied him with clothing, waving away the extra coin he offered her.
He’d felt better soon after his visit with her. Not completely; that would take time. The idea of visiting an affyram den was still foremost in his mind, but the salve the healer had applied had dulled much of the pain. He hoped it would continue to stave off discomfort while he decided what to do next.
Munif feared being in a city. Too many eyes could see him; too many mouths would betray his whereabouts for a fee. But he had no choice.
The streets were well maintained, having been designed for carts and carriages. While it was easy on his quickly healing legs, the trek through the city was not kind to his spirit. He spent his waking hours brooding about his betrayal and picturing the deaths of the clerics on the hillside near Burj al-Ansour. His thoughts constantly turned to Dassai, making him ever more sullen. He knew Dassai had more dark designs and was intent carrying them out.
Just before nightfall, he spied a caravanserai in the north of the city. Although he was not hungry, weariness weighed heavily upon him. He needed to find a place to rest and find relief from the pain of his wounds—if just for an hour or two.
Only then could he continue.
2
NIGHTFALL DEEPENED.
Munif knew he was carelessly consuming an excessive amount of wine. He’d found himself entering the caravanserai without even looking at the name of the place. As he found a chair at the bar and took the first sip, he realized with some displeasure that he had to try to avoid falling into a drunken stupor. The road that lay ahead of him was long. But, he reasoned, partaking of wine was better than slipping into the depths of affyram.
Munif shrugged. The hour of his departure mattered little anyway; no one waited for him back in Riyyal. He had never married. He’d been in love several times—passionately, foolishly, and fondly—but none of his romances had ever led to marriage. He lifted his glass and toasted his lost agents.
Cheers accompanied the twanging of strings, rising to a raucous chant that echoed to the high beams of the bar. The pain in Munif’s head pounded in time to the music, and his stomach churned. It was time to go. He’d been here for hours now, and it was late.
He rose cautiously from the chair, planting his feet firmly on the floor. The room spun slightly when he closed his eyes, but it was not as bad as he had thought it would be. His training with the Jassaj had included learning to function while drunk or under the influence of drugs. Despite his altered state, it would take a lot more than what he’d consumed to incapacitate him.
As he tried to slip away through the crowd, friendly but strong hands grabbed him and pulled him into the revelry. Cheerful drunken faces peered at him through the pall of smoke. Someone shoved a glass of the house arak into his hands. Munif glanced down at the milky white liquid and looked up at the young man who’d staggered in front of him. “Nushing can be sho bad whenyou have a good drink,” the man slurred. “Forget your troublesh. If there’sh no sholution, there cannot be a problem.”
Munif smiled broadly at his newfound acquaintance’s words. As the crowd threw their arms around him and welcomed him into their circle, he realized he’d needed this night of revelry at the caravanserai, this night of song and drink. It kept his mind from dwelling on bitter thoughts.
He’d never expected failure when he’d pursued the two summoners. He was disturbed that there might be betrayal within the ranks of the Jassaj. Munif was a proven agent—a master, in fact. He was proud of his accomplishments. However, he wondered if his faith in them had been completely misplaced. The enemy had managed to elude him, thanks to Dassai. They’d completed their mission and brought terror to Burj al-Ansour and the Mirani kingdom—all because of Fajeer Dassai. Dassai had turned bad, and Munif had been unable to stop it. He’d succeeded before in similar situations, but this failure—this he would always remember. Even while he was drunk, the faces of the fallen haunted him.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Wallowing in self-pity, huh?”
Munif looked up and realized he’d been deposited into a corner of the room. Now he sat next to an old barkeep, his face permanently etched with the years.
“I am Khaleed Sudairi,” the man said. “Who might you be?”
“Just a traveler trying to make his way in the world.”
“So are we all.” The man laughed. “Just make sure you keep your head out of the arak so you don’t drown in misery.”
“I appreciate your concern for my well-being,” Munif said.
“It is nothing,” the barkeep said, waving his hand. “I think of everybody’s well-being. It is part of my trade.”
“I see.”
“Will you be staying here? You should. I see in your face that you feel you must go—like a cart horse straining at the traces. But there’s not much hope you’ll ever reach your destination—whereever that may be—in your current state. Your best bet is to leave in the morning.”
“I’m not as bad off as I look, my friend.”
“The festival in the city will make the roads crowded and difficult to pass,” warned Sudairi. “It will be nearly impossible even for one with his wits about him.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m glad of the respite. I really am. But I’ll be even happier to leave.”
“I’ve done more than enough prying for one night,” Sudairi said with a smile. “I wish nothing but the best for you.”
Munif wished he could agree. He would take his leave and journey to the harbor. From there he could make for Darring. Another uncertain crossing to distant islands made him wary.
Munif set down his empty glass and was about to leave when he realized the revelers would try to stop him again; they would want him to stay and continue the party. He’d best depart as quietly as possible.
Or he could give them something to distract them.
He spotted a man on the other side of the crowd whose gaze was directed away from Munif. He looked like a rawi who’d come to entertain the revelers with his stories. Munif surmised that the man was waiting for an opportunity to acquire an audience.
Munif set down his glass and climbed onto the nearest table. A cheer echoed through the caravanserai, but he lifted his voice above it. “I beseech the fine men around me to hear the call of an important duty!”
“Don’t be turning serious, now, stranger,” one cried. “Let’s keep it light.”
“Let him speak,” Sudairi chided them. “No matter what he has to say, it’s his right to say it.”
A brief quiet settled as Munif addressed the group again.
“I speak of the important duty of men who drink! Men who drink must listen to other men who drink!”
Drunken roars of approval from his audience. Munif paused.
He had no idea what to say next. But the noise was increasing again, and he knew he had better work quickly or risk losing his audience altogether. “We also have a duty to listen to those who have important tales to tell,” he went on. “There’s an rawi before us who wishes to bring us sweet music—or perhaps a poet’s sorrow.” Munif placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly from the waist—his best attempt at conveying sincerity—which, he hoped, would elicit a respectful silence from the crowd. “We should grant him respect and listen to him.”
From his vantage point, Munif watched as wisps of smoke gathered in the heavy air. The glow of candles and oil lamps was all that kept the room from utter darkness. Shadows played in the corners, accentuating the already forlorn ambience. The night wind whispered menacingly beyond the windows. He was content, for the moment, to be safe inside with the arak and his comrade
s. Right now, even failure did not seem quite so bad.
The rawi seized the opportunity Munif had provided. “Thank you, kind stranger,” he said, then turned to address the gathering. His sharp, clear voice rang through the smoky air. “I do indeed have a tale to tell.
“In the city of Cihharu,” he began, “there lived a tailor who had the good fortune to be married to a beautiful wife. The two shared a strong, mutual affection. One day while the tailor was at work in his shop, a filthy street urchin sat down at the door and began playing on a timbrel.”
Chairs scraped along the floor, and voices faded to a murmur as the revelers settled in for a good story.
“The tailor was pleased with this performance and decided to take the boy home and introduce him to his wife. He hoped the urchin might entertain them both that evening after dinner. He proposed this to the boy, who accepted the invitation. And the tailor—”
Munif was entranced by the stranger’s black eyes and enthralled, as were they all, by his dramatic delivery. Truly this
man had the gift of storytelling.
As the rawi continued his tale, keeping the audience’s attention on himself, Munif took the opportunity to leave.
He slipped out the door and into the darkness.
3
MORNING WAS NEAR.
The stars were just beginning to vanish as the horizon grew lighter.
Munif estimated he had an hour more before both dawn and he would reach the city again. Once there, he could find passage on one of the ships moored in the harbor. Then he would be off to Tammós.
He was drunker than he would have preferred, but he had not had enough wine to silence the swiftly growing alarm. As he rounded a corner in the narrow lane, he sensed something behind him. He turned and saw a shadowy figure moving toward him. His heart hammered in his chest as he thought, Just my luck—I’m careless one time and Dassai’s fiends find me.
The figure drew nearer. Munif was almost sober from fear. Realizing he could not flee, he chose the only alternative. He charged at the figure. Just as he was about to shove him to the ground, the stranger’s palm struck a glancing blow across his upper arm rather than his face.
Despite his muddled brain, Munif realized he had to end this fight quickly. No stalling, no circling; his actions, in his condition, would be too predictable. He began to shift back and forth, acting more inebriated than he really was, hoping to lure his attacker with a false opportunity. Then he took a wild swing, advertising it as plainly as possible by preceding it with a loud grunt.
The feint worked: the stranger sidestepped him easily. Munif allowed the motion to pull him forward as though he were offbalance, and the assailant stepped toward him. Munif’s left foot landed solidly on the ground, and he immediately kicked back with his right, catching the man high in the shin. He followed this by bringing his right elbow up in a weak but distracting blow to the attacker’s chest.
Now they were face to face again; Munif gave the man a swift punch just below the sternum, keeping the movement short. A hiss of breath let him know the stranger had definitely felt it, but the jarring impact awoke the old pain in his ribs.
Munif kept himself low and his forearms up to protect his damaged midsection. A fight like this would end with him on the ground; and he knew if the stranger were to get the advantage even once, he would lose. The assailant attempted to grab him, but Munif stepped as far back as he could to draw the man forward. With a sudden lunge, he launched himself. He threw short, furious punches into the man’s torso, then tried to knee him in the groin.
The other man smashed both fists into Munif’s back, driving him down. As Munif dropped to his knees, he brought his right forearm up between the other man’s legs, hoping for a disabling shot. His adversary stumbled back.
Before Munif could find his feet again, the stranger held up his hands. “Enough,” he gasped. For several seconds he did nothing but breathe. Gulping air, the stranger half-groaned. “Pavanan, stop!”
He knows my name! Munif spent a few moments feeling exhaustion take over his mind and body. Then, wobbly as a newborn colt, he pulled himself to his feet. The stranger recovered more quickly, but this time when he advanced, he held out his hand.
“Forgive me, my friend. I’ve been trailing you since Tivisis. You know me.”
“I know you?” Munif was still on guard. How could he know this person?
The figure nodded. “Yes.”
As he drew nearer Munif got a better look at him. He drew in a sharp breath as dim moonlight illuminated the man’s face. “Prince Nasir! How?”
Nasir aït-Siwal nodded. The man who’d been thought lost in the desert—who’d gone missing during the 500-farsang Cibaq al-Bahr race and been presumed dead—was swathed from head to toe in a light-colored abaya. His skin was weathered, his face deeply lined. His eyes held deep secrets. “Calm your nerves,” Nasir murmured. “You are one of the few who knows that I am alive. Not even my father is aware.”
Munif nodded slightly, then mustered enough energy to ask, “Why? Why the attack?”
Dawn was approaching rapidly, and in the waxing light, Munif was able to recognize Prince Nasir’s countenance more readily. He still wondered how the Prince had been able to remain hidden for more than eight years, though the Prince’s features, which were remarkably ordinary, would make it easy for him to blend in with people anywhere in the kingdom.
“I wanted to see if you were worth saving,” Nasir answered.
Munif blinked in surprise. Nasir smiled. Slowly, Munif began to smile too.
He grasped the Prince’s hand in a warm grip.
4
THEY ALL thought he was dead.
The air was blisteringly hot, and a sandstorm was about to move in with a furnace blast of wind from the east and a blizzard of white sand. Shielding his eyes, Nasir stared across waves of blinding white dunes that rose hundreds of feet in a glistening sea of gypsum sand.
There was no shelter.
No time.
He dismounted, dragging his horse behind him, laboring toward thesummit of the dune. The suns dimmed as the deafening roar swelled at his back. He reached the top and raced down the other side just as the full force of the storm hit. His horse snorted in alarm and reared as an avalanche of sand nearly swept them both off their feet.
Hot wind and blinding sand flung Nasir down the slope. He struck an exposed block of limestone, and his legs buckled. He plunged forward. His hand slipped from the reins and he fell over the edge.
He crashed hard in front of a shadowy opening.
His horse was gone. He struggled to his feet and moved toward the looming blackness. Even with his vision obscured he could see that this was not a cave. He knew the legends of the desert, which told of whole cities and civilizations lost—swallowed by the sand. He struggled into the darkness, while the wind tore at him in one last attempt to consume him.
A wave of sand swept over the opening and cascaded down. He wavered, overcome by a sudden feeling of dread and the weight of unnatural sleep. Haunted images drifted through his mind.
This will be my tomb, he thought—and remembered no more.
That was eight years ago.
5
NASIR GAZED at the sea.
He was a changed man. After years in the oasis of Waha al-Ribat, Nasir was compelled to leave for Riyyal.
The journey was imperative.
Rumor had it that his brother, Malek, was likely to be the next successor to the throne. Their father, Raqqas Siwal, was old and weakening. As the firstborn, Nasir was to have become Sultan upon their father’s passing. But when he went missing, the succession had been thrown into disarray. Malek was seen as cruel and corrupt. But there were few others of royal blood who held favor with the Sultan in Qatana.
Nasir stood at the rail, lost in memories of the past. The years he’d spent in exile had not only healed him physically, they had cleared his mind, giving him a different perspective on the royal family.
He knew that he was presumed dead. Hewad Sareef, his savior in Waha al-Ribat, had been feeding him the information. Sareef had also been keeping Nasir’s true identity concealed from the others in the oasis. They knew him only as an unlucky merchant who’d been rescued in the desert by the nomadic badawh during the height of the vicious sandstorm. He’d used time to his advantage and said little about his past, merely nodding in vague agreement—or sometimes apathy—whenever the topic turned to the sandstorm or his rescue from it.
There was an old tale of a man who had wandered for years in the desert. Mad with thirst, he had succumbed to illusions of immense struggles among the heavens. Nasir had suffered no such hallucionations, but he had seen the path he must choose.
He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a parchment. He unfolded it.
Sareef had drawn the map years before. “If you take this western route,” he had said, tracing the line on the map with a gnarled finger, “it will lead you to the northern coast. From there, you can set sail to Cievv.”
Cievv was his destination. It was there he would meet with Hiril Altaïr.
He’d come across the literary relics in a forgotten city that had been unearthed during the sandstorm. He’d found shelter in its ruins, where the ancient walls had provided some relief from the storm. While he waited, he’d wandered through the abandoned chambers. There he discovered four manuscripts, leather-bound and set on a small niche chiseled in the stone wall. He’d opened them, but they were written in a language he couldn’t decipher.
Although he couldn’t have said why, he took them—he felt compelled.
He dug himself out of the ruins in the days that followed and made for the al-Ribat oasis. After a day in the blinding desert heat, he collapsed. His last thought as he lay baking in the suns was, I am truly and hopelessly lost.
When next he remembered, he woke in a white-walled room. Curtains fluttered in the windows. He lay on a large bed with sheets of fine cotton. He tried to sit up, but a woman dressed in a hajib urged him back down and gave him a sip of water. Nasir accepted the water gratefully, and in the days that followed, he learned what had transpired.