by Diana Green
“Shall I continue with your hair, Sire?” the dresser asked.
“No. It’s good enough. Leave us.” He needed to speak with Sahsur in private. Whatever information the agent brought was likely related to Asab’s planned coup.
The dresser bowed and hurried out, passing Sahsur as he entered. The agent was an unremarkable looking man, of average height and build, neither handsome nor ugly. He might easily blend into any crowd, utterly forgettable, except perhaps for the sharp intelligence in his eyes.
Dust lay heavy on Sahsur’s clothing and marked the creases of his travel-weary face. It appeared he had ridden long and hard to bring this news, not bothering to clean up before seeking an audience with his liege lord.
“What do you have for me?” Asab barely controlled the tension in his voice.
Sahsur glanced at the door, making sure the guard had departed. “I bring word of the heir’s Nissian wife.” He spoke quietly, so there could be no danger of anyone overhearing. “She is pregnant.”
Asab took a moment to respond, his mind racing to calculate how this might affect his plans. “Are you sure? Could it be merely a rumor?”
“I am confident of my sources. They confirm she is two months along and doing well. The royal sorcerer has predicted she’ll bear a healthy boy, but a public announcement has yet to be made. I came as soon as I found out.”
“Damnation!” Asab scowled, slamming his fist down on the small table by his chair. A bowl of candied dates bounced from the impact.
Padishah Muktar Kah Muhehnad had only managed to father one heir, Marwahn—a sickly bookish boy who unfortunately survived to adulthood. He’d recently married a Nissian princess, Zula Kianga, despite the fact Altera and Nissia were ancient enemies.
As a condition of the marriage, the Nissian queen insisted slavery be outlawed in Altera, putting an end to the border raids which had plagued her country for centuries. This ruling also put an end to the reliable source of profit Asab—and many of his peers—enjoyed from their involvement in the slave trade. A loss they deeply resented.
No doubt Padishah Muktar hoped to ensure peaceful relations between the two rival countries, with increased trade and security for all. But many within Altera viewed the situation differently. Bowing to Nissian influence spoke of feebleness and the debasement of Alteran pride. Allowing a Nissian princess into the royal household seemed no better than inviting an adder into your bedroom. Her poison was sure to taint all she touched.
And now Zula Kianga was pregnant. The birth would secure her position in the capital, and it would strengthen Padishah Muktar’s dynasty—especially if the royal sorcerer was correct, and the baby turned out to be a boy.
“We’ll have to get rid of the princess,” Asab growled.
“An assassination could be difficult. She is extremely well protected, having brought guards from her homeland. Their loyalty appears to be absolute.”
“What are our options?”
Sahsur hesitated, as if uncertain about sharing his ideas.
“Well? Out with it, man. What are you thinking?”
“We could implicate her in some form of treason. Many already suspect her motives, simply because she is Nissian. Perhaps we can capitalize on their prejudice.” Sahsur paused, choosing his words carefully. “A maneuver like that could backfire on us, if it isn’t handled with care. Such tactics can’t be rushed.”
“But it has potential.” Asab’s fists gradually unclenched as he considered. “A charge of treason against Zula Kianga could erode the Padishah’s standing further. And the unborn child might be considered an unacceptable heir, with half Nissian blood and a traitorous mother.” Asab’s eyes lit with possibilities. “I’ll give the matter thought.”
“In the meantime, you should move forward with your other plans,” Sahsur advised. “Success depends on many factors, including building support among the nobility.”
“Indeed.” Asab rose, smoothing his finely embroidered robe. “I now have a banquet to attend, so I can feast with my daughter’s suitors…or my prospective allies, as I like to think of them.” He gave a wide jackal grin. “You never know, one of those eager courtiers might just be the key to unlocking my future.”
“Should I return to the capital?”
“Yes. I’ll contact you when I have a plan for dealing with the Nissian princess. Take no further action until you hear from me.”
“As you wish, Sire.” Sahsur bowed and departed.
Asab paused a moment before the mirror, setting a heavy jeweled circlet on his brow. The ornament pleasingly resembled the Padishah’s crown, though nothing could satisfy like the real thing.
A half century ago his father had risen from general to pasha, and he’d expected no less of his firstborn son. Asab must continue the great man’s legacy and prove himself his father’s equal or preferably his better. There lay true glory—to cast a shadow longer than any man before him. Surely that would silence the ghosts of his past.
Chapter Three
“How much longer should we stay here?” Makeem asked, brushing a fly away from his bald head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m enjoying the feasting and the soft bed and all, but I can’t help feeling it’s time to move on.”
“I know. We’ll leave soon.” Jehan shared his impatience. The past two days in the palace had seemed interminable. Staying constantly vigilant, while fitting in and looking relaxed, took a toll on them both. It was time to make her decision.
Security in the pasha’s prison had proven tight, too much so for a rescue attempt. Though it pained Jehan to admit this, she couldn’t risk her whole band, just to save one man’s life—even if that man was Basim. Abducting someone to trade for her cousin seemed the best alternative.
Currently, she and Makeem stood in the shade of a row of date palms, waiting with all the other guests to witness an execution. Much as she would have preferred to miss this spectacle, Pasha Asab Kah Akbah had commanded everyone be present.
One of the visiting suitors’ servants had snuck into the pasha’s harem the previous night. Apparently, he’d tried to seduce a young concubine, before getting caught. His death would now serve as an example to others.
“Terrible time for a beheading,” Makeem grumbled. “Right before lunch, when it’ll spoil our appetites.”
Jehan didn’t have much appetite to spoil. The meals had all been heavy and rich, with far too many sugary dishes. Everywhere one looked, the food trays were piled with honeyed meats, jam filled pastries, caramelized sauces, and syrups.
The pasha clearly had a sweet tooth, despite the high cost of such tastes. He flaunted his wealth with extravagant banquets, made even more lavish by sugar gardens, painstakingly sculpted by master confectioners. These edible decorations took the form of temples, trees, rare beasts, and figures from mythology. Some stood taller than a man and must have cost a fortune to produce.
The excess disgusted Jehan. How many villages could be fed on the money this pasha wasted daily? And how could she stand to participate in his unbounded consumption?
She soothed her conscience by pilfering small valuable items, planning to pass them on to needy recipients in the future. From the kitchens she stole saffron and other pricey ingredients. From the feasting hall she took silver utensils, salt shakers and other objects small enough to fit in her pockets. It wasn’t much, but doing something subversive felt better than simply playing along.
“All hail His Excellency Pasha Asab Kah Akbah, Protector of the Virtuous, Commander of the Righteous, and Sword of the True Gods.”
The royal crier’s voice carried through the stifling noonday heat. Into the courtyard paraded the pasha, followed by his extensive family. It would seem they also needed a lesson on the fate of forbidden visitors to the harem.
The women shone like lush flowers, their silks, satins, and jewels shimmering in the bright sun. Amira Saba stood near the front, shadowed by her personal guard. Her lovely face appeared strained, her posture tense. Perhaps she disliked publi
c executions as much as Jehan did. That would certainly be a mark in her favor.
The pasha spoke at length about the offense committed, and then the doomed servant was dragged forward. Jehan lowered her eyes as the executioner raised his massive axe. She wasn’t overly bothered by the sight of blood, yet she didn’t care to watch someone die for a crime no greater than poor judgment.
An excruciating moment passed. She observed a drip of sweat plop from her downturned brow to the dusty ground below. Flies buzzed in the silence.
A wrenching wet thud told her the deed was done, and she looked up once more. Blood pooled around the young man’s severed neck, and his head rolled a few feet away. Someone picked it up, carrying it off, no doubt to place on the palace gates. Showing no emotion, the executioner walked to a fountain—designated for this purpose alone—and cleaned his axe.
In a few days or weeks that would be Basim’s blood, coloring the fountain crimson. Jehan took a deep breath, steadying herself, driving back the surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. This was no time for uncontrolled anger or fear. She needed to stay calm and formulate a plan.
~*~
A knock sounded at the door, and a servant entered. “The pasha commands your presence, Amira. There is someone important he would like you to meet.”
Saba looked up from reading, a knot of anxiety twisting her stomach. Had her father made a decision already? This was only the fourth evening since her presentation. Surely he couldn’t have assessed all the men so quickly.
“Should I take time to prepare, or does he wish me to come as I am?” Since the pasha had met with suitors all day, Saba was not required to attend any events. She’d eaten alone in her rooms, enjoying the comfort of a loose silk tunic and skirt. She wore her hair in a single braid, with no jewelry or cosmetics.
“The pasha desires your immediate attendance.” The servant looked her over briefly. “I believe what you’re wearing should suffice.”
Saba marked her page and set the book of poetry aside. She rose and crossed to a long mirror, evaluating her appearance. If this was to be the first meeting with her future husband, she wanted to make a good impression.
Though her clothes were simple, they draped nicely, and the deep garnet color complimented her skin tone. Wanting some adornment, she picked a sprig of pink oleander from a vase and tucked it behind her ear.
As she entered the hallway, Kedar left his post by her door and fell into step behind. Outside, the sun set beyond the high walls, bleeding red and violet across the western sky. Twilight cool stole across the courtyards and training grounds of the palace, softening hard edges in shadow. From a grove of orange trees, a dove cooed, the melancholy sound accompanied by a chorus of cicadas.
Saba longed to stay out in the dusky beauty of the evening, but her father’s command could not be ignored. As she approached his personal chambers, her heart raced. Was this the moment her life changed forever, when her future happiness or misery began?
With a silent prayer for luck, Saba entered. Her father stood next to a bulky and imposing stranger, both of them bent over a map of Altera. When the servant announced her arrival, the two men looked up, the stranger’s eyes lighting with keen interest.
He reminded Saba of the water buffalo from her father’s private menagerie. His thick graying hair, wide-set eyes, prominent brow, and massive shoulders all lent to the effect. Unlike many of the suitors, his clothes looked surprisingly austere—of high quality to be sure, but dark in color and plain in cut.
Her father smiled, gesturing for her to draw closer. “Daughter, I’d like to introduce your future husband, Lord Sallizahn Kah Shalor.”
It was as she suspected. A wave of dread washed over her, and she struggled to remain calm. Who was this Lord Sallizahn, that her father should choose him above all others? Pashas had traveled here to win her hand, as had lords from the oldest and wealthiest families in Altera. What did this hulking brute have to offer?
“Such modest attire becomes you, Amira,” Lord Sallizahn said, studying her from head to toe. “I prefer it to the more brazen clothing you’ve worn. A true lady does not expose her body, except for the pleasure of her husband.”
Saba held back a sharp retort and merely nodded. Of course he couldn’t know the seductive costumes had been worn at her father’s bidding.
“Now that you are promised to me,” Sallizahn continued, “do not dress provocatively again. I have seen enough to desire our union. There is no more need to flaunt your womanly charms in front of others.”
His attitude did not bode well. They’d only just met, and already he issued commands. What kind of tyrant would he be once they married?
Perhaps seeing the alarm in her eyes, Sallizahn softened his tone. “I realize you are still young and unmolded, Amira…requiring the guiding hand of a husband. I don’t expect you to be perfect. I am more than satisfied with your grace and beauty. The rest will come in time.”
Was this supposed to reassure her? Saba fought a powerful urge to run from the room. But what was the use in fleeing? Kedar would stop her before she made it through the door.
Sallizahn stepped closer, his thick wet lips pulling into a smile. “I hope you do not think me overly harsh. I may be an exacting man, but I am also deeply enchanted by your loveliness. I am confident we will find much happiness together.”
He reached for her left hand, raising it to kiss. As he did so, she recognized the obsidian sorcerer’s ring on his right middle finger. Embedded in the glossy black band were an emerald, a diamond, a ruby, and a sapphire, representing the elements of earth, air, fire, and water—all subject to an arcane master’s control.
Now, her father’s decision made sense. Sorcerers were a dying breed, their magic all but gone from the land. Though the Padishah kept one in his pay, for the most part they had become rare as creatures from legend. To forge a familial alliance with any sorcerer—even a lesser lord—would be a valuable accomplishment.
Sallizahn brushed his lips slowly across the back of Saba’s hand, hot breath prickling her skin. With sheer force of will, she resisted pulling away from him. His grip tightened, as if he sensed her reluctance and wished to stake his claim more tangibly.
“You are mine, now and forever.” he murmured, almost too quiet for her to hear.
With a swift motion, he captured her right wrist, drawing her hands together and locking his beefy fingers around them. His eyes closed, concentration creasing his heavy brow, as he whispered a string of unfamiliar syllables. Unseen bands closed around Saba’s wrists and throat, invisible metal digging into her skin, hard and chill as ice.
She cried out, struggling to escape. What was this monster doing to her? The band at her throat constricted, blocking her airway, while the magical shackles at her wrists burned with fierce cold.
Panic gave Saba strength. She ripped free of Sallizahn’s hold, clawing at the invisible collar, and gasping for breath. The room tilted, a roaring filling her ears as her vision darkened.
Sallizahn clapped his hands together once, uttering a single incomprehensible word. As quickly as the sensations had started, they vanished. Shaking, Saba lowered herself to a velvet divan, palms slick with sweat. All that remained of the invisible bonds was a slight tingling around her wrists and throat.
“Will you let this man attack me?” Saba demanded of her father, hoping to spark some outrage in him.
“It was not an attack,” Sallizahn assured, turning to face the pasha. “I simply cast a protection spell on your daughter, to keep her from mortal harm and also from defiling herself with another man. At our wedding, I must know she is a virgin. Then we can be joined properly before the gods.”
“You don’t need a spell for that!” Saba rose from the divan, despite her wobbly legs. “Father has assigned me a guard. He is more than capable of seeing to my safety and my chastity. Not that the latter is any concern. I have no intention of—”
“Enough.” The pasha raised a hand for silence. “Calm
yourself, daughter. Lord Sallizahn’s precautions seem perfectly reasonable, and they are a sign of his high regard. He would not bother with such measures, if you didn’t matter greatly to him.”
“But his magic hurt me.” She tried to stir some pity in her father’s stony heart.
Sallizahn turned to her. “I am truly sorry for your discomfort, Amira. Believe me, I would never wish you harm.” He reached for her hand, but she withdrew two steps, shaking her head.
A flicker of annoyance lit his eyes, his jaw clenching. “You must understand, such magic is often painful, but only briefly, at the moment of casting.” He spoke as if to a child. “Such a small sacrifice seems hardly worth this fuss. You must come to trust that I know what is best, and this magic will protect you more surely than any eunuch guard.”
She abhorred the idea of his sorcery clinging to her day and night. There had to be a way around it. If only she could put his doubts to rest.
Saba lowered her gaze, speaking in a mild respectful tone. “I am sure you are both wise and just, my lord. I meant no insult.” She tried to sound sincere. “I ask only that you remove this spell, for it is unnecessary. I promise not to dishonor you with reckless or impure behavior. I have been raised well and know my duty.”
Sallizahn visibly relaxed. Here was the demure wife he expected. He moved closer, stroking his hand down the side of her cheek. She did not try to evade him this time, but suffered his touch in silence. If she could win his trust, perhaps he might decide the protection magic was unneeded.
“I swear to you, Amira, this spell will cause no injury…unless you sully yourself with another man.” Sallizahn’s tone remained gentle despite the ominous import of his words. “If you attempt that particular act, of course, there will be unpleasant consequences. But such punishment is only right and proper, by the gods’ laws.”
Speech failed Saba. She barely maintained her neutral expression, with eyes modestly downcast. Things were turning out worse than she’d feared. What kind of future could she expect, with a man like this?