by Diana Green
And what of Jehan? The pasha rarely showed mercy to anyone, but never his adversaries. The image of the Falcon’s head, stuck on a spike above the palace gates, flashed through Saba’s mind. She shuddered and pushed the vision away. Jehan didn’t deserve to end like that.
Was there a way to mislead the patrol and direct them away from the outlaws? She eased the gate open, considering a story to throw the soldiers off the trail. And yet…
Even if her plan succeeded, she’d never see Jehan again—never have an opportunity to experience the way others lived, outside the insular confines of a harem. True, the Falcon held her as a hostage. But was she any more a prisoner here than in the closely guarded palace?
At least Jehan guaranteed her protection. With the pasha, Saba would be handed over to Lord Sallizahn as a wife, forced to submit to his every demand. That hardly seemed a fate worth rushing toward. Better to stay free of that monster as long as possible.
With growing resolve, Saba stepped back inside the courtyard and quietly relatched the gate. She preferred to take her chances and stay with the bandits.
~*~
Pasha Asab Kah Akbah stalked through the palace menagerie, his enameled staff banging against the sides of enclosures, sending the animals into a cacophony of howls, roars, and screeches. Their aggravation mirrored his own foul mood, giving him a certain grim satisfaction.
Let the beasts raise their terrible din. They could do no more about him rattling their cages than he could do about the outlaws who stole his eldest daughter. Both he and the captive animals were rendered useless by circumstance, left to choke on bitter frustration.
Why did the gods treat him so? By all rights he should have earned their favor by now—building them a glorious temple, hunting down heretics who followed the old ways, even killing his finest four stallions as blood offerings, the day he became Pasha.
That particular gesture had cost him dearly, both in giving up excellent steeds and also losing the best horse master in Altera. The foolish man opposed the stallions’ sacrifice so vehemently—and publicly—there had been no choice but to execute him.
And yet here the gods were, allowing Asab’s carefully laid plans to unravel. As if his future mattered little! As if he’d given them nothing!
He cursed, slamming his staff against the parrots’ cage. Birds exploded into in the air, brightly colored wings flapping madly. Asab glared at them, then down at his staff, now split by a crack running half its length.
“Gods! Why have you abandoned me?” He raised and shook his broken staff, directing his ire toward the indifferent heavens. “Do you still love my father best?” His voice cracked. “The old tyrant is fifteen years dead, damn you! When will it be my time?”
No answer came, but at last Asab’s temper began to cool. If the gods refused to show him preference, he’d manage without them. Perhaps, in the end, his victory would be all the sweeter for it. He’d win the Padishah’s crown through his own strength and intelligence—even in the face of unexpected losses, like the abduction of Saba.
If only Asab hadn’t killed the bandits’ messenger, he’d have some lead to follow. But alas, rage had got the best of him, and he’d reacted before thinking his actions through. That was one of the drawbacks in having so much power. It could lead a person to behave rashly, forgetting the necessary restraint on their impulses.
Asab disliked self-examination, but in this instance he could not deny his mistake. Saba was critical to securing Sallizahn’s support, and now he’d killed the only man who might reveal his daughter’s whereabouts. It would have been far better to imprison the bandits’ messenger and torture the information out of him.
Ah well, the past could not be rewritten. He’d just have to make the best of things. Perhaps Sallizahn might be convinced to choose another daughter for marriage. None of the girls danced like Saba, but Nimah had a sweet singing voice, and Israt played the oud with admirable skill. Both girls were pretty and just old enough to be taken for wives.
Ah, yes! That might be the answer. Asab could offer Nimah and Israt together, to ensure the sorcerer’s allegiance. What man wouldn’t prefer two lovely wives over only one?
And in return, Asab expected Sallizahn’s magical aid with his coup. Indeed, since acquiring a sorcerer as his future son in law, Asab’s schemes had evolved and expanded. He now understood how to deal with the pregnant Nissian princess, while also ridding himself of the Padishah’s inconvenient heir, Marwahn. All he needed was a little magic to pull things together. He’d be damned if negligent gods and a ragtag bunch of outlaws would ruin his plans.
Feeling calmer, Asab strode to his private chambers, sending a servant to fetch the sorcerer. For two days now Saba’s absence had been kept a secret, everyone in the palace informed she’d fallen ill. Sallizahn would no doubt be alarmed to hear the truth, but it could be avoided no longer.
The pasha paced his opulent quarters, downing a goblet of wine. What was keeping that blasted sorcerer? Every minute Asab waited for their encounter gave him more opportunities to imagine things going badly. What if Sallizahn flew into a rage, much as Asab had when he first heard the news? Would the sorcerer dare harm a pasha with his magic? Surely not.
Finally, a knock sounded on the door, and he bade Lord Sallizahn enter.
The bulky man momentarily filled the entryway, before managing a slight bow—never deep enough for Asab’s liking. The sorcerer thought far too highly of himself, but perhaps arcane training had that effect on a person, setting them outside the usual hierarchy of society.
“You sent for me, Sire?” Sallizahn held his bow for a fraction of a second longer before straightening and meeting the pasha’s gaze. “Is Amira Saba feeling better…well enough for me to see her?”
“Ah. No.” Asab cleared his throat, annoyed his palms were sweating. “That’s why I called you here. There is an important matter we must discuss, regarding my daughter.”
Sallizahn’s heavy brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
“She is not, in fact, ill,” Asab continued. “Two days ago, bandits—led by that pernicious Falcon woman—stole her from the palace. They demand an exchange for one of my prisoners, a thief named Basim.”
“Will you agree to their terms?” Sallizahn’s voice conveyed curiosity and concern, but not the outrage Asab had expected. He was indeed a strange man.
“A pasha does not bargain with outlaws. I killed the messenger…as he deserved.”
“Then what is your plan for retrieving Amira Saba?” Again, Sallizahn’s tone sounded serious but calm. He seemed to be taking the news remarkably well.
“I have soldiers searching for her, though it may be a lost cause. These desert rats have a dozen different holes to disappear into. There’s not much reason to hope.” He hurried on before Sallizahn could raise a protest. “But it’s no matter, when I have two more delightful daughters of marriageable age. Nimah and Israt are both—”
“I intend to marry Saba,” the sorcerer interrupted, eyes narrowing. “The others do not interest me.”
“Yes. Well. That may not be possible.” Asab’s temper began to simmer. How dare a lesser lord speak to him like this? The bastard showed too little respect. “Even if Saba is recovered, she will likely have been spoiled by the bandits. I’m sure you don’t want a used bride. Nimah and Israt are untouched, and will surely—”
“Saba has not been spoiled. Nor is she in mortal danger.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Asab demanded, vexed at once more being interrupted. “There’s no use in wishful thinking. These outlaws are brutal. They won’t care for a princess’ virtue, any more than they care for rights of property.”
“You forget the warding I placed on your daughter, the evening we met.” Sallizahn offered a slight smile. “It binds us together. So I will know if her life is in peril or if another man beds her. I can assure you, neither has occurred.”
Asab laughed, relief washing away his irritation. “You are a marvel, Sallizahn! I
had no idea a warding could be so useful.” He clasped the sorcerer’s arm. “To think you set such a brilliant spell in motion, with barely a word. In a matter of moments no less! I am truly astonished.”
“To be fair, I did spend time preparing it, earlier that day.” The smug glint in Sallizahn’s eyes belied the modesty of his words. “With proper training, any sorcerer can construct spells in advance. I merely needed to hold Saba’s hands in mine to complete the working.”
“And there’s no way someone else could remove it from her?”
“Not so long as I live.”
“Splendid!” Asab offered a wine goblet to the sorcerer and refilled his own. “Now we have simply to figure a way to retrieve my daughter, and all will be well. I don’t suppose your magic can help us with that?”
“Quite possibly. The same warding that keeps Saba safe may also provide the key to finding her. It will require time, but I should be able to track her.” He took a long swallow of wine. “This could prove an interesting challenge. I’m not aware of any preexisting spells for the purpose, though I will start by researching in the Conclave library.” His deep-set eyes kindled with enthusiasm. “If need be, I’ll design something of my own…an original spell.”
“And when you find a way to track my daughter,” Asab prompted, “you’ll also know the whereabouts of these accursed outlaws?”
“Certainly. I will have my bride, and you’ll finish off the bandits once and for all.”
Asab grinned. “Now that’s a goal I can drink to!” He raised his goblet, clinking the rim against Sallizahn’s. The two men gulped their wine, both well-pleased with themselves.
“Once that matter is settled,” Asab said, still smiling, “I have a different bit of magic I’d like you to perform. It shouldn’t be much trouble, in light of what you’re capable of. But it would make a fine gesture of familial loyalty.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“Just a small deception, disguising one person to look like another…for a few hours at most.”
Sallizahn’s expression grew serious. “Would this ‘person’ need to look like anyone in particular?”
“Yes. I’ll need them to pass for the Nissian princess, Zula Kianga, and the disguise must be utterly convincing.”
“That sounds treasonous.”
Asab gave a harsh laugh. “I believe you knew what you were signing up for, in winning Saba’s hand. I am giving you my daughter, and you’ll help me take the crown.”
Sallizahn considered. “As you say. I will do my part, but not until Amira Saba is back with us, in the palace.”
“Agreed. Though I hope that doesn’t take too long.”
“Have no fear,” the sorcerer assured. “I’ll do everything possible to hasten my reunion with your daughter. If all goes well, we’ll both have what we want before the month is out.”
Chapter Eight
Several hours after the outlaws left Kahdar—when they stopped at a small watering hole—Jehan approached Saba, where she sat under a date palm tree.
“I can teach you to ride,” The Falcon said, sitting down cross-legged next to her, offering flatbread and a handful of almonds. “We’re heading into rougher terrain. It’ll make the journey easier if you know how to handle your horse.”
The proximity between them, with arms almost touching, caused Saba’s heart to race. She had been feeling drowsy, resting in the soft morning light, but now her senses came fully awake.
“If I learn well,” she said, “what’s to stop me simply riding away and escaping?”
Jehan glanced around at the open desert and shrugged. “Only a fool would head off into the wilds alone, without proper gear or experience.” Her gaze returned to Saba’s face. “You don’t strike me as a fool.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Something flickered in Jehan’s eyes. “I must admit, you’re nothing like I expected.”
“You thought I’d be a spoiled child…fragile and useless as spun sugar.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement. It had been clear what the Falcon thought of her, at their initial meeting.
Jehan’s lip twitched toward a smile. “Perhaps something like that. But I’m happy to say I was wrong. You’ve handled yourself remarkably well.”
“Even if I can’t mount a horse without help?”
“A problem I intend to fix.” Jehan rose to her feet, still smiling. “As soon as you’ve finished eating, come find me. We’ll start your first lesson.”
From that morning on, Jehan took every opportunity to instruct Saba in the basics of horsemanship. She proved to be an excellent teacher, her ‘hands-on’ approach both inspiring and disconcerting her willing pupil. Each time the Falcon adjusted Saba’s leg position or grip on the reins, the princess felt a rush of confused pleasure. Just a simple touch of Jehan’s fingers made her skin tingle and stomach flutter.
Were these the same feelings her half-sisters expressed—with blushes and giggles—when discussing handsome noblemen? Such fascination had always baffled her. Yet here she was hanging on Jehan’s every word, enraptured by her amber-eyed gaze.
Salahm Nour, the temple priest, spoke of desire between women as heinous, an abomination to be rooted out, like witchcraft and heresy. Yet Saba could not take his words as truth. Had he not cursed her friend, Mari, as evil, when she was actually good and kind? Why should his views on women’s relationships be any more valid?
Old stories and poems hinted at a time when such bonds were not reviled but cherished. Priestesses of the ancient jinni goddesses were said to have shared their lives together in all ways, dwelling mostly apart from men, free to live and love as they pleased.
And why not? Were women really less intelligent, capable, or worthy than men? To Saba, that seemed a lie created by history’s victors, extolling the virtues of a new patriarchy while disparaging the old ways.
The Falcon certainly proved false any claims of male superiority, with her clever mind and strong limbs, her iron will and potent charisma. Saba’s admiration grew daily. She longed to forge a deeper bond between them, but Jehan gave little indication she returned or even noticed the princess’ feelings.
If only Saba had something valuable to offer this wonderful woman. But what would the Falcon want with a naïve royal who barely knew how to dress herself? The disparity in their life experiences seemed insurmountable. So Saba contented herself with the riding lessons and bits of conversation, shared now and then as they traveled.
Time lost meaning, out in the wild lands, where human expectation and impatience became irrelevant. The vast landscape swallowed their little group, making them seem no more than ants crawling slowly onward.
The sun rose and set while the horses walked, their hooves sending up puffs of fine dust, their leather gear creaking rhythmically. In the hottest part of the day mirages shimmered, and at night the ground took hours to fully cool. Always, just beyond the edge of their camp, Saba felt the boundless solitude of the desert, its stillness stealing quietly into her heart and mind.
Their route took them deeper into the hills, climbing along steep-sided ravines and rugged ridges. As they gained elevation, more trees began to scatter the surroundings—juniper mostly, mixed with wild almond and cinnabar.
Despite the long hours of riding, Saba took a certain pleasure in the journey. Every day brought new sights, from soaring stone arches, to herds of white oryx—their horns as long and sharp as javelins. One evening she saw a pack of jackals slinking through the lengthening shadows, while the next morning she glimpsed a flock of cranes—graceful as long-necked dancers—gathered at a watering hole.
On the fifth evening of their journey—after threading their way through a narrow pass—Saba and the bandits emerged in a hidden valley, tucked beneath mountain peaks gleaming in the late light. Along the winding banks of a stream were gathered simple stone houses and goat hair tents. Most had open doors or flaps tied back to catch the prevailing breeze.
A cry went up, as the travelers were spotted, and people hurried to greet them, dogs barking and children shouting in excitement. The place seemed less like an outlaw encampment and more like a small village. Here were true homes, with extended families, pets, livestock, even gardens watered by the stream.
Surprisingly, through the din, Saba heard a familiar husky voice calling her name. Eyes widening, she picked Mari out of the gathered crowd. The woman’s hair was gray now, threaded with streaks of pure white. The wrinkles had multiplied and deepened across her weathered face, but her wise dark eyes and broad smile looked just the same.
“Mari!” Saba slid quickly from her horse and rushed forward, heart leaping.
“Saba, my sweet girl!” Mari enfolded her in a hug.
“I never thought I’d see you again.” Saba couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice or the tears from her eyes.
Mari stroked her hair, just as she used to years ago. “I’m sorry I left you alone in that place. It has been my greatest regret.”
“But it was all my fault.”
“No. You mustn’t think that.” Mari pulled back, looking intently into Saba’s eyes. “You couldn’t stop what happened, and I should have been more careful.”
Saba began to protest, but Mari shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now, dear girl. Jehan has brought you to me, and I bless her for it, a thousand times over.”
“She knew?” Saba couldn’t hide her shock. “Is that why she chose to take me from the palace, rather than someone else?” Thank goodness! To think, Saba might have missed this—and even now be wedding Lord Sallizahn.
“I’m sure it played a part in Jehan’s decision,” Mari responded. “She knew how much I longed to see you.”