Longing's Levant

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  * * * * *

  Evann-Sin was as weak as a newborn, unable to stop the Healer from pouring vile concoctions down his throat and pumping them into his helpless body. By the time the man was finished with him and had declared he would live, the warrior was madder and sicker than he could ever remember being in his thirty-odd years. Clinging to the edge of the mattress as the Healer’s helper braced him so he could take a sip of cool water, Evann-Sin thought of every conceivable agony he could visit upon the demon and then some.

  “Who attacked you, boy?”

  Hearing his father’s gruff voice—the commanding tones of the Akkadian King—Evann-Sin looked past the Healer’s helper. Standing at the door to the room with his bodyguards flanking him, the Panther was an imposing sight. His dark eyes were sharp, his lips pursed in anger and his hands clenched into fists at his side.

  “Who dared harm you?” King Numair demanded.

  “I am unharmed, Majesty,” Evann-Sin stated. “Lest I was until your Healer took it upon himself to torture me.”

  The Panther advanced into the room. “Where is your horse?”

  Sighing heavily, for he knew the beast’s safety was of more import than his own, Evann-Sin assured his king the mount was in good hands.

  “And in whose hands is the steed?”

  “My lady’s,” Evann-Sin said and realized he had said the wrong thing for his king’s eyes narrowed and a muscle jumped in the older man’s lean jaw.

  “What lady is that, Riel?” the king queried. “I was not aware you had a mate.”

  Pushing himself up in the bed with the intention of getting out of it, Evann-Sin realized his head was still spinning, his stomach queasy, and he stilled, swallowing against the bitter bile that loped up his throat at the movement.

  “What is the woman’s name, boy?” the Panther asked. “How did you come to know her?”

  “Tamara Nabril,” Evann-Sin managed to say. “We met in Nonica.”

  “Nabril? That is not an Akkadian name,” his king snapped. “From where does this female come?”

  Knowing he dared not lie, Evann-Sin mumbled that the woman he had chosen as his own was from Bandar.

  King Numair’s eyes widened and his lips parted. Among those who were witness to the scene between father and son, one bodyguard would swear on his life he saw the thick white mane of hair on the king’s head stand straight up like an angry porcupine’s quills.

  “A Hell Hag?” the Panther asked in a whisper that hinted at his shock.

  Evann-Sin flinched but he raised his chin and met his king’s unwavering stare. “Some would call her such but she is the woman I love and she engaged in battle the woman who harmed me and took her life.”

  The king blinked. With his mouth still hanging open, he cocked his head to one side as though he doubted what he had heard. Lifting a hand to his head, he slapped the palm against his right ear three times then asked the warrior to repeat what he had just said.

  Acutely conscious of the other four men in the room, Evann-Sin related what had happened at the inn in Nonica then told his king of Rabin’s funeral. He was somewhat surprised to see a passing glint of grief in the Panther’s dark eyes.

  “I liked the dark man,” was all King Numair said then nodded for Evann-Sin to continue.

  “I realized I was being followed after I left the funeral,” the warrior said, very uneasy about telling the whole of it. “I was drinking water at an oasis when I was hit from behind and rendered unconscious.”

  The Panther held up a hand. “You did not sense danger, boy?” he wanted clarified.

  “I sensed it, Your Majesty, but it came before I could stop it.”

  Staring intently at his son, King Numair folded his arms over a thick, barrel-like chest. “Go on.”

  “I woke to find myself tied spread-eagled to the ground,” Evann-Sin said, looking away from that intense gaze.

  “It was the Hell Hags who attacked you,” the king stated.

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Evann-Sin mumbled.

  “They raped you.”

  Evann-Sin winced. “Aye,” he answered almost inaudibly.

  Silence settled on the room. The king’s two bodyguards stood staring down at the floor and the Healer’s helper was looking at the coverlet over the warrior’s feet. As the stillness lingered on, Evann-Sin raised his head and looked up into the steady eyes of his king. Expecting to see disgust, shame or fury flashing from the Panther’s heavily lined face he was surprised to see the shimmer of tears.

  “And this woman,” he heard the king say. “This Tamara? She was not among those who abused you.”

  “Nay, Majesty,” Evann-Sin replied.

  “She fought for your honor?”

  Nodding because he could not speak past the lump that was lodged in his throat, Evann-Sin waited for the infamous temper of the Panther to explode.

  “Hand-to-hand?” the king asked.

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  “I’ve heard the Hell Hags are almost as good at warfare as the Amazeens,” King Numair stated.

  “I did not see the battle but I saw the aftermath,” Evann-Sin said. “Tamara was very angry.”

  “No doubt,” the king said. “They took what she considered hers.”

  Forging his gaze with his king’s, Evann-Sin acknowledged that he was hers and she was his.

  “So how did you get here?” the Panther asked. “Minus your steed and as sick as a dog who has lunched on rancid meat?”

  The mental picture made Evann-Sin’s mouth water and he squeezed his eyes shut to keep the nausea at bay. Digging his fingers into the sheet, he told his king of meeting the Magi—of encountering Kaibyn Zafeyr and the resurrection of Rabin Jaspyre.

  “He’s alive?” the king asked, his eyes wide.

  “He’s Undead,” Evann-Sin clarified. “Zafeyr is a demon and it was…”

  Once more the Panther slapped his ear with his palm. He shook his head to clear it then told his son to repeat what he had just said.

  “He is a demon,” Evann-Sin stated. “It was he who transported me here, but I have no idea how he accomplished the feat. When I found out, I…”

  “First you are raped by a band of Hell Hags then you are fought over by two women warriors. Your best friend dies but though the dark man is dead, yet he is not dead,” the king said. “You meet a demon who brought you here by supernatural means, conveyed to the palace on the wings of this demon and you leave your horse with a woman you barely know!” He squinted. “Does that about cover it, Riel?”

  “You left out the Magi,” Evann-Sin said quietly. “And I didn’t leave Aswad. I was jerked up by that demon and delivered here so no doubt he can attempt to seduce my woman.”

  Throwing his hands into the air, the king looked to the heavens. “Have you any notion how priceless that steed is to me, boy?”

  “I know he’s more priceless than my life is to you,” Evann-Sin replied, hurt apparent in his voice. As soon as the words left his lips, he wished he could snatch them back.

  The Panther slowly lowered his head. His dark brown gaze went unerringly to his son’s pale face and held. For the space of a full minute, nothing was said—the room was as devoid of sound as a grave. No one moved. Then King Numair told the other men to leave the room.

  Uneasy at leaving their king unprotected, the bodyguards hesitated though the Healer’s helper made quick work of departing. They looked at one another—concern puckering their foreheads—until they were ordered out in a tone that brooked no denial. Hurrying to do their king’s bidding, they bumped into one another as they attempted to get out the door at the same time.

  “And close the door behind you!” the king ordered.

  When the portal was pulled shut and silence once more reigned, King Numair broke eye contact with his son and looked around him. Spying a chair, he went to it, grabbed the back and swung it around to stand beside Evann-Sin’s bed. He straddled the seat and sat—his knees braced apart, and leaned forward with his fore
arms on his thighs.

  “I don’t know where you got the notion your life is of little value to me, Riel, but let me disabuse you of that impression,” the Panther stated. His deep voice was devoid of inflection though his face was set and his eyes hard.

  “Your Majesty, I…” Evann-Sin began but his father held up a hand.

  “For once,” the king grated. “For once will you call me Papa?”

  Shocked at the request, Evann-Sin could only stare at the man sitting at his bedside. It was hard enough for him to recline there on the bed with his king’s head lower than his own but to have such an appeal thrown at him was staggering.

  “I have acknowledged you as my son,” King Numair stated. “Many times over have I acknowledged you to my men.”

  “Yet never to me,” the warrior interrupted.

  As though he had not heard Evann-Sin, the king continued. “I have spoken often of how proud I am of you, and all that you have accomplished.”

  “Yet never once said as much to me.”

  The Panther drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly as though he were trying to calm his infamously raging temper with the release of his breath.

  “How many fights did you have as a boy, Riel?” he countered. “How many bruises visited upon you for being the son of a king?”

  “More than I care to remember,” Evann-Sin admitted.

  “And how many more cuts and bruises do you think you would have had if I had shown my affection for you?”

  King Numair had two legitimate sons and three legitimate daughters by his marriage to Queen Hessa of Inaya. The oldest of the boys was thirteen and the youngest nine. The daughters were born first and the youngest had married just the year before at the age of nineteen. The two older daughters had given the Panther seven grandchildren between them.

  “I was but a boy, myself, when you came along,” the Panther said. “Not much older than Haytham is now.” He snorted. “What does a fourteen-year-old boy know about being a father?”

  “You knew enough to get my mother with child,” Evann-Sin accused.

  “Ah, Anbar,” the king said wistfully, and his smile was sad. “Your mother was the gentlest of creatures and as beautiful as her name was sweet.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the warrior said.

  Memories of the woman-child he had loved so dearly came back to haunt King Numair. He had been there when she had brought Evann-Sin into the world, and had held her as her life’s blood drained away, the Healers unable to save her.

  “She would have been just as proud of you as I am.”

  Watching a single tear slide slowly down the king’s face mesmerized Evann-Sin. He stared at the crystal drop until it disappeared into a deep crease on the older man’s cheek.

  “The kingdom will go to Shafiq when I leave this world and we both know the boy will need your counsel at every turn. He is so tenderhearted he would make all the wrong decisions or none at all,” the king said. He shrugged. “Haytham would make a better ruler but being second-born the chances are slim he will ever hold the scepter.”

  Silence reigned once more then the Panther seemed to shake himself mentally. He released a heavy breath, slapped his knees with his palms and fused his gaze with Evann-Sin’s.

  “You are my son and I have never denied that. If it were possible to make you my heir, I would do so but that will never happen. As for caring more for a mere animal than I do for you that is so much shit piled on a stone. I don’t know who told you such an evil thing but it is not true.”

  Holding his father’s stare, Evann-Sin felt his heart thundering in his chest. Such an admission was something he had never dreamed of hearing. He had grown up thinking the man before him refused to acknowledge him. The chip had grown to a boulder on his shoulder and had become harder to bear over the years. Now, he could feel it sliding away and the relieving of the pressure felt good.

  “That’s not to say I am blasé about the welfare and safety of your steed, Riel,” the king growled, shaking a finger at his son. “Are you sure he is safe with this Tamara?”

  A smile tugged at Evann-Sin’s lips. “As safe as I would be, Your…”

  “Papa,” the king corrected, his head cocked to one side in admonishment.

  “Majesty, I can not,” the warrior whispered. “I…”

  “You are not proud to be my son?” the Panther demanded.

  Evann-Sin’s eyes widened. “I am honored to be your son!”

  “Honored but not proud?”

  “Honored and proud!”

  “Then do as I ask and call me Papa.”

  Evann-Sin squirmed in the bed. Such a request was more command than appeal. It would be hard to break a thirty-five-year-old habit and it did not feel right to the warrior. He could not make himself say the word for it felt disrespectful, almost treasonous to him. His cheeks were stained crimson.

  “Oh, all right,” King Numair sighed. “I’ll not make you say it but perhaps one day you will want to.”

  Once more silence settled over the room. The two men glanced at one another but neither knew what else to say. At last, it was Evann-Sin who spoke.

  “There is evil afoot in Kebul,” he said.

  “There is always evil afoot in Kebul,” the king snorted. “Oded is an ass.”

  “An ass who is in concert with Queen Lilit of Bandar.”

  The wrinkles in King Numair’s forehead grew deeper as he frowned sharply. “What are those two up to together?”

  “Making slaves of the rest of us,” Evann-Sin replied. “And I mean to keep them from succeeding.”

  * * * * *

  Queen Lilabet closed her eyes as quickly as she opened them for the room was spinning around her violently. She was lying upon a thick mattress with only a thin shift between her and the light coverlet covering her. Her hand was being tightly held in Kaibyn’s but nevertheless, she felt as though should he let go, she would go flying out the window.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “We are at the inn in Nonika,” Kaibyn answered. “I fetched the others while you slept.”

  Putting a hand to her head, the queen could not remember anything past the nightmarish trip down the corridor at Kebul.

  “Where is Karmaria?”

  “Holding fast to the headboard of her cot in the next room. Tamara is seeing to her.”

  Risking a glance at her lover, Lilabet opened her eyes though the room still spun crazily around her. “Who is Tamara?”

  “She is the Akkadian’s woman,” Kaibyn answered through clenched teeth.

  “You said others,” Lilabet muttered.

  “There is a darkling here, as well, but he is of no consequence. He is merely a servant to the Akkadian. Do not concern yourself with him.”

  The queen tried to push herself up but the vertigo was too great. She slumped back on the bed with an unladylike grunt. “By the Prophet, Kaibyn, you smell,” she told him. “What have you gotten into?”

  A pained look passed over the demon’s handsome face, and he lifted his arm to sniff at his armpit. He could smell nothing different about his person. He had to make haste to find cologne of some kind to mask the stench.

  “Lie quietly, Lady, and I will see to that situation,” Kaibyn replied with a grimace.

  “As though I could do anything save lie quietly,” Lilabet muttered. She felt the wind of the demon’s passing but did not open her eyes.

  Kaibyn came to rest in a grotto. Quickly, he shed his clothing and plunged through the placid depths of the grotto’s milky-white waters. He swam underwater for a spell then surfaced to wade over to the shallows and stand waist-deep while he used his hands to scrub vigorously at his flesh. Though he could tell no difference in his body odor when he waded out of the water, he suspected there might not be a change in his aroma. With another blink of his golden eyes, he landed in a bakery and went in search of cinnamon oil. Crinkling his nose, he splashed a copious amount of the liquid over his bare chest and arms, under his arms and over th
e rippled ridges of his belly and into the thick curls at the juncture of his thighs. Taking the rest of the oil with him, he flew back to the grotto, got dressed then hastened to rejoin the queen.

  Lilabet turned her head as her lover materialized in the room. She inhaled the overpowering scent of cinnamon and sighed. “Much better, Kai. Much, much better.”

  The demon went to her bed and sat down beside her. “No more stench?” he inquired, his forehead puckered.

  “No,” she answered. “You have a most pleasant smell, my love.”

  Before the lady could protest, Kaibyn shed his clothes and climbed in bed beside her, reaching out to take her into his arms. Her supple body gave instant rise to a portion of his anatomy and he hoped she would acquiesce to soothing him.

  “My husband, I fear, is dead, Kai,” Lilabet whispered, snuggling close to her lover and reaching her hand down to lay her palm against his thigh.

  “I am loath to tell you, Lady, but I fear Undead is more like it,” he told her.

  Despite the jerky sensations of the room canting about her, the queen opened her eyes, tilted her head back and looked at Kaibyn. “What mean you Undead?”

  Kaibyn put his hand on her head and stroked her hair. “You have heard tales of the witches of Bandar?”

  “The Hell Hags?” Lilabet asked with a shiver. “Aye. What of them?”

  “Their queen, Lilit, formed a pact with your husband and now the entire of Kebul is under thrall to the witches,” he explained. “I would think King Oded is as much under Lilit’s power as are the common folk.”

  “For what purpose, Kai?” she asked.

  “To turn the world into Lilit’s slave pen, milady.”

  Lilabet’s eyes widened. “It is that far-reached, this plan of hers?”

  “It will be unless I can stop her,” Kaibyn said. “Well, with some help from the coalition I have formed.”

  “Oh, Kaibyn. This greatly distresses me,” the queen said. “What will I do? Where will I go? Who will take care of me? I have a child growing inside me to consider.”