by Ruth
(Doctor Sally sent Morgiana to the kitchens for a light meal. "This part of the story is not for her to hear," she said to the Sultan.)
Sagara opened the shutters. The moon was dark tonight, perfect for his purpose. In three days, the Prince of Dariyabar would land on Taprobene. The sorcerer shook with anger. Once he possessed another name and lived another life. He had been a noble's son, chosen to be a companion to the second heir to the Dariyabar throne. . . .
"Though, in truth," Rustad often said. "I don't want it at all. Still, until one of poor Nasir's wives produces a son. . ." He shrugged. Nasir was frantic to produce an heir, but had so far produced only daughters, twenty nine of them, by various wives and concubines. "Well! Trust to Allah, right Mahmud?"
"As you say, my Prince," Mahmud had laughed as they returned to their chess game, or their polo. He was not sure just when Mahmud began to love the Prince besides as his friend and cup companion. He only knew that Rustad turned more and more to Mahmud's company until that fateful night in the bath, when he had been rubbing Rustad's back.
"You are quiet tonight, my Prince," he remarked.
"I've much to think on," said Rustad. He looked at his friend. "Am I attractive, Mahmud?"
"Why-why of course you are," he had stammered. Unlike his tawnier brother, Mahmud was golden in color, with eyes bluer than the sky at noonday.
"Good," Rustad whispered. "I am glad you find me so, because I find you very attractive, Mahmud." He touched Mahmud's face. "Very much so."
Oh, he could have denounced him then and there and the worst that would have happened was a beating and a lecture on the proper behavior of men, but Mahmud did not. He had never felt such a warmth or desire for a woman as he did then for his Prince. He leaned his cheek against Rustad's touch, and was lost in his eyes.
They took to traveling alone, wandering about the kingdom, speaking to the people, visiting the khans. It was there they heard the stories of a Greek trader. He spoke of men called Spartans and how 300 of them held a pass against invaders. Men who loved each other more than brothers. It was a terrifying thought.
"Rustad," he asked that night as they lay in their bedrolls under the desert sky. "Are we, are we as the Spartans?"
"Would that it were so," Rustad responded. Mahmud turned. They gazed at each other without words for a long moment before leaning forward and tentatively touching lips. In time, it would be more, the Greek trader cautiously supplying knowledge that led to further explorations of pleasure.
Who told? A jealous maid, perhaps. Nasir had denounced them in open court before the people. That night, Rustad thrust a bag of gold into Mahmud's hands. "Go! Quickly! On the first tide. I will join you shortly in Agraba."
But Rustad never came, and then came the news of the Prince of Dariyabar executing his own brother.
Sagara rubbed the tears from his eyes. He must be strong. He must remember the rage that led him to change his name, shave head and beard. He must remember the fire in his belly that caused him to seek out the blackest of sorceries. Nasir of Dariyabar would pay for Rustad's death.
But it was hard on a night such as this not to think of night blooming jasmine and silk cushions.
Sagara sank down before the window and opened his robe. He remembered a low voice, and a tender touch. He cupped his hands upon himself as once his lover had cupped him. He remembered, and remembered until Rustad's name left his lips in a strained, harsh cry. He gathered the precious fluid with a cloth and placed it in a jar.
He chanted, his voice shaking with remembered passion as he poured in powders and potions. A dark mass formed in the center of the jar, like a child growing inside a mother's womb. This was no child of love, but a construct of Sagara's hatred and magic. He chanted over it, shaping it into a small, bat winged creature that looked uncannily human. He removed it from the fluid and slapped its back, making it keen like an infant.
He held the androgynous construct to his bare chest and shuddered. By rights, the homanculi he had just created should look like him, but the feeble creature he held his arms had a down of golden hair on its head and the appearance of his lost love, save for a pair of minute horns and a thin, daintily thorn-tipped tail. Sagara did not want to think of that. Sagara sat down, cradling his homanculi. He touched the tip of a small knife to his left nipple, hissing with pain as a drop of blood rose. Like a baby, the homanculi's jaws closed on the nipple and it began to nurse on his blood, growing visibly stronger as it drank. It opened tiny eyes and observed him. Sagara's heart stopped. Its eyes should be red as rubies - but they were blue. It gave a small, squeaking noise.
"What are you?" He whispered. "What have I done?" He stroked it like a baby. He must harden his heart and return to his purpose; Nasir would pay.
(Here Morgiana returned)
"I'm sailing away," Aryan's voice lifted quietly. "I've set an open course for the virgin sea. I've got to free, Free to face the life that's ahead of me. . ."
He leaned back against Cassim's chest with a sigh. It was not a bad cell as cells went. It was stone, yes, but it had a single window slit that looked out into the Sultan's garden. They had cots, a single table with two chairs and fresh straw on the floor. They received two meals a day and were permitted water for the daily ablutions prescribed by the Koran.
"Finish the song, Blackbird," teased Cassim quietly.
"I can't remember any more," Aryan returned.
"I know that's not true," Cassim ran his fingers through Aryan's dark hair.
"On board I'm the Captain," Aryan returned. "So climb aboard We'll search for tomorrow on every shore And we'll try, best as we can To carry on. . ."
A shadow crossed the window. The two men sat up, warily. The Sultan's nephew knelt down and looked in.
"You," he swallowed and began again awkwardly. "You sing very well."
"Thank you, my lord," Aryan gave a half bow.
"I," Trowa sat down in front of the window. "Can I talk to you?"
"We're a captive audience," said Cassim dryly.
Trowa closed his eyes and told the story of the hunt much the way that Karyana had told it to Ash Catti. He told of the pool, the leopard, the attack and the rush of emotions that followed, followed by the consuming fear. Quatre had fled from Taprobene without speaking to Trowa.
"Oh, you poor boy," said Aryan with sympathy. "You've got it bad."
"What do I do?" Trowa asked.
"I wish there were magic words to make it easier for you," said Cassim, "but there are none, especially with the Prince inclined to kill what he doesn't understand."
"You must let Quatre fight this battle with his heart," Aryan came to the window and reached up to pat Trowa's knee. "He's the only one that can do it. Just let him know that he is not alone." Cassim nodded agreement.
Trowa thanked them both and headed back for the palace. Half-way there, he met his uncle.
"Your eyes are very sad, Trowa," the older man patted his shoulder. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"
"No, sir."
"Not even to help me plot a way to break Karyana's engagement to Prince Quatre?" The Sultan laughed at the stunned expression Trowa turned on him. "I'm not so blind an old fool as you think! I know Karyana has eyes for that fine young son of the Prince's Vizier and you. . . ?" He looked deep into his nephew's face. "Yes, so it is as I thought. This is Taprobene, my son. Our wise men and women have long taught us that love wears many faces."
"Sir, I. . . ."
"Your mother ran off with your father and wandered as beggars because my father did not listen when she spoke from the heart about whose face love wore for her," said the Sultan. "I have learned from his mistakes as you will learn from mine."
("But if Trowa and Karyana were beggars, how did the Sultan find them?" demanded Morgiana. "That is another story," said Doctor Sally.)
He turned to go back to the palace. "Come! You have to help me prepare a welcome for Prince Nasir and his son. I believe I know exactly what to do. . ."
Karyana was running. It wasn't a lady-like run, but as much of a full out sprint as her robes would allow. Ash Catti got to her feet, watching as the Lady scattered the other women before her.
"He's," she panted. Her eyes were wide and frightened above her crooked veil. "He's come to a decision! My uncle! He's come to a decision! He's going to pass judgement on Cassim and Aryan as part of his welcoming ceremony for the Prince of Dariyabar!"
"Really?" Ash Catti scowled. "Not without me, he won't. Hold still." She reached into Karyana's hair and slipped out a hairpin. "Now, back to the palace and play your part."
"What are you going to do?"
"The less you know the better," advised Ash Catti. Raising her hands, she voiced a loud and complicated blessing on the Princess. She sat down to wait for the mosque to clear out. The building emptied quickly as the crowd took to the streets to greet the Prince and his son. When all was quiet, Ash Catti used her stolen hair pin to pick the lock. For the first time since her imprisonment, she was glad of her covering robe and veils. It was easy to become just another woman in the crowd. A careless guard, craning to see the Royal procession, lost his dagger. Ash Catti felt better with a weapon in her hands. She maneuvered to the great courtyard before the Palace. The Sultan had brought out a dias and five thrones. He sat as he had in the judgement hall, in the middle throne, Trowa at his right, this time in the same dazzling white robes his uncle wore, his bangs tamed beneath a white turban and Karyana at his left, glittering like a Queen in cloth-of-gold.
The two empty thrones flanked the trio in the middle.
The trumpets sounded. A procession entered the square. The Prince of Taprobene led the way, wearing royal blue and gold with a great sapphire glowing in the center of his turban. He rode a pure Andelusian of polished white. Behind him, sitting a blood bay, was his son, also resplendent in blue and gold. Where the father looked solemn, even grim, the son's eyes were sad. Behind them rode forty proven scarlet clad warriors all on Andelusians of every shade of grey from silver to thundercloud, led by the Vizier Rashid himself - a great mountain of a man whose scowl alone made the curious crowds draw back.
The Sultan stood and held up his hands for silence. "Today we welcome the mighty Prince of Dariyabar to our humble kingdom. We celebrate also the arrival of his son, who we would welcome into our household as another son." The crowd cheered. "If you would sit with us, we would demonstrate to our guests the quality of mercy and justice that we practice here on Taprobene." Prince Nasir sat down next to Trowa, frowning thoughtfully. Quatre climbed the dias and sat down next to Karyana. His smile was gracious, his words to her unheard, but obviously polite for she smiled kindly and offered him her hand. He bowed over before he sat.
"Pretty manners for a pretty boy," she whispered to herself. There was an odd stillness about Trowa's face that caught Catti's eye. She glanced back to where Quatre was refusing to look up from his folded hands. "Karyana knows her brother well, but Prince Quatre?"
The Sultan rose and clapped his hands. The palace guards marched out Aryan and Cassim. They looked a bit pale and worn, but neither abused nor tortured, for which Catti silently gave thanks. She slid closer to the edge of the crowd. Cassim looked over and she saw his eyes widen as he spotted her. She slipped the dagger into her hand.
"Know o Prince," said the Sultan, "that these men are the officers of the dreaded pirate Ash Catti."
"That evil woman!" exclaimed the Prince. "Is she finally dead?"
"Her case has been judged and justice given," was all the Sultan said. "Hear me! Because these men did rescue a shipwrecked victim from the ocean, I said that it was only fair to give a life for a life, but here are two, which life shall be spared."
"Spare Aryan!" yelled Cassim at the top of his lungs.
"No!" cried Aryan, "spare Cassim!"
"Be silent!" ordered the Sultan. "You see my dilemma, o Prince? Here are two men who would die for each other. Here are two men who would rather see the other live than himself. Such men are rare indeed."
The Prince scowled. Ash Catti saw that Quatre had stopped looking at his hands and stared at her friends with a fascinated, frightened look. The look of a man who does not know whether to believe or despair.
"Hear me!" cried the Sultan. "Hear the judgement I place upon these men! I have said that it is only fair to give a life for a life - thus because each would give his life for the other, I spare them both! Set them free!"
The crowds roared. Aryan quite forgot himself and hugged Cassim tightly. Cassim laughed and spun him around. The Prince's face became a thundercloud.
"Wise and just is the ruler of Taprobene!" cried Prince Quatre, rising from his throne.
"What have you done?" shouted the Prince. Quatre hastily sat down. "What have you done? Look at them! Look at those men! They are shameless abominations before Allah! How can you let such filth live among you?"
"Because, unlike you, we do not rejoice in death, o Prince," said the Sultan coldly.
"I will not marry my son to such a perverted household!" screamed the Prince. "Quatre! Get on your horse! Rashid! Send to the Captain of the ship, we will sail as soon as we return to the ship. I will not stay on this accursed island a moment longer! Quatre! Are you coming?"
He stormed down from the dias as the crowd hissed angrily. He tore the bridal of his horse from the groom, startling the beast, who danced and reared.
Prince Nasir snatched a crop from his belt.
"And now, even the dumb beasts feel your wrath?" the oily, sarcastic voice silenced the crowd. Ash Catti gasped, realizing she could not move as Sagara, once more in an all-black robe, oozed up to the Prince. "You spare nothing. You spare no one, not even your own brother."
"What do you know about. . . ." the Prince began.
"Do you remember one who was called Mahmoud?" His eyes glittering feverishly, Sagara held up a small glass bottle.
The Prince's eyes widened. He threw himself on the rearing horse.
"Let the world see the true nature of your heart!" Sagara threw down the bottle. It shattered, sending a noxious cloud boiling up to completely surround the Prince and his terrified mount. The horse's scream was choked off. The cloud cleared.
The Prince of Dariyabar was stone statue upon a stone horse.
Sagara laughed and laughed. The crowd snapped from its paralysis to trample backwards screaming.
Crying his father's name, Quatre ran for the statue. Crying Quatre's name, Trowa was a step behind him. Still laughing, Sagara spun in place, becoming a huge condor that flapped up from the square.
Ash Catti cursed and threw her dagger. She had the satisfaction of clipping the vulture's tail feathers, but that was all. Cassim and Aryan jointed her in the crowd.
Prince Quatre sank to his knees before the statue of his father, weeping. Trowa reached to comfort him, but Quatre slapped his hand away.
"You!" he screamed at him. "This is your doing! Your fault! I wish I had never met you!" He scrambled on to his mare. "I hate you!" he shouted as he spurred away.
"We'd better get out of here," Ash Catti suggested. "What? Arayan!"
The dark haired minstrel came to Trowa's side and spun the young man to face him, still holding his shoulders. "He does not mean it! He's hurt and confused."
"I know," Trowa's voice shook and he leaned into Aryan's embrace. Cassim came over and stood close by. Ash Catti sighed as if she'd been through all this before. The Sultan came through the crowd and stood looking at the new statue.
"This was not what I intended," said the Sultan. "Please, Ash Catti, you have knowledge of magic and strange things. Will you come to the palace and talk? I may be in need of your advice."
Ash Catti sighed. "Of course, your majesty."