“He need not know, Valide,” Salmeo said, softly breaking eye contact and looking down at his fingernails.
“You want to use my son without his knowledge?” she asked, all innuendo gone from her voice.
Salmeo nodded but still kept his gaze trained down. “He need not be in on our plan.”
THE WORD OUR WAS not lost on her. She knew from this moment on her future was tied to that of Salmeo’s. Her grand notion to align herself with Tariq, keeping Salmeo at a more subservient distance, had not unfolded as she had hoped. The Vizier was now Grand Vizier and far more powerful, and he had so cleverly ingratiated himself with her son, it was sickening. Even now she couldn’t quite grasp how it had happened under her nose and with such speed. At the time of the old Zar’s death he had been a sniveling, obsequious adviser with no one’s respect and only her lukewarm patronage to save him. But within weeks of the new Zar being crowned, Tariq had become a changed man who was suddenly interesting, pithy, dry-witted, and downright clever—qualities she had not once previously appreciated in the Vizier. And, damn him, he looked different. Gone was the stooped carriage and all the vulgar adornments he had so favored—jewels in his beard and on his sandals. Now she couldn’t spot a single item that sparkled on his person, and his clothes were no longer ostentatious. He was wearing subtle colors and simple lines, more befitting a man of his status as Grand Vizier. Herezah could swear he now had a roving eye for women, too, something that had never occurred to her before. Tariq had seemed almost sexless in the years gone by and she knew he lived alone, took no women casually, and certainly had no longtime lovers. This much Zar Joreb had confirmed explicitly with her on one of their cozy nights together. But this new Tariq all but flirted with her, winked at some of the serving girls, and, in the rare company of the veiled members of the harem, gave them lingering appreciation.
It was Tariq who was now seemingly closest to the Zar—him and the despised dwarf, of course; how could she overlook Pez? She realized Salmeo was watching her and drew herself back from those thoughts that irritated her so much.
With her next words she knew she was not just aligning herself with Salmeo, but also risking her fragile relationship with her son. “Please explain to me how we shall be able to use my son without his consent,” she said. “But first, I need a fresh brew of my tea. Would you organize it, please, whilst I change out of my silk robe.”
Salmeo gave instructions to a eunuch servant as Herezah disappeared into her sleeping chamber, which led into her dressing rooms. She emerged as Salmeo was dismissing the servant who had laid out fresh crockery.
“You look very lovely, Valide,” the chief eunuch commented.
She nodded, not really needing to be told. It was obvious from her proud bearing that she knew how splendid she appeared today. There was work to do and she needed to be her dazzling best.
“May I pour for you?” Salmeo added.
“Please,” she replied, settling herself by the window, and as she stared into the gardens, she contemplated, not for the first time, how often she stared at the gardens or the sea, as all in the harem did, with inextinguishable longing to be elsewhere.
“We’re all prisoners of this beautiful place,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.
“Privileged prisoners, Valide,” Salmeo commented from behind. He lightly stepped toward Herezah and delicately handed her the tall, exquisite cup, filled with the steaming citrus brew, that stood on an equally beautiful saucer. It was her own design, commissioned by Joreb when she was pronounced wife and Absolute Favorite. Its colors were bold and daring, reflecting Herezah’s personality, Joreb had told her.
She sipped, making a soft sound of pleasure at the warmth. “All servants dismissed?” she checked.
“We are alone, Valide.”
“Then I am all ears, Grand Master Eunuch. Tell me your cunning plan.”
4
The man, hunched like a sack of grain in the chair, stared intently out to sea. Hair, once black as the famous velvet from Shagaire, now curiously golden, blew across his face, unnoticed.
The wind was refreshing rather than cold, for summer had begun to lay its new warmth over the land. Nevertheless the man’s bones seemed to rattle from a constant shivering that had nothing to do with any chill. The goat’s-wool blanket hung loosely from his hollow frame, ignored and as unwanted by the wearer as any other form of comfort that tried its healing qualities but failed. This one wanted to suffer, for in suffering there was life.
The day itself had been sublime, its brightness almost painful on the eyes, but the man’s gaze was distracted neither by the sparkle of the first season’s sun nor the glistening Faranel Sea it lit and ultimately warmed. Instead all focus was riveted on the far distance and the glowing outline of the city of Percheron, blushing fiercely in the late afternoon sunlight. High on the hill that overlooked the magnificent horseshoe-shaped bay was the Stone Palace, and it was to these quiet hallways and chambers that his thoughts fled. And although the twin giants who kept guard over Percheron captured his attention from time to time, as though trying to distract him from the lonely vigil, that gaze was always quickly drawn back to the dominating presence of the Zar’s palace.
“You should move inside now,” the old woman who had limped up urged gently. “And it’s time for your medicine.”
“For whatever good it will do me,” he replied.
Her tone was bitter, though he knew she didn’t mean for it to be. “It’s no good staring toward the palace, Lazar. She cannot see you. She is safe. Let that be enough.”
They both knew that this was simply her opening gambit in an old argument. He bit. “Don’t lecture me, Priestess. At least you can go into the city freely. I am stuck here, as much a prisoner of this leper colony as Ana is of the harem.”
“Well, blame yourself! You took too big a risk and set yourself back moons with a journey you were not well enough to make.” She made a sound of disgust. “Attending Horz’s execution was madness.”
“I needed to get the note to Pez,” he replied, his anger stoking.
“I could have taken the note to Pez. You wanted to see Ana again. What good are you to us if you insist on speeding your own death?”
“My life is my own,” Lazar growled. “It does not belong to you, or anyone!”
“Is that so?” she said haughtily. “You can try to fool us, but I suspect you can’t fool yourself with such hollow words. Your life is already given—she owns it,” she stated, her crooked finger pointing angrily toward the palace in which Ana lived.
Lazar remained silent until Zafira sighed, an action he unconsciously repeated. He knew what she said was true, but he also knew, as well as she, that the stakes of this strange battle they were now engaged in were high, and in truth, risks were all they had to choose from.
“I shall be in shortly,” he finally replied.
“Let me help you.”
“No. I will manage.”
“Lazar, you must forget her,” she cautioned softly. “I suspect—”
“Just a few more minutes, Zafira,” he said, cutting off her words.
He didn’t deny that it was the sad memory of the loss of a woman that was so destructive to his healing, and yet he knew that it was because of that very woman that Lazar still lived, still bothered to wake each day and breathe, to eat, to hobble around keeping his limbs supple, if not strong. It was so ironic. Opposing emotions pulling him apart, both good and bad for his health.
He had pretended—even to himself—that the perilous trip into the city was to let Pez know that he lived and to summon the dwarf to come to Star Island immediately. This was his pretext for slipping away from Zafira, risking his life just hours after being revived from the unconsciousness that had followed the flogging and poison. He and the priestess had argued bitterly over it because it was true, he was not nearly strong enough to make the journey across the water. His true motive, of course, was to have that one final glimpse of the Odalisque Ana. And that effort had nearly t
aken what little life he had had left.
He had barely clung to existence after the poisoning from the whip that opened his back so badly. Blood loss, drezden poison, and a deep sorrow all conspired to kill him. But love had sustained him. He had held on to life because it might mean he would see her once more. And so he had fought death these past eleven moons, fought it so hard he was left a living wreck—but a wreck with a legacy.
Lazar now understood that the drezden brought with all its evil intention a dark gift—it tried to kill him but it was also the one thing that could continue to save him…but at a price. The curious woman known as Ellyana had warned him that the legacy would exact its debt.
“It will stay with you forever,” she had counseled when he was sufficiently recovered to focus on words, and on living. “It will lie dormant within you and then like a sickness curse you all over again on a whim.”
“What is my warning? How will I know when it comes?” he had asked, when he was strong enough, his throat raspy from having gone so long without speaking.
“You won’t. It simply attacks when it chooses.”
“And how can Lazar protect himself then?” Zafira had asked on his behalf.
“With the drezden itself. You must always carry a vial of it with you. Put a drop of the concentrated poison on your finger—no more than a single drop, mind—and put that on your tongue. It will take some hours, but it will restore you.”
“But it hasn’t restored me on this occasion.”
“Lazar, you were as good as dead from the whipping alone. I defy any physician to have brought you back from the brink of the abyss with their modern potions and notions. Trust me. If you were at the palace or under the care of the male doctors, you would have been given up to your god. Drezden saved you. It will again, and much faster now that your body can cope with it, but only—” She stopped, shrugged.
“For a while,” Lazar finished what Ellyana had not said.
The woman had simply nodded. Not long after, she had disappeared.
Lazar returned his thoughts to the present, realizing that the priestess had remained standing beside him. He needed a few more minutes alone. “Please, Zafira.”
His plea must have reminded her that he needed encouragement, not recrimination, because she sighed again. “You are mending, Spur. I have been hard on you, perhaps not as honest as I should be. I know you feel weak but your back is healed and I’ve watched you exercising. I see you have some strength back.” He nodded, remained silent. “Allow yourself to be well. The medicine can only do so much. Now it’s up to you.”
“I realize this. Now please, just a few more moments.”
Even he heard the plaintive note in his voice. The old woman shook her head. She turned to hobble away toward the small hut that served as home nowadays and Lazar noticed how she winced. He suspected it was the same snag of pain in her hip that she’d mentioned occasionally but no doubt constantly reminded her she was well past her best years. He wondered if any of them was up to whatever this challenge was that lay ahead—a dwarf, an imprisoned odalisque, a wizened priestess, and him, not much better than a cripple himself.
ANA BOWED LOW AND gracefully. “You wished to see me, Valide?”
“I did, child. Come, walk with me in the courtyard. This mild weather is too delicious to waste,” Herezah replied, noting with surprise how different Ana appeared since she had last paid her any close scrutiny. Herezah detested the girl so much she had deliberately ignored her, had in fact had so little to do with the girls these most recent moons that she had allowed Ana—and no doubt some of the older odalisques—to suddenly blossom into womanhood without her noticing. That was a mistake and most unlike her, but she had been strongly affected by Lazar’s death and hadn’t taken much interest in much at all these last ten moons. For all her outward goading of the Spur, her public rebukes, and the hardships she could force upon him, he had been the one man over her lonely lifetime who had made made her otherwise cold heart burn. She had never loved Zar Joreb, but she had admired and enjoyed him—and without his favor she shuddered to imagine what would have become of her. In truth, love was something she had never experienced, so whether she loved Lazar she could not say. But did her lust overflow for him? Yes! She had never wanted any other man with that kind of intense passion, but he had ignored her advances, denied her even simple pleasures—a kind word, a smile. And since Ana had arrived in their lives, his polite shunning of Herezah had crystallized into hatred, she was sure of it. He despised her for denying him access to Ana. And still, after all this time, Herezah’s heart could jump at the mention of his name, could ache when she allowed herself space and time to think about his loss. And so, very unwisely, amidst her most private sorrow and her desire to improve her relationship with her son, she had permitted the harem, her seat of power, to essentially function without her closest supervision. As she watched Ana approach she realized the price of her error. It wasn’t too late, though: striking woman or not, Ana was still just an odalisque and very much under the Valide’s law.
“And how are you, my dear?” Herezah asked, not at all interested but keen to appear as friendly as possible.
“I am well, Valide, thank you,” Ana answered as she followed Herezah into the small, private garden.
“Come and stand in the light, Ana, so that I may look at you,” Herezah suggested. She watched the girl glide toward the column of sunlight that cut through the cypress pines and warmed the stone flagstones beneath her sandals. She felt instant envy at the way the girl’s hair blazed brightly beneath the golden rays, glinting as she moved her head, clearly ignorant of the effect it had on an onlooker, particularly a male one. “You have changed, Ana.”
“How so, Valide?” Ana asked politely.
Herezah considered. “You are taller, you have a good eye for costume, I see, and you are fuller of figure, too—which is a good thing, for you were on the narrow side.”
“I try not to eat too many of the sweet dishes that the kitchens tempt us with, Valide,” Ana replied.
“I don’t think you have to worry too much, my dear. At your age I could eat a camel for a snack and not put on so much as a sheld. It’s after childbirth that you have to observe new eating habits. You wouldn’t have been acquainted with the old Zar’s harem.”
“It was disbanded just prior to my arrival.”
“Well, you’d have seen a line of fat women waddling out of the palace, I assure you,” Herezah said, more viciously than she had intended.
Ana remained frustratingly serene under Herezah’s gaze. “I was once told that roundness of body meant prosperity, Valide.”
Herezah blinked in irritation. The girl was far too forward in presenting her own thoughts. “That may well be, Ana,” she said sharply, “but no Zar is going to choose a corpulent woman over one whose body is voluptuous but still trim.”
It was as if Ana ignored the Valide’s comment. “I was also told that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Valide. Perhaps each Zar has different ideas of what is attractive in a woman. Zar Boaz may find a woman’s mind beautiful and not lay so much store by her figure.”
Herezah couldn’t stifle the gasp of indignation that escaped her.
Ana realized her error. “Forgive me, Valide. I meant no offense. I am merely posing an idea.”
“You offer your private thoughts too easily, Ana, for one so young.”
“I apologize, Valide Herezah,” Ana tried again, this time going to her knees. “I am trying to teach myself not to.”
Herezah looked at the kneeling figure and it was as though she were looking at herself fifteen years earlier. Elegant, head-strong, beautiful on the outside, and a sharp intelligence held within. Herezah remembered how the fire of ambition had burned so brightly inwardly—that was all that had gotten her through the years of destructive boredom. But ambition did not burn in this girl, she deduced. It was something completely different and yet still it gave off the similar heat, simmering constantly but invisib
ly.
“What is it that you want?” Herezah said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Ana looked up in surprise. “I want nothing, Valide. I just want to be,” she answered.
Herezah again felt the twitch of exasperation. “To be? Whatever does that mean?”
Ana shrugged. “Pardon me, but I’m just not sure how to put my feelings into words.”
“You say you want nothing,” Herezah repeated, clutching at the only thing Ana had said that made sense, “and yet you have all the girls in the harem eating out of your palm.”
Again Ana looked down and Herezah knew the girl understood. “It is not from choice, Valide. I do not encourage it.”
“And still it happens, Ana. Are you dangerous for the harem? You may stand.”
Ana rose in a fluid movement and once again Herezah was struck by the golden beauty and grace of this young woman. She looked ripe for the plucking, as the Grand Master Eunuch had observed. He was right; Boaz could be unwittingly used to bring this threat to Herezah’s status to an end.
“Dangerous?” Ana repeated.
“Your innocence is always convincing, Ana, but it does not fool me,” Herezah commented, carefully covering her rancor with a soft tone, as though she were merely making an observation rather than an accusation. “It will serve you well. I’m sure the Zar will love it.”
Now Ana dared to raise her depthless green eyes and regard the Valide, her gaze serious. Herezah felt impaled by the stare.
She affected a coy laugh as if embarrassed. “Oh, surely you realize that my son will want to bed you soon, Ana?” Not all of the mockery in her tone was disguised. She wanted Ana to hear it. “And I for one will be delighted when he takes his first virgin between his sheets,” she continued.
Ana opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly at a loss for words. Herezah smiled inwardly. This was where she wanted the girl—unsure, hesitant.
“Anyway, let’s not talk about that,” she said in a more friendly manner, waving away the previous conversation. “I brought you here today to discuss Zar Boaz’s picnic for the harem.”
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