Tucking the skirts of her robe around her shins, she watched the couple help each other with their tasks, content to be in their simple home. She had known them since she had stumbled upon their shelter as a small child out riding with her father. The emperor and his young daughter had been parted from their guards and companions during a rare rainstorm. The couple had welcomed the grand strangers, and shared tea with them by their fireplace. The young Elishiba had delighted in the couple and the goats they reared.
Her father, Ramsis, was a ruler who appreciated the most humble and heartfelt gestures of all his subjects. He knew that wisdom and loyalty could be found more easily among the modest than the mighty, and Elishiba had followed suit. At least once during the thirty day moon cycle she would ride up to visit the shepherd and his wife, bringing them wine, fruits, and leavened bread from the city.
She watched as Fahima took some precious jasmine leaves from a carved box and sprinkled them into a metal pot, which she handed to her husband. The young kid followed her, bumping against her legs as she went. Basim filled the pot with water from a jug and latched it over a hook, which he swung over the lighted fire, before pulling two more stools closer toward its hearth.
"He is a headstrong young fool, this one,” Fahima chuckled, lifting the restless goat between her capable hands and gesturing with him. “He butted his mother until she would have no more of him and we had to bring him in here instead.” Fahima rested the jittery kid down by Elishiba's side, and she fondled the creature, which nuzzled up to her in return.
Fahima brought dishes to the fireside and then settled beside them. “Tell us, how is your father? We have heard little news of him."
Elishiba shook her head. “It is not something we wish spread to our enemies, so we speak little of it. I'm afraid his health continues to weaken. I was hoping he would be able to travel with me to Karseedia, and to stay while I negotiate, at least for a while. But he will remain in Aleem when I leave."
"We did not expect to see you at all,” Basim said.
"I had to come, to say goodbye.” Elishiba hurried on, but noticed the tears glistening in Fahima's eyes. It made her heart stronger though, for it was for people like this for whom she made her quest. “I will ensure that someone calls on you from the city, as I have, but this will be my last visit, at least for some time."
Fahima wrung her hands. “Karseedia is a treacherous country, my Empress, a place ruled through evil and wrongdoing—it will be our saddest day when you go there."
"What you say about Karseedia is true,” Elishiba agreed, with a soft laugh. “But there are worse threats further afield, and we must strengthen Aleem in defense against them.” Her thoughts turned briefly to the many half-made plans she harbored, plans of gaining security for her people, without sacrifice.
"This union between you and the Emperor Hanrah,” Basim ventured, his eyes watchful. “It is something that was first spoken of when you were just a child."
Elishiba nodded. “Oh yes, my father and the Emperor of Karseedia considered the implications of such an alliance, but so many lives had been lost on the battlefield. The wounds were still fresh. The match was unpopular with the people on both sides, and it was never promised."
"So why is it that you must go now, Mistress Elishiba?” Fahima asked, impatiently.
"It is not without a great deal of thought that I have come to this decision.” Elishiba accepted a dish of tea from Fahima's hand. “It seemed at first the only way to ensure negotiations move forward, on relatively friendly ground. Although I think ... I hope,” she glanced at them, “that there may be other ways to resolve the situation. I promise you, I will find the best way forward, for us all.” She sipped the warm, fragrant liquid and nodded appreciatively at Fahima.
Fahima sighed. “I do not want you to marry this man."
Elishiba smiled at her simple statement. “You should understand that I renewed consideration of the match myself. It was a matter of necessity. Aleem has always been vulnerable; our place on the trade routes has deemed it so."
She shrugged lightly before she continued. “Allying ourselves with an enemy we have the measure of is the more sensible thing to do. The envoys of Karseedia informed us they would not enter into further discussions on the matter, without some grand gesture on our part, some ... sacrifice.” She rested the dish down on the floor.
"My father did not encourage it, but he understands why I have chosen this path, and he respects my efforts. A little while ago, he began communication with the new Emperor of Karseedia, Hanrah. The union has been agreed. In the passage of a few moons the escort party will arrive to take me there. Once arrived, I will begin to assert my own demands, in earnest."
Elishiba noticed it was easier to be strong and focused when she was in the city, living her sophisticated, decadent court life, surrounded by her followers and with Aleem's elite army, the Immortals, nearby. Away from there she had to be braver, but she still had to face it. This is what life would soon be like all the time—full of doubt and not a little fear. Leave her home, she must. Fight, she must. Besides, Fahima and Basim were as much part of Aleem as they all were, and she had vowed to find a way to draw a protective shield over the land and people she and her Father governed.
"If you must marry this man, will you ever be able to return to your homeland?” Fahima asked, with a note of reluctance, as if she did not even want to voice the question.
Elishiba nodded. “If the union takes place—although it is my will to find another way, if it is possible—I will have it written in the contracts that I shall be able to govern Aleem, as before—and alone. I will travel back and forth, if necessary."
In her heart of hearts, Elishiba knew that another way had to be found. If the pact were sealed by marriage, she would be bound to Karseedia forever. Marriage, to a man she did not know, who came from a long line of power-hungry warmongers—if she thought on it for too long, her belly tensed. But no matter how difficult, if it were the only way to protect her people, she would do it.
The wind wailed outside, rattling the door on its hinges, and a somber silence descended over them. The young goat leapt to its feet as if it, too, had been listening and butted up against Elishiba, making her heart soften. She smiled and fondled the soft locks beginning to sprout around its ears. “If the gods are willing, I will be back in my homeland before this little one is full grown."
She turned back to Basim and Fahima. “How many trips have you taken to the Souk these past weeks, Basim?” The conversation turned to the more everyday news they shared on her visits, Elishiba secretly treasuring each moment in their company. Her will was fiercely strong, but she knew her promise to them wasn't built on the certain knowledge of what might actually transpire. She could only guess what lay ahead. They must be prepared for everything and anything.
When the winds died down, she took her leave of the couple, drawing her headdress low on her brow and across her face to hide her identity. Her father and others at the palace thought she shouldn't travel alone this way, and she didn't wish to draw attention to herself. She untied Fidda's reins, glancing toward the distant outline of the city.
Dust hung in a gray pall around the outer walls, beginning to settle. Mercifully, it had been a shallow windstorm, after all, but it would wreak havoc enough among her beloved people. She mounted up, setting off as quickly as Fidda could negotiate the path, praying to the gods.
"How I wish I could protect my people from the insidious dust, and from every other foe and tribulation that exists,” she said to Fidda, her hand tangled in his silver mane. The horse whinnied, tossing his head left and right.
As she stroked him and reiterated the prayer, a massive peal of thunder rolled across the skies and a flash of light broke through the darkness. She started, her hand lifting to shield her face. The gray sky illuminated strangely from within, and the clouds opened. Soft rain began to patter around her, splashing onto the rocks, cleaning the dust from their surfaces. Relief seeped in
to Elishiba's bones.
Fidda lifted his head, enthusiastically snorting the fresher air. She urged the horse on, faster, thanking the gods of the elements for hearing her prayers. Sometimes Elishiba's faith in the gods waned, but in that moment she almost believed she had the power to make them hear her words. She smiled to herself, wishing it were true. “A power such as that I could surely use,” she murmured.
Good fortune had been theirs and one danger, at least, had been averted. The dust would soon be mud on the ground. The people would be brushing it from the streets by the time she reached Suzin.
"If only my enemies were wished away so easily,” she reflected, with a wry laugh.
* * * *
Mehmet, the dowager Empress of Karseedia, glanced around the palace corridor to check she was not being observed, then stepped closer to the ornately carved wooden panels gracing the wall at this spot. The panel hiding the secret passageway she sought bore the image of a learned man with a book in one hand, holding a torch aloft in the other. She flattened her palm against the carved torch. The panel opened and she quickly stepped inside, pulling her heavy silken robes after her.
When the panel shut behind her, she blinked until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the concealed passageway, scowling as she did do. Something was going on in the palace, something involving her son, Hanrah, something that was not of her bidding. It turned her mood sour at the very time they should be celebrating Aleem's forthcoming surrender to their greater power. She wanted this intrusive problem stopped and obliterated, even if she had to see to it herself.
She settled her small lamp into a wall-mounted sconce and then traced her hand along the rough stone wall as she hurried along the passageway, barely pausing to lift her expensive robes to protect them from being torn or stained—such was her rush. The faint sound of water dripping and her soft leather slippers scuffing over the cobblestones were the only audible sound in the dark, narrow space. The lamp behind her shed only the smallest speck of light to guide her. She knew this passage well, though, for it was one of many well-hidden secret observation points that networked the royal palace in Lhastari. As always, the place smelled musty from a leak where the secret passageways intersected with the palace water supply, but she left it unfixed rather than reveal the hidden network to the servants.
Her hand brushed up against a jutting outcrop of rock, dank and slime-covered. It indicated she had reached the place. Her fingers sought the loose stone, and removed it. Standing on tiptoe, she stepped forward and leaned into the viewing niche. Her chin rested on the damp stone as she moved close to the small peephole.
She refocused her vision, for the brighter light within the chamber below was at odds with the gloomy passageway. Focusing on the drapery of the heavily embroidered wall hangings that bedecked her son's bedchamber, her gaze followed them down, leading her to the sight of a cluster of limbs on the bed itself.
Even though she had half expected this when she'd observed her son, Hanrah, and his longing glances at the youth, she ground her teeth in annoyance. Hanrah was there, in his luxurious private chambers, cavorting with the nubile, a mere slave.
"Blind fool,” she whispered to herself, between gritted teeth. “What possesses you to be so unwise, my son?"
The two lithe bodies were entirely naked, and rolled together in an urgent rhythm against the fine, imported cotton bed coverings. No place for a slave. The slave boy's face contorted in ecstasy, his arms stretched back, his fingers clutching at the curtain that hung behind him while he watched his Emperor pleasuring him.
Mehmet seethed.
Hanrah was bent over the slave, devouring the youth's manhood with a hungry mouth, his head bobbing, and his hands working on his own stiff organ all the while.
Mehmet's blood began to boil, undiluted rage pumping through her veins. Her hand clutched at the loose rock as if to crush it, her mouth twitching in anger and frustration at the sight of her son, the ruler of Karseedia—and the future ruler of much more, if she had her way—on his knees in front of a mere slave, pleasuring him like a courtesan. She had to keep her lips tightly closed in order to contain the urge to scream down at him from her current viewing point, that wretched boy. He had no clue how to act like a ruler, even though she had instructed him often enough. Worse of all, this behavior seemed to be a recurrent pattern. His desire lay with scrawny males, while his half-brothers rutted their courtesans and created offspring as a daily event. Meanwhile, her security and power was threatened by her son's unwillingness to plant his seed in a fertile bed.
She heard the slave boy's loud, frantic moans as he reached climax—closely followed by her son's gleeful laughter—as she moved away, slotting the stone back into place. This had to be over, and now.
Charging back along the corridor, and through the palace, she marched in upon the two of them shortly afterwards. The slave boy was strewn across the bed, still naked, his eyes shut in reverie. Her son lolled against him, idly stroking and toying with him a while longer, his expression sickly with adoration. Her hands fisted at her sides at the very sight of it.
At the sound of the door crashing closed behind her, Hanrah turned his head in response. Caught in the act by his mother empress, his expression altered immediately to one of complete fright. He leapt off the bed, staggering down the marble steps that led up to it, his thick hair awry.
Mehmet took pleasure at his fearful reaction, assured by it of the strength of her hold on her son. This was no time to lose her grip on him, and she had no intention of doing so. The slave's death would prove that to Hanrah.
The slave sat upright, and seeing that it was Mehmet herself standing there, his eyes opened so wide they were in danger of falling out of their sockets. He leapt from the bed and darted down the steps to the ground, prostrating himself on the stone-flagged floor before her, arms outstretched, legs folded under him, his limbs shaking with fear. A mumbled torrent of allegiances and apologies spilled from his mouth.
"Guards!” Mehmet screamed.
"Mother, no.” Hanrah shook his head vehemently.
The slave's glance shot to Hanrah, concern spilling from him. Hanrah lifted a hand in his direction; frightened for the life of the slave he had polluted himself with so readily.
Rightly so. Mehmet gave an accusing cackle. “Oh, yes. It is too late to protect your dirty little secret. We must have the guards deal with him.” She walked toward Hanrah, collecting a robe on the way over to him. She threw it at his feet. “Cover yourself."
Hanrah ignored the robe, quickly stepping between his mother and the slave.
Mehmet noticed the gleam of defiance in his eyes. Her son, usually meek and pathetic, was reacting. He truly was willing to protect this one. Interesting. Had his spirit finally been stirred?
Guards entered the room behind them. Mehmet smiled at her son.
Hanrah's eyes flickered as he glanced at the guards and then back to her. He opened his arms, obscuring the youth on the floor from her sight. “They will have to kill me first,” he declared.
Mehmet widened her eyes, her tone sardonic. “Such bravery, my boy. If only it were aroused for the sake of something worth winning ... such as the treasures of Aleem."
Hanrah's gaze dropped and he looked sheepish, but still he didn't drop his arms.
"Empress?” queried a guard behind her.
Mehmet lifted a hand in acknowledgment and then directed her attention to the cowering youth. Perhaps this was not the right time. It would be a shame to destroy this novel air of defiance her offspring suddenly had about him. She would deal with the slave later, privately, and take great pleasure in doing so.
"Go to your quarters,” Mehmet hissed at the shivering boy on the floor, “or I will order your execution, right here and right now."
Unsure, the slave slowly drew himself up to his feet, his hands covering his genitals while he cowered behind Hanrah, clearly terrified to make the wrong move.
"Kazeen ... run!"Hanrahwhisperedurgentlyoverhi
sshoulder, his expression fear filled. “Go, Kazeen, go,” he added, and nodded quickly, indicating the slave should indeed take his leave.
The slave paused and looked longingly at Hanrah, as if afraid to leave him.
Mehmet growled at him.
He needed no more encouragement to make his escape, not even pausing to gather his clothing before he headed for the door at great speed, one hand still covering his genitals, the other lifted as if to shield himself from the watching guards. When the door clattered closed behind him, Mehmet dismissed the guard with a flutter of her hand and no further instruction.
The door closed again, this time with quiet respect rather than a panicked bang. Mehmet stepped closer to Hanrah and tugged on a stray lock of his tousled hair, drawing him around to face her.
Relief flooded his expression.
Mehmet suppressed a smile. “My darling son, the pride of my life.” She kept her voice low, and stroked her hand gently over his cheek. Hope flickered across his eyes. Oh, how that grated on her nerves. He should know, instinctively, what she wanted from him: loyalty, bravery, and an heir to secure their position.
She snapped her hand away only to came crashing back down, delivering a viscious slap to his face.
"Yow,” he cried, his hand nursing his cheek, his mouth pursed into a pout—decidedly childish for a man in his twentieth year.
A sense of pleasure flared inside her. Inflicting pain did that for her. “Wretched boy,” she snarled. “Do I have to remind you that your four younger brothers snarl at your heels like hungry dogs, eager to take your place as emperor?"
He shook his head, his gaze on the floor. The robe she had thrown at him still lay at his feet.
"How is it that your father was one of the most powerful men ever to ride across a battlefield, a man who set fear into everyone he met, and yet you are not fit to be his offspring and carry his line forward?” She glanced down at his flaccid manhood, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. Power was certainly not coming via that route, no.
Hanrah hung his head in shame at her words and their inplication.
Unveiling the Sorceress Page 2
