Casket of Brass

by Ross, Deborah J.

  The rose vines quivered, releasing a burst of scent. The statue took a deep, shuddering breath.

  Maridah scrambled to her feet.

  The statue took another unmistakable breath... and groaned. Maridah’s alarm vanished at the piteous sound. Moving closer, she saw a tear slip down the statue’s cheek.

  The statue looked at Maridah. The eyes were creamy, unmarked by any color, not even a pupil. Their blankness gave the statue a quizzical expression, as if it were astonished to find someone else in its private garden.

  Maridah opened her mouth, but before she could draw breath, the statue spoke.

  “Know, O Princess of a noble race, that I was once as you are. As you will soon become.” The statue blinked and two more tears dripped down its face.

  This was such an extraordinary way of beginning a conversation, even in the flowery language used at court, and even in a place as full of magic as this garden, that Maridah could only stand and gape. Her mind bubbled with the tales she’d loved as a child, of spells woven and broken, dragons slain, evil djinni defeated, sorcerers challenged.

  “Are you under an enchantment?” she ventured. “Can I — is there some way you can be freed?”

  “Not until the seas run dry and the last dragon falls from the heavens.” The statue raised its hands and let them fall, as if hope were too great a burden. “She who is my torment and my delight is as ageless as the sky.”

  The frosted-glass ceiling darkened, as if a shadow had suddenly swept in front of the invisible light source. The garden turned chill.

  The statue glanced upward, its beautiful face distorted with anguish. It flung one arm over its face and cried like a stricken deer.

  “What is it?”

  “The hour of my punishment — Ah! Not yet!”

  The light steadied as the shadow passed.

  “For a hundred years,” the statue said, regaining its composure, “a great sorceress of old, she who carried me off on my wedding night and imprisoned me in this manner, has visited me daily. She laughs as her scorpions dig out my heart.”

  “Oh, how terrible!” Maridah exclaimed. “This sorceress must be wicked, indeed! Why would she do such a thing? What does she desire of it, beyond to see you in agony?”

  The statue threw his head back. Shudders rippled through his graceful, muscled torso. “Ah! Will I never be free of her?”

  Maridah let the question go unanswered, for she began to suspect that if this statue was indeed all that was left of a young bridegroom, he was no longer entirely sane. Tales rose to her memory, poems exalting forbidden liaisons and jealous lovers.

  “Perhaps,” she said in a calmer tone, “there is something this sorceress wants. She didn’t by any chance object to your choice of bride?”

  “I’ve done nothing, I tell you — nothing!” He broke off as the garden shivered as if seized by a sudden gale. “Quickly, you must depart or be trapped here with me! Remember me when you think upon your own fate!”

  My own — Was she, too, in danger of some evil enchantment?

  The light in the garden dimmed again. A blast of cold air buffeted Maridah, almost knocking her off her feet. She stumbled backward under its impact. Her eyes watered, tears blurred her vision, and her long hair, freed from its scholar’s knot, blew across her face.

  The next moment, the wind was gone as if it had never existed. The dome overhead brightened slowly and steadily. Around her, the garden lay as eerily still as before. The statue, too, was motionless, frozen in the same attitude in which she had first seen it. Beautiful as it was, it now seemed cold and sterile, all emotion fled along with its semblance of life.

  Beyond the statue, in the far wall of the garden, a door opened. Blue and silver light silhouetted the figure that stood there.

  One of Maridah’s hands went automatically to her dagger. The hilt felt hot, as it did when Grandmother worked her enchantments. She faced the figure squarely. It was unmistakably female, dressed in a loose, gauzy robe that did not disguise the slender waist, strong legs, and full breasts. In one hand, the woman carried a long staff set with crystals.

  The woman moved into the garden, bringing with her the scents of sandalwood and copper. As she approached, the overhead light fell upon her features. Clear dark eyes regarded Maridah from a face as unwrinkled and golden as her own. Rose-petal lips curved into a smile.

  “Zunayna’s grand-daughter! What a pleasure to see you!” The voice was sweet and light, untroubled.

  The sorceress, smiling more broadly at Maridah’s expression of shock, turned briefly to the statue and gestured with her staff. The statue began writhing, as if in unspeakable agony, but no sounds issued from its mouth.

  “Sit by me,” the sorceress said, leading the way to a bench. “Tell me how you found my garden.”

  Maridah followed a pace behind, but would not sit. “Why should I not strike off your head for your evil ways!”

  “‘Evil ways’?” One slender eyebrow arched upward. The sorceress appeared to be trying not to laugh.

  Glaring, Maridah tightened her grip on her dagger. “You compound your own wickedness by mocking the suffering of your victim.”

  “Which story did he tell you, I wonder? The curse of the three brothers? Or the punishment for disturbing the tomb of the ancient king of the river?”

  Suddenly feeling very foolish, Maridah admitted, “He said you carried him off on his wedding night.”

  The sorceress looked pleased. “He’s making good progress. As you see.”

  The statue was still moving, eyes closed, body twisting and undulating, arms moving as if to music. For a moment, Maridah imagined a smile playing across the stone lips.

  “What you see,” the sorceress said after a moment, “has all the appearance of a man being turned into stone, but is in fact quite the opposite, as are so many things in the world. This virtuous stone is learning how to be a man, to experience a man’s longing and passions, to live a man’s history. He undertakes this of his own desire.”

  Maridah wondered what virtue a stone could have, or why it would want to undergo the transformation into mortality. “So the tale he told me — is not true?”

  The sorceress pursed her lips, as if considering the nature of truth. “It is a thing that may come to pass, or not. I cannot tell.”

  Maridah lowered herself to the bench beside the sorceress. “I do not know what to think. I suspected his tale, but I thought you might be a spurned lover bent on revenge.”

  Merriment rang out like the sparkling of the tiny crystals in the sorceress’s staff. “I should not laugh at you, my dear. It is not your fault if your head has been so filled with such romantic stuff, that you cannot tell one illusion from another.”

  Maridah felt unreasonably irritated. She ought not to be wasting time in conversation, when her uncle and his men might be hard on her heels.

  “You are as safe here as anywhere,” the sorceress reassured her. “Zunayna — who was my student, in case you ask — would not have sent you to me otherwise.”

  “My uncle, the Regent, wants to seize the throne. Or rule through my cousin, which amounts to the same thing.”

  Again, that arch of eyebrow and fleeting smile. “I suppose it does.”

  “You say that as if it does not matter!” Maridah made no attempt to rein in her temper. “Why would Grandmother have me safeguard the contents of the brass casket if she did not fear what my uncle would do with them?”

  All trace of amusement vanished from the features of the sorceress. “The brass casket? You have taken what lies within?”

  Maridah scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. Had she escaped the schemes of her uncle, only to fall into the hands of someone far more ambitious and dangerous? She could not best this slight, young-looking woman, even if she had a dozen spears and scimitars instead of one small dagger. Nor would escape be easy.

  Perhaps one of the enchanted toys... The horse, to carry her far away... back to Samarkhand. To lose herself once again in
books and stories...

  “Beware, my child, for the world is far stranger than anything your professors dreamed of!” With deliberate care, the sorceress laid her staff on the pavement. “I do not expect you to believe me, but I have no desire for what you carry in the pockets of your scholar’s robes. I have enough magical troubles without seeking out more. For the sake of your grandmother and the love I will always bear her, I will help you.”

  Caught between anger and confusion, Maridah forced herself to consider her situation. She could escape from the garden on her own... and the sorceress had known her grandmother’s name... and the statue was now swaying gently, head tilted back and to one side, a hint of color across his torso and cheeks. He certainly did not look as he were in pain, quite the opposite.

  “I will show them to you, but if you attempt to seize or even touch them, I will use this.” Maridah brandished her dagger.

  The sorceress managed not to smile.

  The ball had gone dark, all its brilliance extinguished, but the top hummed slightly as Maridah placed it on the bench. She set the horse down on its wooden wheels. The wand was still wrapped in her second-best handkerchief.

  The sorceress bent over the toys but made no attempt to touch them. “The ball was bespelled to shed its light upon that which is hidden, but I do not think you will be able to use it in that way a second time. This top, when sent spinning, will turn you around to the place to which you least desire to return.”

  Something in the sorceress’s tone, her confidence, her turn of phrase, reminded Maridah so strongly of her grandmother that she no longer doubted the two had known one another.

  “This fine little steed, on the other hand, will take you far away, but only if it is your heart’s true desire.” Dark eyes regarded Maridah levelly, as if cautioning her to use great care in exercising that desire.

  “What have we here?” The sorceress pointed to the wrapped bundle.

  Being careful not to touch it with her bare fingers, Maridah unwrapped the wand. “I think this is what my uncle is searching for, “what my grandmother wanted me to keep safe from him.”

  “To she who holds it rightly, it grants the power to keep the city safe and prosperous. Certainly, your uncle cannot use it. And it seems you do not wish to.”

  “It seems I must take it up,” Maridah said wearily. If she had truly wanted to rule, as her grandmother had, as her mother might have, would the wand have stung her with sparks? Or would the pain have paled as a small price for her heart’s desire?

  Maridah rewrapped the wand and settled it in her pocket. The ball followed.

  “Yes, that seems as good a use for your handkerchief as any,” the sorceress replied obliquely. “But the question is, will you then choose the top to spin you back to the palace, or the horse to carry you to Samarkhand?”

  Maridah picked up the top and the horse, one in each hand, weighing them.

  “I will carry you,” the horse sang in her mind,

  “Wherever you truly wish to go,

  To master me, you must first master your heart.”

  When she looked up, the sorceress was gone. An empty dais stood where the statue had once been. All about her, rose petals drifted to the ground. Little currents of air carried their sweet, quickly fading scent.

  She put one of the objects in her pocket, folded her hands around the other, closed her eyes, and wished...

  o0o

  ...and found herself in the grand audience chamber of the palace, surrounded by courtiers and facing the empty throne. She stood on the intricate mosaic floor, depicting the city, the royal lineage, and the power of the heavens. To her surprise, she noticed a little horse, a ball, and a top, nestled among the heroic figures. Almost immediately, cries of surprise filled the chamber. Someone shouted for order.

  “It is Lady Maridah, come back to us!”

  For an instant, Maridah saw herself reflected in their astonishment, her hair wild and loose about her shoulders, wearing a scholar’s gown, hardly suitable attire for such a place. The courtiers shimmered in their silks and jewels. Some she remembered from her time at court before Samarkhand, but others were strangers. Something was subtly wrong. She saw no trace of mourning, which meant Grandmother must still be alive. Surely the steward who had greeted her upon her return had not been so white of beard, nor so frail.

  “My uncle!” she called. “Where is Yussuf the Regent?”

  The courtiers and nobles drew back. A man rose from the chair to the left of the throne. At first, Maridah did not recognize him, he seemed so thin and somber, so worn with care. Beneath the robe of gray-figured silk and the heavy gold-link collar, his body seemed to have shrunk. The bones of his skull stood out, and his skin had turned sallow, his eyes red-rimmed.

  From the other side of the throne, a woman emerged to stand at his side. She, too, was dressed in silks of muted hue. She wore no jewelry except a coronet bearing a single blue topaz. When her gaze lit upon Maridah, her countenance brightened. She moved forward, smiling.

  “Maridah! Returned to us after all these years!” Hadidjah seized Maridah’s hands and kissed them formally. “I never believed you were dead. You look so young, not a hair different from the day you disappeared! Have you freed yourself from an evil enchantment? Is that how you have come back to us?”

  “I — I don’t understand.” Maridah’s thoughts whirled. “I have been gone no more than an hour or two. Is Grandmother still among us? Is that why no one is in mourning?”

  “Come, my niece,” Yussuf said, holding out one hand to her. “Let us speak of these things in private.”

  “Let us speak of them right now!” Maridah shot back. She had not returned to put herself in his power. “Right here!”

  Yussuf and his daughter exchanged glances. Yussuf gestured to a man wearing the sash of a chief vizier. “Clear the chamber! And let no one speak of what has just happened.”

  Immediately, the guards who stood at the entrance escorted the courtiers from the room. When they were alone, Yussuf said, “It has been five years since Zunayna of the Blessed Memory departed our midst, and five years since you yourself vanished.”

  Five years! How was that possible? With magic, was anything impossible?

  Oh, Grandmother...

  Maridah shoved aside the pulse of grief. “And you, I suppose, have been ruling in the interim?”

  Under the vitriol of her words, Yussuf paled but did not flinch. “I have been serving as Regent —”

  “But he has not been ruling,” Hadidjah said, her voice edged with steel.

  “You? You dared to take my place?”

  “Yes, I dared! What else could I have done? When you disappeared, there was no one else. No one to rally our people when raiders came swarming upriver. No one to negotiate trade agreements, to settle disputes and inheritances. No one to —”

  “Do you challenge my right to rule?” Maridah faced her uncle.

  “No, I do!” Hadidjah exclaimed. “My father would be happy to lay down the Regency, if only there were a rightful heir. He’s old and sick, even a simpleton can see that! For the past five years, for good or ill, I have made those decisions. I have exercised that authority. I have made mistakes, and I have learned from them.”

  She paused, her breast heaving, and went on in a softer tone. “I have always loved you, my cousin, and I rejoice to see you whole, but I have no intention of stepping aside — throwing away everything for which my father and I have labored — for an inexperienced, irresponsible fledgling who has already abandoned this city and its people not once, but twice!”

  Maridah glared at her uncle. “This is all your doing! Grandmother warned me of your ambition. If you cannot rule in your own right, you seek to do so through your daughter. I hear your words from her mouth!”

  “You hear my own!” Hadidjah cried. “Oh, it is no use reasoning with her, Father. She has made you into a villain and me into your puppet, even as Grandmother did in her final illness.”

  She fa
ced Maridah, her emotions once more under control. “Yours may be the stronger right by lineage, but I have the advantage of experience. I will not yield to any lesser claim. And when the wand of office is found, I will release my father from his burden.”

  “Then take it, if you dare!” Maridah reached into her pocket and drew out the wrapped wand. She unfolded the handkerchief, revealing the wand, which gleamed as if moist.

  When Hadidjah reached out her hand, her father grabbed her wrist. “Wait, there must be a trick. Why else would Maridah take such care to prevent even a casual touch? See, even now she shields her own skin.”

  Hadidjah met Maridah’s gaze with a troubled expression. “Would you truly seek to poison me? Slay me by treachery? Has your own ambition grown so vast? Have you no memory of the love we once shared? Does power mean more to you than friendship?”

  Maridah opened her mouth to protest that they had never been so very dear to one another. Memories swept away her words, of playing together in the palace gardens, braiding each other’s hair, giggling over the newest gossip and handsome visitors to court. She had thought Hadidjah lacking in seriousness, too vulnerable to her father’s guidance, but never vicious.

  More than that, did she herself want to rule? To forsake the world of stories and dreams?

  “I touched it once,” Maridah admitted, “and it pained me, but caused no lasting harm. Its power answers only to one who truly desires to keep the city safe and prosperous.”

  Hadidjah’s rose-gold complexion paled. She reached trembling fingers toward the wand.

  “Do not do this for me,” Yussuf said. “I can manage for a while longer. And here is Maridah, come to take up her heritage.”

  Maridah saw tears glimmering in Hadidjah’s eyes as her cousin shook her head. Before Hadidjah could touch the wand, Maridah grasped it in her free hand.

  Fire jolted up her arm. Every nerve flared into white agony. Her throat clenched around her breath. Her back arched in spasm. Waves of pain shook her. All she had to do was to let go...