First and Last Sorcerer

by Barb Hendee

  What he would ask of Prince Ounyal’am had dangerous ramifications should anything go wrong. As of yet, the precise words for such a request had not come to him, even as he reached the long expanse of the capital’s largest open market.

  The mainway to the gates was three times as wide as any other main city street, not that one would guess so at first sight. There was enough room down its center only for a slow-moving wagon—if midday crowds got out of the way.

  Ghassan barely noticed the array of fresh foods and imported goods, and the merchants and vendors calling to passersby, including him. The scents of warm bread and olive oil distracted him only once, aside from his stiffening in caution every time someone passed too close. That happened often in the bustling market street. There was not much to eat in his quarters, and he knew he should see about purchasing supplies. For the moment, though, he had other concerns.

  Without warning, the crowds ahead began to shift. People moved and cleared a wide path as they looked back along the street behind him.

  Ghassan drifted left near a leather worker’s tent before he glanced back, though he kept his head partway down.

  Two litters, each carried by four strong servants, passed by on their way toward the main gates. Personal guards surrounded both. Though the curtains of the litters were partially open, the guards’ purple sashes already told Ghassan who was visiting the palace.

  Emir Falah Mansoor, second commander of the empire’s military forces, was not often in residence inside the city. Whatever reason he had for visiting now was most certainly not at the request of the imperial prince.

  Mansoor’s solution to any diplomatic problem could always be found at the point of a sword. He was of the old ways in his arrogance, believing in the absolute rule of those below by those above in society. No, the emir had not come to see the prince. More likely any report would be made to Imperial Counselor a’Yamin, now that the emperor himself was bedridden and unavailable.

  Ghassan was about to turn away when his gaze fell upon the occupant of the second litter: a young woman with her head tilted down. Though long black hair hid half of her face, he recognized her delicate profile and did not have to search his memory for her name.

  Mansoor was blessed with five sons and only one daughter—A’ish’ah. Sons could be useful in holding on to power, but a daughter was useful for purchasing more power. And where else could one find more of this than in an unwed prince of an empire?

  Ghassan drifted carefully along behind the procession as it approached the main gate and stopped. He kept his head lowered as he watched in curiosity.

  Emir Mansoor rattled and clattered in enameled armor as he dropped out of the lead litter. Then he stood basking in the glory of his own self-importance as he waited to be admitted.

  Ghassan focused upon the back of the emir’s head and blinked slowly. In that wink of darkness behind his eyelids, he raised the image of Mansoor’s face in his mind. Over that, he drew glimmering shapes, lines, and marks from deep in memory.

  A chant passed through his thoughts as his slow blink finished.

  The prince must surely take a wife now that the emperor nears death. Ounyal’am will have no choice but to marry before taking the throne.

  Ghassan grimaced upon hearing Mansoor’s conscious thoughts. An instant later . . .

  If only the foolish girl had the wiles of her late mother. Even so, she must be made to try . . .

  Ghassan took care not to sink too deeply. Searching for more than surface thoughts could arouse a target’s awareness. And he didn’t care to hear much more of the would-be tyrant’s innermost thoughts. What he had heard was no surprise.

  Emperor Kanal’am grew weaker every day, at a guess, for no one but the imperial counselor, a’Yamin, or attendants appointed directly by him, had seen the emperor in more than three moons.

  At thirty-eight years old, Prince Ounyal’am was the remaining imperial heir and had yet to take a first or any wife. Growing schemes, machinations, and plots among the nation’s seven royal houses had reached a fevered pitch.

  How many daughters had been thrown at the prince since his father had taken ill? Emir Mansoor now apparently joined the fray, vying for his A’ish’ah to be the future first empress.

  Ghassan turned back down the mainway through the crowds before the gate even opened. He had greater issues to consider and a task he could no longer put off. After only one city block, he stepped between two vendor tents and into a cutway. He went on to the alley running behind the shops hidden by the forest of market stalls. When he spotted a line of water barrels, he crouched behind the last one. Once settled, he reached inside his shirt, grasped a rough chain around his neck to pull it out, and then stared at the dangling, unadorned copper medallion that he always wore close to his skin.

  Closing his eyes, he gripped its smooth metal. After moments of hesitation, he opened his eyes, dropped the medallion back inside his shirt, and merely crouched there in silence.

  Ghassan needed more time to carefully work out his request to his prince. For what he would ask, somehow the words never seemed quite right.

  * * *

  Prince Ounyal’am stood in the reception room of his private chambers watching three servants prepare a formal tea on a table constructed entirely of opalescent tiles. The chamber was furnished with colorful silk cushions on low couches. Amber sateen curtains stretched from the polished floor to the high ceiling, each held back by golden tassels. Besides the servants, the only other person present was Nazhif, captain of his personal bodyguards.

  Ounyal’am did not look forward to this morning’s impending visit.

  Of late, he had entertained far too many royals and nobles. All found excuses, urgent needs, and pressing matters to see him. All happened to bring a daughter, a sister, a niece, or occasionally two or even three for company. So many polite manipulations in anticipation of his father’s death had left him mentally weary. And none of these visitors knew he awaited that death more anxiously than any of them.

  His reasons were far different from theirs, and ones not even his personal bodyguards knew, except perhaps Nazhif. Unfortunately, he was as much in the dark as every conniving noble with a daughter, etcetera, regarding his father’s condition.

  Ounyal’am had not been called to the emperor’s chambers in more than three moons.

  Presumably, his father was weakening further and Ounyal’am was expected to take a wife—at least one. As his first duty, a new emperor had to provide a legitimate heir for the security of the empire.

  Ounyal’am glanced down at his simple but fine clothing of loose pants made from raw silk, a pure white linen shirt, and a yellow tunic with an open front. These were the simplest fare he was ever allowed to wear. Every item he had worn since his first step as a child had been tailored to fit him perfectly. How many of these young noblewomen would be eager to join him in marriage if he were not the imperial heir?

  He often thought that he knew little of women. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he still sometimes felt the loss of her. She would have both loved him and been honest with him . . . or at least that was how he imagined her.

  All his life, he had been told he was handsome, but he wondered how much of this was flattery. Though small for his people, he had fine and delicate features with a smooth dark-toned complexion. He wore his near-black hair sheered at the top of his collar and always combed to perfection. He had often been called “scholarly” by imperial advisors.

  Accurate and polite as that description may have been, he knew it was not always a compliment.

  He was not the great warrior that his father had been. Once, a brash court official had referred to Ounyal’am as “bookish.” As a boy of fourteen at that time, he had been hurt, once he realized what that meant.

  Showing his pain had been a mistake.

  Emperor Kanal’am did not tolerate impudence, for his hereditary line had lasted more than four centuries. When that advisor’s headless corpse fell at
Ounyal’am’s feet, cut down by an imperial guard before everyone present, that was the last time he ever allowed blood on his hands—his shoes—through his own carelessness.

  Everything about him had to be perfect in the sight of all, but this morning’s visitors would be especially trying. Mental fatigue made him falter when he saw Nazhif pacing before the archways to an open balcony above the palace’s inner grounds.

  “Your face betrays your thoughts,” Ounyal’am said too sharply, “as if you had sucked three lemons for your breakfast.”

  Nazhif froze for an instant and then bowed his head. “Forgive me, my prince.”

  He was a muscular man in his early fifties with a round face and a peppered goatee. A fierce but ever calm warrior, he had commanded Ounyal’am’s personal bodyguard for the twenty-four years . . . since the day that headless body had dropped at the young prince’s feet.

  Nazhif had never failed to protect the prince’s heart and mind as well as his life. In some ways, he was the father that Ounyal’am should have had and did not.

  Four of the prince’s other twelve guards stood outside his complex of chambers—thirteen guards for the pending thirteenth emperor of an empire. All city and palace guards dressed much the same, in tan pants tucked into tall, hard boots, with dark brown tabards that overlay their cream shirts, and red wraps mounded atop their heads. However, the emperor’s hundreds of imperial guards were distinguished by gold sashes, and the prince’s thirteen private guards wore silver ones.

  Ounyal’am regained his composure, regretting his harshness to Nazhif. No one enjoyed the company of Emir Mansoor. At a knock at the main chamber’s outer door, the door opened without invitation.

  “My prince?”

  Ounyal’am tensed with a flash of more than annoyance, though, again, he remained outwardly composed.

  “Yes . . . Counselor?”

  The door swung fully open, and there stood the imperial counselor, Wihid al a’Yamin, in the outer hallway among Ounyal’am’s four hesitant but watchful bodyguards.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” the counselor said, “but the emir and his daughter have arrived, and so I thought to announce them with all haste.”

  A’Yamin, in his seventies, still had eyes and awareness as sharp as any falcon housed on the imperial grounds. He habitually dressed in tan pantaloons, a cream shirt, and a sleeveless dark brown robe. His white hair was always covered with a red mounded head wrap—like those of the imperial guards. Perhaps he fancied himself a warrior, though he had never served in any military. His face was lined, and he stooped to appear frail, but this fooled no one.

  With the failing health of the emperor, the imperial counselor was the most powerful man in the empire.

  “How thoughtful,” Ounyal’am managed, as he shifted a few steps for a better view of the corridor. Beyond the counselor and the four of his own guards stood two of the emir’s men. And there was the emir himself along with his one and only daughter.

  Ounyal’am quickly turned his gaze away from A’ish’ah.

  “Welcome, Falah,” he said, using the emir’s given name.

  The emir stepped forward beside the counselor and bowed his head. “My prince.”

  “Enter, Honored Emir,” Ounyal’am said, and then looked to a’Yamin. “You may go, though I thank you for your trouble.”

  “My prince,” a’Yamin answered in his grating voice. “The emir serves your father well and has my utmost respect.”

  Ounyal’am could not help clenching his jaw; of course a’Yamin valued a blunt instrument like Mansoor.

  The counselor bowed and backed away before turning down the outer corridor.

  “Wait out here,” Mansoor ordered his guards, as if the prince’s own would ever allow them to enter. He waved his daughter in ahead, which was not customary. Nazhif quickly crossed the chamber to close the door behind them, though he remained inside the room.

  Ounyal’am faced the emir and his daughter as a different discomfort flooded through him: unwanted guilt. This worsened at the sight of her gaze lowered to the ornate tile floor. Of all the noblewomen thrust at him, she was different.

  A’ish’ah was agonizingly shy and perhaps pained even more by how she was used. In past visits, she had barely been able to look up at him, much less try to charm him as others did. And this was partly why he dreaded seeing her most of all among the would-be wives.

  Delicately built, she was so short that she had to lift her head to meet his eyes on the few occasions she had managed to speak to him at all. Today, she was dressed in white pantaloons beneath a matching split skirt of floor length. Her sleeveless lavender tunic dropped past her narrow hips almost to her knees. True silver embroidery at the tunic’s stiff neckline showed beneath her long black hair, and both glimmered in the early sunlight flooding through the balcony’s archways behind Ounyal’am.

  Emir Mansoor was not known for kindness to his children. He had already disinherited one son for disobedience. A’ish’ah was one more thing Ounyal’am had not needed to worry about this day, but he grew anxious that she might suffer if her father became displeased with her.

  “Come. I have had tea and coffee prepared,” he said formally, gesturing toward the table settings and cushions waiting in one curtained corner of the large chamber. “Emir, I understand you have a report on the eastern provinces in Abul.”

  This was a thin excuse at best. Officers seldom reported to anyone but the emperor, and now that Ounyal’am’s father was hidden away in his decline, they reported directly to a’Yamin—not to the imperial heir.

  “Yes, my prince,” Mansoor answered.

  Ounyal’am half turned but purposefully paused, as if at a sudden thought. “Emir, the morning has passed too quickly. The family gardener asked me to approve a new bed of hibiscus he is growing for my father’s upcoming birthday celebration. Would you mind taking refreshment while waiting?”

  As expected, the emir frowned, though he certainly would not decline.

  Ounyal’am added, “Perhaps your daughter would care to see the gardens for herself?”

  At that, A’ish’ah looked up with sudden fright in her eyes.

  Singling her out for any private moment with him would be seen as showing her favor. He had never done so for any of the other young women dangled in front of him. As expected, Mansoor’s frown vanished, and he offered a deep nod.

  “Of course, my prince,” he answered. “I shall wait upon you here as long as needed.”

  At only a nod from his prince, Nazhif reopened the outer door.

  Ounyal’am turned and nodded to A’ish’ah in entreaty. Such favor to her would not go unmentioned later by her father. More so to any competitor seeking an imperial alliance through marriage. But at least for this day, she would have nothing to fear from Mansoor. He would be too elated with false aspirations.

  A’ish’ah barely glanced up. As she took a small step toward the door, Ounyal’am turned and led the way as was proper. As the pair stepped out and down the corridor, the prince’s four current guards fell in behind, their commander following at the rear.

  “Have you seen the gardens before?” Ounyal’am asked.

  “No, my prince,” A’ish’ah answered softly.

  “They are a respite of mine.”

  The palace was laid out in a large square with the rest of the vast grounds spreading around it. Along the rim of the grounds were buildings, such as barracks, stables, a water house, and the like. The highest walls in the empire enclosed everything. The center of the palace proper sported the great domed chamber where audiences were held. Directly behind that was an open outdoor square in which bloomed the imperial gardens.

  The emperor had often called it a shameless waste of water.

  Ounyal’am loved it and used his personal stipend to keep it funded.

  After turning another corner, he paused for Nazhif to step ahead, open another broad door, and then led the way out into the open-air arboretum.

  Indeed, the garden req
uired a good deal of water.

  Subtle paths of plain sandstone were lined with chrysanthemums, hibiscus, peonies, and even wild roses brought from the northern territories. Between these were interspersed flowering and fig-bearing trees, as well as three ponds with brightly colored carp, a type of large fish said to have been brought from the unknown continent westward across a seemingly endless ocean. Some of the trees had been sculpted in their growth to form shaded archways over the paths.

  Ounyal’am had few vices and refused to deny himself this one.

  “You are pleased?” he asked.

  A’ish’ah slowly nodded, just once, though her eyes were fully wide. She caught him watching her and dropped her gaze again.

  “Few would not be pleased . . . my prince,” she whispered.

  Such a diplomatic answer was disappointing. It should not have been, but it was, and he strolled on.

  Behind him, he heard Nazhif’s quickly whispered orders to the other guards. Walking the paths of the garden would make it impossible for his contingent to keep him in their sight. Only Nazhif would follow five steps behind while the others spread out to encompass the gardens and watch all entrances.

  Ounyal’am did not like doing this to his men, especially Nazhif, but he needed these moments of release. As A’ish’ah fell in beside him, though a half step behind, he forgot her presence for a moment. His thoughts turned to other matters, for the sight of a’Yamin in the doorway had left him anxious.

  Throughout his life he had witnessed the power plays and schemes at court. He had never seen it quite so poisonous as now, when he had become the center of it all as his father lay dwindling in seclusion.

  A’Yamin had both the ear and trust of Ounyal’am’s father. He also chose who, if anyone, saw Emperor Kanal’am. The imperial counselor commanded the loyalty of the imperial guard in the emperor’s absence. And all of this made a number of matters . . . difficult.

  Of course Ounyal’am professed concern for his father; to speak the truth would have been unacceptable—and dangerous. The counselor heard everything eventually. And unless Ounyal’am married at least once, he might not be “acceptable” as heir when his father died.