by Barb Hendee
Both spike and orb looked as if fashioned from one single piece with no mark of separation hinting that the spike could be removed.
Wynn knew it could be through the use of a thôrhk, one of the handles . . . an orb key.
She reached in to brush one such key with a fingertip.
That circlet, broken by design, was made of some unknown ruddy metal. It was thick and heavy-looking, with a circumference larger than a helmet and covered in strange markings. About a fourth of its circumference was missing by design. The two open ends had protruding knobs pointing inward across the break, directly at each other.
Those knobs fit perfectly into a groove running around the orb spike’s head. Once inserted, the spike could lift out, thus opening the orb and releasing its power.
Wynn had never attempted such a thing, nor did she plan to.
The previous few desperate years had centered upon locating all five orbs to keep them hidden from the Enemy’s minions. Now there was only one left.
She carefully closed the chest, looked both ways to be certain everyone was still asleep, and crept out of the bedchamber. In the main room’s back corner, Shade raised her head, her ears upright, and Wynn put a finger over her lips to keep the dog quiet.
There was another arcane object related to the orbs that she’d found.
Wynn inched into the main room’s back. Chane had earlier moved her belongings out of the bedchamber and nearer to his. She crouched to dig into her own pack.
Osha was the only one who appeared to be awake, but he didn’t pay her any attention. It was common for her to dig into her own belongings in the morning, and she kept her back to him now as she withdrew a small object wrapped in cloth and flipped the fabric open.
In her hand rested a slightly curved piece of ruddy metal. It looked sound for appearing so old, was little longer than her palm was wide, and about as thick as two of her fingers.
This device had been cut centuries ago from the key—the handle, the thôrhk—created for the orb of Spirit.
Wynn had tried to tell Magiere of its existence, but this wasn’t a simple tale and would require a good deal of explaining. During her time at Beáumie Keep in Witeny, she had met some of the most unique people of her life.
Aupsha had been part of an ancient sect following some unknown edicts of a long-forgotten “saint,” for lack of a better term. Supposedly that someone had been real and managed to steal the orb of Spirit. The saint’s followers and their descendants kept the orb hidden in the mountains above the great desert for who knew how long. Aupsha had been less than open but swore her people wished only to keep the orb from the wrong hands; their purpose was to guard it.
Sau’ilahk, the wraith, killed Aupsha’s entire sect, much as the specter had done to Ghassan’s. Aupsha had followed Sau’ilahk in secret to Beáumie Keep by using the tool Wynn now held.
Wynn turned that bit of metal over, still studying it.
Aupsha’s sect had cut up their orb’s key found with it. Somehow they’d fashioned the pieces to track the orb, should it ever be taken from them. Of course, they’d had only one orb and didn’t know that what they’d created could track the others as well. After the battle outside Beáumie Keep, Wynn had walked away with the orb of Spirit, the thôrhk to the orb of Earth, and this tracking device.
There was just one problem: she didn’t know how to reactivate the device.
Shade had heard words in someone else’s memory that were used to activate it, and she had passed them to Wynn. The words were in an ancient Sumanese dialect, so Wynn didn’t know their meaning or intent. And that was the trick.
Knowing and intention were required—not mere words, like in a children’s story.
It was frustrating, considering how many languages she spoke fluently, aside from others in part. Worse—frightening, even—she would have to tell Ghassan everything. He was the only scholar of this region with knowledge of his language’s predecessors who might keep such things to himself.
Wynn’s trust in her old teacher had been tested of late. She still didn’t fully trust him, but then again . . . she’d been keeping many secrets—more and more—as well.
Shade suddenly pressed up beside her, looking at the device first and then up at her.
Wynn covered the device, but kept it in her grip, and whispered very softly, “I think it’s time we told Ghassan and Magiere about this. I don’t see how else to move forward.”
Shade sniffed the cloth and her sky blue eyes locked with Wynn’s.
—Wait for . . . night— . . . —Wait for . . . Chane—
Wynn frowned. Why did Shade think they needed Chane before showing or saying anything to Ghassan? Or was it Magiere for whom Shade expressed concern? Either way, Wynn hesitated.
“Very well,” she whispered, putting the device away. “Until dusk.”
* * *
Prince Ounyal’am stood on the dais within the great domed chamber. The clear night was filled with stars above the imperial palace, which glittered in impossible colors through the dome’s tinted glass panes. Just as unreal were the events in this highest place in the palace.
His father’s birthday celebration had gone forth as planned, regardless that most members of the court had not even seen the guest of honor in a season or more. Dozens of servants had spent days and nights transforming this audience chamber into a traditional banquet hall, as was the custom for this event each year. Other preparations had been ongoing for almost a moon.
Low tables were carefully positioned and adorned with silk cloths, silver-gilt plates, and shallow gold bowls with floating flowers from the imperial garden—Ounyal’am’s garden. Around the tables newly tailored sitting cushions had been arranged, all made from silk and satin and even sheot’a cloth from the Lhoin’na lands. Members of all seven royal households and many noble ones throughout the empire were in attendance, along with wealthy merchants, prominent city figures, foreign dignitaries, and three members of the Premin Council for the Suman branch of the Guild of Sagecraft.
With the banquet still pending, finely dressed guests strolled the chamber’s periphery. Greetings as well as polite introductions passed between acquaintances old and new. And there were always whispers behind one another’s backs in new and old ploys. This year the whispers grew too many, too loud, and too distracting for the one recent event that changed everything.
Imperial Counselor Wihid al a’Yamin was dead.
Ounyal’am could not cancel the banquet with feigned grief. A number of dignitaries had traveled long distances to be here. And privately he had more reason to silently celebrate. Commander Har’ith was also dead, shot through one eye with an arrow.
The prince’s hands trembled slightly as he thought on Ghassan’s recent message: a’Yamin had been the specter’s final host. It was chilling to think that an ancient undead sorcerer had been so close, acting as the public voice of the emperor.
At Ghassan’s hasty request in the night, Ounyal’am had had the bodies near the south-side market removed. Any questions among the imperial guard in this were put off. Ghassan’s second request—to remove guards specifically watching for the escapees at the city’s outer gates—could not be obliged so openly.
Har’ith’s subordinate had already taken his place. There were others now vying for the vacant position of subcommander. While imperial guards were trained to follow orders, Ounyal’am was not their emperor yet, and he had to tread carefully. Still, with a’Yamin dead and the emperor fading, the guards would also avoid questioning the imperial heir, as they could soon owe their positions to him.
Ounyal’am had arranged to call in some imperial guards stationed at the city’s exit, for there were many important guests who needed constant protection. As a result, there would also be more reallocations of forces, as well as changes in rotation during the coming days and nights. Ghassan would have to watch carefully for gaps through which to escape the city.
There was no such escape for Ounyal’am.
There were also still those among the court who secretly worshipped the old ways, the gods, like his father. They would soon vie and connive to step into a’Yamin’s place, and High Premin Aweli-Jama would be among them. Of course, some of those seeking imperial alliance by marriage would work against attempts to install another counselor.
A’Yamin, or rather the specter, had made as many enemies.
“My prince,” said a silken voice. “Salutations of joy from my family to yours.”
Shaken from thought, Ounyal’am turned his head slowly to regain control.
Resplendent Durrah bowed her head to him.
She had actually stepped up upon the edge of the dais, creating a moment—the sight—of her on the same level of a future emperor. And no, there was nothing he could do about this for the moment.
Durrah was an eyelash or two taller than him, but nobles—and especially the royals—admired height in a woman. Thick waves of hair fell down around her strong features: a prominent yet straight nose and high cheekbones. Perfectly decorated in sapphire earrings and a deep azure tunic that fit her shapeliness, she smiled softly, little more than an upturn in the corners of her mouth.
She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the empire.
Ounyal’am did not think so, not when he looked into her eyes.
“Forgive my impudence, my prince,” she murmured. “I beg you.”
There was no begging in her voice, though there was certainty of a kind.
“I thought to offer myself as your dinner companion this evening,” she went on, whispering and thereby having to lean close before all eyes. “I only now found courage to beg so. I do not want you to feel so alone, without comfort, in the loss of your counselor and the commander of your guards.”
In presiding over the evening’s celebration, Ounyal’am would sit right of center at a lone table placed up on the dais. Near its forward edge, all present could see him beside the empty place for his father.
To the left of that emptiness would sit his aunt, his father’s aged sister. The cushion to his own right was reserved for whomever he chose as companion for the meal. This custom had existed for as long as he could remember, but no one in his lifetime had asked for the privilege.
Durrah’s arrogance was demurely curtained in concern, along with her confidence in her charms, her wealth, and . . . all else she had to offer a man. How could anyone resist her after all? Few would.
Ounyal’am turned his eyes from her.
Pretending to survey the great chamber and everyone within it, he was careful not to let his gaze pause on anyone in particular. Yet it still passed over one small young woman standing alone near the chamber’s front doors and its guards. She pretended to sip something from a silver cup and clearly hoped to remain unnoticed as her father, Mansoor, connived and chatted with others nearby.
Ounyal’am’s gaze kept moving as he spoke.
“Thank you for your concern, but, under the circumstances, I will dine alone this evening.”
He waited a breath to see whether Durrah faltered into further entreaty; she did not.
“Considering the imperial counselor’s death,” he went on, “I cannot unduly worry my bodyguards. The perpetrators have not been found, and likely they did not act alone but had help from someone inside the imperial court. I am certain you understand.”
Ounyal’am did not need to look at Durrah. Some would foolishly take this as suspicion cast their way. Others would try to assure him of their innocence in desperation for favor. What could—would—Durrah say?
Nothing, of course.
In the side of his view, she bowed her head low.
“I wish you only blessings and safety, my great prince,” she breathed, hushed like the whisper that charms a reluctant suitor. “More tonight than ever before, on your honored father’s birthday.”
Durrah gracefully backed off the dais without looking to see her father’s angry disappointment.
Offering no reply, Ounyal’am stepped off the dais as well. Suddenly, he could not stand the hypocrisy around him a moment longer. Though he kept his expression coldly impassive, he was bursting inside to do something to quell his panic. He headed straight across the vast chamber toward the main doors, veering at the last moment.
At his approach, A’ish’ah raised only her eyes and not her head. She paled and then lowered her head even more. Her silken dark hair nearly curtained her face, and he was forced to look down at the top of her head as he stepped within arm’s reach.
“A’ish’ah,” he said softly, and then corrected himself for anyone nearby who might hear. “Lady A’ish’ah . . . it would be my honor to have you dine with me.”
Did she shudder? His stomach tightened at having made her so uncomfortable . . . and the object of too much attention. But he could not stop himself.
For an instant, he feared she might find some polite way to decline, and he was unprepared for that.
“Of course . . . my prince,” she whispered before regaining her voice. “It would be my honor . . . and my family’s.”
“Then let us begin the feast,” he said, turning slowly enough to let her step in beside him.
He wanted to take her hand, but that would have shown too much favor in the eyes of all present. The chamber grew quiet as they walked back toward the dais and the head table.
Nazhif stood behind that table watching, and perhaps a little concerned.
Ounyal’am nodded once to the captain of his bodyguards, and Nazhif quickly stepped around to offer a hand as A’ish’ah stepped up on the dais. One—or rather two—of his other men helped the emperor’s aged sister to be settled on the cushion to the left of the empty center one.
Once A’ish’ah was seated, Ounyal’am surveyed the chamber, waiting for all to find their place. And then they were the ones to wait, not sitting until he did. Upon settling on his own cushion, he took another quick glance across the vast room, slowing his visual sweep slightly at Durrah’s table.
She was as serene as ever with the wisp of a smile on her full, dark lips. Her eyes held something else, cold as a winter’s night in the desert.
Before, he would not have exposed A’ish’ah to such attention, and he was well aware that he shouldn’t do so now. But without a’Yamin, things at court had altered, and tonight he felt bold.
For once, he felt like doing as he wished.
With a solemn nod from him, the feast began as he raised a cup.
“Let us drink to the emperor’s health,” he said with a clear voice. “Tonight we celebrate the day of his birth, and we pray for many more to follow.”
Nods, murmurs, and some echoes of his words rose around the chamber. A moment later, an army of servants filed through the main doors carrying trays overburdened with the first course. As always, the emperor’s table was served first.
A’ish’ah kept her hands clasped in her lap and did not look up at the golden platter set before her on the table. It contained three roasted pheasants surrounded by herbed oysters in their glistening half shells.
“A’ish’ah,” Ounyal’am whispered, hoping to ease her mind with a joke. “Please eat something or everyone will think you are afraid of me.”
She raised her head and met his eyes. “Perhaps it would do a few of them good to be afraid of you . . . my prince.”
Her words took him aback. So much of what she said took him aback. He never knew what to expect.
“Perhaps,” he answered. “But not you . . . not ever.”
After another moment of silence, she carefully picked out an oyster for her own plate. Dinner was not such a painful affair. There
was little said between them, and he did not care, so long as she would look at him—right at him—time and again.
Halfway through the expected courses, with so many watching, his thoughts returned to the impending intrigues concerning a new imperial counselor. Without a’Yamin, there were a few who had the power to gain access to the emperor’s chambers. They could pretend having spoken with him and gained his consent as temporarily appointed. Others would likewise dispute this with their own claims.
Ounyal’am could not stop this without exposing that his father was no longer fit to rule, and the repercussions of him doing that could be even worse. While the emperor lived, Ounyal’am would still be only regent, and any panic he created—over what might be a short window of opportunity—could make some of the vipers even more dangerous.
“Are you well, my prince?” A’ish’ah asked so quietly.
He started and looked over. Her face was awash with genuine concern. Again, he wanted to grasp her small hand.
“I was only thinking on . . . on a little nothing.”
At that moment, something—he never knew what—pulled his attention to the main doors. Jib’rail, the new commander of the imperial guard, came toward him. Something in the man’s face caused time to slow; his stride was steady, but his eyes were manic.
Nazhif stood only a few paces behind Ounyal’am. He would be watching the commander’s approach as well. A few others in the chamber noticed and cast curious glances.
Commander Jib’rail bowed upon reaching the table and spoke in a low tone that would not be overheard.
“My prince . . .” He stopped as if stumbling over the title. “I beg forgiveness for this interruption. Could you please step outside with me for a private . . . word?”
Something in the world shifted. Ounyal’am did not yet know what, only that it had. The moment stretched out.
“My . . . my . . .” Commander Jib’rail trailed off again, as if he had forgotten how to address an imperial prince.
With a quick glance at A’ish’ah, Ounyal’am dared to touch her hand once under the table to stop the worried furrow of her brow. He rose, and though he should have assured all present that there was only some minor matter to attend, his throat was too dry.
