Dastan is so startled he drops the Dagger. It skitters across the floor, and you lunge for it. Before you can reach it, he knocks you to the ground and pins you.
“What is going on here?” You turn your head to see the doorway filled with guards—and Prince Dastan’s brother, Tus. He is glaring at you both.
“Thank goodness you stopped him!” you cry. Dastan quickly gets up, and you curl into a little ball to look helpless.
“She attacked me!” Dastan protests. “For this dagger.” He picks it up, and you resist grabbing it again.
Instead, you push yourself up into a kneeling position and make yourself seem as pathetic as possible. “This man stole that dagger from one of my maidservants. He made her believe he loved her—just to steal this family heirloom. I was pleading with him to give it back. I must have said something wrong, for he suddenly attacked me!”
“She’s lying,” Dastan scoffs. “You don’t believe her, do you?”
Tus’s eyes are narrow as he studies Dastan. “First you disobey a direct order and launch a sneak attack without my knowledge or consent. Then I find you brawling with my bride-to-be. I believe her over you.”
Dastan gapes at Tus. “Ask Nizam! She purposely sought me out.”
“To beg for the Dagger for my maidservant,” you explain, your voice quavering as you fake tears. “Her family has disowned her because of this incident.”
“Give the knife to the girl,” Tus orders. “Now.”
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A short while later you are wishing you had taken Dastan’s horse along with the Dagger. You stand and gaze at the desert in front of you. This is going to take forever! And you have no supplies. Perhaps you should have thought this through a little more.
No matter. You have a responsibility, a promise that you must keep. That’s all that counts. Not your thirst, your fear, your exhaustion. Just the safety of the Dagger.
You twist up your long hair to get it off your neck and wipe away the sweat before it drips into your eyes.
You notice a Bedouin caravan cresting a nearby dune. Perhaps you should join them. They could provide you with protection, supplies, and even transport.
But you’re not sure if you can really trust other people at this point. Not after everything you’ve been through.
If you want to join the Bedouins, TURN TO PAGE 77
If you want to continue on your own, TURN TO PAGE 36
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You suffer the indignity of being hauled off to a tented area for servants. A smelly, filthy woman hands you a flimsy piece of fabric, which is supposed to be some kind of garment. “In there,” she orders gruffly, pointing to a curtained corner in the tent. “Change, and be quick about it.”
You shudder as you pull on the dress. What are they going to have you do? You step back out, and the woman looks at you disapprovingly. “Too soft,” she says. “You’ll never last.”
That’s what you’re worried about. “I—I’ve heard that these are very dangerous men,” you say. “That they . . . that the skeletons . . .” You’re not sure how to phrase this. After all, this woman could be one of the rebellious slaves who slaughtered their masters!
The woman bursts out laughing, showing several missing teeth.
You gape at her.
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You and Dastan arrive at the city of Avrat and join the end of the long funeral procession as it approaches the entrance. Two towering granite leopards stand sentry at the gates.
You eye the surroundings nervously. “There’s got to be a hundred Persian soldiers watching those gates.”
“Maybe more,” Dastan agrees.
This is ridiculous. Dastan will get caught, and you will lose the Dagger forever. “Please!” you beg. “We must take the Dagger north. There’s a Guardian Temple hidden in the mountains outside Alamut. Only the priests know of it. If the holy city is occupied, it’s the only place the Dagger can rest safely.”
He ignores you and keeps walking.
“Dastan, why do you think your father took you off the street that day?” you ask.
This gets his attention.
“Why would a king take a poor boy from the streets into his own family?”
“I suppose he felt something for me.”
“Love?” you suggest. “He very well may have.” You pause, trying to find the right words. “But that’s not what was at work. It was something far greater—the gods have a plan for you. A destiny.”
Dastan just laughs.
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“Perhaps you’re right,” you say. “I could use some help.” You don’t tell the genie where you’re going or what your mission is. You still don’t trust him.
You lead Astrella outside and mount her. The rain has stopped and the sky is clearing. You turn back and see Kartosh hovering at the mouth of the cave. “Well, are you coming?”
“Invite me to join you,” he says sternly.
You roll your eyes. Is he doing this to be irritating? If he wants to be catered to and flattered all the time, he’s not going to be a very pleasant companion. “Fine. Please, will you come out of the stupid cave and join me?”
Kartosh grins broadly and steps outside. He takes several deep breaths.
You frown. “I don’t know if Astrella can carry us both,” you tell him. “I can’t have you slowing me down. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
You watch as he kneels down and starts digging in the mud in front of the cave. Great. Is he going to waste your time making mud pies?
Then you realize he’s making a model of a horse. He stands and intones an incantation. You blink, and there, before you, is a living, breathing full-size horse!
“I have a ride of my own, thank you very much,” Kartosh says. “Let’s see who the slow one is now!”
He takes off at a gallop, leaving you standing there staring after him.
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Dastan’s voice hardens. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know me, Princess.”
Before you can figure out what he means, you arrive at the entrance to the great hall.
“Wait here with Her Highness,” Dastan instructs the Persian soldier at the doorway. Then he turns to you. “If you can manage it, I suggest a hint of humility when you’re presented to the king. For your own good.”
He leaves you standing in the corridor with the guard. You listen to the festive party going on inside, angered by the partygoers’ happiness.
Finally, the beefy guard beside you receives some kind of signal. He grips your arm and opens the doors to the great hall. It pains you to see these invaders celebrating in the same room where you have held banquets for your allies and visiting dignitaries; where as a small child you would play hide-and-seek with indulgent attendants. Now a different king sits on the dais, and men with weapons watch your every move.
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“I was expecting golden statues and waterfalls,” Amar complains. You just grin. You slowly and carefully make your way down the mountain.
Dastan takes the opportunity to walk beside you. “You’re descended from her, aren’t you?” he asks softly. “The girl that won man his reprieve.”
You nod. “Her descendants are Guardians. Alamut’s royal family, priests of this temple. We are trained from childhood to embody the virtue of our ancestor. So that, like her, we can stand before the gods as symbols of man’s goodness.”
Dastan shakes his head, disbelieving.
“It’s a sacred obligation, Dastan,” you say. “Passed down by blood through generations.”
You enter the village and stop to look at him. “Your real parents. What do you know of them?”
“King Sharaman was my real parent,” he replies. His face grows serious. “Before he died he aske
d me if I would be more than a good man. If I’d be a great man.”
“He sensed your calling.”
You can tell he’s not so sure about this.
“It is not something you ask for, Dastan,” you add.
Now he nods, as if he finally understands the responsibility of destiny. He pulls out the Dagger and holds it out to you. “Don’t cut yourself, Princess,” he says.
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Nizam and Dastan greet the king as he dismounts. King Sharaman is delighted to see them both. “And who is this lovely creature?” he asks, smiling at you.
“This is Princess Tamina,” Dastan says, rolling his eyes at the word lovely. “Tus requests that you bless his union with her. He believes it will create a strong alliance between our empires.”
The king nods. “What say you, Princess?”
This is your final chance. “I will agree, but on one condition.”
“Captive princesses don’t make the terms,” Nizam warns.
“Let her speak,” the king says.
You give the man a grateful look. “Prince Dastan has in his possession a dagger. It is a sacred object to my people. I only ask that it be returned to me.”
You see Sharaman considering, and it looks as if he’s about to agree. But then Nizam speaks. “I have an idea. As a symbolic gesture, we keep the Dagger and give her one of our sacred relics. It will deepen our exchange.”
“Marvelous idea,” the king says, nodding approvingly.
Now Nizam faces you. “I’ll just take the Dagger now.”
Dastan gives you a quizzical look, then hands Nizam the Dagger.
A few days later, the world goes fuzzy. The next thing you know, you’re a small child playing on the streets of Alamut. Your parents are talking about King Nizam, who rules the powerful Persian Empire.
You ignore them. It is the way it has always been . . . isn’t it?
THE END
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“Who are you?” you ask.
“Who’s asking?” the being snaps.
“A very weary traveler, who simply sought shelter from the storm.” You aren’t going to reveal your true identity. “And I’m far too tired to play guessing games.”
“I’m never tired of games!” the being says. “And I had so hoped we’d be friends.”
“I don’t make friends with those who won’t identify themselves,” you counter. “I’ve never seen anyone quite like you.”
“That’s because you haven’t been looking,” the being says. “My kind are everywhere.” His voice takes on a hypnotic quality, as if reciting an incantation. “In the shimmer of heat in the desert. At the threshold. Waiting at the crossroads. We inhabit the in-between places.”
You gape at him. What he is describing—that’s what is said of the genie! They are mysterious creatures—perhaps angels, perhaps demons. No one is certain. They can bring great luck and good fortune, or create disaster and torment.
“My name is Kartosh,” says the genie. “And now, by rights, you must tell me yours.”
“Esmedina,” you lie. You will need to tread carefully here. Genie are remarkably unpredictable.
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“That whirling sand is meant for me?” you ask.
“It’s how the cult of Hassansins travel,” Kartosh explains. “And they are persistent. Not to mention deadly.”
You knew that there would be those intent on stealing the Dagger to use for their own evil purposes. But Hassansins? You have heard of their deadly skill. If the Dagger of Time were to fall into their hands, it could mean the end of all humanity.
“You seem to know about my foe,” you say. “How can I defeat them?”
“You can’t,” the genie says. “But I can.”
He watches as the sand dervishes come closer. Then he faces you. “One of my many skills is shape-shifting,” he tells you. “I can take your form and lead them on a merry chase. That would mean you’d continue on alone, though. And they may not fall for the ruse.”
“Or?” you ask.
He shrugs. “We fight them, and if we win we won’t have to worry about them anymore. But they are powerful warriors.”
It’s up to you. Both seem like very risky choices.
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Joining the dignitaries seems to be your best bet. You use your charms on a servant master to get you and Dastan a job with one of the many royal visitors arriving for the funeral. You’re assigned to a Mughal sultan. He is obese, with rolls of wobbling fat that wiggle as his porters lift his platform and carry him on their shoulders.
Dastan is one of those suffering, struggling porters. You walk beside him, carrying a silver nutcracker and a basket of walnuts. From time to time the sultan reaches down and you hand up some nuts.
“You couldn’t find someone lighter?” Dastan gasps, straining.
You hide your smile. “The Mughals of the Hindu Kush are a noble people. You should be honored.”
The sultan passes gas, and Dastan winces at the terrible stench. “Yes, I feel terribly honored.”
The soldiers at the gate step forward for inspection. You hold your breath, hoping they won’t recognize Dastan as he struggles with the others to hold the sultan aloft.
Luckily, the Sultan’s digestive issues work in your favor. The soldiers quickly wave you through, their noses wrinkled in disgust.
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If Prince Dastan was in the palace, your maidservant would have been gossiping about him. After all, he’s a very handsome and powerful young man. So you’re going to search for him outside the palace compound.
But first, you want to make a quick stop at the laundry. You follow the secret passageway to the servants’ quarters. You know there’s a well-hidden exit between the kitchen and the laundry. Perfect.
You slip out, and the disguised panel slides back into place. Good. No one saw you. You hurry to the laundry.
In the midday heat, there are almost no servants working. You understand why—with the massive vats of boiling water the temperature is almost unbearable. You rush through the washing room. You need to get to the drying area. You want a change of wardrobe.
You scan the room filled with clothes hanging out to dry and grab what you need. This morning you started as a princess, then you took your maidservant’s attire. Now you’re going off into the city—dressed as a young man.
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You wake in a panic. There’s a hand clamped over your mouth! You try to scream until you realize it’s Dastan looming over you.
He points to a Persian patrol cresting a nearby dune, barely visible in the first rays of dawn. Ah. He didn’t want you to alert them he was here. You make it clear you won’t scream and he removes his hand. That’s when you notice—the caravan is gone!
“Where did the tribesmen go?” you ask.
“Bedouins set out early,” Dastan explains. “Especially if they’re trying to ditch someone. Judging from your tracks, you were slowing them down. Or maybe it was your penchant for lies and backstabbing.”
You scowl, but you have to admit he has a point. “I had no choice but to leave you.” You study his careworn face. “I take it your uncle didn’t listen to you.”
“Worse than that,” he says, settling beside you. “While we spoke, I saw his hands had been burned. He said it happened trying to pull free the poisoned cloak that killed my father.” He shakes his head. “I turned it over in my mind a hundred times. My uncle made no move to touch that cloak.”
“So the burns . . .” you say, piecing it together.
“He must have been the one who poisoned it. It wasn’t Tus, it was Nizam.”
“I’m sorry, Dastan.” Yo
u know this is difficult for him. You can’t imagine what it would be like to be betrayed in such terrible ways by the people you called your family.
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“What about the Dagger?” Dastan asks.
“Given to the girl whose goodness won man his reprieve,” you answer. “It’s meant to be used in defense of the Sandglass. The Dagger blade is the only thing that can pierce the glass and remove the Sands of Time.”
Dastan nods, showing he understands. “But if one were to place the Dagger in the Sandglass and press the jewel button at the same time—”
“Sand would flow through endlessly.” You finish for him.
“And you could turn back time as far as you like!”
“Yes,” you admit. “But this is forbidden. History is a book written by the gods. Changing it is an abuse of their gift.”
“My uncle saved my father’s life when they were children,” Dastan says, realization dawning on his face. “He means to go back in time and undo what he did. Let my father die! That would make Nizam king for a lifetime!”
You fear he is right. That his uncle’s greed and ambition will make him use the Dagger in such a way—if he gets his hands on it. You have to make Dastan understand how catastrophic that would be.
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Your head whips back and forth searching for a way to create a diversion. Then you see it—the ostrich pen!
You sidle over to the pen and kick the latch free. The birds stampede onto the track, disrupting the race and angering the crowd. Amar’s men pour onto the track trying to catch the squawking creatures. You see Dastan leap over the railing onto the track, dodging ostriches as he chases the Dagger. Amar’s men start going after him.
The Guardian's Path Page 5
