“What is it?” the Sultan demanded. Then he squinted into the sky, puzzlement clear on his expression.
“It’s a…” Her old nurse stopped, perhaps stunned at the words about to come from her lips. “It’s a pegaz.” Her hand went to the bones in her pocket. “And it’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”
Shahrazad could only nod in sick agreement. With wings as stunningly huge and gleaming as any storybook painting, the horse swept through the sky with power and might. The hot sun shone on the beast’s massive wings, making them shine like gold as they beat the air. An emerald bridle glittered in the morning light.
“It’s the magician,” Princess Shahrazad said to the Sultan, hoping all the evil he embodied was captured in her meager description. “Don’t let him land his beast here.” Don’t let him ruin this marriage.
“You do not command your father.” The Raj ir Adham said these words calmly, but his mother turned to her and slapped her mouth.
“And you do not speak during the wedding ceremony,” the older woman whispered.
Shame washed through her, stinging her like the pain hadn’t. She’d never spoken out of turn or lifted a demure eye in her entire life. That she had to do so now…
“Please, father,” she called across the dune, ignoring the taste of blood. “Can you forbid him to land?”
“Willful bitch,” her mother-in-law-to-be hissed. But her father ignored her altogether, gesturing to the archers who loaded arrows into their dark bows and pointed them at the pegaz.
Only then did Shahrazad see the rider, the face of her assailant. His black robe rippled in the wind, and his thin mustache twisted down his face, trailing in the wind over his shoulders. Silver embroidery winked, and she saw his bared chin, which was as pointy as his nose.
And then words whipped through her mind. I can grant your heart’s desire.
The pegaz adjusted the sweep of her wings so that her flight slowed. She stretched her legs as does a horse about to land after a great jump, and then she touched the ground with a silent grace.
I can grant your heart’s desire. The words were a torment—like a mirage seen while crawling through the desert. By jeopardizing this marriage not once but twice, this magician had taken her heart’s desire from her.
The mare galloped a few steps through the deep sand and then stood, her fine legs gleaming in the sun. Her long, elegant neck arched beautifully, and her face bore a lovely dish. The light breeze toyed with her golden forelock.
“Greetings, Sultan,” the magician said to her father, sliding from the pegaz. His voice radiated a terrible power.
Her father responded by placing his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, a scowl clear on his fine-boned face. His bodyguards put their hands on their hilts, too.
“Who are you, sir?” the Sultan said, his voice carrying majestically across the hot sand. “Who are you to intrude upon this most sacred ceremony?”
The black-robed magician unfastened his cloak and shook it. The action sent sand whirling near his feet, and a large dust devil spun near the mare’s withers.
A second man appeared from the swirling sand, stepping forward toward the wedding party with lanky grace. He was taller than her father and more broad shouldered than her husband-to-be. Shahrazad couldn’t see his eyes from where she stood, but his sharp cheekbones and the elegant line of his nose reminded her of a bird of prey. His long, dark hair fluttered in the breeze for all that it was tied back in a club.
But when he turned toward her, she gasped. He was the same man she’d seen in her vision. He’d given her a secret smile and pulled her toward him like she’d belonged in his arms. He’d stolen her thought and her senses with his kiss.
As he met her forward gaze, his expression was too tight to read, but then his eyes widened when he saw her, as if he, too, were surprised.
Suddenly the small of her back burned, just like someone held a lit torch to her skin. Her defilement ached.
“I ask again, sir,” her father said to the magician, apparently unimpressed by the creation of a full-formed man from nothing but a flapping cloak and swirling sand. “Who are you? And if you fail to answer, my men will fill you and your assistant with arrows.”
“Forgive the intrusion, my Sultan,” the magician said, bowing low to her father, his expression humble. The tips of his mustache fluttered just above the sand. “I want nothing more than to help you celebrate the Festival of Nooroze, to help welcome your lovely daughter”—he bowed toward the canopy where she stood—“and your stalwart son-in-law”—he bowed to the Raj—“into marital bliss.”
Seemingly not convinced, the Sultan raised his hand in an elegant gesture, and his archers drew back their bowstrings. “You have not answered my question.”
“My Sultan, I am Badr, Great Magician of the Moon’s Land and the Sun’s. I bring a gift to you, to celebrate this marriage between two great houses.” He stepped toward the mare’s head and held her reins toward the Sultan with his long fingers. The huge moonstone ring he wore flickered in the sunlight.
“Badr the Bad,” the Raj said, his disgust clear. “You seek to trick us.”
“I do not trick, as you say.”
“I know your reputation, sir,” the Sultan said, but his gaze offset his forbidding tone. Even from this distance, Shahrazad could see his eyes drink in the winged mare. Shahrazad could almost smell her father’s lust for the beast. “I know your name,” the Sultan said, “and you are not welcome here.”
“Very well.” Badr bowed. “I will leave as you ask.” He turned toward his mount, the picture of compliance.
Relief sang through Shahrazad, swamping the sorrow at the beast’s departure. If the magician left, her life could continue as planned. Perhaps the burning pain across the small of her back would fade like a forgotten dream. The man with the warming kiss would vanish, too.
And when Badr the Bad grabbed his mare’s mane to mount, Shahrazad actually let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
But then the magician paused and turned toward her father, and her breath once again refused to leave her lungs.
“What is it?” the Sultan asked. “Why do you hesitate, unwelcomed guest that you are?”
“Please forgive me,” Badr said, bowing low again. “It is only that I have a question for you.” A breeze swept over him, sending the tips of his long mustache fluttering against his narrow chest.
“What is your question?”
“Send him away, Father!” She couldn’t contain herself. She didn’t want to hear the question; she didn’t want her father to hear it. “Send him now!”
But the magician answered the Sultan before the Sultan could stop him. “Are you certain you wish to send me off—when I can grant your heart’s desire?”
Your heart’s desire. With those all too familiar words, a strange squeak filled the women’s tent, bounced off the silken ceiling and the surrounding dunes. As her nurse grabbed her arm, Shahrazad realized the cry had come from her own mouth.
“I beg your pardon,” the Raj said, stepping out of his wedding tent. “But I am giving the Sultan his heart’s desire.”
“And what is that, sir?” Badr asked. “If I may ask with nothing but the deepest respect in my heart for you.”
“Don’t answer!” Shahrazad shouted, pushing Duha’s powerful hand from her arm. “Don’t engage him!”
“I will denounce this wedding if one more word falls from your mouth,” her mother-in-law-to-be said.
But her husband-to-be ignored her. “With our two lands joined together in marriage,” the Raj growled, anger resonating in his tone, “our great armies can protect all the Moon’s Land from the shitani insurgence, God hold us in his eye.”
The magician straightened from his bow. “Perhaps, if you find it too onerous to accept this gift from me—” Badr held up the golden reins. “You’d like to take her for a ride? A quick flight over the Amr Mountains to view the Land of the Sun on the other side?”
Oh, Shahr
azad wanted to ride the winged mare more than she’d ever wanted anything. If her father felt any portion of the same longing she felt, he’d be unable to refuse. He’d fall right into the magician’s trap.
“Father,” she called over the dune. “Don’t ride! It’s a trap!”
But could any trap be sweeter, more perfectly baited?
“Perhaps your willful daughter should ride instead,” the magician suggested, flapping his cloak as if shaking out dust. It was the same gesture, Shahrazad realized, that he’d used to make his assistant appear.
“Perhaps my willful daughter should ride instead,” the Sultan repeated.
The women surrounding Shahrazad gasped and muttered. They certainly realized her father shouldn’t allow the nearly wed princess—even one who continually spoke out of turn—out of sight for even a heartbeat. “No!” one of them shouted. Shahrazad realized it’d been Duha, who’d never said a word in the presence of a man, much less the Sultan.
“Do you wish your daughter to ride my pegaz?” Badr asked the Sultan, his dark eyes inscrutable at this distance.
“She rides better than most men in this land.”
“Ah, but that is not the question,” Badr replied. “This pegaz is most compliant. Your daughter will be quite safe in her care.” The magician shrugged his black-clad shoulders, sending silken ripples across his elegant robe. “The true question is one concerning the character of your daughter. Do you trust her to return when the arching sky does nothing but invite?”
“How dare you!” the Sultan said, his face flushed. “She will return. Princess Shahrazad is a humble and obedient daughter. She will ride. She will return.”
And she would. She could no more disobey her father—even her ensorcelled father—than she could sprout wings and fly.
The dark-haired assistant from her vision stood next to the magician. His eyes met hers across the dune, and she caught her breath. What would it be like to trace the planes of his cheek with her fingertips? With her lips? But he was shaking his head. Do not obey, she read. Do not ride the pegaz. And she knew he was correct.
“Do you trust her to ride?” the magician asked.
“Bring her down,” the Sultan instructed her sisters, who immediately formed a phalanx around her and led her across the dune toward the men.
As Shahrazad stepped into the flat area where the ceremony had been conducted, she kept her gaze on her feet as trained.
The Sultan took the proffered reins from Badr and held them toward her. Shahrazad made to take them, wondering how she would ride in her wedding oraz, but Badr interrupted.
“Oh, allow me,” he said, shaking his dreadful black cape again.
As before, dust swirled into a small tornado, but this time it enveloped Shahrazad. She felt rather than saw her father step back as the wedding guests cried their concern. For a moment she could see nothing but a swirling wall of sand.
Self-reproach filled her heart. She’d known—known with every bit of her mind—that Badr meant trouble. And here he was kidnapping her. She’d walked obediently toward her fate, knowing her father himself damned her.
But before she could cry out, the sand was gone. Several grains danced over the tip of her sandal. Only she hadn’t been wearing sandals. Shahrazad realized that Badr had changed her clothing. Gone was her bridal gown with its belled veil and long flowing robe. Now she wore the most perfect riding pantaloons of violet silk. A modest top billowed to her hips, and the silver sandals laced up her calves.
“What have you done?” a man from the groom’s tent called. “You’ve violated her purity!”
The Raj looked at her darkly, and she knew the reason. Another man had unclothed her in public. No matter that she’d had no choice in the matter, no matter that no one—including Badr—had seen anything through that wall of sand, her husband-to-be might imprison her for the transgression. He might do worse.
“I’m thinking we should kill this man and take that cloak,” the Raj said to the Sultan. “Forget the beast.”
“Ah!” said the magician, holding up his hands. “There is no need to kill. The cloak is yours for the asking. Only be warned.” He handed it to his assistant, who shook it in a manner identical to that used by Badr—and nothing happened. “The cloak is useless without proper instruction.”
“We can get those instructions from you,” the Raj muttered, almost under his breath, “in my dungeon.”
For a moment, for less time than it takes a man’s heart to beat, flames enveloped the Raj’s clothing. Blues, yellows, and oranges erupted from the air around him and coalesced into crimson. For that eye blink, the Raj wore nothing but red fire.
Before he could shout, before his mother could do more than gasp in horror—before the Sultan could lower his hand to release his archer’s arrows, the Raj’s wedding finery reappeared, completely unruffled.
Shahrazad wondered if she’d imagined the flames, if the heat of the morning sun intoxicated her brain. But the magician left no room for doubt. “Threaten me at your own peril,” he said.
The Sultan held up his elegant hand. “Enough,” he said. “We won’t be robbing this magician.” He turned toward her and said, “Here, daughter.” He held out the reins again in invitation, his gaze still distant. From the spell? “Take this beautiful mare for a ride. Tell us what the Amr Mountains look like from above.”
Shahrazad walked toward her father, slowly, her eyes on her new sandals. Violet gems like the ones in her belly button adorned the straps.
The crowd was quiet as she approached the beast, and she sensed the magician’s assistant’s gaze upon her, smelled his masculine scent. As in her vision, he smelled of sandalwood, and his hair was the color of black onyx.
She took the reins from her father. Without a word, she put her hands on the mare’s neck and launched herself onto the animal’s back.
Shahrazad had executed this move hundreds of times, maybe thousands. She felt her right leg fly over the mare’s back, just as expected. She felt the mare remain quiet and steady beneath her hands as she vaulted.
But something went terribly wrong.
Instead of landing squarely on the mare’s back, she sank into the animal. She became the animal. Which made no sense, but she embraced the truth of it nonetheless. She lost her depth perception, and all the colors in the world shifted to shades of gray.
Did Shahrazad suddenly have hooves? Really have them? She looked down at her feet, fully expecting to see her gem-encrusted sandals. But before she could make sense of the shining onyx hooves prancing where her feet should be, before her mind could do anything but sort out all the crazy impressions assaulting it, something—no, someone—vaulted onto her back.
“I won’t let you do this,” someone—a man—shouted. “Not to her.” Then powerful hands grabbed her mane, and mighty thighs latched onto her shoulders.
The magician.
No man could touch her, and live. She screamed in rage, only her voice sounded like a horse’s, high pitched and frantic. Trying to reach behind her and pull the creature off her back, she found herself instead bucking like a newly captured horse. Her hooves churned the sand around her. Shahrazad threw her head down and tossed all of her weight into her hands—her forefeet. She kicked her hooves as high into the air as she could, following some instinct she didn’t realize she had.
But still the creature remained on her back. His powerful thighs squeezed her hard, cutting off her breath.
“Stop,” the man on her back said. “Princess, stop!”
She’d had enough. She jerked her head with all her might, throwing her nose into the air. Tasting blood, she then threw all her weight back and reared up, pawing the sky. Still, her rider stuck on her back, refusing to fall.
Her legs trembled from supporting all of her weight, but she wouldn’t concede to this madman. Once again she ripped her mouth against the bit to free her head. Once again she reared up, pawing the sky. Her front hoof hit one of the Sultan’s soldiers, but she didn’t c
are. She’d kick all of them. But her quivering legs couldn’t support her, and she fell over backward, hitting the hot sand hard.
“Stop that thief!” Badr the Bad cried from the Sultan’s side. The archers turned in his direction, but he was pointing at her as she scrambled to her feet. She watched the magician flick his cape. The archer’s arrows turned to snakes and slithered into the dunes. The magician tried to run toward Shahrazad, but her father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“My pegaz,” Badr cried.
As Shahrazad threw herself onto her forefeet again, twisting and leaping, she realized Badr wasn’t on her back.
Who was it? What black evil had hold of her?
The rider gave her no time to wonder. As Badr took his cape and madly shook it, the man on her back leaned over the far side of her neck. She felt something—a spell, maybe—sizzle ineffectively through her mane. What was happening to her?
The rider jerked one rein to his knee and kicked her flanks. She had no choice but to twist around herself. Pain, fear and exhaustion closed all other doors.
With her head twisted to her side, she again saw the magician attempt to swish his cloak. Shahrazad lurched to the side as her rider pushed with his powerful thighs. Her rider reached down and grabbed the magician’s cape, snatching it from his bony hands.
“No!” the magician cried, grabbing for the cape. But the Sultan wasn’t letting the magician go anywhere.
“Where is my daughter?” the Sultan bellowed. Shahrazad saw his hand clasped onto the magician’s shoulder, apparently unafraid. “You tell me now!”
“Stop that man!” the magician cried, pointing at her rider. “He has her.”
Suddenly, her rider released her nose, letting her lurch straight. She took advantage of the opening, leaping toward freedom, nose down to buck him off her back. But then he kicked her side viciously and she leaped into the sky—and flew.
Come to me, she heard in her head. It sounded like a chorus of oily voices.
“Fly, Princess!” her rider called, his voice as solid as the voices in her head were not. He loosened the rein and released her head. “Fly!”
Running Wild Page 4
