Running Wild

by Lucinda Betts

  As she repeated the sound of creation in an increasingly loud chant, she recalled ruling her desert clan and ruling well. In a watery way, she remembered craving a child; she’d slept with hundreds of men, hoping any seed would take hold. After years of failure, she’d stolen her sister’s babe—she remembered that. Her family had turned against her then, and she’d been forced to chose: become the new magician or face death by stoning—by her mother, her siblings, her father.

  It wasn’t until she’d replaced her predecessor that she understood the magician had rendered her barren, if not exactly forcing her brash actions then certainly fanning the flames of her weakness. If she needed to step in her predecessor’s proverbial footprints to accomplish her goal, so be it.

  The breath-of-fire focused her strength, focused her mind. She envisioned the Sultan’s spare face, pictured the depth of his gaze. Interrogate me, she sent again to the image in her mind. Come to me. Question me.

  She should have kept sending the message. If she had any power left, always a question after spending as much as she had today, he’d be pounding down the hall toward her as she breathed this very breath. But did she have power left? No certainty there.

  And no focus left either. Like the shitani, her mind kept sliding away from her control.

  Her mind kept sliding back to a child. Her child. Her unborn child. After becoming a mage, she could have borne a child; she could have healed her barrenness with one small spell. She could have seduced a man or simply asked to be fucked and been obeyed.

  But she hadn’t.

  She redoubled her effort now, refocusing on her breathing, refocusing on her bid to get the Sultan into her cell. But it wasn’t working. The Sultan didn’t arrive, and her mind kept going back to that unborn child. She’d punished herself for the pain she’d caused her family. No child, she’d said. Not as long as she ruled as a magician.

  But her period of self-inflicted punishment was nearing its end. She no longer possessed enough strength to rule the demons. Once she found a replacement, she could rest. And forgive herself.

  And the sound of footsteps filled the corridor, interrupting her. The Sultan. The wave of hope that surged through her nearly brought tears to her eyes. Maybe he was the one. Maybe he’d release her from this life. It didn’t lack for rewards…in the right hands.

  “Badr,” the Sultan said, loudly enough to echo down the hall. “I know your ilk. You’ll not cast your spells on me—I will not interrogate you.”

  Hope turned to dust in her veins.

  My pretties, she called in her mind to the demons. Could she control them now? Many still slumbered deep within the Amr Mountains. But some…some were Awake. Come to me, she called. I need you—one of you. Wake, my pretties.

  She sensed angry reluctance from them, a shocking wish for her demise. We don’t want to, Badra, they said in their rasping mind voices. Leave us be.

  “Badr,” the Sultan said, interrupting her shock. How dare her minions speak to her in such a manner! “Tell me, man,” the Sultan called from down the hallway. “Where is my daughter?”

  With quiet dignity, Badra slowed her breathing to something approaching normal. The Sultan cared about his land; the shitani had recognized that. For him to accept her mantle, she needed to play this flawlessly.

  In the door’s window, the Sultan’s head appeared, topped by his pristine white turban. His men opened it. “Where did you order them to go?” he asked quietly. “Where has your assistant taken my daughter?”

  She stared blankly at him, amazed at his focus. Perhaps even envious of it. He’d known she’d cast a spell on him, but he’d pushed that knowledge aside, thinking only of his daughter. Why? Because he loved her? Or perhaps because she was his last route toward an alliance with the Raj?

  She needed help. If love of his daughter motivated him, well, she could continue her search for a replacement. If his love of his kingdom drove him to this, however…

  Which of you will come to me? she asked the shitani, hiding her fear from them. If they didn’t obey even these simple commands, what would she do when they all Awoke? It is time, my pretties. One of you must come to me now. You have work to do after years of napping.

  She said nothing to the Sultan.

  Our queen, we won’t obey. We’re tired…of you. Tomorrow perhaps.

  “Answer me, man,” the Sultan said, calmly. “If I don’t find my daughter and marry her to the Raj, this whole land could fall to shitani. Not even you would wish that upon us.”

  I command you now, she said to the demons. You will obey. Now.

  Our dark queen! she heard in response. We don’t want to help you! We’re hungry. We’re tired. Leave us be.

  “Would you like more power?” she asked the Sultan, provoking him, inspecting his fault lines. Where were his weaknesses? “Would you like to rule this land and others for a thousand years? Would you like powers you cannot—as yet—imagine?”

  “Every ruler craves power,” the Sultan said, his expression unchanging. “But every good ruler knows such power comes with a cost.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And every good ruler knows the costs of wielding power increases as the amount of power wielded increases.”

  “That is a cryptic answer,” Badra said.

  “An appropriate answer to a cryptic question,” he answered. “What do you truly offer me, locked as you are in my dungeon?”

  Badra closed her eyes, the picture of serenity.

  You want to obey me, she said to her demons. Locking an image of the Princess Shahrazad in her mind, she sent the tempting picture to the shitani. Find her. She might be your new dark queen. She might rule you should the Sultan prove unworthy.

  Delicious! they cried after a moment inspecting her image. Juicy! They loved huge human breasts, and Shahrazad had them, so their reaction didn’t surprise her—but the pang of jealousy ripping through her stomach did.

  Put perhaps we want a king instead, one of the demons said. Perhaps we want your Sultan.

  That was promising, too. She might be able to hand this mantle over to this ruler on a silver platter. Help me now, she told the demons, or you’ll get no one.

  Don’t leave us alone!

  Like she’d ever leave them without a leader. Without a strong magician, the abhorrent creatures would overrun the lands. They’d rape the women—and the men, at least that’s what Faruq’s ancient texts claimed. They’d consume all the crops and drink every oasis dry. As their strength grew, they’d take control of the minds of every sentient being. Women would give birth to wretched hybrids, and humans would become a distant memory. Only magicians kept the demons in check.

  Not that the shitani needed to know any of that.

  Perhaps irked by her silence, the Sultan waved his hand in front of her face. “Are you enthralling anyone as we speak?” he asked, his face gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

  She stood, taking care to lengthen her legs just enough so that she stood taller than the Sultan. Thankfully, that ability still worked.

  The Sultan looked her in the eye for a moment, tilting his head to do so. She supposed he was trying to take her measure, but more than five hundred years of living had made her more than difficult for most people to read. Sometimes she felt like she couldn’t read herself.

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Can this power you offer help return my daughter—safely—to this palace?” the Sultan asked.

  “She is where she is.” Again she closed her eyes and smiled like some ancient religious icon.

  You spoke with a pegaz, a flying horse, she told the demons. You must find her before dawn. You must stop her from returning to her palace.

  But why? We don’t want to work.

  We don’t want her here, or you’ll have no queen, no king. Ever. And thanks to Faruq the Great’s workings, they believed her.

  “I’m losing my exceedingly short patience,” the Sultan said. “You called me down here when my counselo
rs needed me. You attempted to trick me into believing this visit to you was of my own design. What is it you offer?”

  She sensed dissatisfaction among her minions. Had her threat worked?

  “Your luscious daughter wouldn’t have tried to ride my pegaz if you hadn’t yearned for freedom yourself. She sensed your dissatisfaction and acted upon it.” If nothing else, five-hundred years of living had given her a lot of insight into human motivations. “You offered her her heart’s desire, and now…” Badra let her hands flutter at her side like a flock of birds.

  Without warning, the Sultan slapped Badr with the back of his hand. His ruby ring slit her lip open, and she tasted blood, thick and coppery. Still, she did nothing.

  “What power do you have over that, old man?” the Sultan asked.

  “Your fingers reply your own query,” she said, flinging her mustache behind her shoulders.

  “What do you mean—” he asked, but as he glanced at his hands, he hissed in a breath, answering his own question. Her spell had worked. His fingers turned to asps, dropped off his hands, and slithered under the cell’s bed. For a moment, his hands lacked any fingers at all.

  “Your fingers may return now,” she said, letting him believe her words held her power.

  “That is an impressive talent,” the Sultan said, and again, Badra admired his control. He would be well suited for her position.

  “It is yours for the taking.”

  How? her demons demanded, either not realizing or not caring that they’d interrupted her. How do we stop the princess from coming home?

  Go to my cave, my pretties, she replied, relieved that they’d come to heel. Bring the white turban you find there to her. She will understand the meaning.

  The demons might disappoint her, but the Sultan…he showed only promise. She would make her offer now, let him see a glimmer of truth.

  “I can grant your heart’s desire,” she said, in Badr’s masculine voice. It shook with simulated fear. “Take my place as magician—take it willingly. I’ll save your land, from the demons and your rivals. You’ll inherit my powers.”

  “Fool,” the Sultan said. “Do you not think I’ve consulted my own auguries? Why do you think I’m so desperate for my daughter?”

  “Love?” Badr said, without sarcasm. If she had a daughter, she’d be unable to do anything but love and protect her.

  “Love!” the Sultan said in one clipped sound. “Love! You must have boiled your brain out there in the sun. According to the augury, Shahrazad must wed the Raj—or else the shitani will invade. The augury said nothing about replacing a magician.”

  “The auguries are not infallible,” Badr reminded him.

  “I trust you like I trust an asp.” The Sultan shook his hands. “You seek to trick me. Why would a magician need a replacement?”

  “Even magicians get old.” Badra looked at him. She let the mirage of the toothless old magician fall away, and she permitted her true self to shine through. Her mustache and wrinkles gave way to smooth, supple skin; her hunched back gave way to a sprightly figure. Then she held out her hand and twitched her fingers. His turban of white linen turned to gold.

  The Sultan took the thing from his head and looked at it in amazement. “What trick is this?”

  “No trick,” Badra said in her true voice. “Only power. Power that could be yours. Power to control the shitani and live forever.” She nodded. “I’ve judged you worthy,” she said, using nearly the same words her predecessor had used on her.

  The Sultan looked at her a moment, her small breasts causing his gaze to hitch, but only momentarily. “I trust an asp more,” he said, and he spat on the floor.

  “Positions have been known to change,” she said to him.

  “Just as tigers have been known to change their stripes,” the Sultan said, closing the cell door behind him.

  But all was not lost. By dawn’s rise, Princess Shahrazad would be running. The Sultan would have no choice but to turn to Badr for succor. And with Shahrazad running—from her father, from the meddling Prince Tahir, from the demons—she’d run right toward the magician’s arms. Another potential replacement. Perhaps a more willing one.

  The shitani liked her well enough.

  5

  As Prince Tahir sat opposite her on the blanket, Shahrazad couldn’t breathe. She’d never dined with a man, not even her father. But she’d demanded this. Now she had to accommodate it.

  With her eyes demurely downcast, she poured wine from the bottle into the two glasses provided by the magic cloak. She set one in front of him, careful not to touch his knee.

  Let no man touch you. Her Duha’s words still rang in her mind. Well, she hadn’t let one, not purposefully, but the magician had still managed it, and now the magician’s black promise rang through her mind. He said she’d never wed the Raj.

  But she would. She must. Despite this handsome prince sitting across from her, despite the wings that would sprout from her back tomorrow, she must wed the Raj. And to do that, she must find the magician and convince him to lift this curse—because she simply couldn’t imagine the Raj purposefully marrying a pegaz.

  Prince Tahir broke the honeyed loaves into two parts and spread softened goat cheese onto half. Handing a chunk to her, she saw how careful he was not to graze her skin with his fingers, which, she noted, were long and powerful, just as in her vision of him. Remembering that vision brought his kiss to mind, and she quickly shoved it aside. This was not the time. In fact, the time for that memory did not exist.

  Setting the bread carefully on the blanket, she erased the command she’d written in the sand and replaced it with a question. Do you believe the shitani will awaken and invade the surrounding lands?

  Soon. He underlined the word deeply. I’ve seen one.

  She nodded and erased his words. Then she wrote: If I do not wed the Raj, my land will not withstand the shitani invasion. Father needs this alliance if he wishes to maintain human rulers.

  Tahir read this, she noted from beneath her lashes, with seriousness. She added another sentence. I must wed the Raj now. But I cannot until this curse is lifted.

  He ate some dates, and she wondered if he cared about her predicament. Perhaps she was just a silly girl to think this outsider cared three-grains-of-rice about her land. But then he looked directly at her, and she wished he wouldn’t do that. The pressure of his gaze made her feel…uncontrolled.

  Finally, he picked up the stick they were using to write. I need the magician too. He has my sister. I have less than a month to restore her. Else shitani will invade.

  He dropped the stick, presumably so she could retrieve it without touching him. Shahrazad doubted the klerin would smile upon even this blameless and distant form of communication. It was their job to suspect, and they did it with exuberance.

  Underneath his words, she answered, My father will have him imprisoned, perhaps executed.

  Tahir shook his head with apparent certainty. Not dead.

  How do you know?

  He shrugged, his dark hair shining in the moonlight, and he tapped his temples. We’re linked somehow. I’d know.

  She had nothing to say to this, horrified for him. What would it be like to be harnessed to such evil?

  Tahir seemed less bothered by the attachment. He pushed the bowl of figs toward her and poured the last of the pomegranate wine for both of them. We’ll find them tomorrow, he wrote.

  She nodded.

  Only as she finished her meal did she realize that she was going to have to spend the night in an oasis alone with Prince Tahir.

  “Princess!” The word confused her half-sleeping mind. No man could speak to her, but one did. The magician!

  “No!” she shouted, jumping from her warm nest in the sand. “No!”

  “Shh!” he said. “It is I, Prince Tahir.” Then he ran his fingers through his hair and whispered to the palm tree next to her. “I won’t hurt the princess. I won’t touch her. But she needs to dress. Now.”

&nbs
p; Tension tightened his voice, and she picked up the stick. What has happened? she wrote, trying to ignore the fact he’d spoken directly to her.

  “I think someone’s coming.”

  Formalities be damned. She paused for a moment and listened. She heard nothing, but the thick scent of gardenias hung in the predawn morning. Odd. She’d seen no flowers yesterday. She hadn’t smelled them either.

  “No time to explain,” he said. “Put on your shoes. We need to leave now.”

  Keeping her eyes down, she laced her sandals around her ankles while Prince Tahir collected the magician’s cape. But before she laced her last shoe, the nine hells erupted into the oasis.

  Cackling like a crazed hen, something she couldn’t see jumped onto her shoulder and grabbed her ear with cold fingers. Without thinking, she screamed and jumped, shoving it away from her. Its claws dug deep furrows into her shoulder, but it landed in the grass with a thud and a whine.

  She looked down, trying to see it, but she saw—nothing. Perhaps the dim light hid it. But then she saw the oasis grass wave, as if by some invisible force, and again something whipped through the air and landed on her shoulder.

  “Help me!” she cried, spinning and flailing at the thing. From the corner of her eye she saw a white object floating through the air. She realized that the invisible monster was carrying something. “Get it off me!” she shrieked.

  But Prince Tahir was already swinging his sword at something she couldn’t see in the dim, early morning light. He slashed the air at the ground near his feet. What was this madness?

  Invisible fingers twined through her braids, almost lovingly, and she screamed again, slapping blindly. Finally her hands hit the invisible creature on her shoulder, and again it fell from her with a thud.

  “Where is it?” Tahir cried, looking up from his own battle.

  But she didn’t know how to answer. She couldn’t see where it was. Instead, with a scream of rage she stomped the ground where she’d heard it land. And her foot hit something. The creature screeched like a child, and she blindly stomped again. This time she found nothing.