The Twin Sorcerers

by Der Nogard

  Dir-en-Shad stood up from the throne and took a position beside the dragon’s head. He pet the yellow beast, skin the color of sand, and the beast snorted so hard that it toppled two acolytes standing in its path. “What I know is not for you to know,” Dir-en-Shad. “I should kill you, but that is not your destiny and I am bound to the threads of time just as much as you are. The lives of men are all writ upon a book, even those things that you would say have not happened yet. No, it is not your fate to die here at this moment so go. Tell all you meet that Dir-en-Shad sits upon the throne of the sultan, that he shall bring the death that some men yearn for and other men deserve. Go.”

  Dost was freed from the hold of the eunuchs. He began to walk away from Dir-en-Shad and his dragon, but he could not leave without taking one last look back at the man who had spoken. He wondered if this was Alamgul or if it truly was Dir-en-Shad. He wondered if the threads of time were strong or if they were weak. He wondered what his own destiny was.

  Ghazan and Xenia boarded a ship that was headed out of the great city of Damat. They would spy the mighty domes of the town as the ship pulled out of the port, but this was a moment that was yet a few hours in the future. Damat was like Maler in miniature: its domes were a little shorter, a little less blue, its bazaars were not quite so wide and its merchants not so numerous or so greedy. But its slave girls, culled from a hundred different lands and as varied as the fresh melons the fruit-men sold, the slave girls of Damat were a different matter entirely. They gave this city its renown, casting even the wondrous slave girls of Maler into the shade.

  But Ghazan had no time to think of women then. He needed to find a solution to the problem of taking back his kingdom, for it was his as far as he was concerned. He may be on the run, he might even be a changeling, but on paper he was the last of the Yunus line of Maler and there was no claimant anywhere who’s right to the throne would be stronger than his own. And so Ghazan and Xenia boarded the most affordable ship that they could. It was to sail to the lands to the south, where Ghazan knew that his father had some friends, even if their communiques were from years long since passed. They would skirt the wild kingdoms of the narrow western peninsula and after a few weeks reach the south and its seaside kingdoms. What they would find their only the gods knew.

  After some time in port, Dost began to grow wearisome of the endless waiting. “If the captain does not leave soon, he shall feel the kiss of my kujala,” he whispered to Xenia.

  “I would not be so quick to anger,” said a man sitting near them. “You must know that the captain is a pirate.”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” said Ghazan, a man who knew little of the world, even if he might be termed dragonslayer. “This is a reputable ship. Look at how the captain is arrayed. He wears the blue silk of a prince. And that is a fine turban if I might be so bold to remark upon it.”

  “That does not change the simple matter that he is a pirate,” said Dost and he stood up. “You will not regain your kingdom by allying yourself with their like. They are quick to turn whichever way the wind blows.”

  “How do you know who I am?” Ghazan asked, finally taking full measure of the man.

  “Because I have just left Maler and you match the description of the prince.” The ship was finally pulling anchor and many of the passengers were venturing closer to the harbor-side to watch as the ship pulled away. Dost too took this measure and Ghazan followed with Xenia in tow. “You are wise not to attempt to regain your kingdom on your own,” and Dost darted a quick look back at the prince.

  The ship began to pull out to see and the domes of Damat glittered in the desert sun. As Ghazan listened to the talk of the mates of the ship, he began to believe that maybe this fellow traveler had bene right. For all their fine clothes, the men had tattoos, spoke in a common tongue, and even the subject of their words left much to be desired. It seemed they were pirates after all.

  “Is it true?” asked Ghazan, taking a seat beside the man. His mind had carried him elsewhere. “Is it true what they say about the dragon?”

  Dost remained silent, which was as much of an affirmative as Ghazan needed. The warlord turned to gaze at the water again.

  “I am not afraid of dragons, not anymore, but I am just so weary,” said Ghazan. “I do not know that it is even worth fighting for, a kingdom I no longer care about.”

  Dost glanced at the prince again. If he was looking for inspiration in that direction, the prince was speaking to the wrong man. Dost himself did not know what he was going to do now that his own life’s goal had been prematurely aborted, snatched like a pearl from the sultan’s treasure-chamber.

  “Who are you?” asked the prince.

  “It does not matter,” said Dost.

  “It is just a name that I ask,” said the prince.

  Ghazan looked so pitiful that Dost felt an odd feeling. “I am called Dost,” he said.

  “Is that the name your father gave you?” asked the prince.

  Dost was somehow alarmed at this question and he gave the prince a stern look, but his face soon softened. “Yes,” he said.

  A silence fell between them and finally Xenia, from her safe perch behind the prince, took a seat at the ship-side as the men had. She looked at Dost and found him a strange mixture of elements in opposition. He was hard and his words were hard, but there was something soft and childlike about him. Indeed, for all his scars, this warrior seemed more the child than Ghazan himself.

  The ship began to rock with the gentle pull of the waters and soon the great port city of Damat became a memory. The sun would soon set and they would be ushered to the quarters below. That moment had not yet come and Xenia wondered why it need come at all. She felt the waters of the ocean against her face and she felt that she was home again, wherever that was. She knew that the memory of who she was was something so near. She wished that she could merely reach out and grab it. If she only could remember her name. It was just a name.

  “Well,” said Ghazan, who too seemed refreshed by the waters. “I think you should join me in my quest.”

  “What is your quest?” Dost asked.

  “I do now know,” the prince replied. “Perhaps regain my kingdom.”

  “I am not interested,” said Dost.

  “Well, why not? You are not doing anything.”

  “How do you know I am not doing anything?” asked Dost.

  “Because it is written all over your face,” said Ghazan. Suddenly the prince became very glad. “Xenia was right. We were meant to take this ship and our fate is unfolding right before our very eyes. No need to worry over tomorrow. Here you are.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Take my hand!” shouted the prince.

  “I do not want to,” said Dost.

  But Ghazan would hear none of that. He grabbed the hand of Dost with its rough, calloused palms and he shook it. It was limp as Dost went to great lengths to be as disengaged from the greeting as he could. “If you think I am joining you, you are mistaken,” he said. The ship rocked and finally the sun set. It would not be long before the wyms came, the great sea worms that plied the ocean, making sea voyage as much a terror as a mercantile endeavor. As a pirate ship, there would be no curfew bidding the guests onboard to go down below. If these three, or any other passengers for that matter, were tossed into the sea and eaten by the wyms, then that was their matter. That meant a lighter load for the captain and room for more passengers, passengers that paid their way as soon as they boarded. If they were fated to be eaten right after they paid their voyage, then let them blame fate.

  There was naught to do but go below the deck. They were fortunate to have a chamber of their own, last on a long hall that stretched about the length of ten tall men. Their well-appointed chamber was at the stern, while the other large chamber along the hall, that at the bow, belonged to the first mate. That captain’s own chamber lay on the deck, at the castle above which was the wheel.

  Theirs’s was a chamber large enough for three.
Hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier with new candles. The ceiling itself was in a honeycomb pattern, glittering with shards of crystal. It was a chamber fit for a queen and her lovers. Below chandelier and these intricately crafted honeycombs were three beds. The lady’s bed was in the center while the beds to either side of if belonged to the men. The room was arranged in such a way that the small window was behind them rather than facing them. It was night and they could hear the soft cry of the wyms: “Cree, cree!” It was soft for the sturdy hull of the ship formed a barrier between them and these animalistic sounds. When Xenia grew tired of watching the sea, and listening to the wyms, she dispatched the men to the hall, had her bath, and then resumed her place in the bed. Midnight would come soon.

  Xenia felt at home here, cornered all around by the sea, hemmed in by two strong men. They lie in their beds now and the lady felt when Ghazan turned in bed towards her, just as if he had walked up and taken her into his sturdy grip. The prince slept, but this movement was meaningful to her all the same. When Dost moaned, as he had a dream of pleasure or of pain, it was as if the warlord kissed her upon the nape of her neck. She shifted in bed and the thin gauze of her dress scratched her inner thigh. She felt the weight of the damask vest against her breast. It was tight this vest, but the pull of the thick fabric reminded her of her womanly breasts. The sea tossed her ecstatically and she felt the heat of the two men so near to her. She could smell the salt water upon their skin, though they too had bathed. When Dost moaned again she wondered how it must feel to have his strong arms around her. She could hear the sound of him punching Ghazan square in the face. What did that feel like, to have two men fighting over you? Ghazan fell to the floor and Dost ripped the veil from her face. He had not seen her without her veil. She wondered if he found her beautiful. She wondered if he thought she was a prize worth fighting for. She wondered what it felt like to fall helpless into his arms after he had won her from Ghazan.

  But why not love, the lady thought. Why must dragons die? Why must woman be veiled? It would be a grand thing to live in a world where one might be thrice kissed: kissed by two men and kissed a third time by the sea.

  Chapter Five

  The sky was dusky hued. An egret made its flight across the wind-swept plain, the beach of the island of Vani, and Dost found himself alone. From this parapet, he could see little. They were far from the port, which lay on the other side of this promontory, so he could not see the fishermen cast their nets. The temple to the eponymous god of the Vanians was several leagues south of the walled-town so Dost could not see that either. It was said that a battle was being waged between the ruler of this land and a rebellious lord, but that was occurring on a plain even further south than the temple so that certainly could not be seen from where the warlord stood. To a man whose mind was always bent to fighting, not being able to see anything was an unwelcome guest.

  He might mind that, but Dost did not mind being alone. After the long sea voyage to this southern land, he needed the space. This spot was secluded. It was far from the cheery Ghazan, who wavered between the heights of joy and the throes of depression. It was far from the queen’s numerous guards, who seemed to sniff the warrior in Dost and regarded him with the highest suspicion. Men were always like that when there were women around and this land was ruled by a queen: an omnipresent woman.

  He would not be on the parapet alone long. He heard the sweep of a gown and soon saw Xenia’s veiled face standing beside him. “No need to wear the veil here,” he said.

  “I know,” said Xenia. She was coming into her own a bit. Something in the lady told her that this man was threatening, that he had fought to the death before, but she knew that she must speak with him. She must, even if she did not know why quite then. What sort of man was he? She did not truly know. If I am to fall into his arms one day, I must at least know this.

  “I know there is no need for the veil here,” the lady said, “but I have become used.”

  “This land is ruled by a queen,” said Dost. “She might take offense if you show up veiled when she receives us this evening.”

  “This thing is far from my mind. It should be far from yours as well. There is no need to worry over things that have not happened yet.

  “I am not worried,” said Dost, and then he let out a long sigh.

  “There is still some time before the queen receives us,” Xenia remarked. “It is said that she is fighting in the battle, though I cannot imagine it. Ghazan wants to go to the town. We only had a moment to see it, when we disembarked, and we may not have many opportunities. Ghazan already plans where he wants to go next.”

  “I have been here before,” Dost said, not looking at the maid.

  “You have,” said Xenia. “I did not know.”

  “How could you?” asked Dost.

  “Might I ask under what circumstances?”

  “You may certainly ask,” the warlord said with a strange laugh.

  “Must everything be a battle with you?”

  Xenia too sighed after she said this.

  “What do you mean?” Dost wondered.

  “When a question is asked some choose merely to answer it,” Xenia said in a voice almost as soft as a whisper.

  “And some choose not to ask a question if they know the hearer would not wish to answer,” said Dost. “I am not a complete barbarian.”

  “No one is calling you a barbarian,” said Xenia. “Look, there is a lynx.”

  “Where?” Dost asked, suddenly standing up straighter.

  “There,” said the lady, veil fluttering in the wind. “I am surprised that you did not make it out before me. Do you not see it?”

  “Yes, I see it now,” said the warlord. “I see something else too. The queen. Look, here she comes now.”

  The queen sat astride her horse, alone, trotting up the beach. Her torso was arrayed in the braided jacket of a horse-lord of the steppe and her shoulders were draped in chainmail. She wore the high steel cap of a cavalryman of the Banu Yunus and in her right hand she gripped a flag-tipped lance. It was the bifurcated yellow flag of the Kingdom of Vani and she gripped it tightly in her gauntleted hand. In short, the queen was attired entirely as a man.

  If there was an army, it must have been far behind the queen for when she passed into the gates of her city, she came alone.

  “It is said that she sleeps with all of the men of her court,” said Xenia. She would have shrugged if she was not so transfixed with the image of the warrior queen that had just passed under her.

  “They always say that about women rulers,” said Dost.

  Xenia turned to glance at him and then broke into peals of laughter.

  “What is so funny?” the warlord asked.

  “Nothing, I just would not have expected you to defend her,” said Xenia.

  “I am not defending her. I am just being honest.”

  “Well, let us say that she does sleep with the men of her court,” said the lady. “What is the matter with that?”

  “I am not having this discussion with you,” said Dost.

  “And why not?”

  “Because it is senseless,” said the warlord. “Besides, I do not care either way. She could sleep with that pirate who captained our ship for all I care. All of the pirates. Or that lynx down there.”

  “Oh no,” said Xenia. “Not that one. He is so scraggly.”

  “You are more concerned that he is scraggly than the fact that he is a lynx?” Dost sighed. “I do not believe that I will ever understand women.”

  “Well, we are not that complicated,” said Xenia. “You just need to set aside the way that you see the world and imagine that perhaps some others see it differently. Perhaps that is what the veil is for. You can imagine as you want us to be and not as we are.”

  The talk of Dost and Xenia was broken by the clack of boot heels against the stones of the parapet. “It is the queen’s spahbad,” said Xenia. She turned round and saw the man perhaps twenty paces away. She turned back aro
und again and clutched her veil as the wind had suddenly picked up.

  “They do not call the generals spahbads in this land,” said Dost, suddenly reminded of his father. “We are foreigners in this land and they are foreigners to us. We shall have to get used to their ways.”

  “It shall not be as hard for you as you have been here before,” said Xenia.

  The soldier cleared his throat when he reached them. It was Salé, the general of the queen. Xenia, who had seen him briefly when they had arrived, was surprised at his handsomeness. He was tall and well-built with a closely cropped dark beard. He wore the characteristic chain mail of the cavalryman, but his arms were bare, clearly demonstrating his strength. In their short time in the kingdom, Xenia had already heard talk that that this man wrestled island bears in his spare time.

  “The queen will soon be receiving her court in the throne room,” said Salé. “You are required to prepare yourselves as you will be presented to Her Majesty. Do what you must.”

  Dost said nothing, he only looked at the general closely. He wondered the sort of man he was. Though he had taken issue to the impugning of the queen’s reputation, the idle talk about her bedroom, Dost believed that this was just the sort of man that might capture the heart of a queen. He was not hard to look upon and he was strong enough to defend her. A woman who was the only child of her father and alone in a world of numerous enemies would need a man like this. Perhaps the stories were true. In fact, the stories that Dost had heard, well-known warlord that he was, were different from those of Xenia. He had heard that this man killed the enemies of the queen, being general as well as assassin. The rumors that had reached his ears were not of the amorous sort.

  “No,” thought Dost. “These are thoughts for another time.”

  Now, the son of the late spahbad of Maler must consider how he might separate himself from Prince Ghazan and the girl and make it back to Shaibani. This fight of Ghazan was not his own. The deed that he had spent his youth dreaming of, the assassination of the sultan of Maler, that deed was already accomplished, even if it was by another man’s hand. He would have to find the right moment to go back to port and take ship off this isle.