The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-8

In recent months, Shammara had taken to attending the diwans herself, remaining discreetly behind a carved wooden gallery at the rear of the leewan. As a woman she could take no direct part in the affairs of state—but while the words were spoken to the regent, the eyes of all speakers were focused on the latticework of the gallery. The regent might make the pronouncements, but it was widely known throughout the court that nothing official could happen in Ravan without the approval of its uncrowned queen.

On this, the morning after the burglary, the regent walked to his accustomed position and had a servant ease him down onto the mat, where he arranged his aged bones as comfortably as he could. When at last he was ready, he signaled to the chamberlain to begin the day’s diwan. Despite this signal, the chamberlain looked discreetly to Shammara’s box for an acknowledgment before beginning.

At Shammara’s gesture the chamberlain intoned the opening welcome in a deep voice, bidding all those who had business before the regent’s diwan to come forward and make their cases known so the justice of the realm might be served. First to appear was Umar bin Ibrahim, high priest of the Temple of the Faith.

Umar was a tall, slender man, nearly as old as the regent though the years had been kinder to him. His beard was pure white, his brown eyes kind and wise. He moved with the graceful dignity befitting the chief cleric in the holiest city of all Parsina. Approaching the leewan, he knelt and made deep salaam, forehead touching the polished tile floor. “O noble regent and dispenser of justice, may Oromasd bring you fine health and continued prosperity,” he intoned.

“And to you, O my friend,” the regent replied with a smile. “I trust your ward, Prince Ahmad, is in good health.”

“That he is, O protector of the realm. I come before you on another matter of a most horrible and sacrilegious nature.”

A cloud crossed the regent’s face. “Speak, then.”

“Last night, O illustrious regent, a thief broke into the Royal Temple. Not only did he foully murder one of our priests, but he polluted the Bahram fire, desecrated the holy altar of Oromasd, and absconded with a reliquary urn wrapped in the altar cloth itself.”

The regent blinked, trying to comprehend the full situation. “You don’t know who did this?”

“No, Your Eminence, no one recognized him.”

“And he stole an urn and an altar cloth?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. His mere presence before the fire of Oromasd was severe desecration; the theft compounded it.”

“And you say he killed a priest? Nasty business, that. Priests hurt no one. We can’t allow him to get away with that.” The regent closed his eyes and was silent for several minutes. Just when the court was beginning to worry that he’d fallen asleep, he looked up at the high priest again. “Which was more valuable, the urn or the altar cloth?”

“The urn, Your Eminence, by a great deal.”

“What was so special about this urn?”

Umar fidgeted. He’d known Kateb bin Salih for more than three decades and loved him like a dear brother—but dealing with the regent in his present condition required the utmost in patience. “Physically it was made of gold and encrusted with gems and its value is beyond reckoning. More than that, however, is the fact that it stood in the niche behind the Bahram flame, and has stood there for as long as anyone can remember. It must be of enormous importance to occupy that position. I myself don’t know the significance of this urn; I’ve asked the other priests and checked the official records and can find no clue to its importance—but I do know it was always regarded with crucial meaning. For it to be stolen is most alarming.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” the regent said. “We must make sure it is found and restored immediately.” And he lapsed into silence again.

Umar waited. Only when he was positive the regent was not going to continue did he attempt to prod his old friend into action. “May I ask Your Eminence to instruct the wali of police and the Royal Guard to use all available efforts to recover the urn as quickly as possible and to seal off all the gates, searching all people and packages leaving the city so the urn will not vanish?”

The regent nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, good idea, good idea. I hereby order the Royal Guard and the wali of police to give this matter their foremost attention so the stolen urn can be quickly restored to its former position.”

Umar stole a glance at Shammara behind her carved partition. There was no secret within Ravan that he and the lady had been enemies since the death of the late king. Each of them had an opinion of the way Ravan should be run that the other did not share. Umar thanked Oromasd that Shammara was not a man; only her gender had prevented her from taking over as absolute tyrant of Ravan in the years following her husband’s death.

Umar was half afraid that, despite the regent’s decree, Shammara would veto the order just to spite him personally. If that were the case, the police and the guards would make a perfunctory search and find nothing, and Umar would never be able to claim they’d failed to follow their instructions.

But, to his great relief, Shammara nodded her agreement. Apparently she felt this was a matter that didn’t concern her or her plans for Ravan, and she didn’t care whether Umar had his way or not. Umar gave a gracious nod in her direction, said his formal gratitude to the regent for his swift administration of justice, and backed away from the leewan to the side of the room.

Umar was about to leave the hall to search for the captain of the guards and the wali of police when the chamberlain announced the next supplicant to the throne: Tabib abu Saar, special envoy from His Majesty King Basir of Marakh. Important as the urn was, Umar decided it could wait until after the next confrontation. So much would hinge upon this decision. He wished he could be up on the leewan to advise his friend, but he knew Shammara would never permit it—particularly not in a matter regarding either of the princes.

Tabib abu Saar stepped proudly forward, a short, rounded man with a grizzled beard and small, piggy eyes. His robes were of rich gold brocade and his red turban held in its center an enormous canary diamond. He did not kneel or make the full salaam, but he did bow his head respectfully to the regent.

“I bring you greetings, O regent of Ravan, from Basir the Blessed, illustrious king of Marakh, ruler of the two rivers, monarch of Sab, conqueror of Formistan and despoiler of the Shiraz Plains. The peace of Oromasd be upon you.”

“And upon you, O noble…uh, Tabib. The city of Ravan welcomes you and extends its blessings to your revered master. What mission brings you before my diwan?”

Abu Saar looked startled. “Why, to receive the answer to the petition I presented last week, O illustrious regent.”

“Please refresh an old man’s memory, O noble ambassador from Marakh. What petition was this?”

Scowling with barely restrained frustration, abu Saar replied, “The petition that Prince Ahmad honor the nuptial agreements signed by King Shunnar and King Basir nearly fourteen years ago.”

“Ahmad is scheduled to marry Basir’s daughter, is he not?”

“Yes, Your Eminence, the Princess Oma, a young lady of noble lineage and incalculable beauty, combining all the wit and grace necessary for a future queen of Ravan.”

“Yes, she sounds delightful. I see nothing to stand in the way of such a marriage, particularly since it was contracted, as you say, so many years ago.” The regent leaned back for a moment and closed his eyes. When he opened them, abu Saar was still standing before him. “Are you still here? Is there something more you want?”

“A slight matter of the timing, Your Eminence,” abu Saar said through clenched teeth. “Prince Ahmad is due to ascend the throne in six more months. As I explained to you in my petition last week, King Basir requests that the wedding take place before then, so Princess Oma can be crowned queen of Ravan in the same ceremony with her husband’s coronation.”

The regent considered that. “That seems to make some sense,” he admitted. “Very well. I give permission for Prince Ahmad and Princess Oma to be married in the next few months, before the coronation.”

“Will Your Eminence then order Prince Ahmad to begin a journey to Marakh so he may wed his princess in her native land?”

“A prince of Ravan leave the city to get married? Why can’t she simply come here? That’s far more traditional, and we have more beautiful temples. A wedding in the Royal Temple would be spectacular.”

“As I explained in my original petition, King Basir grows impatient with these delays. He wonders whether Prince Ahmad actually intends to wed Princess Oma. My lord paid a high dowry these many years ago and has seen nothing but promises in return. He will not send his oldest and most beloved daughter on a journey of more than eighty parasangs with naught but a promise. Prince Ahmad must show his true intentions by coming to Marakh and marrying the princess there. Once they are legally wed and the contracts fulfilled, they may come back to Ravan for their coronation.”

“He has a point; it is a long journey,” the regent mused aloud. “Still, the journey would be just as long for Prince Ahmad, a tender young man who’s never been beyond the city walls.”

“Nonetheless, King Basir demands your prince show his good faith by traveling to Marakh to wed his bride.”

“He demands, does he?” For just an instant a trace of the old Kateb bin Salih flickered in the regent’s eyes. “By what authority does the king of Marakh make demands on the king of Ravan? Perhaps we should cancel the contract altogether if it causes this much trouble.”

Abu Saar stood his ground. “If you abrogate the marriage contract, all of Ravan will answer for the consequences.”

The regent had not the resources to continue his bluster and lapsed back into his senile droning. “I see. It’s a terribly complicated situation, isn’t it? I must give the matter more thought. Come back in a week and I’ll have an answer for you then.”

“That’s what you said last week, Your Eminence,” abu Saar said, trembling with rage. “That’s why I’m here today. Time grows short. If Prince Ahmad is to assemble a suitable caravan and travel to Marakh, and if he and Princess Oma are to have a suitable state wedding, and if they are then to travel back to Ravan in time for their coronation, the decision must be made now. It cannot be postponed any longer.”

“Oh dear. I’m not sure.” The regent’s voice became even shakier than usual. “Prince Ahmad was given over to the priests for his education. Perhaps we shouldn’t interfere.”

He stared out into the crowd. “Is the high priest still here?” he called.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” Umar said, stepping forth from the side of the hall. From behind her carved partition, Shammara’s eyes were focused exclusively on him. Umar did not relish this sudden return to the center of controversy.

The regent looked at him through squinting eyes. “Umar, O my friend, you’ve been teacher and guardian to Prince Ahmad since the death of his father. What say you to this proposal?”

Umar knew what he wanted to say, but knew it would be neither wise nor diplomatic. This decision could be more important than anyone in this room realized; Umar was glad to be given some say in it, but wished the circumstances were less public so he could speak his mind plainly to the regent. In open court like this he would have to be very careful what he said—particularly with Shammara watching from her private gallery.