The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-9

He turned to address the waiting ambassador from Marakh and the assembly in general. “I hereby grant your petition, O noble, uh, noble ambassador. As regent of Ravan, I decree that Prince Ahmad shall gather together a suitable entourage for visiting the great King Basir and marrying the lovely Princess Oma, and that such entourage shall leave for Marakh no later than…oh, the day after tomorrow. That should give them enough time, don’t you think?”

“It can be arranged, Your Eminence,” the chamberlain bowed.

“In that case, O mighty regent, may I ask a favor?” Umar said, kneeling once again and bowing his salaam.

“My ears are always open to your words, O worthy servant of Oromasd,” the regent replied.

“Since you remanded the prince to my care these many years ago, and since I am his teacher in matters temporal and spiritual, I beg to accompany him on his forthcoming journey, that I may guide him and continue his instruction.”

The regent paused. “The prince is a healthy young man, but you, O Umar—are you sure your health is up to such an arduous trek?”

“Oromasd has preserved me well, O gracious Kateb, and I’d be honored to serve His Highness in such a way. There are plenty of other priests to assume my duties in the temple.”

“Very well,” the regent said. “I order you to accompany our prince, to give him counsel as wise as you’ve given me, to continue his education, and to see that his spiritual needs are not neglected.”

Umar bowed again. If he had not prevented the disaster he was sure would come, at least he could be at Ahmad’s side to mitigate some of its worst effects.

As he backed away from the leewan into the crowd once more, he stole another glance into the private gallery at the rear of the room. Through the wooden screen he could see Shammara smiling—and Umar liked that not at all.

Chapter 5: The High Priest

Umar bin Ibrahim was a deeply worried man. Too many monumental things were happening too quickly, and he was concerned for the future of Ravan. After leaving the regent's diwan he went to visit the chief of the Royal Guard and the wali of police. He gave both men a description of the stolen items and was assured by both that a thorough search of the entire city would be made until the articles were found. All persons leaving the city would be searched and their baggage examined, so there would be no chance of the urn getting out of the city. A truly clever thief might have already left the city as soon as the gates opened this morning—but if the urn was still in Ravan, it would stay here. Umar was confident the guards and police would do a thorough job in their search for the missing items.

He was far less confident about the matter of the prince's upcoming journey to Marakh. The thoughts weighed heavily upon him as he trudged back to his house beside the Temple of the Faith.

His wife Alhena greeted him as he entered. Alhena was nearly as tall as her husband, with graying hair and a face that Time had touched without badly aging. After thirty-three years of marriage she could read her husband's moods well and knew he was deeply troubled. She bade him sit and made him comfortable, then asked to hear what the matter was, refusing to accept his simple assurances.

At last Umar sighed. “As if the theft last night wasn't bad enough, the regent has ordered Prince Ahmad to travel to Marakh to marry Princess Oma.” He explained to her all that had transpired at the diwan.

Alhena knit her brow. “I don't understand your concern. We've known for years Prince Ahmad would marry her; you helped negotiate the contract yourself. I admit the timing is awkward, but it should not press so heavily on your thoughts.”

“The timing is damnable!” Umar shouted, pounding his fist on the mat in frustration. Then, realizing he was taking his rage out on the wrong person, he said in a gentler voice, “Forgive me, my love. You've done nothing to merit my anger. I yell merely at my own impotence for being unable to explain the true reason behind my opposition to the trip.”

“After all these years, O my husband, can't you at least trust me?” Alhena said softly.

Umar looked at her and sighed again. “You must remember, shortly after the death of King Shunnar I made a journey of my own. I traveled across the Kholaj Desert to the shrine of Sarafiq so I might speak once more to my teacher, Muhmad. Every traveler to that oasis may ask one truth in his lifetime. I was concerned about the future of Ravan and of young Prince Ahmad, and so I asked Muhmad to enlighten me whether there would be any pitfalls in the prince's path.”

The question had not been an idle one, both Umar and Alhena knew that. Within days after King Shunnar's death, Ahmad's mother, the concubine Yasmeen, was found dead in her own bed. Poison was suspected, with Shammara the most likely culprit, but nothing could ever be proved. Shammara had always felt Haroun, son of a legal wife, should take precedence over Ahmad, son of a mere concubine. But Ahmad was the elder and the king's favorite, and it was Ahmad the king named as his successor with his dying breath.

Yasmeen's death served as a warning. Umar had conferred with Kateb bin Salih about the boy's safety, and it was decided the young Prince Ahmad would be handed over to the Royal Temple until his coronation, with Umar being his tutor and the priests of the madrasa beside the temple serving as his protectors. Over the past eight years, four assassination attempts had come to naught and Prince Ahmad never even knew his life had been threatened. Nonetheless, the prince's life had ever been a delicate subject much on Umar's mind.

“Muhmad looked at me,” Umar continued, “and said only one thing could prevent Ahmad's reign: If Prince Ahmad ever went beyond the city walls before his coronation, he would never return to rule in Ravan. Those were his exact words.

“I came home and never told another soul about the prophecy until now. I've kept a careful eye on Ahmad, making sure he stayed within the city for his own safety. But now, in just two days, he's been ordered by the regent to leave the city and I greatly fear Muhmad's prophecy will come to pass. The theft of the urn may only have been a bad omen of this more horrible event to come.”

Alhena was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Why couldn't you have told this to someone? Why couldn't you have told Kateb bin Salih? He would have listened.”

“At first I was afraid to tell anybody. You remember how uncertain everyone was at first about Ahmad succeeding his father. With Shammara stirring up the nobles, all it would have taken was a single ill-omen like this to convince them Haroun deserved to be king in place of Ahmad.

“As years went by it was relatively easy to keep Ahmad within the city walls—until now. If I'd stood up this morning in the diwan and related Muhmad's prophecy, one of two things would have happened. Either the court would scoff at the prophecy, in which case they'd send Ahmad off anyway; or else they'd believe it, and I'd be handing Shammara a stick for stirring up trouble. Even though his succession is accepted now by most people, I don't want to give Shammara any ideas. Knowing how the court would react, I decided to remain silent and pray to Oromasd that Muhmad was wrong in his prophecy.”

Alhena stood beside him and rested a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “I have faith in the goodness of Oromasd. He wouldn't unjustly deprive his holy city of its rightful king. Prince Ahmad is a good and righteous boy, and Oromasd would let nothing bad happen to him.”

Umar gave his wife a wan smile. “But Oromasd is not the only power in the universe. Outside these walls, Rimahn holds equal power, holding the cosmos in a delicate balance between good and evil. Sometimes that balance requires a sacrifice of the good. I'm terribly afraid our young prince will find himself caught in some pivot point in the eternal war of light and darkness.”

“He'll have his loyal guards to protect him, won't he? And you'll be with him too, to counsel and advise him. I have faith in you, my love, as well as in Oromasd.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze of reassurance.

Umar looked into his wife's face. He had long ago memorized every line and curve, but each time he saw it there was a new vitality that made it as fresh as a new acquaintance. Today he saw in her eyes such love and strength that his spirits rose once more and he could face the future with renewed courage. He tenderly took her hands into his and marveled at the ever-fresh thrill he felt when touching her.

“Thank you, my beloved,” Umar said. “You are ever the gentle breeze in the desert of my life, the oasis of hope in the barren wastes of my despair. I think my greatest fear of all about this journey is that I, too, will never return to Ravan and never see you again. That would be the worst tragedy of all.”

He sighed and stood up again. “Ah well, kismet cannot be denied. I shall go to Prince Ahmad and tell him the news. Perhaps it will please him more than it does me.” Kissing Alhena tenderly, he left their house for the quarters of the prince.

Half of one wing of the madrasa beside the Royal Temple had been made over into chambers for His Highness, Prince Ahmad. While spartan in comparison with what his rooms would have been like in the palace, the royal chambers were luxurious compared with the standard accommodations for other students. The normally bare stone walls had been hung with layered silk and satin draperies to make them seem less sterile; the normally bare stone floors were covered with layers of thick woven rugs in geometric patterns of red, gold, and blue. Silk-covered pillows were scattered about the floor, while couches, chairs, coffee table and service, and even the prince's bed had been brought in from the palace itself. A delicate compromise had been struck between the rigorous discipline of the madrasa and the honors due a prince.

No efforts had been spared in Prince Ahmad's education. He could read fluently and write with a fine calligraphic style. He'd thoroughly studied the sciences of astronomy, medicine, anatomy, biology, mathematics, and alchemy. He'd been trained in the arts of philosophy and rhetoric. Most importantly he'd been well grounded in theology and religious thought. Umar knew the boy's soul, and knew young Prince Ahmad had a deeply ingrained sense of honor and righteousness. He would make a splendid monarch of the city of Oromasd—if kismet gave him the opportunity.

Nor had the physical skills been ignored. Prince Ahmad was an accomplished horseman and played polo with grace and dexterity. He was an unerring archer, a crafty wrestler, and a demon swordsman. He'd studied military history to complement his native intelligence and bravery; he could, if he had to, lead his nation into war while hoping to govern it in peace.

As Umar bin Ibrahim approached him now, the prince was seated crosslegged on a pillow, studying his current lesson in political philosophy. “I bring you greetings, O most excellent of princes, and news from the regent's diwan,” Umar said.

Prince Ahmad looked up. He had a darkly handsome face with clear complexion and a single bushy line of eyebrow across his forehead. His beard, which had just started growing in, was short and kept immaculately trimmed. His turban was of spotless white silk in which diamonds and sapphires had been sewn, and he wore a jacket of heavy gold brocade over his white linen kaftan. Velvet zarabil embroidered with gold adorned his feet and gold rings with various gemstones circled his fingers. He smiled as he saw the high priest, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.

“The news has preceded you, O revered teacher,” the prince beamed. “I am to leave for Marakh the day after tomorrow to marry Princess Oma and bring her back here for our coronation. Isn't it exciting?”