The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-10

“Perhaps a little too exciting, Your Highness,” Umar said cautiously.

But Prince Ahmad was so delighted at the prospect he failed to notice his tutor's tone. “Just imagine. I've never been outside Ravan before. There's a whole world of things to see and touch and taste. I've never seen a farm or a desert. I've only seen the Zaind River from windows in the top of the palace. There's so much I've yet to experience. Didn't you yourself teach me that the best way to learn was to live life firsthand?”

“Indeed I did, O my prince. I just wish this were all happening a little later.”

Finally catching something of his mentor's mood, Prince Ahmad stopped his bubbling and stared into Umar's face. “Why?”

Umar looked back at the handsome youth bursting with joy and vitality. He wondered whether he should tell the prince about the prophecy, then decided against it. Ahmad was too happy right now to be bothered with such weighty matters. Telling Ahmad about the prophecy would not change its truth or falsity. The prince had to make this journey, by the regent's order; he might as well make it in this happy state.

Shaking his head, the high priest said, “Merely an old man's superstitions. Pay them no heed. For a lad like you, a journey like this is exciting; for a man my age, it becomes fatiguing very quickly. There is so much to arrange and so little time before we have to leave.”

Prince Ahmad continued to look thoughtful. “Umar, you are the wisest of my teachers, a father in all but fact for the past eight years. May I confide in you?”

Umar bin Ibrahim blushed modestly. “I would hope Your Highness has learned I will always respect his confidences and give him the best counsel my tired old mind can devise.”

The boy looked around to make certain there was no one else within earshot. “I'm…I'm worried about Princess Oma. I've never met her, never seen her—I've never even met anyone who has. How do I know I'll like her?”

“They say she's very beautiful and intelligent,” Umar said slowly.

“‘They’ repeat a lot of flattery about royalty we both know is not true. She could be fat and stupid, sallow and pockmarked, with only one eye and half her teeth missing. She could have the voice of a raven and the disposition of a tigress. I don't want to marry someone like that.”

“She might be having the same fears about you, Your Highness,” Umar pointed out.

“That's different. Plenty of people have seen what I look like and the reports could easily have reached her. She, on the other hand, lives closed up in King Basir's harem and only goes out in public heavily veiled. How can I possibly find out anything about her?”

“We know for a fact she's a year younger than you and has been brought up in a royal court knowing all the graces your future queen must be able to command. There's little doubt she'll make you a fitting queen.”

“But what if I don't fall in love with her?” Ahmad persisted.

Umar smiled broadly. “You'll probably end up marrying several women, O prince, with dozens of concubines as well. I'm sure, within that number, you'll find someone to love. The qualities you want in your queen may not be exactly the same ones you want in your lover. Princess Oma, I'm sure, will be fine.”

“If she turns out to be ugly and decrepit I'll have you spend the wedding night with her.”

“Leaving all three of us disappointed? That's hardly a tribute to your generous nature.” Umar's attempt to swallow his smile only turned it into a smirk. He reflected that only the young could be so earnest about love.

“Well, perhaps,” Ahmad said. “And then again, perhaps she'll be as beautiful and charming as ‘they’ say and none of these problems need arise.”

“My prayers go with you, Your Highness. In the meantime, there is much to be done.” The two spent nearly an hour discussing the nature of the wedding ceremony, the composition of the entourage, the gifts that would be taken to King Basir, and scores of other formal details. Prince Ahmad finally called in his servants to help him pack while Umar went off to inform the chamberlain of His Highness's wishes.

When Umar left, the prince was still burbling happily about his upcoming trip to the far lands of Marakh. Umar himself had far more important things to do. There would be at least fifty men in the entourage, and if Shammara's chamberlain had his way at least half of them would readily slit the prince's throat the instant his back was turned. Umar had to be sure the escort contained no one but men he personally knew were loyal to Prince Ahmad. If the prophecy came true, Umar would at least make certain it was not through his carelessness.

Chapter 6: The Plot

A eunuch met Tabib abu Saar in one of the palace’s anterooms after the ambassador from Marakh had left the diwan. The servant caught his eye and nodded, but said not a word as he motioned for abu Saar to follow him. Checking to make sure he was not being observed, the ambassador walked after the eunuch.

They proceeded through unused back rooms and corridors to a small pantry near the kitchen. There the eunuch pulled up on a ring in the floor, revealing a trap door. Abu Saar climbed down the stairs inside the door and the eunuch followed, closing the door behind them. They were now within the maze of secret passages that honeycombed the palace of Ravan—narrow corridors of stone, bare of furnishing or decoration, cold and dimly lit by torches set at long intervals. The eunuch took the lead again and walked quickly through the dusty hallways, up spiraling staircases, and through so many twists and turns that abu Saar quickly became disoriented. The eunuch passed many doorways that seemed to look all alike, and finally stopped before one wooden door and rapped softly three times. After a moment there was the sound of a bolt being thrown back, and the door opened to admit abu Saar and his guide.

They were in one of the upper rooms of the palace, in a room of the harem where normally only maidservants and eunuchs were allowed to go. Abu Saar felt slightly uncomfortable here, but only slightly; the business he had to transact could scarcely be conducted in more open, more accessible quarters.

The room had a light, airy feel to it. Carved wooden tables around the room held silver candelabra that were all lit and glowing brightly, adding to the sunlight that streamed in through the window. Gauzy silk curtains of a pastel blue covered the walls while a blue and white rug with the design of entwined dragons covered most of the floor. A brazier burned inconspicuously in one corner, filling the room with the scent of clove incense.

Across the room, watching him intently, sat Shammara, the uncrowned queen of Ravan. She sat, not on the floor as was customary, but in a chair of blackest ebony, carved with the likenesses of many animals on the sides, arms and legs, with little diamonds of ivory inlaid at intervals. It was not the chair, though, but the woman herself who commanded abu Saar’s attention.

Shammara was a tall woman and slender, dressed in a silken thawb of the deepest blue with heavy embroidery of real gold thread around the edges of the long hanging sleeves and down the center front placket. The milfa she wore was of a slightly lighter shade of blue and so sheer it barely concealed her features. She had a gaunt, unlined face with prominent cheekbones and a small mouth. Her eyes were black as ink and piercing as daggers, and her face was topped by jet black hair that was all but completely covered by her blue headscarf. She sat with a preternatural stillness. Straightbacked as any general, she seemed to be carved from ivory.

So imposing was the figure of Shammara that it took abu Saar a moment to realize there was another person seated beside her—a young man who could only be her son, Prince Haroun. He was not quite as tall as his mother and, while still young, had already developed a substantial paunch. He wore a pale yellow kaftan and sirwaal, silver niaal, and a gold brocade saaya; the fabrics were rich and well-tailored, but the prince’s posture was so bad it made the clothes hang awkwardly on his body. His pale yellow turban was poorly wrapped and seemed perpetually ready to slide off his head, though it never quite did. The prince had an oily complexion and his beard was little more than an occasional patch of stubble. His jaw was slack and his mouth seemed unable to completely close by itself. His eyes darted continually about the room, unable to meet an honest gaze.

Abu Saar approached to within a few cubits and gave his most courtly salaam. “O noble lady and magnificent prince, may you live forever,” he intoned. “I bring you greetings and the warmest regards of my master, King Basir, and convey his wishes for your long lives and continued good health.”

“Yes,” Shammara drawled. “Your master is much in my thoughts these days. I presume the success of your petition means King Basir is prepared to go through with the rest of our plan as agreed upon.”

Abu Saar looked suspiciously at the eunuch who’d opened the door for him and the eunuch who’d guided him here. Both men had taken a stance on either side of the hidden door.

Sensing the ambassador’s caution, Shammara added, “Pay them no attention. They’re both mute, and totally loyal to me.”

“Very well, Your Ladyship,” abu Saar nodded and half bowed. “Your assumption is correct. King Basir has stationed a battalion of his finest soldiers along the forest route between Ravan and Marakh, all disguised as common brigands. When Prince Ahmad’s caravan comes past, two days out from Ravan, our men will set upon him and wipe out his party to the last defender. There will be no one left to challenge Prince Haroun’s right to rule in Ravan.”

Shammara gave the ambassador a cold nod, the slow movement filled with a sense of barely restrained energy. “And the second part of the plan?”

Abu Saar hesitated for just a fraction of a second, watching with distaste as Haroun picked at his face. “King Basir expresses his willingness to marry his daughter, the Princess Oma, to Prince Haroun and thereby unite our two lands in peace. He does, however, require me to deliver to him some token to prove your good faith in this matter. After all, he will be killing the princess’s current betrothed purely on the basis of your word of honor. He wants assurance that Princess Oma will not be left without a husband when this matter is over with.”

“Fair enough,” Shammara said. She snapped her fingers and one of the eunuchs moved from his stance by the door to one of the wooden tables. Reaching behind it, he pulled out two leather pouches, one large and one somewhat smaller. With obvious exertion he brought the pouches forward and set them at abu Saar’s feet.

“The larger pouch, which has been fastened shut with my personal seal, contains thirty thousand dinars as earnest money, to be forfeit if Haroun does not wed Princess Oma. I shall expect it back intact after the marriage takes place.”

“And the smaller pouch?” abu Saar asked.

“That is an additional ten thousand dinars as a gift for you, in gratitude for your generous service on behalf of King Basir and myself.”

Shammara’s arm moved just far enough to let her pick up a small sandalwood fan. Without turning her head, she brought this sharply but silently against Haroun’s hand as he picked at his face. The prince jumped as if burned and hunched forward, his hands in his lap. Shammara’s hand had already returned to her own lap.

The ambassador bowed again. “You are too kind, O generous lady.”

“Probably,” Shammara agreed, “but at least it’s money well spent. As soon as I receive word of Ahmad’s death I will have the regent announce the engagement of Haroun to Princess Oma and all details will be arranged. Prince Haroun, however, will on no account leave Ravan; Princess Oma will come here for her wedding. After all, what maiden would not wish to celebrate her marriage in the world’s holiest city?”