Stephen Goldin - Storyteller

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This book is dedicated to Melissa Ann Singer, for all the time, effort, and love she put into it.

CHAPTER 1

The Palace Of Rashwenath

The tale is told of a time when Hakem Rafi the accursed, the thief, the blackhearted, when this nefarious

infidel violated the Temple of the Faith in the fabled city of Ravan and stole the golden jeweled urn of

Aeshma from before the Bahram fire itself. The tale recounts how he escaped from the Holy City

disguised as a soldier in Prince Ahmad's own wedding procession, only to be trapped in the ambush of

the treacherous King Basir—and how, to save his own life, he smashed the urn and released Aeshma

upon the unsuspecting world of Parsina once again.

Aeshma, the king of the daevas. Aeshma, satrap of the Pits of Torment. Aeshma, the personification of

Rimahn upon the face of the earth. The power of pure evil had been bottled up for so many centuries

within the Holy City—and now, in one earthshaking minute, this force exploded back into the world with

devastating consequences for all who came near it, for all whose lives were touched by it. And the

Cycles of the world ground on in their inevitable course, as one Cycle lay dying while another screamed

in its birth contractions.

It was after receiving a hurried pledge of servitude, and with great fear in his heart, that Hakem Rafi the

thief watched the release of Aeshma from his golden urn. Never one for bravery, only the certainty of his

death at the hands of the brigands gave him the desperation that apes courage and allowed him to smash

the holy urn. From his ancient prison Aeshma burst forth as an enormous black whirlwind. The king of

the daevas spat out lightning that, at Hakem Rafi's command, destroyed the brigands who'd attacked

Prince Ahmad's procession.

With that task completed, the whirlwind that was Aeshma transformed itself into the semblance of a

rukh, a huge bird with sharp, curved bill and wings so powerful the wind from their beating could knock

over a strong man. The rukh surveyed the scene with eyes of blue flame and reached down one massive

claw, capable of clutching an elephant the way a hawk would clutch a field mouse. Picking up the startled

Hakem Rafi in its ferocious talon, the rukh beat its wings and flew off into the sky, away from the forest

where the ambush had occured.

Hakem Rafi was a small man in his forty-second year, wiry and quick. He had a swarthy face with a

coarse black beard and mustache, and the nervous disposition of a mouse invading a granary, constantly

alert for the local cats. Since he was far smaller than an elephant there was plenty of room for him to rest

comfortably within the rukh's grasp—but Hakem Rafi was far from comfortable.

The thief was now terrified he'd unleashed more power than he could possibly control. Aeshma had

sworn in the name of his master Rimahn, the god of evil, that he would not harm Hakem Rafi—but when

faced with the immensity of the being he'd released from captivity, Hakem Rafi wondered whether a few

well-chosen words, spoken in haste, would be sufficient to bind this daeva to his service. With one tiny

contraction of his monstrous scaly claw, Aeshma could rip the thief apart and be forever free of his

obligations to the puny human he'd promised to obey. It would be typical, too, Hakem Rafi thought.

Everyone betrayed him. It just wasn't fair.

But Aeshma did not kill him. The rukh flew on, covering in fifteen minutes almost that many parasangs.

With each passing minute, Hakem Rafi's terror eased a little more. Surely if the daeva wished to kill him,

he would have done so by now. The old tales must be true, then, that a daeva who swears in his master's

name is bound by the oath to fulfill his promises. Aeshma would be his slave, after all. Hakem Rafi began

to relax and enjoy his flight.

Once he learned to accept it, the flight was actually pleasant. Their path took them southwest, past the

city of Ravan—though the rukh skirted widely around it to avoid passing over its charmed walls—and

onward in that direction. They crossed the Zaind River and flew over fields, mountains, and deserts. They

passed the city of Durkhash and continued southwest, into the vast desert south of Sudarr. Hakem Rafi

derived a particular enjoyment from peering down at the landscape beneath him and seeing how vast

lands and important people all seemed tiny and insignificant from this altitude. Hakem Rafi had never had

much chance in his life to look down on others, though he always felt he should, and he relished the

opportunity now that it was his.

He flew for hours, it seemed, in the claw of this bird before he began to wonder where Aeshma was

taking him. The only order he'd given was to get him safely away from the scene of the battle, and

Aeshma was obviously interpreting that order liberally. Since Aeshma was bound by oath not to harm

him, Hakem Rafi did not worry that they might be going someplace dangerous—but at the same time, he

didn't want to travel to the ends of the world, away from all other human contact.

“Where are we going?” he finally asked the rukh.

Aeshma's voice rumbled back to him in tones like distant thunder. “With your permission, O master, I

am taking you to the palace of Rashwenath."

There was a time when the name Rashwenath would have set such a man as Hakem Rafi quaking in his

boots, for Rashwenath was the mightiest king ever to dwell upon the earth. His empire spanned half the

vast continent of Fricaz, and his subjects numbered tens of millions. Ten thousand slaves had he merely to

serve him in his palace, and tens of thousands more would do his bidding throughout his vast empire. If

his enormous army could ever have been assembled in one place, it could have marched past his parade

post in double file for three days and three nights without its end being seen, and the stomping of the

soldiers’ feet would have set the ground trembling for parasangs around. King Rashwenath ruled an

empire greater than Parsina had ever seen before or since—greater by far than the meager lands

governed by King Shahriyan, the great hero who defeated Aeshma and founded the holy city of Ravan.

But Rashwenath had lived many millennia ago, in the Third Cycle of the world. As great as his power

had been, it was now all for naught. Rashwenath was dead and dust, his name forgotten even by the

storytellers, his history recounted only in the most obscure tomes. Hakem Rafi had never heard of the

name, nor had anyone of his acquaintance. So when the thief asked Aeshma who Rashwenath was, it

was pointless for the daeva to recount the magnificent history of this one -time emperor. Instead, Aeshma

replied, “He was a great king many years ago. His palace stands empty now, and it is there I take you.

Only that magnificent structure is grand enough to suit a man of your power and importance."

“If Rashwenath was such a great king, why does his palace stand empty?” Hakem Rafi asked

suspiciously. He was not going to let Aeshma pull any tricks on him.

Aeshma could have told a story of political intrigues, of treachery, corruption, decay, and a rebellion that

seethed across three continents—a rebellion in which he and his daevas played no small role—but he

chose to keep the tale simple for the simple mind of a common thief. “Rashwenath died,” he answered

curtly. “His sons fought over the lands, and soon the empire was torn apart by civil wars. No one could

afford to maintain such a magnificent palace, so it was abandoned and the empire soon disintegrated. No

one has occupied the palace for thousands of years. But soon, if you so desire it, the palace will live

again, a tribute to the power and majesty of my new master, Hakem Rafi."

Hakem Rafi had never been in even a small palace, let alone such a wonderful structure as the daeva

was describing. He was intrigued by the possibilities. He reminded himself to start behaving like a man of

wealth and property, for any riches he could imagine would soon be his for the asking. It was only right

that he should occupy the grandest palace in the world and have an army of slaves to do his bidding. He

felt he'd worked hard to steal Aeshma's urn and spirit it out of Ravan against all odds; he'd earned the

right to live in lavish splendor.

They flew at great height and speed over the barren desert below, and Hakem Rafi's anticipation grew

till he could barely wait to see this promised palace. On the horizon a chain of mountains came into view

and began to grow as the two approached. The rukh descended now, making it apparent that their

destination lay within those mountains.

Hakem Rafi's sharp eyes spotted something at the base of those hills, and as they drew closer he could

see it looked like a vast city stretched out along the desert floor. Then, as they came closer still, the thief's

eyes widened when he realized it was not a city he saw, but a single vast building stretching defiantly from

the base of the mountains well into the desert. A single roof covered the grounds, with numerous small

breaks for courtyards, gardens, and solaria; domes, towers, and minarets reached upward from its

surface toward the sky. The stones of its walls were only slightly eroded after all this time, though the

brightly colored facade and fabrics that had once graced its exterior had worn away. The structure was

so huge that all of Yazed, Hakem Rafi's native town, could be hidden within the building's perimeter with

yet room for a few minor country villages.

The rukh descended toward the roof of the palace. Setting Hakem Rafi down most gently, the rukh alit

beside him and transformed itself once more. It became a cloud of oily black smoke, sulfurous and

impenetrable, and shrank somewhat in size. As it shrank it condensed from a bird to a more vertical

shape, until at last it took the features that could be called most natural for it—but for Hakem Rafi the

new shape was far more frightening than the rukh.

Aeshma's form was an enormous obscene parody of a man. He stood well over five cubits tall and his

skin was black as tar. His eyes glowed like red coals in his sockets and his teeth were a sharp set of

fangs, upper and lower. Coarse, stringy black hair twined down to his powerfully muscled shoulders, and

his arms and legs ended in twisted claws with razor-sharp nails. He was totally naked, and his grotesque

penis was easily a cubit long with a barbed tip.

Hakem Rafi once again knew the fear that he might not be able to control this powerful being, yet even

as he stood trembling the daeva made a proper salaam and said, “Welcome to your new home, O my

master, if you will accept it as such."

“I ... I'll have to look it over first."

“Certainly. There are stairs this way.” So saying, Aeshma led the way to a staircase that descended from

the roof into the center of the palace. The gigantic daeva had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on some

of the entranceways, but in general the ceilings were high enough that he could walk upright with no

problem. In Aeshma's hand appeared a large lamp with five wicks that lit the way for the thief. Behind

Aeshma, Hakem Rafi followed cautiously, still fearing the power of his nominal slave.

At the bottom of the stairs they reached a central hall with arched ceilings high enough for three Aeshmas

to have stood, one on another's shoulders. The open area of the floor was larger than the maidan in

Ravan and corridors branched off from it in several directions. The smallest corridor could have

accomodated five men walking abreast, while the largest was wider than most houses. Hakem Rafi

looked down these diverging hallways and could see no end to any of them.

Through these hallways had once moved the commerce of three continents. Once the walls rang with the

din of many different tongues crying in untold numbers of voices. Once ambassadors brought their

legations here, and merchants their wares, and musicians their instruments. Once the air had been alive

with the scent of spices and sweat, with the sound of bells and hawkers’ cries, with the tang of oranges

and wine, with the sight of camels and horses, and even elephants. Once these walls had known life and

excitement, the intrigues of an empire, the lusts of a king alive with power.

Now the dust of the ages hung thickly in the air, making Hakem Rafi sneeze and cough. Insects buzzed

unconcerned through the air, and the rats that fed on them chittered quietly in the corners. The air smelled

musty and dry, and felt warm from the heat of the afternoon sun.

Hakem Rafi took a couple of steps as he looked around, and the sound of his boots on the tiled floor

echoed through the chamber and down the corridors. His voice, when he spoke, echoed like a drum in

the still air, frightening some of the rats back into their holes. “It's all so dead,” he said. “I'm not sure I like

that."

“With my help, O master, you will make it live again and restore the palace of Rashwenath to its former

grandeur."

“It'd take an army of slaves a year to clean this up,” the thief said, looking at the dust.

“It is but the work of a single night. When you awake in the morning, the palace shall gleam as it did on

the day it was built. Just leave everything to me."

“Very well. First rid this room of its choking dust. But if I don't like the place when you're all done will

you take me elsewhere and build me a new palace?"

“You are my master, and I am yours to command."

“Don't forget that,” Hakem Rafi said.

“Of all the facts in all the world, that is one I never shall forget,” the daeva replied, and added, “Is there

anything you wish right now? Food and drink, perhaps?"

The mere mention of food reminded Hakem Rafi that he hadn't eaten since breakfast in the prince's

camp early that morning. He'd become so used to going hungry during these last few weeks that he

routinely ignored the insistent urges of his stomach—but there was no longer any reason to deprive

himself of what he wanted.

“Yes,” he said, “some food and drink sounds wonderful. Bring me some immediately."

“Do you have any preferences, O master?"

Hakem Rafi had so seldom been in a position where he had a choice that it was difficult to think. “Bring

me a feast worthy of the wealthiest merchant in Ravan,” he said with an arrogant wave of his hand.

“I hear and I obey,” Aeshma acknowledged.

At Hakem Rafi's feet appeared a fine carpet of cerise, gold, black, and dark cedar green, so deep a

man's fingers would sink into its pile up to the second knuckle, spread out invitingly with comfortable

pillows around it. At the corners were several tall stands with silver inlaid brass lamps that illuminated the

area around the rug, though the rest of the huge room was dim and the corners were lost in darkness. A

leather sofreh covered the carpet's center and a white cloth sofreh was placed over that for æsthetic

effect. On top of the cloth was a series of golden plates containing the largest feast Hakem Rafi had ever

had served for himself alone. The scents exploded in his nostrils, filling them as the dust had done before.

As the aromas of meat, fruit, and herbs wafted through the room, they seemed to drive the dust and rat

droppings before them, till the faded dim hall at least was clean.

On the sofreh were a mixed herb plate served with feta cheese; an eggplant salad as well as a mixed

green salad of romaine lettuce, cucumbers, tomatos, radishes, and herbs; a dish of peach pickles; a plate

of duck in walnut and pomegranate sauce served over chelo; a bowl of quince soup; a plate of nan-e

lavash; a large pitcher of abdug; a bowl of apricots and plums; and an enormous platter heaped high with

rahat lakhoum. Hakem Rafi had been fortunate enough to sample rahat lakhoum only twice before in his

life, and never had he seen it piled in such generous quantities—and certainly never for one individual.

As a man with an eye toward the value of property—particularly other people's—Hakem Rafi was

impressed at the quality of the materials Aeshma could produce; at the same time, as a man of ravenous

appetite, he did not long ponder the supplementary details. He ate and drank heartily of this sumptuous

repast, especially gorging on the rahat lakhoum, until even his monstrous appetite was sated and he sat on

one velvet cushion feeling his stomach was about to burst.

The food had taken the edge off his fear, and the rahat lakhoum had made him bolder. He was no longer

terrified of the daeva king who'd sworn to serve his wishes, and he was just beginning to realize exactly

what all this could mean for him. Ever since stealing the urn and learning of its contents he'd dreamed of

unlimited wealth—but dreams were one thing, and the fulfillment of them was something else entirely. The

fact that he could become the richest, most powerful man in all Parsina, and that anything he wanted was

his for the taking, was just starting to dawn in his simple mind. Hakem Rafi grinned and lay back on the

carpeted floor, wallowing in the concept.

“Is there anything else my master wishes?” Aeshma asked smoothly.

With the hashish from the rahat lakhoum bubbling his thoughts, Hakem Rafi put his hands behind his

head for a pillow and stared up at the high domed ceiling, lost in shadows overhead, considering the

matter. “Yes,” he said at last. “I'd like a woman to spend the night with me."

“Any particular woman?"

“A beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman in the world."

“I hear and—"

“No, wait,” Hakem Rafi said, sitting up suddenly as an idea occured to him. A wicked smile broadened

on his face as he turned the idea over in his mind. The incorruptible new wali of police in Yazed had been

responsible for Hakem Rafi's abrupt departure from that city, and for his subsequent suffering in Ravan.

A little revenge was called for here, and Hakem Rafi's devious imagination conjured up a subtle form of

retribution.

“Go to the home of the wali of police in Yazed. Bring me his most beautiful wife or concubine and make

sure no one knows she's gone. Make her be passionately in love with me and bring her here before me.

Tonight I shall beget a son by her. In the morning, return her with no memory of what has happened here

and let the wali think the boy is his and raise him as his own. In this way will I cuckold the fool who drove

me from my home and avenge myself upon his line. But before you go, fashion me a golden bed studded

with gems, piled high with the softest silk pillows and filled with swan's down, that I might welcome my

guest properly. Oh yes, and leave me some good silk ropes."

“I hear and I obey.” The bed appeared in one corner of the room exactly as Hakem Rafi had described

it, and Aeshma vanished, leaving the thief chuckling to himself.

The daeva returned shortly with the most attractive of the wali's wives, and she was a beauty indeed.

Her long black hair flowed like silk down her back to the waist, and her dark brown skin was soft and

pure. Thick eyebrows topped her almond-shaped eyes that burned with passion as she spied Hakem

Rafi. She walked boldly up to him, her slender hips swaying sensuously with each stride. She knelt before

him and unfastened her milfa, then kissed the palms of his hands and touched them to her body. Her lips

were trembling with her naked desire as she fell to her knees caressing him.

“Does my master require anything else?” Aeshma asked discreetly.

Hakem Rafi could hardly take his eyes from the woman kneeling before him. No woman had ever

looked at him with desire that way. “Uh, no, this will suffice. Go clean the palace as you promised. Leave

me in privacy until the morning."

“I hear and I obey,” Aeshma said, and disappeared to another part of the palace. So besotted with

hashish and desire was Hakem Rafi that he didn't even hear the daeva laughing.

* * * *

The light of morning shone into the palace of Rashwenath through cleverly disguised skylights in the

ceiling. Hakem Rafi woke slowly as his mind cleared of the hashish and lovemaking of the previous night.

Beside him, the wali's wife still lay naked and asleep, her body spent from the energy of their union.

Hakem Rafi sat up slowly, then stared about him at the wonder that had occured.

True to his word, the king of the daevas had restored the palace to its former glory. The cobwebs were

cleared from the corners, and not a speck of dust lay anywhere about. The rats had vanished, their holes

were plugged and plastered over, the insects were gone, and the air smelled lightly of lemon blossoms.

The hall he was in contained three fountains, each over five cubits in diameter, whose water was scented

with citrus blossoms. Above each was a dome of paper-thin alabaster, allowing the softest filtered light of

peach hue to color the creamy marble floor below. The marble was patterned in cream and gray in an

intricate basket weave. At certain points on either side it became denser, outlining shallow pits filled with

soft rugs and huge pillows.

The tapestries that were faded and dust filled the night before, now were bright depictions of erotic

events. The largest and finest of these showed Hakem Rafi in the embrace of the wali's wife, as she was

obviously straining to pull him to her. The portraiture was very flattering, and Hakem Rafi resolved to

have the daeva make him similarly endowed as soon as possible.

The delicious bubbling sound of the fountains mingled with the songs of many birds in golden cages

suspended from the carved onyx ceiling panels. They swayed gently in the breeze cooled by the

fountains, and made the palace seem full of life. On the walls and stands were inlaid lamps that, come the

night, would give the soft, sensual light shed by burning the finest oils.

Hakem Rafi stood up, gawking at the beauty of the building around him, until he realized suddenly that

he was naked. He quickly donned the uniform he'd been wearing when Aeshma snatched him from the

forest, and walked about the hallway to admire his new home. Everywhere he looked was beauty

compounded on beauty—pictures, carpets, tiles, furniture, fixtures. And every bit of it was his. It was

true. He was the richest, most powerful man in Parsina.

A sudden thought brought him up short. One man had possessed all this wealth before, and where was

he now? Dead and dust, and his memory totally forgotten. Great though he was, Rashwenath was mortal

and his name had died centuries ago. All he'd strived for was gone, all he'd built evaporated. Hakem Rafi

was mortal, too; he'd never given the matter much thought before, but now it seemed suddenly of vital

concern.

“Aeshma!” he called, and his voice echoed down the empty hallways, muffled only slightly by the

restored tapestries.

The daeva's huge form materialized out of smoke before him. “Ever at my master's call,” Aeshma said

with surprising softness.

“I want you to make me immortal,” the thief said brusquely.

For the first time, the daeva hesitated. “That I cannot do, O my master."

“You swore to obey all my commands,” Hakem Rafi said in a petulant whine.

“And so I shall, in everything within my ability. My powers are unequaled upon the face of the earth, but

power over death is not mine. Death was created by my lord Rimahn to inflict upon the creatures of

Oromasd. I have not the ability to undo what my own lord and creator has done. I shall obey you in all

things, save that I am powerless to forestall your eventual and inevitable death. As I promised you, I will

not cause it—but neither can I stop it from happening some day."

Hakem Rafi the thief turned away from Aeshma to hide the bitterness in his soul. He had seldom thought

about death before, merely tried to avoid it; he'd always thought himself too clever to be caught and

executed, too skilled to lose any fight he didn't dodge. But now that he had everything, now that the

world could be his if he chose, the irony that he could lose it all was a painful one. In a thousand years,

would he be as forgotten as the great Rashwenath, a name never spoken, a presence never felt? What,

then, would be the point of living at all, if everything was to vanish from him?

He must have voiced the question aloud without realizing it, for Aeshma answered in soft, seductive

tones, “The answer, O my master, is to live as fully and as best you can. If it is all destined to vanish

tomorrow, then enjoy it to the utmost today. At your command I can shower you with a thousand,

thousand pleasures, with wealth beyond imagining, so when death does come it will find you with not a

moment wasted, not a second left unenjoyed. Your days will be filled with delight and your nights will be

rich with satisfactions most men dare not even dream of. Rashwenath is dead, and his glory with him, but

it is said he never regretted a single moment of the life he lived. So let it be with you."

Hakem Rafi listened to the daeva's arguments, and they struck a chord in the thief's greedy soul. It was

true that no man was granted immortality—but he, Hakem Rafi, had been granted more than any man

could wish. Yes, he would bury himself in sensual pleasure and live as Aeshma suggested. He would

have food, wine, women, power, and revenge on all those who'd belittled or insulted him, and he would

not think of death again. It would come—but the object of life, as Aeshma had explained, was to have no

regrets, no sorrows. When death did come, it would find Hakem Rafi happy and contented. No man

could ask for more than that.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “You're right, my wise slave. I'll wear you down in your efforts to please me."

“Whatever you command shall be yours,” Aeshma replied.

“First prepare a feast of a breakfast, then take the woman back to the wali before she is missed,”

Hakem Rafi said. “Perhaps I'll enjoy her again sometime to beget more sons. When you return, we'll talk

in more detail about the pleasures you can provide me."

“I hear and I obey."

The daeva escorted Hakem Rafi into an ornate dining hall where a breakfast meal as sumptuous as last

night's dinner was spread before him. Then Aeshma vanished and scooped up the still-sleeping woman to

fly her safely back to her home. He could not help a deep -throated chuckle as he went, thinking of how

completely this foolish mortal was falling under his control.

Aeshma was a prideful being, and it chafed him sorely to be bound by oath to anyone but his lord

Rimahn, let alone a petty mortal like Hakem Rafi. But bad though that was, being trapped and impotent

in a golden urn before the fires of Oromasd for thousands of years had been even worse, a constant,

searing torment that he was now relieved of.

Hakem Rafi was a mortal. Even without Aeshma's killing him, he would die. At most, he could be

expected to live another forty years. If, at Aeshma's gentle insistence, he overindulged in food, wine,

drugs, and sex, his life span might be diminished that much further. What were a few more decades to a

creature who'd waited millennia for his freedom?

When Hakem Rafi died, Aeshma would be totally free—free to regain all his lost power, free to war

against mankind, free to avenge himself on the enemy in the name of his lord Rimahn. There would be no

others to stand in his way; when Aeshma was totally free, the world would quake and Oromasd's ally,

mankind, would vanish from the face of the earth.

CHAPTER 2

The Princess

King Basir of Marakh, who called himself “the Blessed,” was a man who worried. He was a short,

plump man. Years of ruling Marakh had turned his hair prematurely gray and furrowed his wide

forehead. His balding head could be hidden beneath his turban, but his gray beard, which grew in uneven

patches on his face, was visible for all the world to see. The doctors told him its irregular growth was due

to his constant worrying—but rather than setting his mind at ease, that only made him worry more that his

appearance was less than regal and his subjects would not respect him.

King Basir wanted to be a great monarch. He wanted his people to love and respect him. He wanted his

enemies to fear and respect him. He wanted his allies merely to respect him. But inspiring those emotions

in others was never easy. There were so many decisions to be made all the time, and he was never sure

what the right answers were. If he ruled harshly he was called a tyrant; if he showed mercy he was

labeled weak. Worst of all, if he tried to take some middle position he was accused of being indecisive

and everyone ended up despising him.

He knew what a good king, a strong king, should be. He grew up with a living example. His father, King

Alnath, was universally regarded as a powerful monarch. It was King Alnath who expanded Marakh's

hegemony south and west across the Shiraz Plains, and east well into neighboring Formistan. King Alnath

was a feared warrior and a stern ruler who'd commanded respect from friend and foe alike. Even now,

with King Alnath dead these past twenty-seven years, the neighboring lands still respected the power of

Marakh even though King Basir had added nothing to the kingdom since taking the throne. Thus does a

good reputation stand its holders in good stead long after its basis has vanished.

King Alnath tried to instill in his son the lessons of power. He would hold mock councils in which young

Prince Basir had to make decisions of state. Every time the prince made the wrong decision, King Alnath

would publicly mock him before his wazirs. Often the prince was beaten as well. In this way did King

Alnath seek to ensure that his successor would be a man who thought carefully and made no bad

decisions. His son, he vowed, would be an even better king than he was, because he would have learned

from his father's mistakes.

It was with these high expectations of him that King Basir ascended to the throne of Marakh. But with

his father always held up to him as an example of what a king should be, Basir knew he could never be

strong enough, never be wise enough, never be brave enough to meet those demanding standards. He

also knew he never dared admit those self-doubts publicly. Each decision, however small, was an agony

to him, until he worked himself into such a state that his stomach was in constant pain and he could eat

only the blandest of foods.

As a further disappointment in his life he produced four daughters, but no sons. He was certain,

somehow, that the fault lay with him, that he was not strong enough to sire sons, and out of guilt he

lavished attention on the princesses—and particularly on Oma, his oldest daughter.

From an early age she had the finest tutors and was given the best education any woman could expect.

She could read and write, and she debated well with the best scholars in the land. She played

backgammon and chess, danced with a grace to make gazelles jealous, and composed poetry of beauty

and perception. She sang with a voice to rival the nightingale, and played excellently upon the lute, flute,

and drum. To top it all off, she was a pearl of matchless beauty, a girl of such exquisite features and pale

white skin, of long black hair and large black eyes, of delicate figure and pleasing speech, that all who

saw or heard her fell instantly in love.

Little wonder she became the prize of King Basir's otherwise harried life. He could deny her nothing. If

he even tried to say no to her, she would pout and call him a failure as a father, and that would remind

him of his many failures as a king. He would feel guilty for being so unreasonable, and always he would

relent and give Princess Oma exactly what she wanted, no matter how exorbitant the price.

On one point alone did King Basir remain resolved against his daughter. Knowing that he might never

have a male heir and wanting to secure the best marriage for her and his kingdom, he made a contract

when she was just a girl to wed her to the equally young Prince Ahmad of Ravan. Princess Oma cried

and screamed and pouted that she was being treated like a slave, and that she would never marry a man

she'd never met and didn't love, but on this matter the king remained adamant. The future of the kingdom

must be assured to prevent chaos after King Basir's death, and an alliance with Ravan would solidify

Marakh's stature among the world's nations.

Yet even on this important matter King Basir could not remain constant. After the death of King Shunnar

of Ravan, Shunnar's widow, Shammara, sent King Basir the gift of a lovely and enticing concubine named

Rabah, who worked unstintingly to convince the king that Shammara's son, Prince Haroun—rather than

Prince Ahmad, son of a concubine—would be the better marriage choice. Rabah became intimate friends

with the young Princess Oma and tried to convince her of Haroun's desirability as well. At the same time

one of the king's most trusted advisers, Tabib abu Saar, was also subverted to Shammara's cause and

began counseling King Basir to betray his solemn contract regarding Prince Ahmad. Against pressure

from all these sides, King Basir's resolve, never strong to begin with, could not stand up, and he agreed

to betray the prince and wed his precious Oma to Prince Haroun instead.

Thus, with Shammara's aid, was the plan devised to lure Prince Ahmad out of Ravan by insisting he

travel to Marakh to wed his bride. In a forest along the road, King Basir stationed two hundred of his

best soldiers, outnumbering the wedding party by four to one. Once Ahmad was dead, Princess Oma

could marry Prince Haroun and the two lands would be united as had always been the plan, with just a

slight change of names in the leading roles.

But it was now several days after the ambush was supposed to occur, and King Basir had received no

word from his men. His captain in the field had been given strict instructions to send a messenger back to

Marakh on their fastest horse to bring the news of the mission's success. Even a failure should have

merited some word, though that was unlikely considering the relative size of the two forces involved. But

days passed and no word came. King Basir worried and the fire in his stomach flamed like a blacksmith's

furnace.

All sorts of horrible contingencies raced through his mind. Prince Ahmad could have defeated the

ambush, returned to Ravan, killed Shammara, and even now be assembling an army to march in revenge

against Marakh. Or Shammara could have double -crossed both sides to play out a subtle game of her

own design. Scores of alternatives, each of them disastrous, danced through King Basir's mind, haunting

his sleep and ruining his digestion. He considered sending out spies, but was too afraid of what they might

find.

After a week and a half, the two retainers who'd gone to Ravan with Tabib abu Saar as King Basir's

legation returned to Marakh via a most circuitous route. They were taken immediately before the king,

where it was obvious they were frightened out of their wits—not by being in the king's presence, but by

what had happened to them upon the road. Under stern questioning by the king and his wazirs, they told

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Stephen Goldin - Storyteller

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