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Synopsis
The vision came long ago, commanding the Sultan's ancestor to lead his peoples to the place that would be called the Sacred City. There, deep within a rocky cavern, burns an immense, roaring column of fire: the Sacred Flame, the source of the Sultan's power. But the flame harbours a terrible secret - and so does the Sultan. Prince Jemany is plunged into a seething hotbed of political machinations and rebellion as he begins the next stage of his quest to seek the long-lost crystals of the Orokon. Already the anti-god Toth-Vexrah is working his evil upon the susceptible and easily swayed. Only Jem stands in his way - but Jem is trapped in the bizarre, horrifying dreamworld of the enchanter Almoran. Meanwhile, his lost love Cata becomes embroiled with the Shimmering Princess, the idol of millions, whose fate holds the key to the Sultan's empire - and to the whereabouts of the pulsing red crystal of the fire-god Theron. Originally released under the pseudonym Tom Arden
Release date: November 19, 2015
Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books
Print pages: 598
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Sultan of the Moon and Stars
David Rain
About the Book
Also by David Rain
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Sultan Song
Players
The Story So Far
Map
Part One: The Vanishing Song
Chapter 1: Sanctum of the Flame
Chapter 2: Ghost in the Garden
Chapter 3: Another Country
Chapter 4: Pieces of Eight
Chapter 5: The First Vanishing
Chapter 6: The Second Vanishing
Chapter 7: Girl-Boy and Boy
Chapter 8: A Great Man in Qatani
Chapter 9: The Golden Apples of the Sun
Chapter 10: Vision of the Prophet
Chapter 11: A Corrupted Text
Chapter 12: Jem in a Predicament
Chapter 13: My Secret Burden
Chapter 14: Teller and Tale
Chapter 15: Submission of Dust
Chapter 16: The Third Vanishing
Chapter 17: A New Adventure for Jem
Chapter 18: The Burning Bird
Part Two: Lady in a Looking-Glass
Chapter 19: The Curse of Kaled
Chapter 20: A Dog Called Rainbow
Chapter 21: Palace of Perfumed Stairs
Chapter 22: The Custom of the Country
Chapter 23: Another Mother Madana
Chapter 24: Dance of the Five Veils
Chapter 25: Made for Pleasure
Chapter 26: A Light in the Darkness
Chapter 27: Madman Across the Water
Chapter 28: Guards! Guards!
Chapter 29: A Lady Made of Mist
Chapter 30: A Woman of Substance
Chapter 31: Tale and Teller
Chapter 32: Death in the Afternoon
Part Three: Lovers and Strangers
Chapter 33: The Curse of Kaled (Continued)
Chapter 34: The Realm of Un
Chapter 35: Tainted Love
Chapter 36: Eli Oli Ali Sees a Chance
Chapter 37: Eli Oli Ali Sees Another Chance
Chapter 38: A House in Ruins
Chapter 39: Bright Day
Chapter 40: Dreams from a Glass
Chapter 41: A Hazard of New Fortunes
Chapter 42: Darkness Falls from the Air
Chapter 43: A Challenge for Rajal
Chapter 44: A Challenge for Scabs
Chapter 45: Over the Wall
Chapter 46: A Boy’s Initiation
Chapter 47: The Fourth Vanishing
Part Four: The Flight from the Enchanter
Chapter 48: The Curse of Kaled (Concluded)
Chapter 49: The Thinning
Chapter 50: When the Sleeper Wakes
Chapter 51: To Be or Not to Be
Chapter 52: Transfigured Day
Chapter 53: The Sum of All Women
Chapter 54: An Unexpected Meeting
Chapter 55: The Harsh Reflections
Chapter 56: Caskets Three
Chapter 57: Grotesque in Two Keys
Chapter 58: Sail Away
Chapter 59: Reel Around the Fountain
Chapter 60: The Coaching Inn at Glotz
Part Five: Into the Flame
Chapter 61: Touch of the Ebahns
Chapter 62: Gibbous Moon
Chapter 63: Dead Man in the Sand
Chapter 64: The Fifth Vanishing
Chapter 65: A Tale for Little Kaled
Chapter 66: A Rich, Blood-Like Liquid
Chapter 67: The Less Deceived
Chapter 68: Ritual in the Dark
Chapter 69: In the Warm Room
Chapter 70: Tributes of Magic
Chapter 71: Crazy Floor
Chapter 72: The Running Back
Chapter 73: Angels of Ashes
Chapter 74: Say Hello, Wave Goodbye
JEM, the hero, seeker after the Orokon
CATA, the heroine, beloved of Jem
RAJAL, loyal friend to Jem
POLTY (POLTISS VEELDROP), their implacable enemy
BEAN (ARON THROSH), loyal friend to Polty
LORD EMPSTER, mysterious guardian to Jem
‘JAC’ BURGROVE, a ruined man of fashion
CAPTAIN PORLO, a crusty old sea-dog
BUBY, his pet monkey, tending to the mangy
SCABS, his cabin boy, tending to the pustular
KALED, Sultan of the Moon and Stars
SIMONIDES, his old tutor, most senior of his Imams
PRINCE DEA, the Sultan’s son and heir
THAL, Novice of the Flame, friend to Dea
MOTHER MADANA (1), a slave-woman, nurse to Dea
MOTHER MADANA (2), mistress of a fine caravanserai
MOTHER MADANA (3), Keeper of Palace Women in Qatani
SEFITA and SATIMA, the names of her many charges
EVITAMUS, formerly a Teller, now in retirement
AMED (AMEDA), his tomboy daughter
FAHA EJO, a goatherd, friend to Amed
ELI OLI ALI, his cousin, a great man in Qatani
CASCA DALLA, hated business rival to Eli Oli Ali
LITTLER, a small boy, son to Eli Oli Ali
THE BLACK RIDER, destined to die
CALIPH OMAN ELMANI, brother to the Sultan, ruler of Qatani
VIZIER HASEM, puller of his puppet-strings
BELA DONA, the ‘Shimmering Princess’
DONA BELA, a beautiful mute girl who looks just like her
RASHID AMR RUKR, fearsome leader of the Tribes of Ouabin
ALMORAN, master of the House of Truth
THE GIRLISH YOUTH, his servant
MYSTERIOUS GUESTS in the House of Truth
RAINBOW, a most remarkable dog
FISH and BLUBBER, thieves, members of the ‘Unners’ gang
CHEESE and STORK, also of the Unners
LADYBOYS in the Place of Cobras
OLD LACANI, madman across the water
PATCHES, a member of Captain Porlo’s crew
THE DOOM-DANCERS, tricksters, but also holy men
EBAHN GUARDS at the Sanctum of the Flame
ELDERS of the College of Imams
WHISPERERS in the walls
TARGON RETAINERS
COURTIERS, GUARDS and PILGRIMS
SAILORS, SLAVES and EUNUCHS
TRADERS, MIXERS, RABBLE
&c.
IN ZENZAU:
‘BOB SCARLET’, highwayman and rebel leader
HUL, his deputy, once a great scholar
BANDO, friend to Hul, veteran rebel
LANDA, a beautiful young Zenzan Priestess
RAGGLE and TAGGLE, sons to Bando
THE FRIAR, object of their frequent torments
THE OLD LADY on the Agondon stagecoach
BAINES, her one-eyed companion
GOODMAN OLCH, a respectable married man
GOODY OLCH, a respectable married woman
MISS TILSY FASH, the Zaxon Nightingale
FREDDIE CHAYN, scion of a worthless principality
COACHMEN, BLUEJACKETS, INNKEEPERS
&c.
IN THE REALMS OF THE DEAD:
SULTAN EL-THAKIR, father to Kaled, the present Sultan
CALIPH ABDUL SAMAD, brother to Sultan El-Thakir
THE AMBASSADOR OF LANIA CHOR
LADY YSADONA, his beauteous daughter
LADY YSABELA, his other beauteous daughter
MALA (LORD MALAGON), childhood friend to Kaled
PANDARUS, father to Simonides, Evitamus and Almoran
MOTHER of Simonides, Evitamus and Almoran
MESHA BULAQ, Sultan of the Red Dust
PRINCE ASHAR, his sickly son
THE ‘GEDEN BRIDE’, betrothed of Prince Ashar
THE SHAH OF GEDEN, father of the bride
NOVA-RIEL, who defeated the serpent Sassoroch
TOR, mysterious uncle to Jem
The warrior-woman ILOISA, wife to Bando
The philosopher VYTONI, author of Discourse on Freedom
Other GREAT AUTHORS and SCHOLARS
KINGS, QUEENS and HISTORICAL FIGURES
Various DEAD RELATIVES, FRIENDS, ENEMIES
&c.
WAITING IN THE WINGS:
EJARD BLUEJACKET, unrightful King of Ejland
QUEEN JELICA, his wife, the former Miss Jelica Vance
TRANIMEL, his evil First Minister: see also TOTH-VEXRAH
LADY UMBECCA VEELDROP, evil great-aunt to Jem and Cata
EAY FEVAL, her spiritual advisor, or co-conspirator
CONSTANSIA CHAM-CHARING, once a great society hostess
TISHY CHAM-CHARING, her Greenstocking daughter
SILAS WOLVERON, father to Cata
BARNABAS, a magical dwarf: still missing
MYLA, missing sister of Rajal
MORVEN and CRUM
Many other OLD FRIENDS, ENEMIES
&c.
GODS AND STRANGE BEINGS:
OROK, Ur-God, father of the gods
KOROS, god of darkness, worshipped by the Vagas
VIANA, goddess of earth, worshipped in Zenzau
THERON, god of fire, worshipped in Unang Lia
JAVANDER, goddess of water, once worshipped in Wenaya
AGONIS, god of air, worshipped in Ejland
TOTH-VEXRAH, evil anti-god: see also TRANIMEL
LADY IMAGENTA, his daughter, beloved of Agonis
JAFIR THE GENIE
The HARLEQUIN
‘BOB SCARLET’, the bird of that name
PENGE, a particular part of Polty
BURNING BIRDS
&c.
Deep within the desert realms of Unang Lia lie the rocky red peaks of the Theron Ranges. Rising sheer and sudden to unclouded skies, the great mountains loom impassively over a sea of shifting sands. When the sun is high, the jagged peaks glow with vermilion fire; when day declines, the bright blaze gives way to darker flames, of purple, green and blue. But always, amongst the glimmerings, there is one that is brighter, sharp and golden, flashing like a beacon from a high plateau.
To the traveller who has crossed these arid wastes, the first sight of this beacon must come as something alien, alarming. An outlander, perhaps, might screw up his eyes, staring into the splendour with a heart-hammering awe; a Unang would prostrate himself in the sands at once, blurting out the name of the Sacred City.
Kal-Theron!
This is the gold on the high plateau. In far Sosenica, in Yamarind and Emascus, on the isles of Zoebid and the Qatani coast, the very name must be accompanied by a blessing. To Kal-Theron, year on year, the pilgrims come, leaving their pale hillsides, their pungent groves, their market-places and palaces and their shadowy alleys. Many are sick, many are old, but on they travel, undaunted. Many shall die, but what does it matter? To a Unang, it is a promise of eternal bliss to end one’s life on the way to Kal-Theron.
Tonight, as the sun sinks behind the mountains, the Sacred City is aflame with life. Torches blaze; tabors beat; incense and chanting rise to the skies. It is the Festival of the Prophet: in the Great Calendar of Unang, with its elaborate reckonings of orbits and rotations, starshifts and moonturns, there are many sacred times, but none more so than this. For five days, the faithful have fasted and prayed. Now, on the evening of the fifth day, crowds jostle before a vast edifice that towers at the head of a sweeping boulevard. Encrusted redly with rubies, garnets and amethysts, this is the place called the Sanctum of the Flame, the greatest temple of Theron’s faith. Few shall ever see what lies within. Gathering in their masses, the awed people know only that it is here, in this immense bejewelled casket, that there burns the Sacred Flame.
Excitement pulses on the hot night air. The festival’s climax is looming near. Soon Kaled, Sultan of All Unang, will ascend to the Sanctum, disappearing through the immense doors; inside, it is said, he will gaze into the Flame, communing, like his ancestors before him, with Theron’s spirit. Then will come the moment that all have awaited. Emerging, standing at the top of the ruby steps, the Sultan will look down to the masses below. Eagerly every eye, every ear will strain towards him, longing for the balm of the words he will – must – let fall:
The Flame still burns.
It is enough – it is always enough. Then come the screams, then the prostrations, then the wild wailings of joy.
But this is yet to come. Now the frenzy lies coiled in wait, shivering in a fever of anticipation. Sultan of the Moon! Sultan of the Stars! come the murmurous chants. Sweat oozes from the tight bands of turbans. Veils flutter across the faces of the women, rising and falling with the heavings of emotion.
Then come the gasps, then the cries. The time has come! Now, from the far end of the boulevard, horns sound at the gates of the great edifice known as the Whispering Palace. Spasms thrill through the crowd as the Sultan, richly bedecked, emerges in glory to his adoring people.
Strutting before him come troops of guards, dressed like their master in the imperial hues of fire – guards with spears, guards with scimitars, guards with lions on straining leashes. Milling round are gorgeous eunuchs, beating at drums, trilling on pipes, whirling, dancing in swathes of silk and damask. Sturdier slaves bear the ornate litter, a riot of tassels, pillows, swaying lamps. Sailing along the boulevard, high above the crowd, the monarch sits in the posture of benediction, cross-legged, head bowed, arms raised high. Sultan! Sultan! comes the cry from every throat; there are moanings, ululations, upstretched hands; some, clapping and swaying, burst spontaneously into the anthem, known to all, that proclaims their leader’s greatness:
– Sultan of the Stars! Sultan of the Moon!
Can we hope to catch you if you’re coming by soon?
– Simpletons, down from your spars!
You might soar through the heavens in triumphal cars,
But never catch the Sultan of the Moon and Stars!
At first, all eyes are only for the Sultan; then, swaying in his wake, come two further litters. If each is less magnificent than the first, still they are objects of frenzied excitement, for here too are those who shall enter the Sanctum.
The Sultan’s companions are beautiful youths, their hands clasped together, raised in prayer. One, tall and willowy, twined in wreaths of lotus and jasmine, is Prince Dea, the Sultan’s only son, making his first visit to the Flame. Boys gaze in envy; girls swoon. The Prince is barely at the brink of manhood, but soon the time shall come when he will take his first bride, binding his destiny to the Line of the Prophet.
Behind him, garbed in the simplest of robes, is the young member of the College of Imams known only as the Novice of the Flame. A day ago, the Novice had another name, but already that name is lost to him, seared away in the fires of forgetting. Each sunround, a youth from the college is chosen for the Flame. Symbolising the bond between Sultan and Order, it is the Novice, tonight, whose eyes shall first alight upon the Flame; but when the time of communing has passed, the Novice will never leave the Sanctum. The Sacred Flame is the last thing he will see.
No greater honour could befall any Unang. Reverence greets the Novice, prayers and submissive bows, for in the instant of his appearance this unknown youth has taken upon himself the mantle of a saint.
What thoughts must pass through the Novice’s mind? Rocking upon his litter with tight-shut eyes, his face is blank, his pose serene. Perhaps by now, as his spiritual master has counselled, he has swept himself clear of all thought; perhaps already his awareness floats free, oblivious as much to the crowd below as to the face that twists towards him from the litter ahead. It is Prince Dea, ashen with fear, who cries out the name the Novice shall never bear again.
‘Thal!’
The lapse is brief. The willowy boy commands himself, clasping reverent hands again, squeezing his eyes shut tight like the Novice’s. Indeed, he hopes the boy behind him has shut his mind, too – to memory, and most of all to desire. They must do their duty; there can be no question. But how hard is fate – how bitter that Thal, of all the Novices, should be chosen for the Flame!
Thal had been the Prince’s dearest childhood friend. But that was yesterday, and today he is Thal no more.
The ceremony begins. The Sultan stands upon the ruby steps, his tall son and the Novice beside him. Behind them, ranged in reverent lines, are Imams, guards, eunuchs. The music, the chanting rise to a frenzy; then the monarch stretches forth his hands and silence descends across the scene like a pall. All down the boulevard the faithful abase themselves, scraping their foreheads on the paving stones. Great doors swing open above them. Now it is the Novice who must go forward first. Someone places a censer in his hand; guards, Imams part like a sea; eunuchs look on, crooning high and wordlessly.
Thal – for of course, he is the same boy – stares ahead. He swallows hard. Trembling, he enters a cavernous blackness, and is confused, for he had imagined these doors opening to a furnace-like blast. Where is the Flame?
But only for a moment is the darkness complete. The doors clang shut and a glow appears, flickering orange, red and gold, beckoning the Novice on his final walk. Slowly, reverently, he makes his way forward, as his master has told him to do.
How coldly the fear grips his heart! How his resolution flickers, flutters! In his hand, unbidden, the censer sways; the curling smoke makes his eyes water – or perhaps it is tears that are streaming down his face. Before him is only a vast blank wall of rock, but in the corner of the wall is an archway, leading to a flight of descending stairs. His steps falter. For a moment he wishes he could run back to the Prince; instead, turning his head just a little, the condemned Novice finds himself staring into the glittering visor of an Ebahn guard.
Bedecked in gold, clutching a scythe, the guard looms forward from the shadows like a phantom. Thal snaps his eyes away, but at once he is aware of another guard, and another, moving spectrally out from the darkness. He trembles, gasps. So it is true about the Ebahns! All his life he has heard of this corps, but never before was he sure they were real.
He knows their legend well enough. Selected from the finest Ebahn slave-boys, trained in cellars beneath the Sanctum, it is the destiny of these guards never to leave this holy place. All their lives must pass in the presence of the Flame, but it is a flame no Ebahn ever sees. At their time of induction the slave-boys are blinded, but all their other senses are then trained to the highest pitch.
Sweating, shaking, the terrified Novice bends his reluctant steps towards the stairs, flanked by the phalanx of fearsome guards. By now, he has forgotten everything about his sacred destiny, his privilege, his honour among the faithful. If he could escape, he would – but there is nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. The heavy steps of the blinded guards echo harshly against the cold stone walls. Round and round go the spiral stairs, descending far beneath the level of the boulevard. In the epicycles since the Prophet first found the Flame, many have forgotten that the great bejewelled Sanctum had been built, like a tomb, over a craggy mountain cave. Around them the light is at first a chill pallor, but rapidly it gets brighter, more lurid. A dull roar grows louder in Thal’s ears.
Then comes the last turning of the stairs.
Now he cries out. Violent spasms course through his frame. His legs give way and he sinks to the floor, gazing into the dazzling column of fire. Rising from deep beneath the floor, shooting up from within a great ring of rock, the Flame surges far above, terrifying in its ferocity.
The Prince screams, runs towards his friend. It is no good: the Ebahns separate them, holding them fast. In moments, they will fling the Novice into the Flame – but not yet, not yet. The ritual must proceed as it has always done. First the boys are pushed to their knees, forced into the posture of prostration. The Sultan sweeps between them, abasing himself, moaning to the Flame like a lover, like a slave. Abjectly he implores the fiery god to receive him, to bless him, to pardon his vileness; ardently he begs the fire god to receive his paltry offering.
The Ebahns drag the Novice forward.
‘No!’ comes a cry again, wild and pealing. But this time it is the Novice who screams, struggles, kicks, while the Prince can only look on, numb with shock. There is nothing he can do for his friend now.
In a moment there is nothing anyone can do.
The Sultan looks wryly at his stricken son. Deafeningly the roar of burning fills the chamber, booming and bursting immensely, like a storm.
‘Have a little nectar. Your Royal Majesty, please.’
With a sad smile the slave-woman held out the medicine, but still the young Prince would not turn towards her. From the moment he had burst back into his chambers, it had seemed that nothing could allay his grief. On and on he sobbed into his silken pillows, his thin shoulders heaving beneath his rich, embroidered robes.
‘Lammy, go away. Just leave me alone.’
The old slave sighed. It was long after midnight. From the alcoves in the walls, the konar-lights cast a diffuse glow, shimmering in the tears that filled her own eyes. She wiped them quickly with a gnarled hand. How she cursed the rules that bound her! A moonlife ago, she would have flung herself upon her young charge at once, mingling her tears freely with his, holding him tightly in her withered arms. No more: now that he was Heir Unquestioned, an intimate of the Flame, Prince Dea’s person was inviolable, subject to the touch of no vulgar hand.
It was cruel, but Mother Madana dared not question the cruelty. For fifty sunrounds she had nursed the royal children, and knew well enough the penalties of transgression. Even now, alone with the Prince, she could take no risks. Not for nothing was this imperial seat known as the Whispering Palace. Spyholes riddled the walls, assuring that only the most loyal were certain to live to the end of their days. Mother Madana’s life was drawing to its close. She cared little for herself any more, yet still she had a pride in her that would not be broken. The old slave had seen many of her friends, too many, die by the swords of the palace guards. She was determined to die in her bed.
The goblet of nectar was still in her hand as she paced to the far side of the wide chamber. It was a hot night. The long, latticed doors to the terrace stood ajar and a breeze wafted from the scented gardens, stirring the curtains and ornate hangings. For a blissful moment, Mother Madana basked in the fragrance. How often, with her young charges, she had wandered happily along the high, broad terraces, then up into the lush roof gardens above.
In her long life, Mother Madana had known much sorrow, but never quite as much as she had expected. Sold into slavery as a young girl, she had grieved, of course, for her loss of freedom, but had known that perhaps it was a secret blessing. Her father had been a poor man, with an older daughter and a son, too; never could he have given her an adequate dowry. Her older sister had married the master of a fine caravanserai, the finest, said some, on the Dorva Coast. What became of her brother she had never been sure; she had heard, and hoped it was true, that he was a great man, rising in the court of the Caliph of Qatani.
Mother Madana had not resented her luckier siblings; after all, she had been a plain girl, unlikely to attract the eyes of men. This, too, had been a blessing of sorts. Pretty slave-girls were destined for a fate she was only too glad to have been spared. Assigned to the royal nurseries, Mother Madana had been at first relieved, then relief had turned to pleasure as she devoted herself to her work.
No, she had lived a blessed life – for a slave. Not a day passed when she was not grateful, but in the very fact of her blessing, she knew, there lay the seeds of this present sorrow. What a fool she had been, to love her young charge! But how could she have helped it? Dea was the Sultan’s only son, and a sickly, sensitive boy. If, in this last sunround, he had grown to the height of a man, still he had yet to attain a man’s strength. Often it seemed that he never would. Willing her eyes not to fill again, Mother Madana thought of the times she had kissed the young Prince, had smoothed his brow, had fluffed the dark down of his little head. Never again would she be suffered to touch her lips even to the hem of his garment. After his wedding, he would be taken to new apartments on the far side of the palace, and if she ever saw him again, she knew she would mean nothing to the boy. They would turn him into someone different, someone alien.
Mother Madana shuddered. She had seen it all before, but this time it was worse. Could it be natural, could it be right, that the boy should assume the mantle of Heir Unquestioned so soon? And was it coincidence that Thal, his dear friend, had been sacrificed to the Flame?
She breathed deeply, struggling to calm herself. From long familiarity the old slave picked out the subtle, delicious scents of the garden, of jasmine and Javander-root, of malak and night-narcissus, and the spores of moon-nectar, most delicate of all. Ah, but that came from the goblet in her hand. Stirred into a potion, it was said to cure all heartaches. She arched back her throat, downing the precious medicine. Goldenly, like the glow of the konar-lights, a warm radiance spread through her body.
She turned, fearful of the eyes in the walls. What had she done? Such potions were not for the lips of a slave!
From the terrace came the tread of a slippered foot. A slave? A message? Quickly Mother Madana hid the goblet, just as the imposing figure of a man appeared before her, stepping in through the long latticed door. She gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. No slave, the man wore a dazzling robe of red and gold. Jewels flashed in a band round his skull, but even his eyes glowed like precious stones and a hundred little points of light, sharp in the lamplight, glittered in the blackness of his smoothly oiled beard.
What could the Sultan be doing here?
Awkwardly, Mother Madana abased herself. ‘Sacred One!’
A smile came to the Sultan’s lips. ‘Can this mantle of greatness deceive even my old nurse? Come, Lammy, we are friends, are we not? Do you not remember when you dandled me on your knee?’
Flushing, the slave-woman could not reply, managing only a strangled sound midway between a sob and a laugh. Whether it was astonishment that tied her tongue, or fear, or the medicine that coursed through her veins, Mother Madana did not know. She knew only that she could not speak to this man, not this alien, evil creature who came to her in the depths of night and called her Lammy. It was a taunt, it had to be, a cruel taunt. That once he had been dear to her, as Dea was now, only made the old slave suffer still more. To think, that her young Prince would one day be like this! She could only be glad that she was old, and death must take her before that time would come.
‘Off your knees, Lammy.’ The Sultan extended a hand to her, raising her up. He gestured towards the boy on the bed. Insensible of his father’s presence, the young Prince still sobbed, his face turned away. ‘My son’s first visit to the Flame has left him shaken. It is to be expected in one so young – expected, even welcomed. Should a boy’s heart be light on so great an occasion?’
Blankly, Mother Madana shook her head. She cast down her eyes with a submissive air, but in her mind the fury bubbled like lava. Was the man saying he was glad that Dea was so distressed? Oh, he was a monster, a black-hearted monster!
The Sultan went on, ‘Can the sorrow he feels unman my son? I cannot believe it. Likewise, can it unman me to come to him now? Who better to comfort my poor boy than one who bears the burden that one day shall be his? Come, Lammy, you may withdraw to the terrace. Leave me with my boy, but for a moment.’
Mother Madana bobbed with an appearance of duty, but she struggled to command herself. Stepping out through the latticed windows, the old slave could not resist a backwards glance. How bitter was the pang that filled her breast as the Sultan enfolded Dea into his arms!
Reluctantly, Mother Madana slipped into the shadows.
‘My son.’ said the Sultan, ‘it is time to dry your tears.’
Stiffly the bejewelled figure lowered himself to his son’s narrow couch. Sniffing, blinking back his tears, the boy gazed blankly at the oiled black beard, at the many-ringed hands, at the crinkles in the corners of his father’s eyes. The robes his father wore were sleek and cold, like lizardskin. Dea felt sick. All he wanted to say to his father was Why, why?
‘Why, why?’ said the Sultan.
Dea started.
‘That’s what you’re wondering, aren’t you?’ The Sultan attempted a smile. ‘Ah my son, be not afraid of your own father! Do you not know how much I love you? What happened tonight was a test, and you have passed that test.’
Now Dea was astonished.
‘These womanish tears?’ The Sultan laughed. ‘Why, they are nothing! Do you think I am ashamed of you, my son? Since the ceremony you have sobbed without end, but you have sobbed in private. To the common folk who lined the boulevard, to the Imams, to the Ebahns of the Sanctum, what was Prince Dea but a steely young hero?’
Dea’s astonishment could only increase. Since the ceremony he had been filled with shame, cursing the cowardice that had paralysed him, leaving him only to watch in shock as the Ebahns hustled Thal towards the column of fire. How he wished he could have burst forward, wrenching his friend from the murdering guards! But Dea was too weak, too frightened. He had not even cried out, not even to beg Thal’s forgiveness.
‘Father, you are mistaken. I am no hero.’
The Sultan smiled. ‘My son, you forget yourself. Can the Sultan of the Moon and Stars ever be mistaken? I say you are a hero, for you appeared as such, and in time, my son, we become what we appear to be.’ He paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘So we must be careful what we appear to be.’
‘Father?’
‘You are puzzled, and think me cryptic; but in time, my words will be clear to you.’
Now Dea bridled. He brushed away the last of his tears. ‘Father, I think your words are clear enough, and I am not sure I like them. Would you deny the first lesson I learnt from Lammy, that honesty is the virtue above all others?’
At this, the Sultan laughed again, if a little awkwardly, and enfolded the boy in a stiff embrace. ‘My son, can you say you have no courage? My finest counsellors would go to the stake for less impertinence than you have shown me in these last few moments. Ah, but how gratified you make me! I had feared you were a milksop. Instead, I find you a true son of mine!’
Dea stared at his father wonderingly, then winced as the beringed hands gripped his shoulders tightly, almost painfully. His father’s voice was a hot, eager whisper.
‘My son, sorrow has wracked your frame tonight, but what was tonight but a stage through which you must pass? A boy must empty his eyes of tears before he is ready to become a man. Sleep now, and when morning comes this night of weakness will lie behind you, soon to be forgotten. I too, when I was a young Prince, was forced to watch a friend sacrificed to the Flame.’
‘A … friend?’ Dea felt the pressure of tears again, but struggled to hold them back. How he wished his father would turn away the eyes that looked so intently, so piercingly into his own.
Instead, his father breathed deeply and said, ‘When I was a boy, Dea – a boy like
Also by David Rain
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Sultan Song
Players
The Story So Far
Map
Part One: The Vanishing Song
Chapter 1: Sanctum of the Flame
Chapter 2: Ghost in the Garden
Chapter 3: Another Country
Chapter 4: Pieces of Eight
Chapter 5: The First Vanishing
Chapter 6: The Second Vanishing
Chapter 7: Girl-Boy and Boy
Chapter 8: A Great Man in Qatani
Chapter 9: The Golden Apples of the Sun
Chapter 10: Vision of the Prophet
Chapter 11: A Corrupted Text
Chapter 12: Jem in a Predicament
Chapter 13: My Secret Burden
Chapter 14: Teller and Tale
Chapter 15: Submission of Dust
Chapter 16: The Third Vanishing
Chapter 17: A New Adventure for Jem
Chapter 18: The Burning Bird
Part Two: Lady in a Looking-Glass
Chapter 19: The Curse of Kaled
Chapter 20: A Dog Called Rainbow
Chapter 21: Palace of Perfumed Stairs
Chapter 22: The Custom of the Country
Chapter 23: Another Mother Madana
Chapter 24: Dance of the Five Veils
Chapter 25: Made for Pleasure
Chapter 26: A Light in the Darkness
Chapter 27: Madman Across the Water
Chapter 28: Guards! Guards!
Chapter 29: A Lady Made of Mist
Chapter 30: A Woman of Substance
Chapter 31: Tale and Teller
Chapter 32: Death in the Afternoon
Part Three: Lovers and Strangers
Chapter 33: The Curse of Kaled (Continued)
Chapter 34: The Realm of Un
Chapter 35: Tainted Love
Chapter 36: Eli Oli Ali Sees a Chance
Chapter 37: Eli Oli Ali Sees Another Chance
Chapter 38: A House in Ruins
Chapter 39: Bright Day
Chapter 40: Dreams from a Glass
Chapter 41: A Hazard of New Fortunes
Chapter 42: Darkness Falls from the Air
Chapter 43: A Challenge for Rajal
Chapter 44: A Challenge for Scabs
Chapter 45: Over the Wall
Chapter 46: A Boy’s Initiation
Chapter 47: The Fourth Vanishing
Part Four: The Flight from the Enchanter
Chapter 48: The Curse of Kaled (Concluded)
Chapter 49: The Thinning
Chapter 50: When the Sleeper Wakes
Chapter 51: To Be or Not to Be
Chapter 52: Transfigured Day
Chapter 53: The Sum of All Women
Chapter 54: An Unexpected Meeting
Chapter 55: The Harsh Reflections
Chapter 56: Caskets Three
Chapter 57: Grotesque in Two Keys
Chapter 58: Sail Away
Chapter 59: Reel Around the Fountain
Chapter 60: The Coaching Inn at Glotz
Part Five: Into the Flame
Chapter 61: Touch of the Ebahns
Chapter 62: Gibbous Moon
Chapter 63: Dead Man in the Sand
Chapter 64: The Fifth Vanishing
Chapter 65: A Tale for Little Kaled
Chapter 66: A Rich, Blood-Like Liquid
Chapter 67: The Less Deceived
Chapter 68: Ritual in the Dark
Chapter 69: In the Warm Room
Chapter 70: Tributes of Magic
Chapter 71: Crazy Floor
Chapter 72: The Running Back
Chapter 73: Angels of Ashes
Chapter 74: Say Hello, Wave Goodbye
JEM, the hero, seeker after the Orokon
CATA, the heroine, beloved of Jem
RAJAL, loyal friend to Jem
POLTY (POLTISS VEELDROP), their implacable enemy
BEAN (ARON THROSH), loyal friend to Polty
LORD EMPSTER, mysterious guardian to Jem
‘JAC’ BURGROVE, a ruined man of fashion
CAPTAIN PORLO, a crusty old sea-dog
BUBY, his pet monkey, tending to the mangy
SCABS, his cabin boy, tending to the pustular
KALED, Sultan of the Moon and Stars
SIMONIDES, his old tutor, most senior of his Imams
PRINCE DEA, the Sultan’s son and heir
THAL, Novice of the Flame, friend to Dea
MOTHER MADANA (1), a slave-woman, nurse to Dea
MOTHER MADANA (2), mistress of a fine caravanserai
MOTHER MADANA (3), Keeper of Palace Women in Qatani
SEFITA and SATIMA, the names of her many charges
EVITAMUS, formerly a Teller, now in retirement
AMED (AMEDA), his tomboy daughter
FAHA EJO, a goatherd, friend to Amed
ELI OLI ALI, his cousin, a great man in Qatani
CASCA DALLA, hated business rival to Eli Oli Ali
LITTLER, a small boy, son to Eli Oli Ali
THE BLACK RIDER, destined to die
CALIPH OMAN ELMANI, brother to the Sultan, ruler of Qatani
VIZIER HASEM, puller of his puppet-strings
BELA DONA, the ‘Shimmering Princess’
DONA BELA, a beautiful mute girl who looks just like her
RASHID AMR RUKR, fearsome leader of the Tribes of Ouabin
ALMORAN, master of the House of Truth
THE GIRLISH YOUTH, his servant
MYSTERIOUS GUESTS in the House of Truth
RAINBOW, a most remarkable dog
FISH and BLUBBER, thieves, members of the ‘Unners’ gang
CHEESE and STORK, also of the Unners
LADYBOYS in the Place of Cobras
OLD LACANI, madman across the water
PATCHES, a member of Captain Porlo’s crew
THE DOOM-DANCERS, tricksters, but also holy men
EBAHN GUARDS at the Sanctum of the Flame
ELDERS of the College of Imams
WHISPERERS in the walls
TARGON RETAINERS
COURTIERS, GUARDS and PILGRIMS
SAILORS, SLAVES and EUNUCHS
TRADERS, MIXERS, RABBLE
&c.
IN ZENZAU:
‘BOB SCARLET’, highwayman and rebel leader
HUL, his deputy, once a great scholar
BANDO, friend to Hul, veteran rebel
LANDA, a beautiful young Zenzan Priestess
RAGGLE and TAGGLE, sons to Bando
THE FRIAR, object of their frequent torments
THE OLD LADY on the Agondon stagecoach
BAINES, her one-eyed companion
GOODMAN OLCH, a respectable married man
GOODY OLCH, a respectable married woman
MISS TILSY FASH, the Zaxon Nightingale
FREDDIE CHAYN, scion of a worthless principality
COACHMEN, BLUEJACKETS, INNKEEPERS
&c.
IN THE REALMS OF THE DEAD:
SULTAN EL-THAKIR, father to Kaled, the present Sultan
CALIPH ABDUL SAMAD, brother to Sultan El-Thakir
THE AMBASSADOR OF LANIA CHOR
LADY YSADONA, his beauteous daughter
LADY YSABELA, his other beauteous daughter
MALA (LORD MALAGON), childhood friend to Kaled
PANDARUS, father to Simonides, Evitamus and Almoran
MOTHER of Simonides, Evitamus and Almoran
MESHA BULAQ, Sultan of the Red Dust
PRINCE ASHAR, his sickly son
THE ‘GEDEN BRIDE’, betrothed of Prince Ashar
THE SHAH OF GEDEN, father of the bride
NOVA-RIEL, who defeated the serpent Sassoroch
TOR, mysterious uncle to Jem
The warrior-woman ILOISA, wife to Bando
The philosopher VYTONI, author of Discourse on Freedom
Other GREAT AUTHORS and SCHOLARS
KINGS, QUEENS and HISTORICAL FIGURES
Various DEAD RELATIVES, FRIENDS, ENEMIES
&c.
WAITING IN THE WINGS:
EJARD BLUEJACKET, unrightful King of Ejland
QUEEN JELICA, his wife, the former Miss Jelica Vance
TRANIMEL, his evil First Minister: see also TOTH-VEXRAH
LADY UMBECCA VEELDROP, evil great-aunt to Jem and Cata
EAY FEVAL, her spiritual advisor, or co-conspirator
CONSTANSIA CHAM-CHARING, once a great society hostess
TISHY CHAM-CHARING, her Greenstocking daughter
SILAS WOLVERON, father to Cata
BARNABAS, a magical dwarf: still missing
MYLA, missing sister of Rajal
MORVEN and CRUM
Many other OLD FRIENDS, ENEMIES
&c.
GODS AND STRANGE BEINGS:
OROK, Ur-God, father of the gods
KOROS, god of darkness, worshipped by the Vagas
VIANA, goddess of earth, worshipped in Zenzau
THERON, god of fire, worshipped in Unang Lia
JAVANDER, goddess of water, once worshipped in Wenaya
AGONIS, god of air, worshipped in Ejland
TOTH-VEXRAH, evil anti-god: see also TRANIMEL
LADY IMAGENTA, his daughter, beloved of Agonis
JAFIR THE GENIE
The HARLEQUIN
‘BOB SCARLET’, the bird of that name
PENGE, a particular part of Polty
BURNING BIRDS
&c.
Deep within the desert realms of Unang Lia lie the rocky red peaks of the Theron Ranges. Rising sheer and sudden to unclouded skies, the great mountains loom impassively over a sea of shifting sands. When the sun is high, the jagged peaks glow with vermilion fire; when day declines, the bright blaze gives way to darker flames, of purple, green and blue. But always, amongst the glimmerings, there is one that is brighter, sharp and golden, flashing like a beacon from a high plateau.
To the traveller who has crossed these arid wastes, the first sight of this beacon must come as something alien, alarming. An outlander, perhaps, might screw up his eyes, staring into the splendour with a heart-hammering awe; a Unang would prostrate himself in the sands at once, blurting out the name of the Sacred City.
Kal-Theron!
This is the gold on the high plateau. In far Sosenica, in Yamarind and Emascus, on the isles of Zoebid and the Qatani coast, the very name must be accompanied by a blessing. To Kal-Theron, year on year, the pilgrims come, leaving their pale hillsides, their pungent groves, their market-places and palaces and their shadowy alleys. Many are sick, many are old, but on they travel, undaunted. Many shall die, but what does it matter? To a Unang, it is a promise of eternal bliss to end one’s life on the way to Kal-Theron.
Tonight, as the sun sinks behind the mountains, the Sacred City is aflame with life. Torches blaze; tabors beat; incense and chanting rise to the skies. It is the Festival of the Prophet: in the Great Calendar of Unang, with its elaborate reckonings of orbits and rotations, starshifts and moonturns, there are many sacred times, but none more so than this. For five days, the faithful have fasted and prayed. Now, on the evening of the fifth day, crowds jostle before a vast edifice that towers at the head of a sweeping boulevard. Encrusted redly with rubies, garnets and amethysts, this is the place called the Sanctum of the Flame, the greatest temple of Theron’s faith. Few shall ever see what lies within. Gathering in their masses, the awed people know only that it is here, in this immense bejewelled casket, that there burns the Sacred Flame.
Excitement pulses on the hot night air. The festival’s climax is looming near. Soon Kaled, Sultan of All Unang, will ascend to the Sanctum, disappearing through the immense doors; inside, it is said, he will gaze into the Flame, communing, like his ancestors before him, with Theron’s spirit. Then will come the moment that all have awaited. Emerging, standing at the top of the ruby steps, the Sultan will look down to the masses below. Eagerly every eye, every ear will strain towards him, longing for the balm of the words he will – must – let fall:
The Flame still burns.
It is enough – it is always enough. Then come the screams, then the prostrations, then the wild wailings of joy.
But this is yet to come. Now the frenzy lies coiled in wait, shivering in a fever of anticipation. Sultan of the Moon! Sultan of the Stars! come the murmurous chants. Sweat oozes from the tight bands of turbans. Veils flutter across the faces of the women, rising and falling with the heavings of emotion.
Then come the gasps, then the cries. The time has come! Now, from the far end of the boulevard, horns sound at the gates of the great edifice known as the Whispering Palace. Spasms thrill through the crowd as the Sultan, richly bedecked, emerges in glory to his adoring people.
Strutting before him come troops of guards, dressed like their master in the imperial hues of fire – guards with spears, guards with scimitars, guards with lions on straining leashes. Milling round are gorgeous eunuchs, beating at drums, trilling on pipes, whirling, dancing in swathes of silk and damask. Sturdier slaves bear the ornate litter, a riot of tassels, pillows, swaying lamps. Sailing along the boulevard, high above the crowd, the monarch sits in the posture of benediction, cross-legged, head bowed, arms raised high. Sultan! Sultan! comes the cry from every throat; there are moanings, ululations, upstretched hands; some, clapping and swaying, burst spontaneously into the anthem, known to all, that proclaims their leader’s greatness:
– Sultan of the Stars! Sultan of the Moon!
Can we hope to catch you if you’re coming by soon?
– Simpletons, down from your spars!
You might soar through the heavens in triumphal cars,
But never catch the Sultan of the Moon and Stars!
At first, all eyes are only for the Sultan; then, swaying in his wake, come two further litters. If each is less magnificent than the first, still they are objects of frenzied excitement, for here too are those who shall enter the Sanctum.
The Sultan’s companions are beautiful youths, their hands clasped together, raised in prayer. One, tall and willowy, twined in wreaths of lotus and jasmine, is Prince Dea, the Sultan’s only son, making his first visit to the Flame. Boys gaze in envy; girls swoon. The Prince is barely at the brink of manhood, but soon the time shall come when he will take his first bride, binding his destiny to the Line of the Prophet.
Behind him, garbed in the simplest of robes, is the young member of the College of Imams known only as the Novice of the Flame. A day ago, the Novice had another name, but already that name is lost to him, seared away in the fires of forgetting. Each sunround, a youth from the college is chosen for the Flame. Symbolising the bond between Sultan and Order, it is the Novice, tonight, whose eyes shall first alight upon the Flame; but when the time of communing has passed, the Novice will never leave the Sanctum. The Sacred Flame is the last thing he will see.
No greater honour could befall any Unang. Reverence greets the Novice, prayers and submissive bows, for in the instant of his appearance this unknown youth has taken upon himself the mantle of a saint.
What thoughts must pass through the Novice’s mind? Rocking upon his litter with tight-shut eyes, his face is blank, his pose serene. Perhaps by now, as his spiritual master has counselled, he has swept himself clear of all thought; perhaps already his awareness floats free, oblivious as much to the crowd below as to the face that twists towards him from the litter ahead. It is Prince Dea, ashen with fear, who cries out the name the Novice shall never bear again.
‘Thal!’
The lapse is brief. The willowy boy commands himself, clasping reverent hands again, squeezing his eyes shut tight like the Novice’s. Indeed, he hopes the boy behind him has shut his mind, too – to memory, and most of all to desire. They must do their duty; there can be no question. But how hard is fate – how bitter that Thal, of all the Novices, should be chosen for the Flame!
Thal had been the Prince’s dearest childhood friend. But that was yesterday, and today he is Thal no more.
The ceremony begins. The Sultan stands upon the ruby steps, his tall son and the Novice beside him. Behind them, ranged in reverent lines, are Imams, guards, eunuchs. The music, the chanting rise to a frenzy; then the monarch stretches forth his hands and silence descends across the scene like a pall. All down the boulevard the faithful abase themselves, scraping their foreheads on the paving stones. Great doors swing open above them. Now it is the Novice who must go forward first. Someone places a censer in his hand; guards, Imams part like a sea; eunuchs look on, crooning high and wordlessly.
Thal – for of course, he is the same boy – stares ahead. He swallows hard. Trembling, he enters a cavernous blackness, and is confused, for he had imagined these doors opening to a furnace-like blast. Where is the Flame?
But only for a moment is the darkness complete. The doors clang shut and a glow appears, flickering orange, red and gold, beckoning the Novice on his final walk. Slowly, reverently, he makes his way forward, as his master has told him to do.
How coldly the fear grips his heart! How his resolution flickers, flutters! In his hand, unbidden, the censer sways; the curling smoke makes his eyes water – or perhaps it is tears that are streaming down his face. Before him is only a vast blank wall of rock, but in the corner of the wall is an archway, leading to a flight of descending stairs. His steps falter. For a moment he wishes he could run back to the Prince; instead, turning his head just a little, the condemned Novice finds himself staring into the glittering visor of an Ebahn guard.
Bedecked in gold, clutching a scythe, the guard looms forward from the shadows like a phantom. Thal snaps his eyes away, but at once he is aware of another guard, and another, moving spectrally out from the darkness. He trembles, gasps. So it is true about the Ebahns! All his life he has heard of this corps, but never before was he sure they were real.
He knows their legend well enough. Selected from the finest Ebahn slave-boys, trained in cellars beneath the Sanctum, it is the destiny of these guards never to leave this holy place. All their lives must pass in the presence of the Flame, but it is a flame no Ebahn ever sees. At their time of induction the slave-boys are blinded, but all their other senses are then trained to the highest pitch.
Sweating, shaking, the terrified Novice bends his reluctant steps towards the stairs, flanked by the phalanx of fearsome guards. By now, he has forgotten everything about his sacred destiny, his privilege, his honour among the faithful. If he could escape, he would – but there is nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. The heavy steps of the blinded guards echo harshly against the cold stone walls. Round and round go the spiral stairs, descending far beneath the level of the boulevard. In the epicycles since the Prophet first found the Flame, many have forgotten that the great bejewelled Sanctum had been built, like a tomb, over a craggy mountain cave. Around them the light is at first a chill pallor, but rapidly it gets brighter, more lurid. A dull roar grows louder in Thal’s ears.
Then comes the last turning of the stairs.
Now he cries out. Violent spasms course through his frame. His legs give way and he sinks to the floor, gazing into the dazzling column of fire. Rising from deep beneath the floor, shooting up from within a great ring of rock, the Flame surges far above, terrifying in its ferocity.
The Prince screams, runs towards his friend. It is no good: the Ebahns separate them, holding them fast. In moments, they will fling the Novice into the Flame – but not yet, not yet. The ritual must proceed as it has always done. First the boys are pushed to their knees, forced into the posture of prostration. The Sultan sweeps between them, abasing himself, moaning to the Flame like a lover, like a slave. Abjectly he implores the fiery god to receive him, to bless him, to pardon his vileness; ardently he begs the fire god to receive his paltry offering.
The Ebahns drag the Novice forward.
‘No!’ comes a cry again, wild and pealing. But this time it is the Novice who screams, struggles, kicks, while the Prince can only look on, numb with shock. There is nothing he can do for his friend now.
In a moment there is nothing anyone can do.
The Sultan looks wryly at his stricken son. Deafeningly the roar of burning fills the chamber, booming and bursting immensely, like a storm.
‘Have a little nectar. Your Royal Majesty, please.’
With a sad smile the slave-woman held out the medicine, but still the young Prince would not turn towards her. From the moment he had burst back into his chambers, it had seemed that nothing could allay his grief. On and on he sobbed into his silken pillows, his thin shoulders heaving beneath his rich, embroidered robes.
‘Lammy, go away. Just leave me alone.’
The old slave sighed. It was long after midnight. From the alcoves in the walls, the konar-lights cast a diffuse glow, shimmering in the tears that filled her own eyes. She wiped them quickly with a gnarled hand. How she cursed the rules that bound her! A moonlife ago, she would have flung herself upon her young charge at once, mingling her tears freely with his, holding him tightly in her withered arms. No more: now that he was Heir Unquestioned, an intimate of the Flame, Prince Dea’s person was inviolable, subject to the touch of no vulgar hand.
It was cruel, but Mother Madana dared not question the cruelty. For fifty sunrounds she had nursed the royal children, and knew well enough the penalties of transgression. Even now, alone with the Prince, she could take no risks. Not for nothing was this imperial seat known as the Whispering Palace. Spyholes riddled the walls, assuring that only the most loyal were certain to live to the end of their days. Mother Madana’s life was drawing to its close. She cared little for herself any more, yet still she had a pride in her that would not be broken. The old slave had seen many of her friends, too many, die by the swords of the palace guards. She was determined to die in her bed.
The goblet of nectar was still in her hand as she paced to the far side of the wide chamber. It was a hot night. The long, latticed doors to the terrace stood ajar and a breeze wafted from the scented gardens, stirring the curtains and ornate hangings. For a blissful moment, Mother Madana basked in the fragrance. How often, with her young charges, she had wandered happily along the high, broad terraces, then up into the lush roof gardens above.
In her long life, Mother Madana had known much sorrow, but never quite as much as she had expected. Sold into slavery as a young girl, she had grieved, of course, for her loss of freedom, but had known that perhaps it was a secret blessing. Her father had been a poor man, with an older daughter and a son, too; never could he have given her an adequate dowry. Her older sister had married the master of a fine caravanserai, the finest, said some, on the Dorva Coast. What became of her brother she had never been sure; she had heard, and hoped it was true, that he was a great man, rising in the court of the Caliph of Qatani.
Mother Madana had not resented her luckier siblings; after all, she had been a plain girl, unlikely to attract the eyes of men. This, too, had been a blessing of sorts. Pretty slave-girls were destined for a fate she was only too glad to have been spared. Assigned to the royal nurseries, Mother Madana had been at first relieved, then relief had turned to pleasure as she devoted herself to her work.
No, she had lived a blessed life – for a slave. Not a day passed when she was not grateful, but in the very fact of her blessing, she knew, there lay the seeds of this present sorrow. What a fool she had been, to love her young charge! But how could she have helped it? Dea was the Sultan’s only son, and a sickly, sensitive boy. If, in this last sunround, he had grown to the height of a man, still he had yet to attain a man’s strength. Often it seemed that he never would. Willing her eyes not to fill again, Mother Madana thought of the times she had kissed the young Prince, had smoothed his brow, had fluffed the dark down of his little head. Never again would she be suffered to touch her lips even to the hem of his garment. After his wedding, he would be taken to new apartments on the far side of the palace, and if she ever saw him again, she knew she would mean nothing to the boy. They would turn him into someone different, someone alien.
Mother Madana shuddered. She had seen it all before, but this time it was worse. Could it be natural, could it be right, that the boy should assume the mantle of Heir Unquestioned so soon? And was it coincidence that Thal, his dear friend, had been sacrificed to the Flame?
She breathed deeply, struggling to calm herself. From long familiarity the old slave picked out the subtle, delicious scents of the garden, of jasmine and Javander-root, of malak and night-narcissus, and the spores of moon-nectar, most delicate of all. Ah, but that came from the goblet in her hand. Stirred into a potion, it was said to cure all heartaches. She arched back her throat, downing the precious medicine. Goldenly, like the glow of the konar-lights, a warm radiance spread through her body.
She turned, fearful of the eyes in the walls. What had she done? Such potions were not for the lips of a slave!
From the terrace came the tread of a slippered foot. A slave? A message? Quickly Mother Madana hid the goblet, just as the imposing figure of a man appeared before her, stepping in through the long latticed door. She gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. No slave, the man wore a dazzling robe of red and gold. Jewels flashed in a band round his skull, but even his eyes glowed like precious stones and a hundred little points of light, sharp in the lamplight, glittered in the blackness of his smoothly oiled beard.
What could the Sultan be doing here?
Awkwardly, Mother Madana abased herself. ‘Sacred One!’
A smile came to the Sultan’s lips. ‘Can this mantle of greatness deceive even my old nurse? Come, Lammy, we are friends, are we not? Do you not remember when you dandled me on your knee?’
Flushing, the slave-woman could not reply, managing only a strangled sound midway between a sob and a laugh. Whether it was astonishment that tied her tongue, or fear, or the medicine that coursed through her veins, Mother Madana did not know. She knew only that she could not speak to this man, not this alien, evil creature who came to her in the depths of night and called her Lammy. It was a taunt, it had to be, a cruel taunt. That once he had been dear to her, as Dea was now, only made the old slave suffer still more. To think, that her young Prince would one day be like this! She could only be glad that she was old, and death must take her before that time would come.
‘Off your knees, Lammy.’ The Sultan extended a hand to her, raising her up. He gestured towards the boy on the bed. Insensible of his father’s presence, the young Prince still sobbed, his face turned away. ‘My son’s first visit to the Flame has left him shaken. It is to be expected in one so young – expected, even welcomed. Should a boy’s heart be light on so great an occasion?’
Blankly, Mother Madana shook her head. She cast down her eyes with a submissive air, but in her mind the fury bubbled like lava. Was the man saying he was glad that Dea was so distressed? Oh, he was a monster, a black-hearted monster!
The Sultan went on, ‘Can the sorrow he feels unman my son? I cannot believe it. Likewise, can it unman me to come to him now? Who better to comfort my poor boy than one who bears the burden that one day shall be his? Come, Lammy, you may withdraw to the terrace. Leave me with my boy, but for a moment.’
Mother Madana bobbed with an appearance of duty, but she struggled to command herself. Stepping out through the latticed windows, the old slave could not resist a backwards glance. How bitter was the pang that filled her breast as the Sultan enfolded Dea into his arms!
Reluctantly, Mother Madana slipped into the shadows.
‘My son.’ said the Sultan, ‘it is time to dry your tears.’
Stiffly the bejewelled figure lowered himself to his son’s narrow couch. Sniffing, blinking back his tears, the boy gazed blankly at the oiled black beard, at the many-ringed hands, at the crinkles in the corners of his father’s eyes. The robes his father wore were sleek and cold, like lizardskin. Dea felt sick. All he wanted to say to his father was Why, why?
‘Why, why?’ said the Sultan.
Dea started.
‘That’s what you’re wondering, aren’t you?’ The Sultan attempted a smile. ‘Ah my son, be not afraid of your own father! Do you not know how much I love you? What happened tonight was a test, and you have passed that test.’
Now Dea was astonished.
‘These womanish tears?’ The Sultan laughed. ‘Why, they are nothing! Do you think I am ashamed of you, my son? Since the ceremony you have sobbed without end, but you have sobbed in private. To the common folk who lined the boulevard, to the Imams, to the Ebahns of the Sanctum, what was Prince Dea but a steely young hero?’
Dea’s astonishment could only increase. Since the ceremony he had been filled with shame, cursing the cowardice that had paralysed him, leaving him only to watch in shock as the Ebahns hustled Thal towards the column of fire. How he wished he could have burst forward, wrenching his friend from the murdering guards! But Dea was too weak, too frightened. He had not even cried out, not even to beg Thal’s forgiveness.
‘Father, you are mistaken. I am no hero.’
The Sultan smiled. ‘My son, you forget yourself. Can the Sultan of the Moon and Stars ever be mistaken? I say you are a hero, for you appeared as such, and in time, my son, we become what we appear to be.’ He paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘So we must be careful what we appear to be.’
‘Father?’
‘You are puzzled, and think me cryptic; but in time, my words will be clear to you.’
Now Dea bridled. He brushed away the last of his tears. ‘Father, I think your words are clear enough, and I am not sure I like them. Would you deny the first lesson I learnt from Lammy, that honesty is the virtue above all others?’
At this, the Sultan laughed again, if a little awkwardly, and enfolded the boy in a stiff embrace. ‘My son, can you say you have no courage? My finest counsellors would go to the stake for less impertinence than you have shown me in these last few moments. Ah, but how gratified you make me! I had feared you were a milksop. Instead, I find you a true son of mine!’
Dea stared at his father wonderingly, then winced as the beringed hands gripped his shoulders tightly, almost painfully. His father’s voice was a hot, eager whisper.
‘My son, sorrow has wracked your frame tonight, but what was tonight but a stage through which you must pass? A boy must empty his eyes of tears before he is ready to become a man. Sleep now, and when morning comes this night of weakness will lie behind you, soon to be forgotten. I too, when I was a young Prince, was forced to watch a friend sacrificed to the Flame.’
‘A … friend?’ Dea felt the pressure of tears again, but struggled to hold them back. How he wished his father would turn away the eyes that looked so intently, so piercingly into his own.
Instead, his father breathed deeply and said, ‘When I was a boy, Dea – a boy like
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