Kitara: A Tale of Leinyere

"As courteous a way of asking 'what the fuck are you doing here' as I've heard" Noreah laughed and Jahane blanched as the woman cursed like a warrior. Noreah smiled "as I said, I married for love. If you stay with us long enough, I'll tell you about it some time."

Jahane nodded and then fell into uneasy silence over the remaining hours of the day, despite a few more attempts from the other woman at conversation. She looked at the setting sun and saw they were headed south, and wondered if Faisal knew which way to track. She felt herself on the edge of despair and wanted to wallow in it for all that she knew there were forms to observe and courtesies to exchange. She attempted to buoy her spirits by clinging to the other woman's suggestion that something might happen to forestall the inevitability of her marriage to a Nahasz, slim as that offering might have been. The poets all sang tales of brave young swordsmen claiming their prizes, their lady loves, from the hands of other men. The problem with those poems, she reflected, was that they didn't say how the lady loves faired for months on end in the absence of rescue. They offered plenty of insight into the hearts of brash young heroes, and nothing to assist with coping with the reality of waiting. Not for the first time she felt a moment of bitterness at her lot as a woman, doomed to wait on the pleasure and ability of some man.

She flushed, embarrassed at herself. Faisal was her dashing hero. Swordsman, poet. He had killed men in duels. He had won poetry competitions. He had stolen horses and sheep. He was everything the stories suggested a proper man should be. She straightened in the saddle, trying to steel herself. Her trials would be nothing compared to his. She would be sheltered with this tribe; he would be alone. If he could survive this time, so could she. She would show him. Her love was stronger than a moment's despair.

At the watering hole... oasis was too generous a word for the single sad well that the sheep gathered around as the nomads pitched their tents, Jahane was glad of the chance to be off the horse. She was already sore, though she did all she could to hide the fact. She approached the older women making a meal, not interfering or even being so rude as to ask to help (she was after all a guest and there were protocols to this sort of thing). She watched as they turned chickpea flour into a pan-fried bread, and when they were done, she ate sparingly, the bread, some dates and sheep's cheese. As she sat, she finally spoke to one. "Where are the men, really" She'd had time to summon up the name. Mahmoud Ibn Ali was a Sha'ir of greater renown than her Faisal. He was also a minor sheikh with one hundred swords at his beck and call. In the caravan were perhaps ten, with some women and enough sheep to make it seem like this was a legitimate enterprise, but she knew that when he travelled normally, it was in the company of a much greater group. This group was a ruse. Something to allay suspicion. "They are already in the south, we summer on the slopes of the mountains there, where the rain is plentiful and the grazing is good"

Jahane inhaled, then slowly exhaled. She would not let this news deter her. Faisal surely would know. It was his job to know, he was, after all a great hero.

***

Halldor sat on one of the many balconies jutting from the palace walls which overlooked the city of Qasin. The sunset was a deep purple, streaked with clouds that were gray tinged with lavender as night fell. To the south stretched the irrigated fields that were the source of the desert city's wealth and power in older days. He imagined he could see the golden wheat, ready for the harvest. Here in the north of the desert, the seasons were almost backwards. Harvest came at the end of spring, and rather than winter snows killing the crop it was the punishing heat of the summer sun. Even the irrigated fields withered and died in the face of such blistering heat. During the 'winter', however, the land was lush and green. The crop was more than enough to sustain the city, and more importantly the armies of the sultan. Qasin was the jewel of the kingdom, the seat from which great Behrouz, Sultan, ruled the cities of Aqba and Neresh and the mountains ringing the northern desert. Here was the center of power, both martial and magical, esoteric and economic. Qasin... his gilded cage.

He looked down at his mint tea, which had not only the illusion of coolness from the crisp flavor imparted by the leaves but also a genuine cold from the ice. He marveled again at the wealth of the city, which could squander magical power creating ice solely to add to the pleasing evening tea. He shrugged and sipped again, grateful for such. If he was to be trapped anywhere, there were less pleasant places to be.

A hand rested on his shoulder, warm as the tea was cold. He turned, looking over the open robe and the lush curves beneath 'far less pleasant indeed' he thought as his eyes travelled along the body of the princess Zahra, from her round breasts to the dark thatch between her thighs where he had occupied himself but a few minutes ago. "Scandalous" he laughed, tugging her robe closed a bit.

She frowned "who would see me up here? You're the only Elf with your eyes keen enough to spot me from the ground." She dug her nails briefly into his shoulder "and you're naked as the day of your birth, so why is it my flesh is so offensive?"

Halldor held up a hand "peace, Zahra. Peace. It's nothing to do with the flesh itself, tempting as it would be for any man. It's that you're a princess. Who wants to see the pale flesh and narrow hips of some foreign beggar?"

"There's plenty in my father's court that would take you as a catamite" came the response. She sat next to him, watching the last lingering light of dusk stretch its fingers across the city. "Buggery may be a sin, but it's a popular one. There's more than one noble that prefers the tight ass of a young boy to the quim of his wife. You have that eternally youthful look of your people, while having all the age and experience necessary to truly move your hips" she smirked and poured herself tea and withdrew ice from the box where it was held in stasis. "I know of the skill of those hips at least. I imagine you'd be equally adept were you on the other end of things."

He had no illusions that he was sating her sexually. He knew she kept a regular assignation with two noblemen who really should know better than to fuck the daughter of their liege, but he couldn't blame them. The danger was only the smallest part of her charms. He sighed and shook his head, looking out over the town. As he watched the dimming light, he felt her soft fingers running through the fine blond hair of his head. She massaged his scalp softly "you should...sleep" and when she said sleep, he was lost.

***

Zahra looked down at the slumped Elf. Months it had taken, slowly poisoning him to weaken his will, slowly enchanting him using rituals and magic circles under the bed where she fucked him. Finally, a month ago she'd broken his will and conditioned him. She snapped her fingers and he came too, though he'd have no recollection. His will was entirely hers now, but like this he could wield no magic. No matter that, as it wasn't his magic she was after.

When the elf had arrived in the court of her father, talking of binding souls into magic items to power them in ways above and beyond any prior enchantment, most had been horrified but she had been fascinated. Control of the soul, the mingling of essences was her primary goal. She had hovered around him, and like all old male wizards, he dangled the promise of knowledge for access to her body. She had been eager enough, but it became clear after a few months he intended to save his secrets for himself. That was when she put her plan into effect.

She went to the entrance to her suites and ushered in the scribes. They were paid well, all the better because they allowed her to erase their minds after each session. Wizards were secretive, and she no less than others. If she was going to steal these secrets from the Elf, she was not going to risk some scribe selling them to another. The pair of them set up. She always used two so she could compare the transcriptions and test them against her own recollections.

A few minutes later, the Elf was lecturing again. They were at the point where he was really digging into the technical details of how to accomplish his work, and she had to pay attention. The Elf revealed, over time, that all matter was energy, and all objects were information that shaped energy, at least from his perspective. The souls of beings informed the shape of energy and their function in the universe. Objects themselves were merely patterns of energy. Regular enchantment was difficult, as it involved re-writing the information that created the characteristics of an object. One could shortcut that by blending a soul that possessed certain characteristics, saving on the effort and difficulty of enchantment.

He had, through experimentation, revealed that ancient wizards had done this in making abominations such as gryphons, and this is where her interest peaked. It was possible, he said, to blend living objects and beings to make something new. This had not genuinely been his interest, as he was an artificer by trade, but it was the exact information she sought. Now theory and practice rolled off his tongue, as it had for many nights before. She was close, she knew, to her goal. Frustration and anticipation warred in equal measures as she soaked in the last dribbles of knowledge, she needed to complete her plan. So close, and yet... the proof was in the doing not the dreaming.

***

Faisal cursed, not for the irritation in his back which sang to him with tongues of fire, but for the lack of Mahmoud in the east. The guards of the trading post had expressed doubt as to his passage, but he felt that the wily dog might skirt the post and find other watering holes in the hills. Accordingly, he made his way to the next oasis. There he was confronted with the lack of his quarry, as he quizzed the gate guard.

"What do you mean the Nahasz are not within? "

The boy, beardless yet and lazily leaning against the closed gate shrugged "I was unaware that words meant different things in the desert"

Faisal's hand dropped a mere inch towards his sword but it was enough for the boy to straighten, color draining from his face. "Speak to me, as if they do."

The boy cleared his throat "I mean only, Sha'ir" so the boy knew who he was at least "That Mahmoud and his band are some weeks gone from this place. They arrive every winter on their way back from Qasin. They make a circuit, up the east coast to Qasin at the start of winter, trading there, then they use the watering holes along the hills as they make their way west."

Faisal let his hand drop fully now, gripping the hilt of his sword with a knuckle-white grip. Through teeth similarly clenched he spat "Are there others who can verify this?"

The boy shrugged "near everyone milord. Surely you've passed the Nahasz yourself a time or two in your travels"

He had not, however. He saw Mahmoud only in the great gatherings in the larger oases in the deep desert, when men came to trade sheep and fight and boast of the raids they had made on the other tribes. He saw Mahmoud only in the haze of his cups, in celebration on feast days when the tribes came together. He knew, in that moment, that his loves' father would also know of the route of the Nahasz "bastard"

"No bastard am I Asani" the boy spat, bringing his spear to the ready.

"You have stones, boy. Now use your head. I speak of the one who sent me here." He fished a coin from his purse and tossed it at the boy's feet "for your information. Peace be upon you brother"

He paid another to enter the gate and watered his horse while purchasing provisions. He paid more than he should, ignoring the disappointed looks of the market stall owners when he refused to haggle. Within the hour he was out the gate. Rather than head back west to confront the deceit of Jahane's father he turned south across the desert. He headed for the oasis of Sheik Rafiq.

Rafiq was no man, and his oasis was avoided by all who valued their souls. There, the least of the children of smokeless fire dwelled. They were not great in power like their cousins the Genie and Ifrit, and so were allowed to live as men by the gods. They were a queer lot, strange in their ways, and mighty in magic compared to men. Better still, they had the ears of their cousins the great spirits of the desert. Dao, Genie, Ifrit, and occasionally even Marid. He would seek out the witch Layla. She would, for a price, direct him where he needed to go.

***

Halldor woke, groggy, to watch Zahra constructing a shield of magic. He could see the frown of concentration, as she drew on skills foreign to women in its working. "Why do you insist on doing that?"

"Because it is hard" came the response "only things that are difficult are worth doing"

"Is that why you are so difficult? To make yourself worth doing?"

Zahra smirked at the double entendre and released the shield, visibly relaxing. "You know that's not why you while away the hours here." Her hand drifted down, over his smooth balls and she cupped them with a warm hand "well. The minutes." She smirked "hours is a bit generous"

"I don't understand why you don't just use a spirit for combat like other women" he looked down at her soft hand as it wrapped around him "stop changing the subject"

She laughed softly "Because a spirit can be corrupted, and then you fight a man and a spirit." Most women of the region did use a captive Djinn of some sort to fight, as elementalism was given by their gods to men and the subtler arts of enchantment and healing to women. While each could perform the arts of the other with difficulty it left women decidedly at a disadvantage in sorcerous duels.

"Still, you're unlikely to be fighting anyone at all. It's not like you're contesting Jafar for the th.." he cut off as he felt her warm mouth envelope him. "I thought you were not going to change the subject" he groaned, his hips lifting, pushing into the warmth and wetness of her. He gasped as she pulled off a moment.

"You really going to complain?" then, without waiting for a response she wrapped her soft full lips around his head. She pulled back, letting it fall from her lips, only to recapture it. She slid back, teasing just the head with her lips and tongue, big brown eyes looking up into his.

"I suppose not"

She slid her mouth down, engulfing his cock and then dragged her exquisitely soft lips back up the shaft, slowly, carefully "now that I have your full attention" she sat up, then straddled him, lowering onto him "I will be sitting on the Peacock Throne soon enough, and when I sit there you will sit there with me"

He moaned, then gasped in surprise. "What? I'm a foreigner..." he trailed off as she raked sharp nails along his chest. She leaned over him "because you will do something for me" she held his gaze as she rocked, her generous hips shifting to slide the tight recesses of her sex along his length. "You will use your powers to make me an army. An army of golems" she dug her nails into his skin, then started to rock a little faster, taking him deeper with each roll of her hips.

He nodded. Her true intentions with him were finally clear. Use the magnificent magic at his disposal to create an army of loyal servitors. Golems were normally expensive, dangerous propositions. If he used his soul magic to animate them with guards loyal to her, but who were close to death due to age or infirmity... he saw her logic. He also saw the logic of agreeing when he had no such intention. "ahhhh" he grabbed her waist and started to thrust up into her "yes. Yes, my love. My love"

She moaned "yes my love" her body meeting his, again and again, tugging at his turgid cock, milking it into her as they came together. She collapsed atop him, drawing on his chest with a nail "Mmmmm yes my love." Her soft lips brushing his chest, then his neck "Soon enough, we will be seated on that throne. Together."

***

Faisal stepped into the gloom of the house of Layla. A few others sat there, drifting in the waking dream of the opium poppy. He could smell it, its perfume thick in the air. A listless whore beckoned to him from the corner "a few silvers milord... all it takes" her languid movements telling him she was in the grip of her own dream. He scowled "I'm not here for your poxed slit. I'm here to see the mistress of the house."

She muttered a phrase which might have been harsh, but it was too sleepily slurred to tell. He shrugged and pushed his way through a beaded curtain into the back. There sat what might look like men, but he knew of a certain were not. Jann, the lowest of the children of smokeless fire. "I'm here for the witch"

"Of course, you are dear Faisal" came the honeyed sound of the witch's voice through the fog of opium smoke "No stalwart son of the desert comes to this den for aught else. Your sin is in seeking divination, not respite."

He frowned. It was true, among his people it was taught that knowing the future was blasphemy "I seek a hint, not my future."

"I'm sure that makes it all better" she parted the curtain and peeked out. Her mottled multi-chromic eyes shifted in hypnotic patterns, drawing him in "I know what you seek, I have foreseen it"

He placed on the table before her the traditional payment of gold and then drew a blade across his palm, adding his blood to a bowl of clear water. "I know your ways, witch. I would be done with this place."

"You would not stay and while away the night with me Faisal? Am I not comely?"

She was comely, but he knew it was a seeming. He looked over her milk-white skin and luminescent shifting eyes. His eyes traced down to lips as red and luscious a pomegranate. Her breasts, bountiful and firm were barely concealed in the gauzy silks of her dress. Through that translucent material, he could make out the darkness of her nipples against her pale flesh, straining invitingly, begging to be sucked. In truth, Layla was as old as the hills and her true form a pestilent hag. "You will forgive me if I eschew the pleasure." He bandaged his hand and then took hers. He could feel the iron claws at the end of her fingers, though his eyes told him otherwise.

"I see much. A man, who you seek to supplant. A girl, heavy with child. Is it your child? Who can say?"

"Stop with your tricks old woman. Tell me plain and true, by my blood I bind you. By my breath I bind you. By my gaze I bind you, and bound thrice you are sworn to tell me true."

It was the ancient bond of the Sha'ir and the Djinn. In addition to the help of the Djinn often freely given to a poet, a true Sha'ir could demand true service, if he knew the words and had paid the proper price. She shrugged "this too I saw. Your path leads to the trading post at the western edge of the desert. There you will find a woman who wields bitterness like a blade. If you join your cause to hers, you will find your girl, and meet Mahmoud. Know this, he lays at your feet, and he does not kill you."

He snarled. Truth and clarity were often strangers. That was the game she played with him. Still, it was better than nothing "bitterness like a blade? Bad poetry that"

"And yet, noble Faisal, true."

Releasing her hands, he fished out another gold from his purse and tossed it with the rest. He nodded "grandmother" and she hissed at the honorific, as it implied her true age. He stalked out after into the night, not trusting her now that the business was done to let him leave alive after the insult.