Scheherazade and the King Ch. 08

"Listen!" The prince mouthed.

The soldier's eyes narrowed as he tried to catch snippets of the conversation below.

" — bounty better be worth all the sand I keep having to empty from my boots — "

" — I've got it coming out of more than just my boots, adiskide!"

" — why Ekaitz is so set on finding this girl — "

" — fugitive and a traitor, we all remember the signs — "

" — here, take some food to Bardol, if that lookout of ours isn't already asleep, that is!"

Cas looked at Shahzaman as one of the soldiers stood up to pile a plate with food for the dead watchman. The prince nodded and Cas sounded the call.

All at once the Irlazkens found themselves under attack. The ones who had weapons could hardly unsheathe them in time to defend their throats from the broad blades of the Persians' swords. Several men fell quickly, blood soaking their white clothes within moments.

Shahzaman's twin swords flew as they staved off the double-sided blades of the Irlazken soldiers.

"Behind you Shahz!"

The prince ducked just in time to miss the heavy swipe of a sword before lunging forward with his swords crossed. The soldier jumped backwards and straight onto the waiting blade of Cas' sword. Shahzaman turned his back on the dying soldier and clasped his swords together so the blades acted as one. With powerful, swinging strokes he slashed his way through one, two men.

A cry suddenly sounded from one of their own. The prince steeled his nerves and concentrated on the foes before him, ducking beneath the sword of one opponent to slash at the ankles of another.

"Remember men, keep one!" The prince shouted as his blade caught the throat of another soldier.

A few minutes later, only one Irlazken remained standing, the bloody tip of Cas' sword positioned at his throat.

"How many wounded have we?" Shahzaman panted.

"Just Javed," Cas said, his own breaths coming heavy. "Paiman is tending to him."

"Tie him up," the prince commanded, the sound of his voice calling his men to attention. "Search the rest and pile the bodies over there."

Within a few moments, the fallen soldiers had been searched and their bodies stacked near the fire. The only Irlazken who remained alive knelt, his wrists bound behind his back and his ankles tied firmly, in stoic silence.

Cas beckoned Shahzaman close and unrolled a scroll found on one of the Irlazken soldiers.

"Each of them had a copy," he mumured.

The face of a young woman stared back at him, the likeness unmistakable and instantly recognisable, but it was the words that bordered her portrait which held his attention: WANTED. Traitor to the Kingdom of Irlazken and Conspirator to the Pyrat Zigor.

Shahzaman knelt in front of the captured soldier and held the scroll open: "What is your mission, soldier?"

"I should think that was quite obvious," he said, his lips curved in a slight sneer.

"Do you know who I am?"

The Irlazken spat at his feet: "By the looks of your face there's only one person you could be — the infamous exiled Prince of Persia."

"So you were sent to find and retrieve the girl," he said. "Alive?"

"That's what the notice said but King Ekaitz said he had no preference," the Irlazken said, his eyes never losing their spark, as if he held onto a joke they knew nothing of.

"What of the other convoy?" The prince asked. "What were your orders in regards to them?"

The soldier's limbs began to shiver of their own accord: "Traitors do not expect mercy and they are to be granted none."

"What have you done?" Shahzaman snarled, grabbing his collar.

The Irlazken's limbs were shaking uncontrollably and his teeth chattered as he attempted to grin up at the prince: "None can escape The Storm."

And, with those final words, he slumped forward into the sand, the froth at his mouth quickly turning red with blood.

"Poison," Cas growled, spitting into the sand.

Shahzaman rose to his feet slowly, dusting the sand from his knees: "At least he confirmed my suspicions before he died."

"These fishermen have always been far too comfortable with death for my liking," the soldier said with a shudder.

"Still, we can afford them a proper burial, can't we?"

"Won't do their souls much good," Cas pointed out. "They only believe in the sanctity of a sea burial."

"This is our sea," Shahzaman said, spreading his arms wide. "Perhaps their souls will still find solace."

Cas shrugged: "As you wish."

"You don't fear death, do you Cas?" The prince asked.

"Fear? No, but I do not welcome her either," he said, his broad facing smiling once more.

"Do you really think they would have attacked a convoy of unarmed messengers?" Shahzaman asked.

"You heard the man. And, I as I said before, they were on a mission for their king," Cas said. "He seems the type to value the ends over the means."

"The Storm," the prince mused. "How do you think he came to earn that sobriquet?"

Cas scoffed: "He was born with it."

Shahzaman raised a brow at him: "I thought his name was 'Ekaitz'?"

"It is, it means 'the storm'" Cas explained. "You forget, I had a couple dust-ups with him while he was still just a lieutenant in the Irlazken navy. He was always too big for his boots, even then."

"Think our girl can take him?"

"Can't say just yet. I'll have to meet her first," Cas said with a wink.

++++++++

"Anything?" Shariyar cried, leaping to his feet the moment Hazim entered the room.

"Not even the slightest change," the doctor said, falling into his chair. "I have tried everything. Everything!"

Shariyar sat down with a heavy sigh, the dawn's early light bathing him in a red glow that on any other morning may have seemed beautiful. He groaned into his hands, slamming his closed fist onto his knee.

"We need to know what those tattoos say," the king said suddenly. "They must hold the clue."

"Her body is too hot, she will be dead within days if this fever continues," Hazim said.

Suddenly Jafar's voice came from the doorway: "Find Tariku, he will know."

"Tariku?" The doctor asked. "The man who runs the market at the city centre?"

Shariyar slapped his palm against Hazim's desk: "Tariku! Yes, that trader has probably come the closest of anyone to reaching all four corners of the Earth. If anyone were to speak Daarken, it would be him!"

The king snapped his fingers at the nearest guards: "Go find him, bring him here immediately. Do not tell him why his services are required, mind you. Just tell him that the King of Kings requires his presence urgently."

"You cannot mean to bring him here?"

"Of course not!" Shariyar snapped. "Someone very kindly drew a portrait of the girl. I have several copies."

Hazim drew in a quick breath and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Do not act surprised, old man," the king sneered, "you knew I found them."

"I don't care," the doctor said, waving his hand in the air. "So long as there is a clue in those tattoos that helps save her."

"If there is, I will find it," Shariyar said resolutely.

Jafar's voice came from the doorway again, this time low and angry: "You had better."

++++++++

Within an hour Tiraku had been found and rushed to the palace. Even in the midst of the organised chaos that was the central marketplace, Tiraku was easy to spot. Not only did he favour the bright, patterned fabrics common in Kuša, his native country, he also stood at least a head taller than most men in Persepolis. Even now, the guards who had been sent to find him struggled to keep up his pace as he billowed through the palace.

"Shariyar!" The merchant exclaimed when they finally reached the throne room. His booming voice echoed through the room like thunder.

"Tariku," the king said, rising to his feet quickly.

The trader bent down to wrap Shariyar in an embrace: "It has been too long, my friend. You need another woman in your life so that you have reason to visit me again!"

Shariyar grimaced: "Trust me, that is the last thing I need..."

Tariku clapped a broad hand on his back: "Then come buy yourself something nice, you know I have many rich partners in trade. The quality of the goods we are receiving daily from Kuša, Egypt, the Bactrians — you would not be disappointed!"

Though it sometimes rankled his pride, Shariyar had always secretly admired the way the merchant was able to treat everyone, regardless of their rank or status, as no more than just another customer.

"I'm afraid I did not bring you here to discuss trade matters," Shariyar said.

"Well then you must bring me back another day because I have much to talk to you about," Tariku said. "There are trade restrictions in place that are hampering our business."

"Well there is one of them you will not have to worry about any longer," the king said resolutely. "I have decided to lift the trade ban on the Parni."

Tariku fixed his dark eyes on the king: "Really now? Is this common knowledge yet?"

"No," Shariyar said, shaking his head. "You are the first to know, in fact."

"Brilliant!" The merchant exclaimed. "I can start getting my agents in place before anyone else in the market has the chance!"

"Well, now that I've done you that favour, I need one of you."

"Anything," Tariku said with a slight nod of his head.

Shariyar motioned him to a small table where one of Hazim's portraits of Scheherazade was laid out.

Tariku's eyes lit up when he saw the drawing and he instantly snatched the paper from the table.

"The famed Daarkan healing tattoos!" The trader gasped. "I've never seen them rendered on a subject of the ritual before."

"Can you translate them?"

"Of course," Tariku scoffed, setting the page back down on the table. "The Daarkan's traditional territory is not far from Kuša. Look, see here? The characters on each side are incomplete, they must be read together across both arms to make any sense. And, as always with Daarkan script, you read from the bottom, up."

"What do they say then?"

"The first section -- here -- is a standard chant to invoke the spirits," he said, running his fingers up along the characters as he translated them.

I, Ekundayo, call now on the Spirits of my ancestors, whose souls live on through me, Make me a channel of the power of our bloodline. Lend your healing to my hands, lend your power to my words.

"That word, Ekundayo, that is the name of the Elder," he explained.

Misfortune and sin have tested this soul, But neither have tainted its purity. Awake your ancient magic to heal the wrongful horrors wrought, On the bones and the flesh of the body.

"That part is standard too," Tariku said. "The healer has to test the subject's soul first, to determine if it can be saved. Any trace of wickedness, and legend has it that the ritual will destroy the soul. Isn't that fascinating?"

"Riveting," Shariyar grumbled. "What does it say next?"

"Now it will go into cataloging the hurts that must be healed," the merchant said. "I have seen two scripts of the ritual before, the first was allegedly used to heal a cripple whose wounds were sustained by an unjust sentencing, and another — a woman — whose ability to have children had been brutally taken from her. Again, this is all the stuff of stories. In all my years and all my travels, I've never met anyone who actually undertook the ritual, either as healer or subject."

"Do you think it's real?" The king asked. "I mean, that the ritual works?"

Tariku sighed: "I have seen magic at work, just because I have not seen this particular kind of magic does not mean I doubt it."

"Does it say anything about what would happen if the subject's soul were to turn? If they were no longer pure?"

The trader's finger continued its journey across the page as he read the script silently.

"There are terrible cruelties writ here," he said gravely. "Torture, rape... Is this person still living?"

"I cannot say," Shariyar shrugged, feigning nothing more than scholarly interest. "Hazim — you remember the good doctor — wanted to learn more about the ritual and thought this might be the way."

"If this ritual does work, then it is powerful," Tariku said. "The kind of magic required to heal this catalogue of wounds... It would be cataclysmic."

"And what if something were to turn the subject's soul?" Shariyar pressed. "What would happen then?"

Tariku turned his gaze back to the scroll, his eyes scanning the scrolling text.

"Ah," he whispered suddenly. "Here..."

May your ancient magic guard this soul So long as there is strength of spirit enough To outbrave hatred and outface injustice. Should misfortune and sin again try this soul, And tip the scales in their favour, then let Forgiveness pave the road to Redemption Or send this soul to Perdition.

"That is a grave sentencing in the Daarkan tradition," Tariku said sombrely. "They believe in a life after death that mirrors the life you chose on Earth. A good life, a good afterlife. A bad life, a terrible fate in the next world."

"But it says nothing about what will happen to the body of the person?"

"Just the soul," the trader shrugged. "But it is a cruel punishment for a very human reaction and, based on that, I would imagine the effects on the body would be equally cruel."

"But, if she were to forgive the person, everything would be better again?"

"Perhaps," Tariku said. "May I keep this? This is a rare find, it may attract a decent price at the market."

"No," Shariyar said quickly.

The trader straightened his long spine and looked down his nose at the king.

"It is Hazim's only copy," he lied. "He would never forgive me if I gave it away."

Tariku nodded, his eyes bright and genial again: "Ah, yes, I understand. Believe me, I know all too well that you never want to get on a doctor's bad side!"

"Thank you, my friend," Shariyar said, offering him his hand. "I appreciate all your help."

++++++++

Shariyar burst into the infirmary: "It's the magic that was put on her by the Daarkans to heal her wounds, that's what's causing this sickness."

Two of Hazim's apprentices were at Scheherazade's sides, struggling to hold her down as Hazim attempted to ladle medicine through the girl's clenched teeth. When he heard Shariyar's voice, he threw down the spoon in frustration.

"Magic?" He roared. "My medicine cannot work against magic, Shariyar! Look at her!"

The king steeled his nerves when he saw Scheherazade's eyes — they were completely white.

"Then we have to use magic to help her," he said resolutely.

"Oh is that all?" The doctor exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in mock jubilation. "Well then thank god I'm a sorcerer!"

"Calm yourself, Hazim," Shariyar snapped.

"I am calm!" The doctor cried.

The king's amber eyes glinted and Hazim reluctantly retreated to a nearby chair, collapsing with a sigh.

"What exactly did Tariku tell you about the tattoos?" the doctor asked, rubbing his temples.

"That the healing was only guaranteed so long as her heart was pure and that, if she ever gave in to hatred, forgiveness would be the only path to redemption."

"Well then she is a dead woman," Hazim hissed spitefully, "because only an absolute imbecile would forgive you after all you've done."

"I think I can save her," Shariyar pressed.

He glanced at the attendants and then nodded his head towards Hazim's office. The doctor stood up with a groan and followed him inside, closing the door behind them with an almighty slam.

"I think I can save her," Shariyar said again. "I can take her to the healing waters of Maharlu Lake."

"Maharlu?" The doctor scoffed. "Not even the mystic Red Tide is enough to undo what your pride has cost this girl."

"I have to try!" Shariyar cried.

After a few moments of tense silence, Hazim finally sighed: "It would take days for a caravan to get there, there isn't time."

"No caravan," the king said. "Just me and the girl. I can get us there in less than two days. Jafar can send a falcon and have a fresh horse waiting for me half-way."

"The King of Kings travelling alone?" Hazim asked incredulously. "Now I know you're insane, Shariyar."

"No one has to know that I am gone," he said. "You and Jafar will tell everyone that I am ill. Have meals sent to my chamber and everything, exactly as if I were actually here."

"You are the only heir to this empire other than your brother," the doctor said measuredly, "if something were to happen —"

"Nothing will happen," the kind said calmly. "Besides, it has to be me that takes her. If there is even the slightest chance that my risking my life — even the future of this kingdom — will earn her forgiveness, then I have to try."

"She is in so much pain we can hardly get her to be still on a bed," Hazim said. "How do you expect to keep her on a horse?"

"Well hopefully your medicine can help us in that respect," he replied. "Is there anything you have that will keep her sedated until I can get her to Maharlu?"

The doctor sighed wearily but nodded: "I will concentrate on Scheherazade, you go speak with Jafar and get yourself ready. The sooner you leave, the greater her chances are."

++++++++

Jafar knocked on the doors to Shariyar's chamber, unsure of why he was being summoned to the king's room instead of the infirmary. His stomach was tied in knots at the thought that Shariyar would dare leave Scheherazade's side.

The door opened suddenly and the king pulled him inside quickly.

"What is the matter with you?" Jafar cried, stumbling inside the room.

"I need your help," Shariyar said.

Jafar's green eyes darted up and down his friend's figure, taking in the rough-shod fabrics he was clothed in: "What on earth are you wearing?"

"For god's sake be silent," Shariyar growled, turning his back on the vizier. He walked over to his bed and continued filling a small pack with various items of food and clothing.

"I am taking Scheherazade to Maharlu," he said, shaking the pack so that the items settled inside it. "I'm hoping that the Red Tides will have the power to save her."

"It will take too long for a convoy to get her there," Jafar said.

"Do I look like I'm travelling in a convoy?" The king snapped, tossing a glare over his shoulder. "I'm taking her there myself."

"You're traveling alone?" Jafar cried. "After all the effort you put in to surrounding yourself with walls and armed forces, you're going to waltz out into the desert alone?"

"Straight into my brother's hands if that's what it takes," Shariyar said flippantly.

The vizier threw his hands up: "This is ludicrous!"

"Everything you have said, Hazim has already so you needn't bother," the king said. "What I need you to do is keep the palace going as if I were here but ill. No one must so much as suspect that I am gone, do you understand?"

"As if it's not bad enough that you're going to get Scheherazade killed," Jafar growled, ignoring him, "now you're going to risk the fate of your entire kingdom by riding off into the desert alone! Alone!"

"What I need you to do is get me a fresh horse in Dariun," he said, pretending not to have heard the vizier's tirade.

"I will do no such thing," Jafar snarled. "You're going to get yourself killed and I will be the advisor who sent you on your merry way. I will be hanged!"

"No one is going to die," Shariyar said firmly. "Not you, not me, not Scheherazade."

"Why does it have to be you? Let me take her!"

"No, you cannot help her," he said gravely. "The spell was clear — let forgiveness pave the road to redemption. If the Red Tides do not have the power to save her, perhaps my sacrifice will."

Jafar sighed and walked to the bed, sitting down on the edge: "Why are you so desperate to save her? You have walked her to the edge of death before just to drag her back. Even if you do manage to save her once more, what's the point?"

Shariyar turned his doleful amber eyes to the vizier: "I did not mean to hurt her. Not the way I did. I really didn't."