The Dark Lord

'No,' Shahin growled, still meeting the prince's lambent stare. 'I do not.'

'You choose this life? Sand and dust, a rough bed among thorns? Only steel for comfort, not silk, not down pillows?' The prince's voice was soft, caressing. Khalid shuddered again, feeling his flesh crawl.

'I do choose this,' Shahin said, narrowing his eyes. He seemed unaffected by the prince's glamour. 'I will fight beside my friends. For my king. For Persia.'

Rustam leaned back and Khalid could feel the heat of the lamps again. He could hear Shahin and Zoe breathing. 'You surprise me, Prince Shahin. And I am glad.'

Khalid thought his heart would stop, hearing—seeing—honest appreciation in the face of the prince. How... how can... He tried to stop from babbling, even in the privacy of his thoughts. The prince stared at Shahin and the odd, mottled quality of his flesh faded. The queer light in his eyes died, leaving them a pale amber color.

'You have become an honorable man, Shahin.' Rustam managed a half-smile. 'You were such a... fop, a dandy, a fool! Zenobia nearly trapped your whole army, because you could not be troubled to set watches, or pay your guides, or keep on the mercenary scouts Chrosoes King of Kings gave you! You prevaricated, you lied, you stole the wages of your troops... you were a coward.'

Shahin's face grew colder and colder with each word, the tendons in his arms stiffening, his face slowly filling with a dark flush.

'Where is that man?' Rustam raised his hands, amazement clear on his face. 'I do not see him now. I see a Persian diquan, a worthy man, a man the King of Kings can respect. That I can respect. Welcome, Shahin. Welcome.'

The prince bowed his head in greeting, and silently Zoe walked forward on her knees, a wooden platter in her hands. Gracefully, she placed a simple bevel-rimmed bowl on the carpet between the two men. Beside it, she laid a loaf of flat, slightly burned bread. Salt trickled from her hand, making a small pile.

'Water from my wells,' Rustam said, raising the bowl. He drank, then passed the cup to Shahin. The man drank. The bowl itself was turning dark with water oozing through the cheap clay. Khalid saw a vein at Shahin's throat throb, then settle. As the Arab watched, tension drained bit by bit from the nobleman.

'Bread from my fire,' Rustam said, breaking the crumbling loaf in half. He chewed the heavy, unleavened bread, then swallowed. Shahin did likewise, his hands trembling for a moment. Then this too passed.

'Salt.' The prince pressed the white grains against his teeth. Shahin did so as well. Rustam offered his hand and the Persian gripped his wrist, still tentative.

'This is your name: Eran-Spahbodh Shahin Suren-Pahlav.' Rustam enunciated the words slowly and deliberately. 'Son of Shapur and Erandokht, grandson of Soren-Nersi, scion of the house of Frataraka, let there be peace between us. Let all past wrongs be stricken from the tablets, all harsh words forgotten. Know, Prince Shahin, the King of Kings remembers you and accounts you a friend.'

The big Persian blinked, then released Rustam's hand slowly, as if in a dream. 'That is not my name... not anymore. I am only Patik.'

'Yes, it is your name.' Rustam drew a roll of fine parchment from his writing desk. A heavy wax seal and Tyrian purple string closed the document. 'Here is your name, Shahin, and your family, returned to you by the grace of the King of Kings, Shahr-Baraz.'

Rustam pressed the papers into Shahin's hand. The big Persian shook his head in disbelief. 'But... why now?'

'Yes,' Khalid said in a dry voice. 'What do you need from him?'

Rustam's head turned slightly, fixing Khalid with a cold glare. 'I did not give you leave to speak, Arab.' The prince blinked and the angles of his face subtly changed, a pale gleam entering his eyes. Khalid recoiled, seeing something of the prince's true nature shining through. 'But you too have served well. This is why I have summoned you both. Lord Khalid, this man Patik is no longer yours to command. He is, once more, the great Prince Shahin. I tell you this in courtesy, for you are a fine general, and tonight I rob you of an able captain.'

Khalid's nostrils flared and he fought down a reckless urge to protest. How do you deny the moon? Or a meteor?

Rustam's forehead furrowed and he pinched his lip. He began to speak, then fell silent. Khalid watched in slow, growing amazement. The sorcerer seemed to be at a loss for words. At last, the prince made a gesture with his hand, as if he threw something away.

'Lord Shahin, here is what you must do,' Rustam said. 'Gather a few men, no more than five or six. You will take a ship we have lately captured down to Egypt. The ship, and you, and your men, will be disguised as Tyreans. That island city is still in Roman hands—this will allow you to enter Roman territory without undue trouble.' The prince grinned, showing long white teeth.

'Once you are in Alexandria, a man will find you. He is a servant of the king. You will know him, by certain signs, when you meet. He will lead you to a device.' Rustam lifted a ragged bit of papyrus from his writing desk. Khalid saw part of a diagram on the ancient paper, some kind of interlocking mill wheel. 'This device is buried in a secret place, perhaps a tomb, certainly somewhere desolate and remote. Be careful! In earlier times a rather dangerous order of priestesses watched over the duradarshan. They, or their degenerate cult, may still abide. Regardless, you will secure the device and return to Alexandria and the ship. You will bring me the mechanism as swiftly as you can.'

Shahin looked down at the bit of papyrus, eyes narrowing. 'How large is this?'

'Large.' The ghost of a smile flitted across Rustam's lips. 'Large and heavy.'

'Can two men carry this... device?'

'No.' Rustam was still smiling. 'The duradarshan is made of bronze and gold, and likely affixed to a block of jadeite the size of a chest. You will need assistance.'

Shahin placed the paper back on the edge of the desk. 'How many of the Shanzdah will accompany me?'

'None. They are already busy.' The prince grimaced. His thin hands rustled on the desk like large white spiders, finding two clay tablets, each the size of a palm. He lifted them gingerly, regarding them with an ambivalent expression. Then he made a queer half-smile and placed them in a metal box by his side. The lid closed with a snap, and he handed the box to Shahin. 'When you reach the duradarshan, smash one of these tablets on the ground. A... servant... will come forth to carry the device.'

'What kind of servant?' Shahin and Khalid spoke as one. The Arab felt a creeping sensation on the back of his neck and turned suddenly, looking behind him. There was nothing, only the door, now closed. He turned back, his gaze lingering on Zoe, who was still kneeling beside the wall. She smiled at him, eyes half-closed, white hands resting on silk-wrapped thighs.

'Nothing which need concern you,' Rustam said. 'As long as you hold the other tablet you will be quite safe. Once you reach the port, throw the box and the remaining tablet into the sea. The servant will depart.'

'Very well.' Shahin bowed. 'I will do as the King of Kings commands.'

Rustam's face darkened. Khalid tensed. 'You will do as I command,' the prince hissed.

Shahin regarded him levelly. 'I am the king's man, my lord. Not yours.'

'Wait,' Khalid said, before Rustam could respond. 'I will go in Lord Shahin's place.'

'No,' snapped Shahin and Rustam at the same time. The two men glared at one another. Shahin's jaw clenched, then released. 'I will find the eye... the device, lord prince. For Persia.'

'I see,' Rustam said, but his voice was thick with anger. Khalid, watching the two men, thought the sorcerer might strike down the nobleman. But the creature controlled himself. 'Leave tonight. One of the Shanzdah will show you the way to the boat.'

'I will.' Shahin stood, pocketing the metal box. 'Lord prince, my lady.' He bowed courteously to Zoe, nodded to Rustam and left. Khalid flashed a half-smile at the Queen, bowed to Rustam—still fuming, his eyes hooded—and hastily departed.

—|—

Zoe stirred and closed the wagon door. The cold air raised goose pimples on her arms. With her face turned away from the sorcerer, anguish showed plain for an instant, then her face composed into a calm mask once again.

'You taunt the Arab,' Dahak said, sibilant anger in his voice. 'Why?'