Shrine of the Desert Mage - ebook

Table of Contents

Map of Parsina

Prologue: The Holy City

Chapter 1: The Thief

Chapter 2: The Storyteller

Chapter 3: The Wizard

Chapter 4: The Regent’s Diwan

Chapter 5: The High Priest

Chapter 6: The Plot

Chapter 7: The Police

Chapter 8: The Talking Urn

Chapter 9: The Jann

Chapter 10: The Dungeon

Chapter 11: The Hammam

Chapter 12: The Departures

Chapter 13: The Escape From Ravan

Chapter 14: The Creation

Chapter 15: The Wizard’s Castle

Chapter 16: The Brigands

Chapter 17: The Ring of Cari

Chapter 18: The Altered Journey

Chapter 19: The Flying Carpet

Chapter 20: The Shaykh of the Righteous Jann

Chapter 21: The Encounter

Chapter 22: The Vision

Chapter 23: The Decision

Glossary

The Parsine Pantheon

The Good Deities

The Evil Deities

The Djinni

About Stephen Goldin

Other Books by Stephen Goldin

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Connect with Stephen GoldinPROLOGUE: THE HOLY CITY

The tale is told of a time when all Parsina was shaken with war; when the oceans bubbled and the very sky caught fire; when a legion of demons fought the army of men; when the Peris took up arms and the King of the Winds bent himself to human purposes; when the earth split open and swallowed a city at a single greedy gulp; when strength and courage vied against treachery and corruption; when love battled hate and creation warred with destruction; when kings and princes fought for the honor of humanity against a swelling tide of demonkind; when the forces of Oromasd and Rimahn themselves contended for control of the world and the universe hung in the balance scale, half a feather’s weight from chaos.

Such a time there was, and if you’re patient you will hear of it.

But before that time, there was Ravan.

Ravan the Golden; Ravan the Beautiful; Ravan, the City of the Gilded Domes; Ravan, the Mother of Cities; Ravan, the Fountain of Goodness; Ravan, the Jewel of Mankind; Ravan, Bane of Djinni; Ravan, Blessed of Oromasd and Cursed of Rimahn; Ravan, City of a Hundred Temples; Ravan, Center of the World.

Ravan, City of a Thousand Names, City of a Thousand Thousand Blessings.

Ravan, the Holy City.

The builders of Ravan had sought to make it perfect, for no site more deserved perfection. In that crack of time between the Fourth and Fifth Cycles, between the Age of Heroes and the Age of Ravan, it was this spot that stood as fulcrum in the balance between good and evil. In the Kholaj Desert to the east the battle was waged, and heroes died so men might live free of Rimahn’s evil influence. In the heart of what came to be Ravan, King Shahriyan himself declared the victory of Oromasd and mankind over the forces of darkness and dissolution. Likewise in that spot did the wizard Ali Maimun, greatest mage of a wondrous age, shatter the Crystal of Oromasd in twain, and then in twain again, so no man could profane its holy powers.

No heroes of that stature were left; their Age had gone, and them with it. But their legacy of peace was enjoyed by men for so many generations that even the oldest villagers could not count them.

To celebrate and commemorate this triumph, King Shahriyan ordered built the finest city in the world. Tribute poured in from all lands, from Indi and Sinjin, from Tatarry and Sudarr, even from Norgeland and the far Islands of Fauk; no kingdom was so far it had not heard of the marvels, and none was so untouched that it would not contribute to the greatness.

Materials arrived in train after train, and the land around Ravan was so cluttered with caravans they could scarcely move for their crowding. Marble and alabaster, cedar and teak, turquoise and diamonds, rubies and emeralds, lapis and jade, silver and ivory, all arrived in quantities beyond reckoning. But most of all there was gold—gold in wicker baskets, gold in bricks, gold in jewelry, gold in dust, enough gold to burden ten thousand camels for a year and still have enough left over to please a sultan’s harem.

But it was not just materials that made the city. Each king, in grateful tribute, sent his finest artisans and craftsmen to aid the construction. From all corners of the world came architects, engineers and builders, stonemasons and carpenters, sculptors, plasterers, bricklayers, and woodcarvers, all vying to outdo one another and make Ravan the most beautiful city the world has ever known. An army of artisans, working day and night; an army, some say, that was larger even than the army King Shahriyan used in his triumphant battle. The sounds of their hammers and chisels and saws echoed through the surrounding countryside for many years as the city of Ravan rose from the plain of mankind’s most tremendous battlefield.

King Shahriyan was an old man by the time the city was completed, and he had vowed never to set foot inside the walls until Ravan was finished. Now at last he came with his procession, an old warrior mounted on his white horse with the gold trappings. By all accounts there were tears in his eyes as he and his retinue marched through the Palace Gate and down the magnificent streets of Ravan; some say he was struck dumb by its beauty and grandeur, and could not speak again for upwards of a month. A few even say he never spoke again save in a whisper, so awed was he at the marvel he’d caused to be created.

This, then, was the Ravan of King Shahriyan: A city built on a mound more than two stories tall, a mound surrounded entirely by a deep ditch except in those places where the roads approached. To the west of the city flowed the Zaind River in its southerly course, far enough away so that even at its highest flood the waters would not threaten the city’s walls, close enough to allow the river commerce that brought wealth into the city. To the north, the Tirghiz Mountains rose as majestic backdrop to this jewel of all cities, their streams and creeks feeding the underground aqueducts that brought life to Ravan. To the south were the fertile plains of Leewahr, whose crops and whose livestock fed the hungry population of the Holy City. And to the east lay the burning sands of the Kholaj Desert, ever a reminder of the desolation Rimahn brought into the world.

Atop its peaceful mound, surveying its surroundings, was Ravan itself, a city built in a circle. The outer walls, four stories tall and built of massive stone blocks, enclosed the circular city with a diameter of more than a parasang. Inside the outer wall ran a second ditch and then the inner wall, five stories tall, of brick and plaster. Safe within these formidable defenses, the city of Ravan reposed.

Four gates only breached these walls in the time of King Shahriyan. To the north, the Palace Gate shone out its hues of burnished gold with bas relief birds and animals, real and mythical. To the west was the silver River Gate, inscribed with calligraphic motifs. To the east, the massive bronze Merchant’s Gate with floral designs welcomed travelers who’d journeyed across the desert from the far and mystical lands of the east. To the south was Peasant’s Gate, carved in geometric patterns from rare teak.

Four roads ran through the city from these gates, intersecting in a maidan at the very center, and along the roads were the major bazaars that served the city. The bazaar running north and south from Palace Gate to Peasant’s Gate was called the King’s Bazaar because it passed the palace. The bazaar was wide enough for four oxcarts to pass abreast. The entire length was enclosed with a vaulted arch of wood. In the northern half the wood had been gilded, but the southern half was scarcely less impressive, lacquered in floral designs of blues and reds and greens and golds; because of this design, the southern half was sometimes also known as the Flower Bazaar.

The road across the east and west sides of the city was narrower, just two oxcarts wide. From the central maidan to River Gate the bazaar was overhung with fabric of a hue that gave the street its name—the Saffron Bazaar; while the eastern half of the street was shaded by brocade canopies and thus named the Silk Bazaar.

In the maidan at the very center of town, on the precise spot where King Shahriyan declared his victory, stood a public fountain issuing forth its sweet water for all who needed it. From the center of the fountain rose a memorial obelisk on which was inscribed the story of King Shahriyan and his knights, and of Ali Maimun the wizard, and their triumph over the forces of Rimahn. Each year thousands of pilgrims journeyed to Ravan from all parts of the world to read the story for themselves and drink the water from the sacred fountain.

The palace Shahriyan had built for himself lay in the north of the city, against the inner wall and just to the west of the King’s Bazaar. Built of stone and marble and purest white alabaster, it was every bit as impressive as should befit the monarch who had saved the world. The domes of its roof were all gilded, and so numerous that any man who tried to count them rapidly lost track and gave up the task in hopeless frustration. There were fountains and shady gardens within the many palace courtyards, but the great wonder were the gardens that adjoined the palace on the south side. The royal gardens, so it was said, contained every flower and tree known to man, and were so extensive they required an army of gardeners to tend them. Lucky visitors to the gardens could wander for hours without repeating their path, and it was widely agreed that the royal gardens of Ravan were numbered among the wonders of the world.

But for all his worldly wisdom, for all the fact that he was a strong and noble monarch, King Shahriyan did not forget that the true victory belonged to Oromasd, and that he and his armies had merely been acting as the appointed instrument of Oromasd’s divine will. From his first commission, good King Shahriyan had insisted that the builders of Ravan make it a city devoted to Oromasd, a city of light and virtue—as much a city of spiritual good as of worldly goods. Ravan was to be a beacon to people everywhere, proclaiming the glory and power of Oromasd throughout the world.

True to their orders, the architects and builders of Ravan set out to make the new city the holiest spot on earth. In collaboration with the priests and the mages, they installed relics and talismans every few cubits within both the inner and outer walls around the city, so no forces of evil could ever breach those barricades. They designed and built shrines throughout the city, so Ravan acquired its name of the City of a Hundred Temples. Each was a work of art, each a tribute to the glorious creator of the universe. Theologians and priests came from all over Parsina to study in the madrasas of Ravan. While it was universally known that Oromasd saw all that transpired on earth, the citizens of Ravan contended with justifiable pride that he paid a little more attention to Ravan than elsewhere.

Jewel of all the temples was the Temple of the Faith, also called the Royal Temple because it abutted the southwest wall of the palace. This was a building to rival the palace itself, its gold dome the largest ever built by man. The minaret at the south side of the temple was the highest point within Ravan, and atop it burned the everlasting flame, symbol of Oromasd’s power. The flame could be seen from any point in Ravan and in the countryside for parasangs around, so the populace would know that the power of Oromasd never diminished in its sustenance of Ravan.

In addition to the palace and the temples, there were other buildings in Ravan as well. Spacious and comfortable caravanserais were spread among the bazaars for visiting merchants, pilgrims, or scholars. A myriad of flat-roofed houses bordered on the twisting lanes of each quarter. None of the houses was less than a mansion, and each had a central court with a sumptuous garden, a tribute to Oromasd’s blessings and the fecundity of the Holy City.

Such, then, was the Ravan built by King Shahriyan: a city of dreams, a metropolis unparalleled in the history of Parsina, a center of both worldly and spiritual wealth. It was a city without cares, where any man could enter and be happy and at peace.

King Shahriyan lived for only a year in the palace of Ravan, growing weaker and older with each passing day. It was as though, with the completion of the city, his appointed task on earth was done and he could look forward to nothing else life had to offer. The priests of the Royal Temple comforted him, and at last his soul slipped off to meet its destiny on the Bridge of Shinvar.

Other kings followed King Shahriyan to reign in Ravan. Some were as good as he, some were less good, some few even were bad. Some were loved by their subjects, others tolerated, and some were vilely hated. Some extended their influence throughout most of Parsina, while others were content merely to run the affairs of the city itself. Kings of other nations made war and sued for peace one with the other; armies invaded, armies defended, armies conquered. But Ravan remained untouched, a pearl inviolate in the bed of earth. War, dissension, famine, and even plague passed it by, as though unwilling to blemish Ravan’s sanctity. Whatever happened to the rest of the world, the people of the Blessed City remained secure in the knowledge that their place in the scheme of life was settled and stable.

Thus it was for generation after generation. Sons grew old and daughters got married, and life succeeded itself in its eternal revolution. Men and women came and went, and the wheels of Time would spin and grind.

The Holy City changed but slowly. After more than a thousand years a fifth gate was added in the southeastern portion of the wall, Beggar’s Gate, and the road leading northward from it to intersect the Silk Bazaar was called the Winding Bazaar because of its twisting route among the streets of Ravan. The shops here were poorer and there was no canopy to shade passersby from the heat of the sun. Some of the merchants put small awnings over the doors to their stalls, but many didn’t even bother.

Many grew rich in Ravan, and even more grew poor. The adage “Better a beggar in Ravan than a king in Kandestan” was of more consolation to the kings than the beggars. The rich merchants, the fat landlords, the snobbish moneylenders expanded and consolidated some of the original houses; a single household could incorporate three of the old buildings, and some of the elite mansions began to rival the palace itself. The nobility gathered in the northern half of the city; the closer the home was to the palace, the more honored and privileged the noble.

The southern half of the city was left mostly to the middle-class merchants, the pilgrims, and the poor. Houses here were often divided among many families. As the buildings grew older they were often razed instead of repaired and newer, meaner dwellings took their place. While poverty never took root as deeply as it did elsewhere, not even Ravan was immune from the decay of time. The city’s original luster wore thin, revealing the common clay beneath the glazed facade.

Still, life proceeded on its daily pace and the people accepted their lot with grace.

The Cycles turned, the universe revolved, and the threads of Fate were woven into their ever-new tapestry. The Age of Ravan, like some ancient clock, was winding down. The new Cycle, when it came, would depend not on the vagaries of heroes, but those, instead, of men.CHAPTER 1: THE THIEF

The night was dark but clear, and the waning moon still had not showed its face above the horizon. In the shadows along Ironsmith’s Road in the northwest quarter of the city, a figure moved stealthily along the base of the wall. The figure was cloaked in black and shod in soft leather boots so his footsteps would make no sound as he slipped through the night like a ship through a tranquil sea.

Hakem Rafi was, both by nature and by choice, a fulltime thief and an occasional murderer. His fate had been sealed by his birth as the son of a whoring mother and an unknown father in the city of Yazed, some sixty parasangs southeast of Ravan. Sickly and weak as a child, often neglected and left to survive as he could, he lived by his wits and the quickness of his hands and feet. He envied those who had more than he did, which was everyone, and early in life swore a vow to reduce the rest of the world to his own level of moral bankruptcy. To this end he lied and cheated, gambled and whored; he stole when he needed money and he killed when he had to. He was not a cruel man, just conveniently callous. If Fate decreed him the life of a cockroach, then he would be a cockroach and defy the world to squash out his life.

Hakem Rafi had lived all his life in Yazed until three months ago, when the wali of police died of political causes. As the new wali was less corrupt and less amenable to persuasion, Hakem Rafi decided his fortune might better be made elsewhere. Having heard all his life about the riches of Ravan, he ventured to the Holy City in the hope of making a new, if similar, beginning.

Life in Ravan was difficult, however, for a man of his particular talents. Even the poorer merchants usually had one or two hulking servants guarding the merchandise in their shops, while the nobles and wealthy traders scarcely went anywhere without a full retinue of bodyguards. Hakem Rafi found easy pickings among the poor, the crippled, and the aged, but the rewards were seldom worth his efforts.

With his money spent and in vile circumstance, Hakem Rafi was desperate to change his situation—so desperate he was willing to risk confronting the guards by breaking into the house of a rich merchant. In the past he’d always preferred speed to stealth; it was far easier to cut the strings of a purse and run through the crowd, or to waylay an unsuspecting victim in a back alleyway, than it was to climb over a wall or break through the lattice of a window when the owner might be waiting with a large knife just on the other side. Still, if the one path was impossible, Hakem Rafi was prepared to take the other.

He’d chosen as his victim a wine merchant, a man old in years and infirm in body who was known to hoard great piles of coins in secret niches within his walls. The merchant would probably die soon anyway, and Hakem Rafi merely sought to simplify the division of his estate. In scouting the merchant’s house during the daytime, he had observed a break in the otherwise impassable wall at the northern edge of the house where the gardeners had carelessly knocked some bricks loose into the street; that would serve as his entryway.

As he now reached his chosen spot, Hakem Rafi paused once more to taste the air with his ears for any tang of danger. All was peaceful; not a soul stirred within the house or out on the street. With a final prayer to whatever daeva guided such endeavors, the thief gathered his strength and leaped for the top of the wall.

Hakem Rafi was a small man in body as well as soul, slim and wiry as a coiled spring. In most places the wall was twice his height but here, where the top had crumbled, it was just low enough for him to reach. His hand grabbed hold of the crumbly brick and he quickly pulled himself to the top. Surveying the ground beneath him for a safe spot, he jumped down again into the garden.

His troubles began immediately upon hitting the ground. His black cloak, swirling around him, caught on the upper branches of a pomegranate tree, and the weight of his body caused several small twigs to snap loudly as he awkwardly pulled himself free.

The merchant, as chance would have it, owned a dog. The beast was old and nearly as toothless as its master, but fiercely loyal and fearlessly aggressive. Hearing the twigs snap, small a sound as it was, woke the creature, and its old nose was still keen enough to catch the scent of a stranger. Stirring its aged bones and barking a loud cry, the dog bounded across the garden to attack the interloper.

Hakem Rafi was a nervous man, always edgy, his eyes constantly darting like a hummingbird on a spring afternoon. He heard the barking and saw the dark shape come leaping at him through the bushes, and his hand immediately reached for the khanjar he wore at his belt. The dog’s body knocked him over just as he pulled the curved blade from its sheath. A quick upward thrust and a downward pull were sufficient; the stink of ripped organs and fresh blood poured forth. The dog would protect its master no more.

But in its death the dog had performed its final duty. Even as he wiped the dog’s blood from his hands and knife onto the lawn, Hakem Rafi could see lights appearing in the windows of the house as its occupants lit candles and lamps to see what the commotion was about. It would be some minutes yet before they ventured into the garden, Hakem Rafi thought; the old man would probably be afraid an army of thieves had come to steal his hoard, and he and his servants would hesitate to rush out until they knew the truth of the matter.

Unfortunately for Hakem Rafi, the old merchant had a son in the prime of life, as fearless as the dog and far more capable. Without a moment’s hesitation the young man came racing out into the garden, not even stopping to arrange his turban, sword drawn and ready for a fight. Hakem Rafi, who preferred his fights less well matched, decided this would be a moment for retreat.

He pushed away the body of the dead dog, rose quickly and leaped for the breach in the wall. The ground of the garden, being softly turned earth, did not give him a solid base and his leap was short. His fingernails scraped at the top surface without catching hold and he fell back awkwardly into the garden.

He could hear the approach of the merchant’s son and, behind him, the servants and slaves who were more than willing to let their noble master precede them. With desperation lending strength to his legs, Hakem Rafi leaped again and this time his hands grabbed the crumbling brick. Pulling himself upward he scrambled to the top of the wall and dropped over the other side.

He landed beside the wall in the narrow ditch through which sewage was channeled to the khandaq. His boot slipped in the muck but he regained his balance without further incident and stepped onto the more secure footing of the street. Even as his mind considered the avenues of escape, Hakem Rafi was cursing his luck in this so-called Blessed City.

Behind the wall the entire household was now awake and, with the discovery that there’d been but a single intruder, the bravery of its staff was asserting itself. The cry of alarm was going up throughout the neighborhood, and it would not be long before every house along this street was alerted to the threat. Hakem Rafi saw the advantage of visiting some other quarter of the city as rapidly as possible.

Ironsmith’s Road ran east and west, branching off the King’s Bazaar in the northwest quarter of Ravan. Even as Hakem Rafi was contemplating his action, the servants of the wine merchant were pouring out the gate on the eastern side of the house, cutting off his escape back to the King’s Bazaar. Further west the road curved to the south and came to a dead end. Hakem Rafi saw, in the dim shadows of starlight, a small lane running to the north and quickly dodged into it, hoping to escape his pursuit.

At first the alley seemed another hopeless path, with no cross-streets into which he could turn. Hakem Rafi ran at his swiftest pace, while behind him the hue and cry of the indignant citizens roused the neighborhood to action. Then, just when he’d abandoned all thought of escape, the alley ended and Hakem Rafi found himself standing before the doors of the Temple of the Faith.

Throughout the centuries many men had turned to the Royal Temple for salvation, but few as desperately as Hakem Rafi the thief did now. The cry was up throughout the quarter, and escape along the streets would prove impossible for a while. The thief hoped he could dodge into the temple and find some dark corner to hide him until the crowds outside died away again and it was safe to leave.

The main gates to the temple were shut and barred at this late hour. Hakem Rafi raced frantically along the outer wall until he came to a smaller gate, less frequently used. This entrance, too, was closed, but because it was less important the priests had not given it too much attention; the iron bolt barely went across the frame, and Hakem Rafi’s panicked shaking jiggled it enough to slip it out of the latch. The portal opened for him and the grateful thief slipped inside. He remanded himself to the mercy of Oromasd as he shut the heavy door behind him again and barred it securely this time.

He found himself in the ziyada, the outer courtyard of the temple separating the building proper from the street. He started to relax, but then realized that if the hue and cry of his pursuers awakened any of the priests they’d be able to spot him easily here in the open. After regaining his breath, he moved silently and with greater deliberateness to the doors of the temple itself. These were unlocked; barring the outer doors had been deemed sufficient to keep out intruders. Hakem Rafi entered the Temple of the Faith so quietly that no one heard him. The few priests awake at this hour were absorbed in their own devotional duties.

He was now in the riwaq, the covered arcade with four rows of immense columns dividing the space into areas for teaching and prayers. Past the edges of the riwaq was the enormous open courtyard where the faithful could gather once a week to listen to sermons. The Royal Temple of Ravan was the largest ever built by man, and the courtyard was so vast that, in the darkness of night, Hakem Rafi could barely see all the way across to its far side.

The thief wandered slowly through the riwaq, his feet making no sound on the carefully swept ground. The portico was dimly illuminated by occasional perfumed oil lamps and candles kept burning around the clock as tributes to Oromasd. The floral richness almost disguised the stink of sweat and blood coming from the thief. As he walked, and as his eyes became accustomed to the feeble lighting, Hakem Rafi grew awed by his magnificent surroundings. It was not an overwhelming love of Oromasd that caused this feeling, nor yet an appreciation of the temple’s vast size or architectural brilliance. Rather, it was the fact that the Temple of the Faith was more lavishly embellished than any building the thief had ever seen before—and certainly was richer than Hakem Rafi thought any temple ought to be.

Some parts of the walls were mosaics of glazed tiles with calligraphic designs, but most were handpainted with scenes depicting famous battles and legends from the Age of Heroes. Here, the hero Argun battled the twelve lions of the Hajjani Pass; there, Shiratz beheaded Affiz the three-eyed giant; beyond that, the priestess Rida outwitted the demon who’d been sent to seduce her from the ways of righteousness. The paintings, once in vivid colors, had faded over the ages, but the gilded highlights showed as clearly as ever. More impressively to the mind of Hakem Rafi, every painted figure—be it bird, animal, human, or demon—had eyes that were set with jewels. Demons had eyes of rubies, cats had eyes of opal. Birds had eyes of sapphire, while other beasts had eyes variously of pearls and jet. Men had eyes of emeralds and women eyes of diamonds. The smallest of the stones would purchase a kingdom and a thousand warriors, while the largest were of values beyond even Hakem Rafi’s greediest reckonings.

Niches in the walls contained figurines of jade or ivory. Carved wooden screens were inlaid with ivory, turquoise, and mother-of-pearl. Even the sconces and the candelabra set in the walls were silver and gold.

Hakem Rafi marveled at the richness of the Royal Temple, and as he marveled his greedy thoughts bred like mosquitos in the swamps of Nikhrash.

Oromasd created the world and all its riches, thought Hakem Rafi. He created wealth beyond measure. Great was his power, and he could easily create more with but a single thought if he so chose. He would hardly miss a stone or two from the walls of this one temple.

The priests of Oromasd lived simple lives, thought Hakem Rafi. The temples provided them with food and shelter and all their worldly goods. They had no need for such riches. A stone here or there taken from its setting would not impoverish them nor diminish the greatness of Oromasd. There were so many gems here they would not even miss the loss for many years.

So thought Hakem Rafi, the thief. Having thus convinced himself his sacrilegious acts would hurt no one and benefit himself greatly, he set about to steal some of the Royal Temple’s treasure for his own gain.

The temple’s builders had been well aware of the temptation they were placing in people’s paths, and had designed the temple accordingly. The figures in the niches, the jewels in the walls, even the candelabra—all were placed well above the reach of even a tall man. Hakem Rafi looked for the lowest stone he could find and leaped as high as he could, but still the treasure remained tantalizingly out of his grasp.

Hakem Rafi leaped again and again, growing progressively more angry and progressively more winded. His robe left streaks of filth on the pristine walls, and his feet hit hard enough to echo across the courtyard. As he made his fifth leap and puffed from his exertion, one of the junior priests chanced to walk through the riwaq. Hearing the sounds of the thief’s labors, he stopped and called out, “Who’s there? Who disturbs the nighttime peace?”

Realizing his night had now been doubly cursed with discovery, Hakem Rafi turned to flee. In doing so he ran straight into a second priest who’d entered the riwaq at his fellow’s cries. The priest grabbed at his cloak as Hakem Rafi ran by, preventing the thief’s escape. Hakem Rafi reached quickly for his khanjar once again and stabbed the unfortunate priest up under the ribs. The man gasped hoarsely and fell to the ground, still clutching at the thief’s black cloak.

Hakem Rafi paused with annoyance to pull the fabric out of the dying man’s grasp. The first priest was continuing the alarm with cries of “Help! Murderer!” and he was too far away to silence. His cries were already causing a stir in the upper levels of the temple, and so Hakem Rafi realized that once again he’d have to flee without attaining his goals.

Pulling free of his victim, he raced without thinking to the nearest door, which happened to be at the front end of the temple. He yanked the door open and stepped inside the enclosed room—but when he saw where he was, his heart froze for an instant.

He had, without realizing it, entered the sanctuary where the flame of Oromasd burned continuously. This was no ordinary blaze, but the sacred Bahram fire that only the holiest of priests could oversee. An enormous brass basin filled with ash stood by the front wall, with a large jewelled crown hanging over it to proclaim it the king of fires. The regal flame burned like a beacon, and the stand on which the basin rested was plated with gold. In front of the flame was a rectangular marble altar on which the priests could place their sacrifices. A rich linen cloth bordered with embroidered lettering in gold thread currently covered the altar top. The walls of the room were tiled in geometric patterns of peacock blue, white, and claret. Except for himself, there was no one else here.

Such is the power of old habits that even an irreligious man like Hakem Rafi was struck with awe at a moment like this. The sanctuary was off limits to all but the noblest priests, who brought the prayers and sacrifices of the people in and offered them personally to Oromasd. Even Hakem Rafi, who professed to respect no one and nothing, felt he had violated some sacred privacy. Reverently he dropped to his knees and bowed his head to avoid looking at or breathing on the Bahram flame that symbolized the might and the majesty of Oromasd the Creator.

After a moment, though, his sense of self-preservation returned. The sounds of the priests gathering outside reminded him he had to be on his way. Hakem Rafi raised his head again preparing to rise—and in that instant, the world was changed.

There was a niche in the wall behind the basin of the Bahram flame. Sitting in the niche was a reliquary urn little more than half a cubit tall. The urn may have been made of gold, but it was so thickly encrusted with diamonds and emeralds it was hard to tell. There was some writing inscribed around the base of the urn, but Hakem Rafi was illiterate and cared nothing for such things.

The jewels glowed in the light of Oromasd’s flame, shining with a gleam that riveted the thief’s attention upon it. The beauty spoke to his soul, the gems to his greed. Hakem Rafi ached with all of his being to possess this small urn, to hold its treasure for himself. Not even the burning fire of Oromasd could draw his attention from the golden urn; its light merely enhanced the glory of the dazzling artifact.

The world lost all its perspective, time lost all meaning. The desperation of his plight, the sounds of the priests running in the outer corridors, all vanished from his thoughts. Like a mystic in a trance, Hakem Rafi rose slowly to his feet. The universe was empty save for him and the urn, as though kismet had prepared him all his life for this moment. The thief moved like a sleepwalker as he walked around the altar, past the dancing flame, and to a spot directly under the niche that held the urn.

This niche, too, was placed high on the wall, but Hakem Rafi never once doubted he could reach the desired treasure. He made one mighty leap, and Fate lent strength to his legs. His outstretched fingers brushed the urn, knocking it out of the position it had occupied since the Royal Temple was built. It began its long fall to the floor even as Hakem Rafi himself was on the downward course of his leap. For one brief instant it appeared the urn would smash upon the ground, but the thief’s quick hands grabbed it and preserved it from damage. As Hakem Rafi himself fell to the ground, he gathered the urn in towards his body, protecting it from harm. The touch of that mysterious object was electrifying, making him feel his destiny had finally arrived.

Hakem Rafi stood beside the flame of Oromasd and gazed into the jewels adorning the urn. Their beauty was so deep, their facets so exquisitely cut, a man could lose his soul staring into their glittery interiors. The thief’s craggy features and rough-hewn beard took on the beatific expression of a baby at rest as he contemplated the glowing universe within his hand.

Then the trance was shattered and reality returned with a crude rush. The priests were massing outside the door to the sanctuary. With one of their number already murdered they were not going to attack the intruder individually, but they hoped to make a collective charge that would overpower the thief before anyone else could be hurt. Having finally gained a treasure worthy of all his troubles, Hakem Rafi was more eager than ever to escape this trap successfully.

Nothing could be allowed to harm his beautiful urn. Looking quickly around, he grabbed the cloth off the marble altar and wrapped it hastily around the urn to protect it in case it fell from his grasp. Then he tucked the urn deep into the pocket of his kaftan and searched for another way out of the room.

He spied a small door off to one corner, and ran toward it just as an army of priests armed with ceremonial knives and other makeshift weapons burst in through the main entrance. Hakem Rafi dodged through a maze of narrow back hallways within the temple, becoming thoroughly lost in the process, while the priests chased at his heels like hunting dogs in full pursuit. He found a series of steps and climbed up two stories until he found a doorway out onto the roof of the riwaq.

The outer ziyada made escape impossible that way—but on the side of the temple where the sanctuary was, the building was separated from its neighbors by only a narrow alleyway. Running with the quick stride of the accomplished thief, Hakem Rafi raced to the edge and leaped onto the roof of the building across from the temple. Some of the priests followed him, but most were less daring and less desperate; they returned instead to spread the word of the temple’s violation to the Royal Guards.

For the next hour and a half, Hakem Rafi the black-souled, the accursed, led his pursuers a merry chase across the rooftops and down the back streets of Ravan. Where before he’d been spurred by fear and desperation, the acquisition of his precious urn had filled him with a glow of confidence. Though sometimes his pursuers came almost within reach, he never lost his faith in his ability to elude them. After dodging down one winding, narrow street he heard the growing horde of his pursuers—numbering many of the Royal Guards by this time—race off in a different direction, finally chasing a shadow that was not of his making.

Hakem Rafi leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat from his brow with the tattered sleeve of his cloak. Then suddenly he threw his head back and laughed. It was a high-pitched laugh, a harsh laugh, a laugh devoid of mirth or good humor, a laugh deriving from the cheating of the innocent and the misleading of the honest. Hakem Rafi was a man who laughed at cripples when their crutches cracked.

When he’d had his fill of laughter, Hakem Rafi took his prize from his pocket and looked at it by starlight in the early morning darkness. Even though dawn had not yet begun, the waning moon had risen and shed some light on the empty street. Unwrapping the urn, he let it glitter mysteriously under the moonlight, its jewels hypnotizing him once more with their unearthly beauty.

He looked for a moment at the altar cloth in his other hand. It was a fine piece of fabric and intrinsically valuable, but it would be far too recognizable for him to trade safely. There was bound to be a fuss about the thief who’d broken into the temple. The jewels in the urn could be pried loose from their settings and sold individually, and the golden urn itself could be melted down into a safer form. The altar cloth was too distinctive to sell.

Tossing away the cloth, Hakem Rafi tucked the urn once more in his pocket and walked jauntily back to the miserable room he rented in the caravanserai behind the Winding Bazaar.

A reliquary urn and a discarded altar cloth. With such slender threads, then, does kismet weave its intricate tapestry and change the fate both of worlds and of men.CHAPTER 11: THE HAMMAM

On the day before Prince Ahmad’s entourage was to leave on its trek to Marakh—while Hakem Rafi was searching the city for a way out and Jafar al-Sharif was searching for his daughter Selima—High Priest Umar bin Ibrahim went to the hammam with Yusef bin Nard, the priest who was to be in charge of the Royal Temple while Umar was away.

Umar had never liked Yusef bin Nard. For one thing, bin Nard had always been overly fond of astrology and prediction; to Umar, that indicated too strong an attachment to the temporal world and too little commitment to the life hereafter. While it was certainly within the province of holy men such as the prophet Muhmad at Sarafiq to read the weavings of destiny and interpret Oromasd’s design for the universe, Umar felt that his colleague’s obsession with the future trivialized their noble calling. He didn’t doubt bin Nard’s sincerity or faith, but the man was just as interested in gaining himself more prestige and luxuries in the physical world as he was in promoting the truth against the evil lies of Rimahn and his servants.

One of the main reasons why Umar was so torn about going along with the prince’s entourage, though, was bin Nard’s unwavering devotion to Lady Shammara and his unceasing efforts to champion her cause. The priesthood, under Umar’s direction, had been the last bastion of strength to counter Shammara’s growing power over the affairs of Ravan. With Umar gone and bin Nard in charge, Shammara’s influence would be complete. There was still the regent and a few upright people who opposed her, but Shammara could circumvent them in most things and wait until the regent’s death—which could not be far off—to claim absolute power. Under bin Nard the priesthood and the worship of Oromasd would become an extension of the royal service like the police or the tax collectors—under Shammara’s thumb.

On the other hand, Ravan was a city that had stood for many centuries. It had suffered through the reigns of bad monarchs before and survived them well enough. Umar had little reason to doubt its eventual return to Oromasd’s grace. Prince Ahmad was another matter. He was a young man destined for greatness, of that Umar had no doubt at all—but still young and untried. Umar felt he must accompany the prince to ensure he received proper advice and guidance, and to guard him from subtle hidden dangers. Umar’s choice was clear—but its clarity made it no less painful.

Umar and bin Nard walked to the hammam speaking casually of mundane matters and the routine administration of the Temple of the Faith that would have to be carried out during Umar’s absence. As they entered the door of the hammam they found themselves in the large domed camekan, the disrobing hall. The walls here were tiled in yellow and blue to a height of some five cubits; above that, white marble had been used to construct the dome and the arched doorways and recesses. In the center of the blue -tiled floor, a marble basin collected the water that spurted into it from the animal-head jets of a fountain. Around the fountain were rows of stone benches topped with woven mats, on which piles of clothing were neatly arrayed.

Umar and bin Nard took off their clothes and folded them neatly, finding places for them on one of the benches. They wrapped themselves with towels taken from a clean stack on a table to one side and walked into the adjoining soguluk.

Other men were in here, seated on more benches and enjoying the pleasing warmth of the room. In a major hammam like this there were several attendants and massage tables, so the two newcomers did not have to wait. They lay down on the tables while the attendants rubbed their bodies with perfumed oils and rosewater and then gave each man a soothing massage and a shave. The priests gave the attendants a generous payment for their services. The hammam was free to all, but those who could afford to do so were expected to pay bountifully so the poorer members of society could also enjoy the civilized benefits of the public baths.

After the massages and shaves, the attendants washed the two priests by pouring bowls of water over their bodies. Only after the two men were thus purified did they arise from the massage tables and enter the sicakluk, the domed hot room where the heat purged their bodies of the accumulated poisons of daily life. The sicakluk was a dim chamber, illuminated only by the glazed holes in the thickness of dome overhead. Umar and bin Nard sat silently for a while in the heat, passing the scythe -like scrapers back and forth as they stripped the dirty sweat and oil from their skins. Then they returned to the soguluk where, after a final rinse, they staked out one quiet corner for themselves. Only after going through this elaborate procedure did they begin talking about the business at hand.

“You must continue to press the police for the return of the stolen urn,” Umar began. “Because of the urgency of my departure I still haven’t had time to check all the records and find out its exact nature, but it must have had great significance to occupy the spot it did for so many centuries.”

“I knew something bad was going to happen,” bin Nard said. “The stars had been forecasting calamity for some time. I do hear, though, that they caught a man last night who might be the thief.”

“Your palace sources are better than mine,” Umar said with mild sarcasm. “I was told nothing of this.”

“He’s only a suspect so far, and they still haven’t found the urn, so they probably didn’t want to bother you with the news,” bin Nard soothed. “The wali knew you had preparations to make for the journey and probably didn’t want to disturb you.”

_Or else I’m being erased from people’s minds already,_ Umar thought, but said nothing of those thoughts aloud. Instead he merely said, “Whatever the case, the urn’s recovery should remain your first priority. I can’t ignore this unhappy intuition that tells me the theft of the urn will have disastrous consequences for all of us.”

The look bin Nard gave him was of barely disguised scorn. “I’m not a strong believer in feelings and intuitions,” he said in superior tones. “I believe in science. Oromasd set the stars in their motions with a purpose, so that we humans could read their signs and interpret the divine plan for ourselves. Astrology, not intuition, will tell us what we need to know.”

This was an old argument between the two men, dating back at least two decades. Umar sighed. He had neither the time nor the patience to wage a philosophical battle right now.

“Be that as it may,” he said, “you’ll do well to press for the urn’s recovery.”

“I will,” bin Nard nodded solemnly.

“And on a related matter,” Umar continued, “a new Bahram fire must be started; this one’s been hopelessly polluted by the events around it.”

“I know,” bin Nard said with obvious distaste. The procedure for enthroning a new Bahram fire was tedious and expensive. Fires must be gathered from sixteen different sources, the wood set out in the pattern of a throne, and the flame purified one thousand, one hundred and twenty-eight times before being carried in a procession around the city and installed in the temple. The entire task could take a year or more, and bin Nard was not looking forward to it.

“Tomorrow is also the third morning after the death of Kamil Arif, when his soul departs for the Bridge of Shinvar,” Umar continued. “He was a good man and a good priest; his only mistake on earth was trying to stop the thief who took the urn. I wish I could be in the temple to conduct the service personally, but the prince’s entourage is scheduled to leave at first light. Please give our brother the full ceremony as befits a true worshipper of Oromasd. See that his widow and children are well looked after, and pray that he receives the mercy and blessing of Oromasd to cross the bridge and enter the House of Song.”

“The funeral shall be as if he were my own son,” bin Nard pledged solemnly.

“Thank you,” Umar said.

He looked across at Yusef bin Nard. The other priest was not grossly fat, but his body was well-padded and his face was round and puffy, giving him a slightly weak appearance. There was so much that needed to be said, so many instructions for the wise guidance of the temple and of the people of Ravan. But Umar could not say any of them. Looking at bin Nard made him realize the futility of such advice. The new high priest would do as he wished, handing his soul and his conscience over to Shammara in fair trade for gold and worldly comfort. The people and the priesthood would be left to their own devices, and would flounder for years if Umar did not return from this journey. Ever had it been so, and ever would it be until the final victory; cycles of good and evil interplayed in the tiny world just as they did on a grander scale in the universe at large. Umar did not like the pattern, but was powerless to change it.

The two men sat in more silence for a while, until finally Umar grew tired of the unspoken conflict. “I still have much to do before I leave tomorrow,” he said. “I must be on my way.”

“I’ll accompany you to the temple,” bin Nard said courteously.

The priests went to the outer room, where they donned their clothes once more and left the hammam. Umar bin Ibrahim still had one unpleasant chore to do, the hardest one of all: saying goodbye, for perhaps the last time, to his beloved wife, Alhena. That, he knew, was an act that would tear out his heart and leave his eyes dry of tears for many months to come.The Djinni

The djinni are descendants of ancient illicit unions between daevas and human beings. The five ranks of the djinni include, in descending order:

Shaitan

Marid

Afrit

Jinn

Jann

Most djinni are worshipers of Rimahn, although some—notably the righteous Jann—follow the path of Oromasd. Though they are long-lived creatures of magic, their human heritage makes them mortal and gives them souls—but those souls are lost at the Bridge of Shinvar if they are deemed unworthy to enter the House of Song.