Crystal Doors #3: Sky Realm (No. 3) (11 page)

Piri swooped back down to hover in front of him, absolutely beautiful, wispy and insubstantial, shimmering with light and power. His heart ached. For years he had offhandedly considered her no more than a pet or a possession, but when he’d lost her among the merlons, he had learned to value Piri, understood how close they were.

Depart now,
she said.
See family.
Then she smiled, her hair rippling about her face.
Will return.
With a brief backward glance, she glided up into the clouds. The other djinni gathered around her in a joyous reunion. The enormous faces turned back to Irrakesh. Sharif gave them his entire attention, knowing that half of the population of Irrakesh was also watching in awe.

“We will learn of Azric’s plans and we will consider your words,” said the male voice.

Then, like a dissipating storm, the Air Spirits, with Piri, faded away into the roiling clouds. Sharif continued to stare, trying to see his friend for every last second, but she was gone. Though he still felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, he could not ignore the emptiness in his heart.

13

BEFORE DAWN, GWEN WAS deep in a dream about opening crystal windows to look in on her friends from Earth when she was awakened by the Vizier. “Lady Gwen,” he said in a whisper, “the Prince requests your presence.”

Her eyes sprang open and, although it was still dark in the drifting city, she was instantly alert. “What’s wrong? Is he hurt?” Automatically following the Vizier’s lead, she kept her voice low as she threw off the silken coverlet on her cloud-soft bed.

“Not hurt,” Jabir said. “Merely in need of a friend. His father has taken a turn for the worse.” He turned to glide out of the room. “I will wait for you in the corridor.”

Having lost both of her own parents, Gwen understood all too well why Sharif would need her support right now. She quickly pulled on a pair of sheer pantaloons and a flowing, gauzy blouse over the brevi-like garment she had worn to sleep in. Careful not to disturb Vic or Lyssandra, whose beds were separated from hers by lightweight silk curtains, Gwen padded barefoot to the door of their chambers where Tiaret stood, walking stick in hand.

“I heard the Vizier enter and could not sleep,” the other girl explained to Gwen. “I will remain here and keep watch.” Overhead, a lazy fan stirred the warm air in the room. “I perceive no immediate danger.”

Gwen, feeling reassured to know that her friend was not alarmed by the early morning comings and goings, followed the Vizier down several breezy passageways to the Sultan’s chambers. Inside, past the ornate hangings, Sharif sat at his father’s bedside, his face etched with worry. An old serving woman dipped a cloth into a basin of water, wrung it out, and placed it on the Sultan’s forehead.

The Sultan’s breathing was labored, and perspiration shone on his skin in the light of the oil lamps that lit the room with their soft glow. Sharif’s olive eyes were welcoming and grateful when he looked up at Gwen’s arrival. He motioned toward something his father held in his hands: the bejeweled flute she had seen tied to the Sultan’s sash on several occasions. “He won’t let go of it,” Sharif murmured. “For some reason, it seems to comfort him, although he does not have the strength to play it.”

At this, the Sultan roused slightly, waved the ornate flute and pointed to Jabir, who stood just behind them.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” The Vizier took a vial from the polished marble table near the Sultan’s bed and poured a few drops of potion onto the ruler’s lips. “There is not much left. In one of their raids, the terodax destroyed theingredients I had collected for another batch. You have three, perhaps four, doses — enough to last a few weeks at most.” Jabir sighed. “Each time, your father waits longer and longer before taking the potion. Twice he has almost died because he did not wish to waste one moment as leader.”

The potion seemed to have an almost immediate effect on the dying man. Color seeped back into the Sultan’s cheeks. His eyes flickered open and focused on Sharif and Jabir.

“Thank you, my friend,” the Sultan said to the Vizier. “I understand that there are limits even to what such a powerful wizard as you can do against this poison.” His gaze lowered to Sharif. “Your time to lead may come sooner than expected, my son. You have much left to learn. If only Hashim were still here. He always knew how to comfort me.” He shook his head sadly. “You have great responsibility, my son, but for now I must speak in private with my Vizier.”

Gwen could see the pain on Sharif’s face when his father spoke about his murdered son. After she and Sharif waded back through the colorful cloth hangings to the antechamber, Gwen nibbled at the edge of her lower lip and asked a question that had been plaguing her for the past few days. “Are you certain you can trust him? Jabir, I mean. He’s not setting off any of my alarm bells, but you said that years ago Azric disguised himself and managed to weasel his way into your father’s confidence. How can you be sure that Jabir is trustworthy?”

“He has proved himself often over the past several years. Jabir never set out to find wealth and power. Most of the money the Grand Vizier earns goes toward housing and educating orphans in the poorer parts of the city and ensuring that no one starves to death or lacks for honest work to do.” Sharif’s expression reflected genuine admiration. “Jabir does not wish the Sultan of Irrakesh to spend one coin less on the people of our city in the mistaken belief that everyone is already looked after. He realizes, as I do, that there is still much to do for our people. As the wise ones say, ‘A caring heart sees needs to which the eyes are blind.’”

As if speaking that phrase had been too much for him, Sharif’s composure crumbled and he leaned against Gwen for support. Gwen knew the Prince would normally have turned to Piri in such a time of great upheaval, but even that comfort had been taken from him. He pressed his face to her shoulder and mumbled, “I am a Prince, so everyone expects me to be mature, to know what to do, to be confident. But I am not ready to rule. My wisdom is no match for Jabir’s, and my father longs for comfort that only my brother could give him. For years I have lived with the knowledge that my father would rather I had died than Hashim, and it angered me, for my grief was as great as his — even if he did not realize it. His contempt for me made the situation all the harder. Now I do not know how I can endure the loss of my father.”

His voice was so choked with pain that Gwen could not think of a single thing to say to comfort him. When her own parents had died, nothing anyone had said had eased the hurt. Her throat tightened at the memory. Each murmur of, “You’ll always have your memories of them,” or “Your parents will live on in your heart,” or “Time will heal the wounds,” had scraped at her already raw feelings.

“Both of my parents died,” Gwen murmured. It sounded like a terrible thing to say, but she wanted Sharif to know that she understood the pain, the confusion. She would not insult her friend by offering him easy words of false comfort. But Gwen could be here for him, and she would listen. She put her arm around him.

After a time, Jabir came into the antechamber and said, “His Majesty is exhausted, even after the antidote. He will sleep for several hours now.” The Vizier withdrew to his own rooms, leaving Sharif and Gwen alone again.

“How will I bear it?” Sharif said in a muffled voice against her shoulder. “First Hashim, then Piri, and now my father. If I cannot face these losses, why would my people ever think me fit to rule Irrakesh?”

“I don’t know.” Gwen ached for him. “Nothing really prepares you to lose a parent, Sharif. Nothing completely fills the lonely spot they leave in your heart when they die.” For years she had hidden her own heartache beneath a stoic veneer, not showing her emotions or truly sharing her grief with anyone, even Cap and Vic. But here in the antechamber of the Sultan’s apartments, she came face to face with those feelings again, and suddenly, as if a dam were breaking, tears flooded down her face and her body shook with great, wracking sobs of anguish that she had never fully released since the loss of her parents.

Now, arms wrapped around each other, Gwen and Sharif both wept for the loss of loved ones and the loss of their childhoods. Gwen wept for the jokes her father would never tell her, for the holidays their family would never spend together, for the milestones of life her parents would never be with her to witness. And as she cried, the pain began to ease. Gradually, as sunlight seeped over the horizon, a calm stole over them, the child of the prophecy and the son of the Sultan. Their tears dried and they sat together on the silk cushions of the window seat, hand in hand, watching the sun rise.

“You know,” Gwen said, breaking the silence, “your father isn’t dead yet. If I could have even one last day with my parents, I’d spend it doing everything I could to show them how much I love them.”

He closed his eyes for a moment in thought. “I have been cursing my misfortune at having to watch my father die, but perhaps in this I am more fortunate than you.” He opened his eyes. “You are right. My father is still alive. I know of something that may lift his spirits — a confection of honey and crushed sesame seeds that he and Hashim loved, and they always agreed that only one merchant made it properly.” He stood, pulling her up with him.

Gwen gave him a nod of encouragement. “Then that’s where we’ll go. Let’s bring the others.”

THE BAZAARS, OR SOUKS, of Irrakesh were noisy and crowded, the small streets winding and confusing, full of merchants hawking their wares. The air was heavy with the tantalizing aromas of baked goods and roasting meats. No matter which direction Vic looked, there was something interesting to see: a snake charmer making a glistening silver serpent sway to his haunting tune, a troupe of acrobats performing amazing feats for anyone who would stop to watch, a painter whose canvas was the skin of any man or woman who wished to be adorned — kind of like a tattoo artist, Vic supposed — a pair of jugglers passing ripe fruit back and forth between them, a band of minstrels playing drums and stringed instruments while a young woman clad in pantaloons and scarves danced and clinked tiny finger cymbals together.

Holding Gwen’s hand, Sharif led the way through the cramped cobblestone streets, intent on his mission to buy a gift for his father. But that didn’t mean Vic couldn’t enjoy himself while they were out. “Now this is my kind of place.” Beside him, however, Lyssandra looked troubled. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Don’t like the music?”

“Viccus, I . . . I saw this place. I dreamt it,” she said.

Tiaret looked down at her petite friend and gave her quarterstaff a tap on the cobblestones. “The meaning in your dreams is not always plain, but it is often unpleasant. Perhaps we should all remain close together. There may be danger.”

The three of them hurried to catch up with Sharif and Gwen, who were now stopped at a booth with a blue-and-yellow striped awning. The woman at the booth was wrapping up a parcel and handing it to Sharif. “Made fresh by my husband just this morning. The best in all of Irrakesh.”

Handing her a coin, Sharif thanked her and took the package. “We have one more visit to make,” he said, leading them through a narrow alley and up another cobblestone street to a wine merchant’s shop. Beside it, several shirtless men were hard at work constructing what looked to Vic like one of the nicest booths he had seen in all of the souks.

“Prince Ali,” the wine merchant gasped. “You do my humble shop great honor.”

“What can I offer you?” another man said, appearing beside the wine merchant. “Olives? Dates?”

With excitement, he handed out samples to each of the apprentices. They enjoyed these offerings, which Sharif generously paid for. The merchant had just poured them each a cup of cool frothy ale when a loud shriek overhead made Vic drop his on the cobblestones. The friends looked up to see a horde of leathery winged creatures gathering over the city.

“Uh-oh,” Vic said. “Looks like some refugees from Jurassic Park just arrived, and they don’t look friendly.”

The terodax plunged toward the crowded streets.

14

AS THE MONSTROUS TERODAX began their attack on Irrakesh, Tiaret thought they were the most hideous creatures she had ever seen. She had battled the bristling and foul-smelling corpse-hyenas that the sand warriors rode during the Grassland Wars. She had personally slain a swollen vampire snake in the stony foothills beneath the cloud forests. More recently she had fought the merlons and their fierce captive creatures.

These terodax, though, were different. Like demons, they had long, leathery wings with jagged edges and sharp horns on the points. Their heads, elongated in order to accommodate all the teeth in a narrow but powerful jaw, were covered with interlocked bony plates that served as tough armor. With eyes as solid black as obsidian marbles, the creatures had long pointed tails that could be used as weapons, in addition to the serrated sword blades they carried in the clawed hands on their well-muscled arms.

They flew together in regimented formations behind a flock leader, demonstrating both organization and intelligence. They cawed and shrieked, using no discernible language. They made a rattling, grinding sound with their weapons across spiny wristlets on each forearm. The very noise hit the high edge of Tiaret’s hearing ability, set her bones trembling, and invoked an instinctive fear. But she grasped her quarterstaff, spread her legs for a sturdy stance, bent her knees slightly, and prepared to fight. These things could be killed. That was all she needed to know.