Chapter 8: The Viper of Dar Shaq

Meanwhile in the gardens, Tamu’s pegasus had touched down, and clopping across the pacing stones amidst the sound of the trickling fountains and the night birds, she dismounted.

And hands were there instantly to take Achujam’s reigns and to stable her, as it were, with the other pegasi.

“Princess?” asked Bayarmaa with concern. “Are you all right?”

Tamu glanced up at her handmaiden and sniffed, wiping her cheek with her hands. She nodded. “I am fine, Baya.”

From a mild distance, Sahar had been waiting for Arash and Princess Tamu’s return, but when she had returned without the young prince, and clearly in a state of agitation, he knew perfectly well that something had happened between them.

With a sigh, he waited for the princess Tamu to quite recover herself, and upon seeing him he approached, smiled.

“We did not get along,” she said, almost in way of apology.

“Princess,” said Bayarmaa, let us return to the banquet.

“No,” she said. “I am tired. I wish to go to my chambers.”

“Princess,” said Sahar softly. She looked up at him. “If I may be bold enough to trouble you for a short time.”

“Yes, of course prince—of course, high vizier.”

He smiled, then he turned his shoulders slightly and put out his arm for her to take it. Once she took it, he patted her hand softly and they walked into the gardens. There was just enough light to see by.

For a long time they simply walked, and the high vizier glanced about, listening to the fountains and the birds, and the faraway laughing of the palace guests. Princess Tamu wondered what his designs were—why was he leading her through the gardens and not speaking to her?

Is he waiting for me to say something?

A short while passed, and finally she said, “Did you… did you wish to speak with me?”

He did not even look at her, he simply walked on and nodded, saying, “Prince Arash is young—younger than even yourself, yes?”

“Mm. I believe so. By one year.”

They passed some magnificent statues placed on either side of some marble steps that led up to a flat area where lanterns lit a round courtyard with benches and another fountain. Ascending those steps, when they reached the top, Sahar continued. “At his age, similar to that of Prince Arash I mean, the sultan was involved in the Hamdu’Ra Revolt.”

Tamu had read of this conflict, but she said nothing, waiting for Sahar to explain himself. He looked at her and continued. “Several members of the royal family were killed in that conflict. It was quite a harrowing time.”

“I…” she said, unsure as to whether she should speak. “I read that some of the royal heirs were taken.”

“Yes,” Sahar said. “Two of our brothers and our only sister. At that time, Cyrus Al Hamiroon—the then sultan, dear princess—was dying and were all very young and hard, for our father was a ruler that did not hear the cries of his peoples.”

“What happened?”

“The revolt, my dear. It was a terrible thing—worse than the books will ever reveal to you, for they are simply summaries of what happened, while me and my brothers and my sister, may the gods preserve her spirit and raise her up into the heavens, lived through that terrible time. You see, the sultanate was fighting a war with the Abbasir Empire at the time, and a costly war it was. Taxes were high and much food was sent to the armies, fighting our war. People were hungry.”

“And the Hamdu’Ra rose against you?”

“Well,” he said, shrugging, “not at first. They were hungry—by the gods, we all were! At first they demonstrated, but with not an answer, Cyrus Al Hamiroon ordered that all vassals of the empire be restricted to their own quarters—that no one was to move outside of their sections. You see, tensions and small revolts had been a thing of the past, and a storm was brewing. It was the wrong choice.”

“Like bottling a river.”

“Precisely, Princess,” he said with a smile. “You are very smart.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled again, allowing her the use of his more proper title, though she wondered why he was telling her these things.

“And so,” he continued, “like a bottled river, the water eventually could not be contained, though the sultan tried, and did, on many occasions, each time in doing so, the fury of the people summered to even greater anger below the surface, for there were incidents of violence that often led to death among the people.”

“That is terrible.”

Realizing she had called the action of the past sultan terrible, she said no more, for she had just insulted her guest quite by accident, but not wanting to draw attention to her terrible misstep, she said nothing.

“Yes,” Sahar said. “It was terrible.” Then he paused for a time. “The night is wonderful, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.” She glanced about much like him.

“I often walk the gardens at night when I can.”

“I see why. I do much the same in the Wind Steppe.”

He smiled. “I hope to one day see your estimable country, Princess.”

“Then I hope for you the same as well.”

“The revolt, though lead by the Hamdu’Ra—was a revolt of all the people.”

“Truly?”

“Indeed—and a terrible wrath did they have for us all. They rose up and formed an army right under our noses.”

She almost gasped then. “What happened?”

He sighed heavily. “Cyrusar and our other two brothers, Esfandiar and Soroush, along with our sister Samiria were taken captive when we could no longer contain the revolt to the lower city.”

“My gods,” she said. “You are right!”

“Princess?”

“Reading it in the history books—it is as though these events were only a story, but being told by your venerable and estimable self of these events as they happened to you and your family… My heart beats quickly.”

“Ah,” he said. “Worry not. This was some time ago. I think about it every day—and yet with years, wounds heal, princess. They do.”

“I would not know of such, for I am only seventeen, great prince.”

He made a bemused sound, like that of a benevolent parent.

“Please continue,” she said respectfully, and she did want to hear the telling of his tale, for it cut her deeply to hear of it, and she wished to know its connection to the young prince Arash.

“We call this event the revolt of the Hamdu’Ra, but it has another name,” Sahar said in continuation of his story. Then he stood. “Let us continue walking.”

“I would very much enjoy that.”

He nodded, and they did continue as he spoke. “The later part of this crisis we call by another name. One that we did not write in the history books.”

She breathed with apprehension. “By what name do you call it?”

“Have you ever heard call of a man by the name of the Viper of Dar Shaq?”

She swallowed. “There…” she said, remembering a certain book Baya had gotten her—a most evil and slanderous book of the darkest secrets of the House of Al Hamiroon, banned and nearly impossible to find, for the things within the book were of evils that festered within that house—things that, while were not openly discussed, were whispered off in shadow, or read of in faraway places.

Oh gods!

“I should not speak.”

He stopped. “Why ever should you not, Princess?”

She swallowed again, her heart beating like a drum inside her chest. “To your question—I do not believe I have heard this name.”

Shrugging it off, she knew that he was not fooled, and yet his demeanor remained call and undisturbed.

“Each of the princesses had trained under various martial prowesses, as was the want of our father, you see. Even our own sister Samira was a sorceress.”

“Truly?”

“Indeed,” he said with a nod. “Many years before, I was inducted into a most secret society of hashashins, called by the name of Dar Shaq.”

“Dar Shaq?” she asked, knowing she had read of that in her book. It had been called by the title of The Secret Histories of Royal Houses of Ashahnai, though she did not let on that she had heard of this before.

Walking with Sahar, he picked up his pace and they left the gardens, passing by some guards where they walked upon a lit path interspersed with statues and more guards, standing still at perfect attention, the towers of the palace looming over them.

Finally he said, “My brother the sultan Cyusar today, had, through the years, fallen away from his martial training to take up with the wise and religious men of the temples.”

And just as he said the words he and the princess crested past some of the palace towers to reveal the Mohtaram Tower perched high above even that of the Mountain Throne, and it was then that she saw the statue of a grandiose figure in robes, carrying a staff and upon his arm rested a hawk, and where this statue was situated, she had only barely noticed at the top of the dome when she and Arash had alighted onto those cobbled terraces high in the temple.

“You have quite a skill with theatrics, I believe,” she said with a smile.

He actually laughed then, and her uneasiness at the direction of his tale lightened somewhat. “Yes, I am quite well versed in many a skill.”

“And so your brother, the sultan I mean—he became a religious man?”

“Yes,” said Sahair as they approached the tower-like mountain formation with the actual tower perched atop it. “Do not worry, we will not walk to the top. There is a lift.”

She laughed. “I was going to suggest we go back to the pegasi.”

“Then that can also be acceptable,” he said, and they both laughed. “So my brother, Cyrusar was leaving the ways of martial prowess, and it quite enraged my father, for he is the elder.”

“The imperial heir.”

“Yes. And I am sorry for digressing, Princess, but the story I tell is complex, and I do not tell if often. Actually—I have never told anyone before.”

She looked at him then, and did not say a word, for she knew the weight of which he carried upon his back should be a strong one.

They approached the temple doors where guards with lit torches stood in a long line like statues, their blue pantaloons shimmering in the moonlight.

“Come,” he said, and he picked up his feet while she held onto his arm.

The temple doors were opened for them, for Sahar was the highest head of the sultan’s household, his authority after his brother absolute in that regard. And though he be the high vizier and prince of the Empire of Ashahnai, the holy men inside looked upon Sahar with a mixture of respect, fear and admiration.

Tamu marveled at the sheer size of the palace, at the gilded arches and the frescoes, the stained glass, that even now let in light in enough light from the moon as to cast pale bars of light onto the marble floors.

“Yes,” said Sahar, “the Estimable Temple of the Gods is a marvel to behold, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Ever is the faithful man’s want to please those above, to gratify and exult them. It spurs the righteous into professions of art and of building—noble, all of them.”

“Indeed,” said Tamu almost breathlessly. “I knew the Tower was a marvel from on high, but inside… It is so breathtaking.”

Shahar watched her with a smile on his face. “It humbles me to see you so astonished, Princess. I hope to see your Wind Steppe marvels as well.”

“You shall,” she said, looking at him. She nodded. “I am certain you shall, Prince.”

A holy man approached them, bowing. He exchanged words with Sahar, who told him to take them up to the uppermost balconies. They were led to the lift, and taken up as the religious men set off a system of ingenious mechanical marvel that made Tamu glance about in curiosity, though she knew not how such a contraption worked.

“You are curious?” Sahar asked.

“Indeed,” she said. “We a lesser need for things in the Wind Steppe.”

“To be sure.” He spread his hands. “Alas, I cannot tell you, for even the engineering behind this contraption is out of my depth. But, to put it simply as I understand it, it is a system of weights and balances, counter balances and gears.”

The lift rattled slightly and then shook as it came to a stop. The holy man led them down a stone corridor with vaulted marble ceilings. Sahar took her outside, where once again she stood atop the terraces under the great dome of the temple.

He sighed contentedly as he walked to the edge to see the palace towers, the courtyards and gardens, and the brightly lit city below sprawling out along the coast. “I always feel a great sense of peace when I am here among the temple—mist mostly because”—he spread his arms—

“Because of the serene quite,” Tamu finished for him.

“Yes.”

For a time they stood in silence, simply appreciating the view—and Tamu did appreciate it, for before, though she saw it and marveled, her attention had been fixed upon Prince Arash.

“I was the only one left, you see.”

“When… they took the royal family hostage.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I brought my hashashins to the palace of course.”

She looked at him. Finally she said, “It must have been harrowing, having your family taken that way.”

“I was enraged,” said Sahar. “Little did I know, my brother—the wiser man among us, was negotiating with the leaders of the uprising.”

“Did he not succeed?”

Sahar looked at her. It was hard to tell what he was thinking because of his large white beard. “I went in with the hashashins, and that is where I became the Viper of Dar Shaq.”

She glanced down at the stones.

“I pray to the gods that they will forgive me,” he said. “I killed many that day—by my own hand—hand by the hand of my men. We scattered them all, like sand and the royal family was safe.”

“And it caused wars.”

“It caused wars,” he said with a nod. “It was years later that my brother was able to end those wars. He truly is leader among mortals, for, though I saved him, my father died soon after when he heard of the deaths of my other two brothers and sisters.”

“I am sorry.”

“Do not be,” Sahar said. “I am the one who is sorry. I thought that with our scimitars and our sorceries, we could cut through my enemies and save my family, but in so doing, I only assured them of their deaths. Even though my father wanted for me to rule, though I did for a short time, I could not help but abdicate the sultanate to my elder brother—the peacemaker. I spent the next ten years of my life devoted to the gods.”

He spread his arms.

“And you are very different,” she said. “I sensed it in you the first time I saw you. You are gentle soul.”

“Through much strife and suffering, only the gods could cure my wrath and my hatred, and I am glad for it, and so, so sorry for my past indiscretions.”

“If you have never told anyone this story of your family…” she said, trailing off, “then why did you choose to tell me?”

“Cyrusar Al Hamiroon is a loving sultan, a wide sultan. But where Arash is concerned—I fear he has been too soft.” He glanced out over the palace and the city and breathed in deeply. “Our enemies surround us.”

“You are very forward.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “And your illustrious and powerful father wishes to gain influence with the power of the Ashahnai Empire.”

She laughed, surprised, and he smiled.

“Powerful houses do what they most to increase their strength and to ensure their future heirs. It is the ways of the world that we cannot overcome.”

“Then,” she said, being direct, “what is it you truly wish to tell me?”

“Prince Arash is young,” said Sahar. “He is impetuous, rash, sheltered—“

“Has he ever left the palace?”

Sahar sniffed with bemusement, a sort of sorrowful bemusement. “On some few occasions he has ventured out into the city and surrounding countryside, but only upon direct command of the sultan, and when either he himself had done as such, or that of our beautiful queen, Nousha.”

Tamu smiled at Sahar’s veneration for the queen. “And the prince…”

“He can be a strong leader—the leader Ashahnai needs.”

“And you wish for me to marry him?”

“I only wish for you not to marry another, to return after a time to see the young prince once more, and to once more consider him. If you have any love for Arash, I think you will do this,” said Sahar. “I have designs of which the sultan will not refuse—designs for the prince. A journey that must needs transform him.”

She looked at him with wide eyes and swallowed. Could she do that? Wait for a time? She did like Arash, indeed, she felt something for him. He was beautiful, exuberant, firm in his beliefs—even if they were wrong—and yet humble all at once. But what if he should fail?

“Only say that you will visit us again, beautiful princess.”

She said nothing, and Sahar turned, looking out over the palace. His eyes seemed to focus on a dark series of apartments with terraces overlooking the city and the sea, and she was certain that those were prince Arash’s rooms.

While the princess Tamu considered the high vizier’s words, thinking of all that had happened between her and the prince—what her father stood to gain, what she stood to gain in a husband, the life of which would thrust her into the seat by which she would one day be a powerful queen, prince Arash slept within his apartments.

The night wore on, and as the prince slept, and while the princess Tamu further considered, figures garbed in black with their faces covered, stole into the princes’ rooms; with designs from their master that intentioned them to kill not only him, but that of the entire House of Al Hamiroon.