Somnium {Part Two}

[afterandalasia]

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Chapter Five

They readied themselves to leave in the morn, but none could find sleep, and all ended up waiting for the sun to rise in order that they might have reason to move on again. Finally the sun breached the horizon, red and hot and stifling already, and there was a flurry of activity in return. Ping had shined his armour in the night, returning it to a gleaming silver against the green and black fabric, and he wore it like regalia with his sword ready at his side. Beneath her abaya, Giselle carried a knife in the crook of her right arm, another at her thigh, and the single slice of poisoned apple-flesh in a stoppered glass bottle at her throat. Once shrouded in black cotton, though, with the fabric falling more easily on her frame as she became used to wearing it, she became a shadow once again, and with her head bowed and posture unassuming she all but vanished from sight.

Between the others, Aurora sat like a statue. She wore the fragments of her fine blue dress, the fabric still almost garishly bright with the magic that had coloured it. Though with time strips had been torn from the bodice, or holes made in the skirt, or blood in a bright breath-pattern across her heart, it held its shape still, stern and sharp-lined. She rose to her feet and allowed Giselle to help her into her own abaya, shielding the colours, then stood and allowed her veil to be tied into place as well with a bow of her head, a closing of her eyes.

Ping watched with troubled anger in his gaze as they prepared themselves, then nodded gruffly to the door. “Come on, then. I’ve found a couple of street kids to accompany us; they’ll carry the bags.”
He did not look round as they approached the Palace, as he spoke to the guards with perfect command in his voice and presented the scroll that he had written that very night. The guards pored over it, turned it the wrong way, muttered between themselves and called for a translator only to discover that none could be found. After an eternity, it seemed, they were allowed in, the great gates of the Palace falling closed behind them with a deafening thud.

Their bags were taken from them – to be searched, Giselle was sure – and they were allowed in through the fine inner gates. Inside the Palace, the air became noticeably cooler, the whitewash walls and terracotta tiled floors gleaming dully. Ushered to a waiting room, they were closed in whilst the guards stood outside the doors.

Giselle did not even need to ask whether they were being watched. She did not even raise her veil as she gazed around the room, the gilded, arched windows with their fine carved shutters, the opulent red stripe around the centre of the walls. There were several low couches with what looked to be velvet cushions in bright, jewelled colours, embroidered with gold and beads, but all three remained standing. There was a whisper of movement from beyond one of the walls, and Giselle looked sharply over her shoulder towards it, but there was no sign of a door. She wondered whether some of the gold and red pattern that crossed the wall concealed eyeholes, and bent her wrist to brush her fingertips against the reassuring cool metal of her knife.

Finally the door opened, and a young woman, dressed in purple robes and glassy-eyed, bowed to them. “The Sultan will see you.”

“Come,” said Ping to the others, and they fell into step behind him as if in perfect humility. The young woman led them along corridors, great long rooms with vaulted ceilings and white pillars, and finally stopped before a pair of grand golden doors. They opened before her, revealing the room beyond, and for a moment Giselle’s senses were so struck that she could not unravel everything before her. Finally things began to grow clearer, and then she became able to see: the great gold elephants flanking the high thrones, the draped curtains, the displays of gold and jewels that surrounded the dais on which the Sultan and the Princess sat enthroned.

The Sultan was wearing white and gold, a severe and unyielding expression on his face as he looked down towards them, one hand resting on the arm of his throne, the other holding a serpent staff at his side. To his left, and a little below, sat the Princess, wearing a deep emerald silk which, although it covered her body, did nothing to hide her curves beneath its form, the rise and fall of her breasts within their like-coloured bindings, the softly formed harem pants and gold shoes that clad her. A wide gold band sat just beneath her neck, studded with dark green emeralds that glittered as she looked towards them from beneath the shadow of her veil.

They approached, stopped at what seemed like an appropriate point; Ping dropped to one knee as he bowed deeply, whilst the women stood still and silent.

“Aasalaamu Aleikum, Sultan,” said Ping, without raising his head.

“Rise, soldier.”

He looked up in surprise as the Princess spoke, her voice rich and cool and sensuous. It sent a warning shiver down Giselle’s spine. Rings glittered on her hand as she reached to draw her veil from her face, keeping it over the dark curls of hair that tumbled down her back. Her skin was radiantly pale, her eyes kohl-rimmed and smouldering. At her feet sat a slave-boy, his head bowed, holding a goblet and jug on a golden platter.

“I will translate for the Sultan,” she said. “Speak.”

“Sultan Jafar, Princess Jasmine, I am honoured to bring the salutations of the Emperor Yang. In honour of the city of Agrabah he has sent me to extend the hand of friendship of Tiānxià.”

There was a muted moment whilst the Princess turned to address her husband, the tongue sounding to Giselle’s ears similar to, but not quite the same as, that which she had heard from the soldiers and the people of the city. The Sultan replied in brief, snapped words, and the Princess turned to them again.

“What has bought you to Agrabah by name? There are many Kingdoms in these deserts.”

“It has been said that the new Sultan might be willing to speak where other Kingdoms have not. Only the Land of the Black Sands has otherwise been receptive.”

The slightest curl of disdain came to the Sultan’s face, as if even without translation he knew of the land of which they spoke. Ping had said that he knew there was a threat coming from the land, although its young Prince seemed a competent and intelligent enough man. Then again, perhaps that was why he was perceived as a threat. The Princess’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And we hope also that our gift will here be well received. We have heard that the land of Agrabah is not so afeared of magic as are some.”

There was another silence, this one longer, and this time the Princess did not remove her eyes from them as she spoke quietly in her own tongue. Words were exchanged between them, and finally the Princess pursed her lips and looked at them with a new edge of caution to her gaze.

“What is your gift, soldier?”

“I bring to you a seer,” said Ping, though Giselle could see from where she stood the tension in his throat. He stepped to the side and Aurora, head still bowed, moved forward to stand beside him. She curtseyed deeply, in the way of the northern lands, and the Princess’s expression moved to a smirk.

“Let me see this... ‘seer’.”

Condescension dripped from every word. Ping nodded to Giselle, who stepped up and gently undid the knot that bound Aurora’s veil in place. The fabric fell away, and even with her back to the Sultan and Princess, Giselle could not fail to hear the gasps of surprise. Aurora’s hair had been brushed to gleaming gold and trailed down beyond her shoulders in broad curls; even without makeup, her face had a ghostly beauty about it, high cheekbones and long lashes on her deep blue eyes. Her lips were soft, pink, full and slightly parted as she raised her gaze to those sat before her. She dropped her shoulders back as Giselle stepped round to remove the abaya also, revealing the blue dress, the gleaming pale lines of her shoulders, her slender frame.

“So...” said the Princess. “This is the gift you offer us. Tell me, seer, what tongue do you speak?”

“This one, your Highness,” replied Aurora. Her voice was low, but carried across the throne room and rang from the piles of gold.

“Very well. And how is it that your visions are found?”

“In my dreams, your Highness.”

The Princess paused, nodded slowly, then again turned to the Sultan and exchanged words with him. At one point he reached out his hand towards her, and her fingertips ghosted across his wrist, then he gave a sharp nod and a word that sounded in any language to be approval, and the Princess turned back towards them. “We accept your gift, soldier, and would like to extend in return the friendship of the Kingdom of Agrabah to you and to your Emperor. A suitable gift will be prepared for you in return; in the meantime, we ask that you stay within the Palace.”

“It would be an honour, Princess,” said Ping, with another deep bow, though this one came only from the waist.

“Very well,” she said again. She gestured to the young man sitting at her feet, who set aside his platter and rose. “Aladdin will show you to your chambers. The seer will be taken care of. Although... one question.”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Whenceforth did she come?”

There was not even a pause before Ping replied: the tale that they always used, so easy to form into the truth. “She was cast from her world by a jealous Queen, and the portal left her in ours. I was one of those who found her.”

The Princess nodded, her eyes still thoughtful, then with a gesture of her hand dismissed them. Aurora waited patiently where she stood as, heart pounding, Giselle turned to follow Ping and the man that had been called Aladdin from the room.
 






Chapter Six

They did not speak much that day. When food was bought to them, Ping looked first to Giselle, and her hand would steal beneath her bushiyyah for a moment before she looked to him, nodded, and they allowed themselves to eat. Giselle remained within the room, reading a little but unable to concentrate on the books, whilst Ping roamed throughout the chambers that they had been given examining the furniture, the paintings, every inch. The look on his face was curiosity; that in his eyes was wariness.

Giselle tried not to think of Aurora. When she did, her hands trembled and she had to put aside the book that she was trying to read. Again and again, her hand would creep to the glass vial at her throat; it remained constantly warm, a little more so than it would be from her body, warning of the danger that surrounded them.

That night she changed clothes beneath her robes to sleep, and Ping removed his armour but remained in a long, loose tunic. They slipped beneath the sheets as familiarly as if they were indeed the lovers that they were no doubt expected to be, lying face-to-face propped on their sides and talking in low voices.

“All will be well,” said Ping softly. “She knows how to conduct herself.”

She knows how to take care of herself. If she needs us, she will act.

Giselle understood the message beneath the words well enough, but was for a moment annoyed that Ping could not see the frown on her face. “I would be happier were I able to talk to her still.”

“Impossible,” he said flatly. “She is in the care of the Sultan now.”

Too dangerous. She is under the guard of the Sultan.

She said nothing more, and rolled onto her other side, facing away from him. For a moment his hand came to rest on her shoulder, then she heard him shift as well and felt their cover moving. Her eyes stung, and she squeezed them tightly shut and told herself that it was the dryness of the air that bought moisture to them.

She would have expected that it would take a long time for her to fall asleep, her mind still nervous and flighty, but her body knew better than to linger awake when it did not need to and she soon slipped into darkness. One hand curled around the hilt of the knife beneath her pillow like a comfort, the other lying close to her breast, her brow furrowed even in sleep, beneath the dark and the veil.

It was not light that awoke her. A shock ran through her spine like magic, not painful but sharp, and her eyes snapped open. Without letting her breathing change, Giselle let her attention spread throughout the room, but saw no movement; with a murmur as if in sleep she rolled over to face the other side. Still no movement answered her, and the muscles in her shoulders uncoiled, though she remained silently awake for a while longer.

Eventually, the faint sound of footsteps within the walls appeared, then faded, and she knew without checking that they were no longer being watched.

Knife in hand, she slipped from the bed, raising the covers over Ping again without thinking. He slept on, soundly; the sleep of a soldier, she supposed, who must catch his rest where he can. Giselle returned the knife to its hiding-place beneath her abaya, and pulled her black gloves and slippers back on, before ghosting through the two rooms to the door and pausing beside it, ear level to but not pressed against the lock. For a while there seemed to be nothing, then she heard someone shifting their weight, and nodded to herself that there was indeed only one guard waiting on them.

Getting back to her feet, she crossed back, this time entering the small bathing room which they had been given. The stone bath set into the floor stood empty, the veil discreetly drawn over the toilet, though there was a pitcher of water set beside a basin on the far side.

She knew that Ping would have seen exactly what she had earlier, and neither of them had told the other. There were steps down into the bath, narrow cool clay beneath her feet, then Giselle fell to her knees and pressed against the far end wall.

It scraped just a little, and she bit her lip, but then it returned to silence as it slid back just far enough for her to slip through, still on her hands and knees and with her neck feeling terribly exposed, then she glanced up into the dark corridor. There was no sound, no sign of movement, but as she closed the entrance behind her and rose to her knees, her hand brushed across the still-warm metal of an oil lamp set into a narrow slit in the wall.

Breath catching in her throat, Giselle pressed herself close to the wall before continuing down the corridor. It was narrow, perhaps only three feet across, but taller than the rooms in which she had been before. It ran straight for perhaps thirty paces, turned right, and right again, before splitting into two paths. The left remained flat, curving round out of sight, but the right kinked sharply before heading down steps.

She tried to remember what it had been in the dream that had awoken her, knowing that it must have been Aurora’s doing, but could find nothing in her mind. Only Aurora or the work of a magic user could have woken her so, she knew, but usually their companion left her mark on Giselle’s dreamscape before rousing her. This time, there was nothing, and the glass at her neck grew hotter as she took one tentative step to the right, then down the stairs.

There had been no light, but now a red glow met her at the bottom of the stairs, and Giselle’s steps slowed as it began to spill upwards. Eventually she was able to see the torch that sat at the bottom of the stairs, burning with an unnaturally red light, and the closed door beyond it. The floor beneath her feet took on a gritty feel, and she glanced down to step carefully so as not to leave footprints on the sand that was scattered across the steps.

The air felt hot, tight, and the vial at her neck almost burned. She could feel her throat tightening, a sensation in her head like it was tightening in; she could not have ignored the magic in the air if she tried.

The door was wooden, heavyset, slightly blackened with age or soot. The door furniture was made of iron, gleaming dully in the red light, but when her fingers brushed against the hinges they felt icy to the touch. Cold iron, she thought grimly, and dropped to one knee in front of it to look through the keyhole.

She half-expected for the key to be in it still, but mercifully it was not, and the room beyond came into a red-stained focus. It looked to be a circular room, stone walls bare, with torches every two or three paces all sharing the same red hue. White sand covered the floor, scuffed and covered in footsteps, surrounding the plinth at the centre of the room. It looked to be made of one solid piece of white stone, too pure for even marble, the edges so sharp they looked almost ready to cut the air. Into the top of the plinth, a semi-sphere had been hollowed out; some six inches above, floating in its own cold light, was a glass globe swirling with clouds of red smoke. It had nothing holding it up, nothing suspending it, and Giselle tightened at the pain that shot through her bones as the waves of magic from the room washed over her.

“Arish ka jurun, baran irra,” boomed a sudden voice, and she almost lost her balance with the force of the words. There was something old in them, something dangerous, and the hand that supported her on the floor curled into a fist and shifted her weight to her knuckles. Sweat beading on her brow, Giselle leant closer to the door. The voice had been deep, rasping, with an uneven sound almost as if there had been multiple voices speaking at once. “Ukrun.”

Movement caught her eye, and she shifted sideways. From one side of the pillar came the sultan, now dressed all in black and with soot smeared across his face, his eyes shining with reflected light. From nowhere, a white-gold fire burst into life beneath the sphere, simmering low flames, and in the depths of the red smoke Aurora appeared again. This time her blue dress was new, in finest wool, and she had a tiara upon her head as she swept forwards, reaching out, a smile lighting up her beautiful, young – so painfully young – face.

It lasted only a moment, then smoke began to billow from the floor beneath her feet. Aurora’s figure stopped, screamed, flames consuming her, and she reached upwards to the sky with arms that melted to bone. A swirl of sand danced around her, then the ground itself opened up, like the mouth of a giant cat, and bore down ferociously upon Aurora and the shadowed figures that now appeared around her.

The pain of the magic laid before her became too much. Getting back to her feet, Giselle turned back up the stairs, even as the walls around her seemed to shake with the force of the word that followed: “Ukrun. Ukrun! Ukrun!”
 






Chapter Seven

The air trembled around her as she fled back along the route that she had taken, hand scrambling beneath her abaya to draw the glass vial away from her skin. It burnt her hand when she touched it; even the thin leather strip upon which it hung was almost unbearably hot. Giselle’s hands shook as she pulled the doorway closed behind her and tumbled back into the bed. Ping finally flew awake, knife appeared in his hand and with its point at Giselle’s throat.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, finally lowering the knife and hauling the sheets higher on his body again.

“I just... they...” Giselle had to stop, putting one hand to her mouth over the veil, then she reached up and pulled it away. The cooler night air – not cold, this land never seemed to be cold – washed over her skin, and as she brushed her hand tentatively over the vial at her neck it seemed to be cooling slightly. “I followed the path from her chambers,” she whispered. She was kneeling over Ping, their faces only inches apart and just about visible in the darkness of the room. Even so, it felt like her voice was carrying too much. “The Sultan is a user of dark magic, I am sure of it.”

There was a sound of footsteps outside their door, and they both looked round sharply. Ping grabbed Giselle’s arm and pulled her back beneath the bedclothes again, the shaking of her body surely tangible to him by now. They curled close together, both half-holding their breath, and then the footsteps receded again and Ping gave the softest of sighs.

“What happened?” he said quietly.

“I followed the path to a hidden chamber,” she replied. “The magic grew stronger as I grew closer. I finally came to a room absolutely full of dark magic, and I could see the Sultan inside.”

“Do you know what he was doing?”

She shook her head furiously in a tumble of red curls. “It was something to do with Aurora. There was an image of her – being consumed in flames!”

Ping made a hushing sound as Giselle’s voice threatened to rise. “Is there anything that you will be able to do to give us some protection?”

“My magic is nowhere near this in power,” she said.

He frowned, expression stern though she could see that he was trying to lie as if relaxed still. “Anything at all?”

Giselle looked away for a moment, hand rising to flutter at her throat once again, this time not led by her thoughts. “If I can get to the market, I may be able to find something that will offer us protection. But I can make no promises.”

A curt nod. “Good. Then do so. We cannot do anything until tomorrow nightfall, in any case. “

“Are you sure?” she whispered. “I do not want to leave Aurora in their hands for any longer than is necessary.”

“Neither do I,” he snapped, as much as could be done in a whisper, then with one last cold glare rolled over onto his other side to make it clear that their conversation was over.
 






Chapter Eight

The other women were frightened of her.

Aurora could see that easily, in the way that they had scattered from the room when she entered, in the way that they now whispered behind their hands and shot looks from beneath the dark waves of their hair. She could barely tell them apart: they were all lustily-curved, dusky-skinned, with sweeps of shining black hair and clothes in sumptuous jewel tones. Flowing skirts or the loose pants of this kingdom, fitted or flaring tops, such fine fabric that the shadows of their bodies could just be seen beneath.

She had heard the word ‘harem’ among those said to her by the man – he looked like a man, and moved like one, but his voice was high and there was not the slightest shadow on his chin – who had escorted her there, unceremoniously ushering her in before closing the door behind her. There had been chatter inside, and bright laughter, but silence had fallen at her entrance.

The women had fled to the back of the room, where there were cushions and curtains, and she could smell the wine and food. They jangled and glittered as they moved. She drew her eyes away, without a word herself, glancing around the lower end of the room, which held low seats and what must have passed for entertainment: embroidery, paint. A spinning wheel across the room had caught her eye, but with a suppressed shiver she had walked away, taking one of the seats by the window and folding her hands neatly in her lap to wait.

After a while the talking between the other women had started again. Aurora caught sight of her own reflection in a gold disc that glittered on the wall, the bright blue of her dress, the soft-gold curls of her hair. She wore no jewellery, certainly not the tiara that she had ripped from her head and cast at the feet of the statues that trapped her mothers’ forms. Sometimes she wondered whether it was there still.

She knew that her mind had a tendency to wander. As a girl she had never much cared for her memories; they had become one sweet blur, and she had been convinced in those days that her life would be just the same forever more. Things had been so easy. Now she worked her mind to recall every moment, hold it close, knowing that even if there was pain in her memory, there was also her past, everything that had made her.

Eyes half-closing, she let her mind drift back. To her eighth birthday, when Flora had made a sweet berry pie that had dripped down her chin and almost – almost! – stained her favourite skirt, and Fauna had been the one to rescue it. To when she had been perhaps eleven or twelve, and sitting out in the forest Merryweather had been talking about healing herbs, only for Flora to come and chastise them both for lingering so late, even if Aurora had suspected that the anger in her eyes was for something else as well. To her sixteenth birthday, when she had hurried home with an empty basket and an overflowing heart to tell them of the boy that she had met and would meet again that night.

She could remember the trance. The silk whisper that had drawn her through the fireplace and up the hidden stairs, to the shadow of a spinning wheel that seemed to be made of pure energy, pure magic. She remembered the laughing that had seemed so warm, but which now sent chills of remembrance down her spine, as she reached out towards it. Never in her life had she wanted to hold something so much, so desperately. For a moment something had whispered in her mind to stop, something that had the voices of her mothers, but then warmth flooded her again and the last thing that she remembered was the prick of wonderful, beautiful pain on her fingertip.

And while she slept... what dreams.

At least, she had thought that they were dreams. She had seen many things in them, people and lands and users of dark magic. She had seen the birth of the world and what had seemed like end after end. Worlds of fire and ice and great beasts. It was like the dreams had lasted forever, and still sometimes she thought back on them and wondered what they had foretold.

And then there had been the kiss. She could hear the songs that had announced her birth, feel the tug of fairy magic deep within her, as warm lips brushed over hers and life flowed out over her stone limbs again. A smile was already forming on her lips as she opened her eyes, and then-

Then the taste of blood had found her.

Her first thought had been that this was just another dream, but she knew that was only her own desirous heart speaking. As her eyes had opened, Philip had fallen to the floor beside her, and though she did not know the Prince she recognised her forest boy, and with a cry rose to her feet only to fall clumsily to her knees and clutch him to her chest.

“Princess Aurora,” he had breathed.

“Briar Rose. My name is Briar Rose!” She had sobbed the words, holding him in her arms, and as he coughed and convulsed she had felt hot blood spray against her skin. "Philip...” she whispered, though he had never said his name.

He died in her arms. She sat for a long time, numb and frozen on the stone floor with his cooling, bloodied body in her arms, then it dawned upon her that she could hear nothing but her own sobs. No birds outside, no footsteps, no sounds of revelry, not even the cracking of a fire. She stumbled to her feet, the hem of her dress tearing, and stepped out of her tower room to descend the silent steps.

Even the torches had gone out. It was sunset again, the land barely lit, as she made her way into the corridors and came across the first sleeping figure. She remembered crying for help, trying to shake the guard awake, then when he would not respond and simply sighed in his sleep dragging herself upright, running, looking for anyone that might respond. She had screamed her voice to hoarseness, thrown water on the noblemen and women sleeping in the floor of the courtroom, dropped to her knees in front of the King and Queen and looked up at them with eyes full of wonder and now left dry.

“Mother?” she had whispered, the word strange on her tongue. “Father?”

Neither had they responded. It had seemed like an eternity that she had spent searching the castle and its grounds for any sign of life, but it seemed that every one of them slept, peaceful and still. When she finally found the gates, it was only to be torn to shreds by the thick black briars that blocked her path, and shaking she was forced to return to the castle and take a sword from the grip of one of the guards. It took her days, returning repeatedly for water and food from the castle, to clear enough of a path to stumble free of the briars, her dress torn, her skin slashed, her mind aching from the sleep that would no longer come.

It was there that she found the first true body.

Before those days, she had seen perhaps a handful of people in her entire life, and then had all certainly been alive. They had not often eaten meat, back in the woodland cottage, and whenever they had Merryweather had been sure to assure her that the animal had died peacefully.

She had never seen death before. A woman’s body lay sprawled across the road at the edge of the bramble cage, her skin green and eyes misted white, black and purple robes slashed and stained with blood. The smell was rancid, though it seemed that no flies had dared to come near, and Aurora felt bile rise in her throat though there was nothing in her stomach for her to vomit. The woman’s right arm had been slashed open almost from elbow to wrist, with the parted layers of skin and fat and muscle pulling back to reveal bone beneath. The earth around her was stained almost black with her blood, and it seemed that from her the brambles had taken their nourishment.

Something in her recognised the sorceress that had so nearly claimed her, but she had no strength left to much think of her. Fighting for her voice, she called for her mothers, for Flora, Fauna, Merryweather, over and over again until the forest seemed to ring with the echoes of her voice. When she could taste blood in her throat and could scream no more, she turned to song, and flits of black that looked like birds but could only have been their shadows came to her, wrapped their cool smoky claws around her wrists, and led her step by step into the twisted trees.

She did not know how long she spent at the feet of the stone statues that had raised her, how often she stroked their cheeks or tried to hold their ruined hands. Finally sleep found her, and the dreams returned, this time not seeming far-off and faint but hot and vivid and painful to the touch.

When she finally left, it was without her crown and with her hair almost matted together, with Samson’s halter in her hand, with her dress torn and her skin cold but healing, with hunger in her belly and something more aching still in her heart.

Tomorrow, it would be two years to the day. Sometimes her fingertip still ached, ached beautifully, and made her want to lull to sleep once again. Sometimes she remembered how much easier the dreams had been in that first sleep, how wondrous their forms and how painless their completion. Sometimes she wished that she had not awoken to find nightmares laid out before her. But if already the future was for dreaming, she knew the past must be long completed, and it had seemed so much longer than two years.

She did not sleep that night. But more than one of the women around her awoke in terrified, relentless screams.

By morning they would be only more afraid of her.
 






Chapter Nine

Giselle did not understand how Ping could be so calm the next day, even how he could have returned to sleep after they had spoken the night before. She had lain, restless and unsleeping but as if in a daze, feeling the throb of magic that ran through the palace reverberate in her bones like a heavy drum. When she had finally managed to draw herself from the bed, wash and dress, discreetly shielded from the outside world by a screen, she was surprised to find the door open and Ping already standing in the doorway, in plain clothes and not armour this time, laughing and joking with the guards in their own tongue. Hurriedly pulling the veil over her face again, Giselle approached them, noting the silence that fell as one of the guards caught sight of her again.

“Ping,” she said softly, “I must talk to you.”

“They don’t speak our tongue,” he replied, voice warmer than his eyes or words would have suggested. The two guards began to talk to each other in their own language again. “All is well.”

She wasn’t sure that she trusted it to be so. “There are some things which I need from the market. Would it be possible for us to go?”

Ping nodded, then turned to the guards and engaged in another brief but animated conversation with them, complete with grimaces and expressive waves of his hands. Finally he threw his hands up and turned back to her. “The Sultan and Princess have asked that I remain within the Palace. If you want to go, though, they will find a female servant to accompany you, and a guard as well.”

“That sounds fine,” Giselle said, and forced a smile onto her lips though it could not be seen by the others. She hoped that her voice could carry lies in the tones it had once used only for honesty. “Perhaps you should see what their guards have to offer. I am sure that your Captain would be glad to learn.”

A slight frown flickered over his features at the wandering directions which her words took, and she wished for a moment she could tear the veil away and plead with her eyes for him to understand. So often in their time the three of them had communicated in glances and small gestures, without the need for words. She felt stifled beneath thin fabric. “A good idea,” he said finally. “I will request an audience with the captain of their guard.”

She nodded, as if demurely, as he turned back for another exchange with the two men. Giselle could catch the odd word here and there, ‘market’ and ‘woman’, words that she had learnt on their long journey south, but could not piece together most of what was being said. Finally, one of the guards bowed slightly from the waist and disappeared down the corridor, and Ping turned to give her the briefest of nods.

With a flush of relief, Giselle waited for the guard to return, this time accompanied by a figure as shrouded in fabric as was she. They moved with a charming gracelessness, an honesty of movement that was visible even beneath the abaya whose cloth was of coarser fabric than Giselle had seen on any other person in the palace, and when they spoke she realised perhaps why: the woman’s voice had the roughness of common birth, a familiarity that Giselle at least found soothing.

“Sa’eeda,” she said, with a nod of her head. A hand gestured to her chest. “Ismi Sadira.”

“Ismi Giselle,” she replied, knowing at least those words. “Fursa sa’eeda, Sadira.”

Instead of giving directions, and barely waiting for the guard to follow them, Sadira took Giselle’s hand in hers and began walking down the corridor, with a tug that was either impatient or playful in its intentions. Her route did not follow the lines of the grand palace corridors; she slipped behind a tapestry, through a concealed doorway, and then along past plainer rooms in which Giselle could faintly hear the chatter of servants, could smell distant spices and see the shine in the middle of the paths where the most feet had trodden. Sadira was not veiled quite as the others, and her eyes glittered out from between two pieces of fabric, a slight bronzing across the bridge of her nose testament to time in the sun. Although trust needed rather more earning, Giselle decided almost immediately that she liked the woman.

They emerged from a side door into a dusty pathway that led through a roofed corridor to the outer walls of the palace. Sadira glanced over her shoulder when they were a way down the path, and Giselle saw a smile in her eyes as she checked how far behind them the guard was.

“You speak *Arabic*?” she said, turning her eyes back in front of them again as they neared the guarded side gate of the outer walls.

Giselle made a pinching movement with her fingers. “Very little,” she replied, stolen words from a camel herder’s bawdy joke. Sadira nodded amiably.

“What language do you speak?”

“Fadrein?” she said, hearing more than intending it as a question.

A shake of the head. “I do not speak that. Swear, only.” There was a fluidity to Sadira’s words that was belied by Giselle’s understanding of them, she was sure of it. All that she could do was string the words together and fill in the gaps with her own hope.

“You are princess?” The question was clumsy, and Giselle was not sure for a moment whether it was the words themselves or their delivery that made Sadira burst into a full, throaty laugh. “Me, a princess? No, I am fallah.” She spat onto the ground at her feet; it made her point well enough.

Yes, Giselle definitely liked her.

~

She had feared that there would be questions asked as to the items that she bought at the market. Giselle was used to the magic of the northern lands, and though she had no doubt that magic here was just as raw and bound to the earth, it was very different to feel fine sand beneath one’s feet than to feel crumbling loamy earth. As it was, she moved through the stalls without much idea of where she was going, using her instinct alone to feel the tugs of things that had even the smallest touch of magic bound up into them. She had been surprised to learn that the whole world here was not magical, more so to find that she had a power here that she had not held in the lands which she once knew. Perhaps it was some small compensation for being torn away.

This land, though, felt alien around her, as if it knew that she and her magic did not belong here. Some of her coins she placed into the white cotton bag which she carried in one hand, the silver cool beneath her fingertips. Little bags of spices followed them: cloves and cinnamon and other things for which she did not catch the name. Salt, at least, was easy enough to find, and lamp oil, as well as thin cotton wicks and a shallow stone bowl to hold it. The fish and meat which she could see already hung still and bloodless, and for that she sighed, but with most of her bartering done through Sadira in any case she could say little.

Frustrated, she at last admitted defeat and returned to the Palace, bag clutched tightly to her as she hurried back to the quarters. She heard the doors close behind her, presuming it was the guards, but turned to find Sadira still in the room.

“Are you all right?” said Giselle, with a worried glance, but Sadira was already pulling off her veil. She had shaggy, dark-brown hair that reached below her shoulders, and a tan to her features.

“You,” said Sadira, as if it did for reply, and gestured to Giselle’s bag. “Magic.”

Giselle blanched. “Oh, no. No, no! I’m not a... sorceress or anything!”

Sadira looked at her as if she did not believe a word of it, then pulled down the neck of her robe to reveal the skin of her upper chest. Gold and red glinted from her sternum; at first Giselle took it for an amulet, then she realised with a muffled gasp that the gold swelled out from beneath Sadira’s skin, and that the red she had thought was ruby was moving, flowing blood.

“I was a sand witch,” said Sadira, still showing the charm as she walked towards Giselle. “This... stops me.”

Slowly, Giselle reached up and unwound her own veil, shaking her head to flick stray hair from her cheeks and to try and escape the questions hounding her. “I use magic,” she admitted. “Though I do not know what I would be called here. Not witch, not sorceress, just...” she trailed off with a shrug. “How did you know?”

At this, Sadira gave a grin. “The old woman in shop? She only talk to people with magic.”

It took a moment for understanding to blossom: the old woman that had peered out from the doorway of one of the shops, gesturing for Giselle to come closer. With a fleeting moment of panic, with memories of how she had nearly been claimed, Giselle had pretended not to see at first and then all but fled elsewhere when the woman started after her. At the time, Sadira had said nothing, and Giselle had thought that it was nothing more than an oddity of the marketplace.

“The guards?”

A shrug. “They are fools.”

The words were a relief. The last thing that Giselle needed was for the Sultan to become aware that there was a user of magic in his halls, especially one who seemed to be part of so strange and sudden a delegation. Giselle bit her lip, then reached across slowly, glancing to Sadira’s gaze for permission and at least receiving no protest, to let her fingers graze over the gold.

It burnt her skin. With a hiss, Giselle drew her hand away and stuck her fingers in a mouth, recovering only after a moment to pull them out. The skin was inflamed, but there was no serious damage. Nevertheless, she looked more cautiously at the charm a second time.

“The Sultan?”

Sadira paused a moment, then gave a grimace. “I don’t know. No tadhakar,” she said, tapping the said of her head. It was clear enough.

“I don’t know this magic,” said Giselle softly, still thinking of the land that felt uncomfortable beneath her feet. As the sand shifted beneath her steps, so did the magic of this place, evading her. “I don’t know what I can do.”

A look of resignation came over Sadira’s face, and she nodded as she released the neck of her robes and let them hide the gold from sight once again. Giselle wondered whether there had been other magic users over the years, others to whom Sadira had asked the same question, only to receive the same reply. Silence fell between the two women, and then without another word Sadira donned her veil again and left the room, the door all but booming closed behind her.
 
Chapter Ten

Ping returned at midday, when the sun was blazing down and Giselle was sitting in what shade she could find in the quarters, grateful that the plastered walls and tiled floor still felt at least a little cooler than the air. He looked around sternly, then the lines in his brow disappeared with his solder’s demeanour as he helped Giselle to her feet again.

“Did you have any luck in the market?” he said immediately.

She could only shake her head. “This land is strange to me. I have found what I can, but there will not be a lot of power to what I do. I have enough for a basic spell of protection, little more.”

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she could see that he was trying to smile. “I am sure it will do quite well.”

“What of your morning?” she replied.

A roll of the eyes. “The guards are undisciplined and rowdy, and they seem to have no fear of the Sultan. I have learnt a good deal more crude words today.”

Considering how well Ping had been able to joke even with the people of the caravan, Giselle could not help but smile at the thought.

“Hopefully,” he continued, “they will not be too difficult to overcome if need be.” He nodded towards his things. “The Dragon Sword has laughed at worse enemies.”

That much, at least, Giselle could be quite sure of. Ping did not talk much of his past, staying quieter even than Aurora, even when Giselle had bared hers to them. What of it they had not lived through with her, at least. But she had seen the dragon tattoo that moved on his back, and knew that no hand but his could now draw the sword from its scabbard. When Giselle had once tried to but touch the blade, the vial around her neck had become so cold that ice had formed on its surface, and she had shied away from it for some months afterwards.

Ping took a deep breath. “The Sultan and the Princess have asked that we dine with them, in something over an hour. They wish to talk with me.”

Of course, with Ping. Giselle was not sure whether to feel slighted or comforted by her own invisibility. She simply nodded. “Then we do not have much time. Come with me.”

They crossed back into the bathroom; both had looked it over quite thoroughly, and other than the panel within the bath it seemed to be quite secure. There was an astringent smell in the air, and salt crunched on the ground beneath their feet as Giselle knelt down, and motioned for Ping to do the same opposite her.

“There is dark magic throughout this Palace,” she said quietly. “Even here, I could feel its ripples. I cannot make this too powerful, or it would send waves back.”

Ping nodded; Giselle knew that he did not have much knowledge of the sorts of magic which she had found herself capable of, nor even of the magics of his homeland which had wrapped themselves around him. They were, and that was all. But he had seen her rituals before, as well as her more hurried castings, and understood at least that he should follow her words at all times.

She drew out the stone bowl she had found in the market, filled it with oil and set the already-soaked wick into it. A fingertip pressed it down into the oil, then a gesture of her hand made it rise out again, gently lighting as it did so.

“Bydyern,” she whispered, and the glow of the light became softer, warming as she ran her hands in circular motions around it. On the edge of the bowl she smeared salt, cloves and oil together, then took a silver coin beneath her fingertips and flattened it between them as if it was made of wax. Gently she smoothed it into a scoop, then used it to scrape up some of the reddish mixture from the edge of the bowl.

“Give me your hand,” she said, her eyes half-closed, and Ping proffered his palm to her. She took hold of it and drew it further forward, exposing his wrist; he did not struggle. The edge of the silver was bitingly cold as she drew a line across his wrist in the salt-oil blend.

“Meddyr nadothri,” she said, and the mixture tingled against his skin. It was not unpleasant, but made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Arbethyr nadothri. Gwranydd drysin caridiga.” Reaching up, she pulled a strand of her hair loose, and tied it loosely around Ping’s wrist. The oil dried to a faint stain on his skin, then disappeared.

Giselle drew a deep breath, squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, then opened them again and offered the silver once-coin to Ping. “Do the same,” she said. Her voice had gone hoarse, though it had been fine one moment before, and as he scooped up the red balm and drew a wobbly line on her wrist it rang clear again. “Meddyr nadothri, arbethyr nadothri. Arwn drysin caridiga.”

Ping reached up as if to take one of his hairs, but Giselle shook her head and plucked a second of her own, passing the red-gold strand to him. With a nod and a tied tongue, he looped the hair around Giselle’s wrist and managed to form it into a simple knot, pulled tight against her skin. Again, the balm faded to a stain on her wrist.

With a shiver, Giselle, drew back, rolling her wrist gently as if against some stiffness. “It is done,” she said softly. “All that I can, at least. I wish now that I had given some protection to Aurora, but it is likely that it would have been discovered...”

Her throat felt raw, and when she swallowed it was with a sharp stab of pain that made her wince. Ignoring it, she licked her fingers and pinched out the wick of the lamp, though it barely made a change in the brightly-lit room.

“Thank you, Giselle,” said Ping, and as rarely as he used her name it left her uncertain of whether to be afraid or comforted. He reached over to rest his hand lightly on her arm, his palm rough from the sword and warm against her cold skin. “I am sure that we will all be fine, and that we will find a settlement for this. Do not fear.”

“I will try not to,” she replied, and could offer no more.

 





Chapter Eleven

Giselle was veiled and robed again by the time that she followed Ping into the dining hall of the Sultan and Princess. Food had not yet been bought to their chambers, but there had been only two places set – one for the Sultan, the other clearly meant only for Ping – and now she knelt behind her companion as he sat opposite the rulers of the land.

The Sultan still wore his robes, or perhaps different ones made in just the same way, but this time the Princess was dressed in deep red, the colour of rubies – the colour of blood, Giselle’s mind added at a whisper – and less heavy with jewellery than she had been before. She sat with a cup of wine at her left hand, which she would occasionally raise beneath her translucent veil to sip at, and the same serving boy Aladdin behind her with a golden jug balanced on a platter.

Ping was speaking the language of the Kingdom, fluid and easy, and Giselle could not keep up with the speed of his words as he spoke to the grim-faced Sultan. It seemed that Sultan Jafar never smiled; his expression barely seemed to change, and when Giselle looked closely she could see a reddish glint deep in his eyes. It reminded her of the magic she had seen him forming, and her hands clenched to fists to avoid reaching once more for the vial at her neck. As if there was anything which it could have done against such power.

Time passed, her knees began to ache, and abruptly but with a sense of continuation she became aware of the Princess’s eyes fixed upon her. Giselle looked up from beneath her lashes, without raising her bowed head, to see Princess Jasmine rolling the stem of her goblet between her fingertips, her lips faintly curved in the fakest of smiles, her eyes less welcoming.

Could she know what her husband had been doing in the depths of the Palace? Giselle would not say that the Princess was much older than she, perhaps just past her twentieth year. She knew that the Sultan kept a harem and had heard that he had once been the vizier to the last Sultan.

She knew also that the last Sultan had died just weeks after his daughter’s wedding. The Princess was only sixteen, Ping had said, and there had been a touch of anger to the words.

Heavy bracelets lay upon the Princess’s wrists, glinting in the sunlight. They would likely be hot to the touch, Giselle realised, and as heavy as chains.

Her eyes met with the Princess’s for only a moment, then Ping’s voice rose in agitation and both looked round at the same time to turn towards him. Still in the tongue of the land, the Princess gently queried him, and there was a painful pause before Ping replied. Beneath the table, his hand slipped towards the top of his boot, where a dagger lay, then Giselle watched as his fingers slowly shifted back again.

The words had a resignation about them. Ping spoke further, with a gesture to Giselle, and the Princess nodded with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Sadly, the Sultan and Princess will not be able to entertain our company this evening,” he said, glancing towards rather than over his shoulder. It was the same gesture that she had seen the guards use to Sadira, or the men in the marketplace to women following behind them. “They are needed elsewhere.”

The hand, lying flat on his thigh.

“They ask whether we would prefer to dine in our quarters this evening, or whether we would rather meet with some of the court of this land.”

“Our quarters will be quite acceptable, sir,” said Giselle, and Ping gave an infinitesimal nod at the trigger word. Tonight they would not need Ping, with his languages and soldier camaraderie and leadership. Tonight they would need Mulan, with her wits and tricks and bravery in the face of what could seem terrible.

“Would it be possible for us to meet again with the seer whom we bought to this land?” said Ping, rather suddenly. Giselle held her breath at the bold move, and saw the twitch of the Princess’s lips as she must have drawn them in just slightly. “I would wish to settle any fears which she has, in her own tongue.”

“Impossible,” said the Princess; the Sultan did not respond, not so much as move. There was perhaps half a beat before she added: “Unfortunately. Her presence is required elsewhere tonight.”

The image of Aurora wreathed in flames. A giant sand-cat, closing its great mouth upon her.

Ping inclined his head. “My apologies, your Highness. I understand completely and thank you for the extension of your hospitality at such a time.”

Giselle found her eyes drawn to the golden scarab that nestled between the Princess’s breasts, its pincers raised upwards, its belly glinting green in the sunlight. It did not match her other clothes.

“It is no problem, my guest,” the Princess said, interrupting any thoughts that could have followed. “After all, you have given us a great gift. It is only right that we should give you something in return.”

This time when Ping spoke again, it was in the tongue of the land, and Giselle closed her eyes for a moment to let them continue. It did not pass for long, then Ping said something that sounded as if he was excusing himself, helped Giselle to her feet – she mentally cursed one of her feet for going numb – before they left the room. He was frowning, not even attempting to hide it, and by the time that they returned to their halls Giselle could already guess that he would begin packing immediately.

Ping did not disappoint her; it took them almost no time at all to pack, and then armour and swords were being produced once again. “The Sultan said that they would be leaving within a couple of hours, no more. He did not say where they were going, but if they are to be there and back before nightfall then it cannot be the greatest of distances.”

“It may be that they do not intend to return before nightfall,” said Giselle pointedly, drawing up her sleeve to strap one of her knives in place there. She put one hand on her companion’s shoulder, then reached up and loosed the ribbon holding their hair in place. Mulan sighed, and returned with a softening of her shoulders.

“You are right. The desert is not the best place for tracking, either.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I would feel the pull of such magic anywhere.”

“Very well. Here, do you have a second set of robes? We will need to leave the Palace unnoticed.” Giselle handed them over, and Mulan wrestled them on, muttering beneath her breath from time to time as she sought to get them into the right place. Once her veil was in place, neither of them would be looked twice at, and they wrapped up what belongings they had outstanding into bundles. “Meet me at the southern gate,” Mulan added as she started towards the door. “They do not bother to guard it. You will be able to make your way through the passages?”

She should have known that was to come; Giselle swallowed nervously, but nodded, and handed over her pack to Mulan as well with slightly shaking hands. She was very aware of the hair tied around her wrist as she watched Mulan leave, head bowed, not speaking, then turned and made her way back to the passages which she had seen once before.

In the day, and with less magic being done, the air was less oppressive and the sand seemed less loud beneath her feet as she made her way through the narrow stone ways. At the same junction as before she took this time the left path, following it to a spiral staircase that went down a short way before levelling out to a corridor. A wooden lattice formed part of the wall on her left side, at eye-height, and she could not help but pause and glance through it, and the sheer fabric on the other side, to the room behind.

A woman stood with her back to Giselle, long black hair reaching down beyond her waist, wearing only a pair of loose black pants that shimmered in the light. As Giselle watched, she reached up to wind her hair into a loose bun, exposing the golden skin of her back. It was marred and striped with silver scars, and Giselle found it impossible to suppress the gasp that came from her.

The woman hesitated, then slowly began to turn. Before she could look all the way around, Giselle turned and fled, heart pounding in her chest and vial burning on her skin. She barely stopped until she found herself at the end of one of the passages, which mercifully opened out behind a wall-hanging into a deserted corridor. The cast of the shadows from the windows gave her enough direction, and she made her way to the same doors that she and Sadira had used earlier, the guards glancing at her momentarily but not sparing her too much interest. She let her fingers brush against the hilt of her knife, but did not need it, and as the south gate came into view she saw a similarly black-clad figure, this time with three horses standing beside her.

Samson was shifting uneasily, eyes wide and head moving in flighty flicks. Giselle made a hushing sound and stroked his nose gently, but it did not still him altogether, nor did a hand run through his mane. “Come on,” said Mulan softly, “we should get out of here. There is only one set of gates to the city, and we should find somewhere within sight of it to wait.”

Part One | Part Two | Part Three