Jemshed

1

S eeing the faithful old war hound, Darkness, lying in his usual spot outside his father’s bedchamber door, Prince Jem slowed the headlong rush that had outpaced his following guard. 0nly as he drew near did he notice, in the hallway’s flickering torchlight, the dark pool spreading across the floor from the animal’s neck. Recognizing its source, he panicked again, the sword in his right hand momentarily forgotten. He flung his massive frame bodily at the door. It splintered, giving way with a crash that reverberated along the corridors. By the night light’s dim glow he could see, supine on his bed, the still form of Tahmoures, Shahanshāh, King of Kings, supreme ruler of Persia. A dark shape bent over it.

To Jem, the figure seemed at least his equal in height, but much broader. It leaned forward slightly as if unable to stand fully upright. The head was massive and ugly. By the dim light he could see the thick brow-ridges below a large, flattened, elongated skull with receding jaw. Its chest was a huge barrel, the upper arms disproportionately long; the short forearms and enormous hands reached almost to its slightly bent knees. The whole appearance suggested vast physical strength.

With a deep hiss the creature turned in his direction. The blunt fingers, tipped with nails sharpened like talons, reached for him. Jem momentarily felt fear with the realization he was facing a daeva.

Holy Ormuzd, help me, he said aloud. As if in response, a shimmering multi-hued aura just for a moment seemed to flicker about him and his sword. The daeva halted in apparent surprise. In that moment Jem felt as if he had the strength of a dozen. Enraged, and fearful at what the apparition may have done to his father, Jem flung himself at the creature without thought for his own safety. With all his might he swung—a backhand stroke that connected with the demon’s thick neck, severing its head in one blow. It fell, rolling across the floor as the body slumped, withering and shrinking as he watched. Something that looked like black smoke emanated from the disjoined neck. By the time the body lay on the floor it was a mere husk that dissipated too into the vapour already heading for the open window. Jem chased it, wildly but ineffectually slashing his sword through the mist. He halted at the window as it vanished into the night sky.

Still fearful, he ran back to the bed and his father’s still form.

Father, he called, repeating the word more loudly when there was no response. Bending over him, Jem gazed fearfully at the familiar scarred face. Can you hear me?

Reaching out with his left hand, his fingers gently pressed on the Shah’s neck, feeling for the carotid artery’s pulse as Sepid had taught him. Noting its insubstantial flutter, a frightened look showed on his face as he turned to the guard now standing inside the doorway.

Find the Queen and the Vizier and ask them to come. Hurry. Then go to Sepid’s room and bring him here quickly.

Saluting, the guard turned to run out the door, almost tripping over the hound’s body in his haste. Jem turned again to his father. He bent over the iron-whiskered form, listening for his breath. The shallow airflow was barely discernible.

No, Father, no! Wake up, he shouted. In his desperate fear, with his left hand he delivered a resounding thump to the centre of his father’s chest. After a moment’s stillness, the Shahanshāh drew a shuddering breath. Jem saw the pulse in his father’s neck give two quick beats before starting a strong normal rhythm again. Tahmoures’ eyelids fluttered before opening fully.

Jem, what are you doing here? The Shah spoke slowly, his speech slurred as if he was still half-asleep.

Father, something was trying to kill you. It got Darkness.

Something? The voice was stronger now.

Yes. It was a daeva, I think. I cut off its head, but its body turned into smoke and disappeared out the window. Failing to notice the sudden look of surprise on his father’s face, he gestured towards the opening, where curtains still swayed in the night breeze.

The prince took two paces forward and reached for the creature’s head where it still lay.

Don’t touch it! The sharp order caused Jem to pause and look at his father.

Why?

That’s the head of Arzang, one of Ahriman’s almost immortal lieutenants. I fought him when we defeated the daevas. Look at his eyes—they’re still open. While they are, Ahriman can use his powers to see through them even though the creature is dead. Tahmoures spoke urgently. Get a heavy cloth and wrap it. We must burn it before Ahriman has a chance to regenerate him from it.

Regenerate? As he spoke Jem snatched up a brocade rug from the bed, securely wrapping the grisly trophy.

Yes, son. Ahriman and his lieutenants are magicians of the Elder Race. They’ve learned how to become almost immortal. Unless we stop it, Ahriman can make the body revivify from its skull. The only way to stop him is to burn the head, sift the ashes and cast them to the winds.

A wondering thought occurred to Jem. Father, if they’re immortal, how did you ever defeat Ahriman’s army?

The Shah’s face was grim. Ahriman can regenerate only those of his people with strong magical powers. The rest are just as mortal as we are, though generally longer-lived. We beat Ahriman because he underestimated us. Our Mubids had also learned strong magic, enough to counter most of his. But it will need to be even stronger now if we have to face him again. He glanced at the brocade-wrapped object. That must be burned as soon as possible.

Will that be the end of Arzang then?

Not necessarily. His spirit will remain earth-bound, an evil influence, but there is very little physical harm he can do. Any remaining ashes will be useless to Ahriman. The Shah drew a deep breath, looking sharply at Jem. Now tell me, my son, how did you come to be here?

I was walking on the battlements, Father, when suddenly I had a powerful feeling that you were in grave danger. I ran here to check, and saw Darkness’ body outside your door. That’s when I knew for certain that something was badly wrong.

Tahmoures looked surprised and sad. What happened to Darkness?

I think Arzang killed him. His throat has been slashed.

Tahmoures’ gaze turned inwards for a few moments, face mirroring his sadness. My poor old friend. He deserved a better end than that.

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance in the doorway of a panting Queen Arnavāz, a flimsy gown thrown loosely over her sleeping robes. She was tall for a woman, only half a head shorter than her husband. Though she was approaching middle age, the Queen was still extraordinarily beautiful with her pale, perfect features and black hair that, loosened, fell almost to her slim waist. The loose gown only partially concealed a figure any man would think eminently desirable, but her dark eyes showed a concern bordering on fear. The Queen was closely followed by portly Saydās the Vizier, also still in his night robes, red-faced and wheezing from the unaccustomed exertion. The beautiful consort looked distraught, striving to hold back tears. Gasping as she stepped around Darkness’ inert form, she paused in the doorway at the sight of her husband before running to hug him, sobbing as she clung.

Saydās followed a little more sedately. What happened, my lord? he said between gasps.

Tahmoures related the events, his arms still tightly enfolding Arnavāz. He looked about. Where is Sepid?

As he spoke the guard appeared again in the doorway, panting and looking agitated. Your Highnesses, I’ve knocked on Lord Sepid’s chamber door, but there’s no response. I could hear sounds inside like someone groaning.

The guard stepped back as, without a word Jem, sword still in his hand, turned and raced out the door. He leapt Darkness’ stiffening body, running up a flight of stairs and along a corridor to Sepid’s bedchamber. Raising his hand to knock, he heard a low-pitched moan within. At once he wrenched the door open. Writhing on his bed was the fair-skinned daeva, his eyes closed, face contorted as if in agony. Jem looked about, but could see no one else in the room as he half-expected. Still holding the sword, he ran to the bed. With his left hand the prince shook his friend and teacher by the shoulder.

Sepid, he shouted.

The pale daeva became still, opening his eyes wide as if in surprise. Jem! I was dreaming you and I were tied up in a cave. Ahriman forced me to watch him torturing you. Noticing for the first time the weapon still in Jem’s hand he continued, What are you doing with that sword?

Jem briefly explained what had occurred. Sepid gasped when told of the young man’s encounter with Arzang. He swung his legs off the bed. How did you know to cut his head off? The only other way to stop him so quickly would be to smash his skull with a mace.

I didn’t stop to think. I just swung as hard as I could.

Thank Holy Ormuzd you did.

*     *     *

In a vast cavern on fiery Mount Demawend, Humān the daeva crouched, as usual, in fear. Like the others around him, both male and female, he wore only a loincloth in the volcanic warmth. The cavern was heated and lit by the huge fire flaring in a pit at the cave’s centre. Fed by gases from deep within the earth, it was never extinguished. By long habit, the cowering daeva tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible—not an easy task in the presence of a master who seemed aware of every movement. Unable to tear away his gaze, Humān watched his huge lord pacing back and forth in the daevas’ peculiar shuffling gait. Ahriman’s black eyes seemed to flash with the fire of his anger as a seething multitude of lesser daevas cowered before him. Their expressions, or at least those of the frightened minions he could see, ranged from anger nearly as deep as their lord’s, through fear, to curiosity, to mere ennui.

Humān sought anonymity, and thus refuge from the taunts of his brother daevas, by carefully shielding his mind. But sometimes their thoughts still intruded on his. He hoped they could not read his mind as easily as he did theirs, because that would only mean trouble for him—something he was constantly at pains to avoid. Despite his own bulk, Humān, like the others, was cowed by his immense master.

The timid daeva’s skin was paler than most of his fellows—almost as pale as his brother Sepid. He shuddered and peeked fearfully about, head still lowered. I dare not even think my brother’s name. No matter how much I love him, in Lord Ahriman’s eyes he’s a turncoat and a traitor. Nearly everyone else here thinks the same.

He remembered again, with another frightened shiver, Ahriman’s towering rage on learning that Sepid had sworn fealty to the Shahanshāh. The Lord of Daevas would never understand how any of his people could declare loyalty to one of the Lesser Race—usurpers, all. From that moment, and for all the years since, Humān had been the butt of abuse, torments, and unprovoked assaults to which he dared not retaliate.

They never even try to understand. My brother only wanted to make peace between the Races.

The doleful daeva remembered his many deep humiliations, of being forced to perform the most menial of tasks among his fellows as some sort of vicarious punishment for his brother’s betrayal. Ahriman could never fathom what induced Sepid to offer his loyalty to the Shah. Humān felt alone, insignificant, despised because of his brother—no matter how much he tried to prove his own fidelity.

None of the throng, even those whose outward manner suggested boredom, seemed able to tear his eyes away from the huge form striding almost frenziedly back and forth before them. Ahriman’s skin was dark as deepest night; his twitching movements, with eyes that seemed to glow in the fire’s reflected light, suggested he was moved by great emotion: his face twisted in a rage that seemed without focus. The faintly sulphurous flames at the cavern’s centre were mostly yellow tinged with red. Strange shapes and colours formed and re-formed in their dancing movement, causing distortions to the appearance of the Dark One’s face even as his shadow flickered on the walls.

How could the son have known his father was in danger? I watched through Arzang’s eyes. He did nothing that should have aroused suspicion. Yet the father still lives and the boy gains strength. I made sure Sepid could not interfere, so who warned him?

Ahriman turned to search the faces of his followers. Where’s Humān? It must be his fault. His eyes found and held their target. Come here, you cringing clump of cretinous canker.

Ahriman extended one hand towards the ever-servile Humān. At a twitch of his master’s finger the trembling daeva found himself unable to resist as his traitor feet brought him towards his lord.

What did you do, worm? How did you warn them without anyone knowing?

Humān’s attempt to stop his trembling was unsuccessful. My lord, I did nothing. I am loyal only to your Lordship. I told no one of your plans. He shook his head. My brother never tries to contact me. Arzang must have been careless.

Ahriman held Humān’s eyes, staring deep into them, seeking answers that were not forthcoming. Pah. You’re scared of your own shadow. But if you didn’t warn them, who did? And how could a mere boy kill Arzang with a sword that wasn’t even enchanted? For just a moment his face seemed touched by a deep fear as his eyes darted about the cavern. He spoke in little more than a whisper, as if voicing a thought. Is my power waning after all these years?

Humān chose to ignore the second question. I don’t know how he did it, Master. Perhaps the Shah’s Mubids had something to do with it.

Those charlatans? Their combined power has the strength of a snowflake in the desert sun. They could never face me. To keep them distracted, I made sure his precious dolphins left. He raised his voice, turning to the throng about him. No, we won’t let this setback turn us from the main prize.

The demon lord pointed to another of his daevas, a short, slightly misshapen female figure at the edge of the group. You, Jahi, go to Merv. Use your human disguises. Talk to the people, help Akwan stir up resentment against Tahmoures’ rule.

He turned again, pointing to another. Shabrang, go to Balkh. Make trouble there too. If we can deprive him of loyal followers in his own capitals, our victory will be both easy and inevitable.

The demon lord called to another of his minions. Nanghait, you will go to the White Castle. Remain invisible to them. I want to find out how they knew to stop Arzang. Go now, each of you.

Unnoticed again, Humān crept back to the far wall where he cowered once more, trying as always to remain inconspicuous. The pale daeva watched as, without replying to their master, the three nominated ones bowed. Each muttering the mantra for levitation, they made their way to the cave’s entrance, pausing only briefly before launching themselves into the cloud-covered night sky.

*     *     *

Near the docks in the port city of Askálōn, at the eastern end of the Inland Sea, a slim, youthful-looking warrior sat atop a magnificent snow-white mare. Startlingly blue eyes watching a galley being rowed beyond the harbour’s breakwater to the open sea. The shape of the polished bronze armour clearly showed the rider was female. Her face revealed a beauty that might have softened the hardest heart, but the determined tilt to her chin suggested a strong will. Long blonde hair cascaded from beneath helmet and over cloak. Twin swords, one on each hip, sat in ornately decorated scabbards.

The young woman saw the ship heel slightly as the square sail was hoisted to catch the quickening offshore breeze. It seemed to increase speed as if anxious to leave harbour.

The rider at her side, also a beautiful young woman, dark-haired and a little shorter than her companion, was mounted on an equally magnificent bay mare. Her bronze armour and shield, covered in snakeskin, indicated she was an Amazon. She wore just one sword, on her left. Both women carried ustrung bows on saddles that also bore several quivers of arrows. New, bulging leather saddlebags hung on either side, while a bedroll was tied behind each rider’s seat. It was clear they were about to start a journey.

In unison they turned their horses, walking them to a male of apparently middle years who stood watching them and waiting a little distance away, closer to the town. Nearing him, they both firmly gripped the reins of mounts that shied and pranced as if suddenly nervous.

A giant, he stood taller on foot than they were, mounted. His huge head bore a close-fitting steel skullcap over blond hair whose straggly ends protruded from beneath; his pale features were coarse with prominent eyebrow ridges and a jutting, almost beardless chin. A knee-length coat of chain-mail hung from beneath a massive steel breastplate. The riders could see the huge double-bladed battle-axe slung over his back like a mammoth captive butterfly.

His voice was a rumbling bass drum as he addressed the blonde rider. Well, Princess Philomela, the new steel armour’s ready for both of you. I personally supervised its forging. You’ll both have to wear padding to make it a snug fit, but it’ll still be lighter, stronger and more comfortable than the bronze you’re wearing now. His expression softened to what might have been interpreted as a grin. Our smiths are the best.

Did they make my helmet larger so that I can put up my hair? I think leaving it down the way it is will only attract unnecessary attention.

The giant’s normal scowl lightened, as if he were attempting a smile. We did, Princess. I think you’ll find it fits you perfectly. We’ve also made both of you ankle-length white robes and head coverings of light cotton to ward off the sun. Where you’re going, you’ll need that, if this long winter ever ends. He glanced at the sky, his normal frown seeming to soften for a moment as he looked back at them. You know you’re both welcome to stay with us as long as you like, but I suppose you’ll be wanting to leave immediately.

Philomela smiled. As soon as we can, Repha. Iphito has to find her people a new home after her country was ruined by the earthquakes and tidal waves that caused the Empire’s destruction.

A puzzled frown momentarily furrowed the giant’s brow. He turned to the other rider. Princess Iphito, forgive me asking, but your people have always been a seafaring nation. There is little water in the direction you’re going, and little land where you could establish a new home without having to fight for it. Why do you travel into the desert instead of using your fleet to find somewhere?

Our fleet is searching, Repha. It’s scattered around both the Inland Sea and the shores of the Western Ocean. We wanted to search the shores of the Inhospitable Sea, but Ílion jealously guards the only place that allows entry. Since the disaster, my people don’t yet have the strength to challenge them, so Philomela and I are searching for an overland route. If we find somewhere suitable, my sister the Queen can concentrate all our forces and dare Ílion to stop us.

Repha’s answering grunt was unintelligible, but he nodded as if he understood.

Philomela looked at him. My brother asked me to thank you for helping Iphito and me prepare for our journey. We’re both grateful for everything you’ve done.

It’s nothing. My people are still in your brother’s debt for bringing us here to our new home. The giant paused, then added as if in afterthought, How is he?

Since the floods and sea-level changes that followed the destruction of the Empire’s homelands, he’s been kept busy trying to consolidate his hold on Attiké and maintain peace with our neighbours. After Father died most of them, except Herakles’ father, seemed to think they could take advantage of a new and untested king. Her quick smile showed little mirth. They forgot it was he who showed us how to defeat the Empire. Some had to be reminded. She cast a quick glance at her companion who grinned at the memory.

I was sorry to hear of your father’s death, Princess. He was a good man.

Thank you, Repha. Philomela smiled again, with more warmth this time. And thank you for having your sons escort us to Tudmur. It’s very kind of you and them. We both appreciate it.

The giant smiled—it seemed more like a grimace, but the gentle tone that followed suggested it was meant kindly. They’re looking forward to the adventure. Life here in Askálōn has been too tame for them since the war ended. He turned away saying, I should make sure my sons are ready. Come and see me, both of you, before you set out.

As Repha walked off, Philomela turned to her companion. Iphito, are you sure you want me to accompany you on this quest? I don’t have much experience in travelling roughly. It’s not too late for me to find a ship back to Athênai.

I’m sure you’ll be fine. Her companion grinned. After all, you’re an Amazon-trained warrior. I can’t think of a travelling companion I’d prefer. Iphito’s expression saddened. She seemed almost to be reminiscing aloud as she continued, You know after the shocks and tidal waves almost destroyed Hespera, we decided to seek a seashore that’s a bit quieter. As the younger sister of the Queen, I’m the best one to undergo a quest like this. If Myriné was away too long some of the more ambitious might try to usurp her throne.

Doesn’t she need your help at home?

No. That’s another reason I’m going. I’m not needed to ensure continuation of the monarchy now that Myriné has a daughter. She looked at her companion. Does Erech know he’s a father again?

I’m sure he does. He never mentions Myriné by name, but he has a drawing of her in his private chamber. She looked up at the charcoal sky. Is it my imagination, or is the smoke and ash cloud lessening at last? The sun seems a little brighter today.

It has been more than a year, but we’re also further away from the destruction here. Perhaps that’s the reason. Iphito sighed. The clouds from the eruptions were bad enough, but they didn’t do as much damage to Hespera as the tidal waves and earth tremors. Our whole coastline is changed. The Marsh of Tritonis no longer exists. Cherronesus was badly damaged, too. Myriné has her hands full trying to cope. She ordered the treasury almost emptied to compensate the families of people killed, but some still say she should have done more.

The other sighed in sympathy. It seems no matter how much rulers do for their subjects, some are never satisfied. She turned her horse’s head. Let’s get to the smithy and try on our new armour. We’ve a long way to go. Repha’s sons, Sihon and Anak, will be waiting. You know how impatient giants are.

Yes, My Lady.

And that’s another thing. There’s no need to defer to me. You’re a princess like me, and also my friend. I’m just Philomela.

2

A pproaching sunrise’s pastel salmon suffused the eastern sky as the tall, craggy figure of Shahanshāh Tahmoures, now recovered from his ordeal, paced back and forth. Alone, he gazed from the tall stone tower that topped the White Castle’s keep. After last night’s aborted attempt on his life, Tahmoures wore his bronze scale armour over a knee-length undercoat of chain mail. From habit, his right hand rested on his sword belt while his left unconsciously stroked his curled beard. A jewelled scabbard at his side held the legendary enchanted sword Zaldana, Bringer of Eternal Peace, while a matt-black shield that bore his armorial device of a stooping eagle emblazoned in polished silver, rested beside his helmet against the wall before him. From the solitude of the tower he gazed out to sea towards Blue Dolphin Island while he considered last night’s events.

It’s not my choice, but Ahriman is making another war inevitable. I thought he would never threaten us again after his humiliation last time. Obviously I’ve underestimated him. Perhaps I should have killed him when I had the chance. Next time.

Tahmoures shrugged his broad shoulders. He heard the door behind him opening. At the soft footfall he said, turning slowly, Yes, Tahmineh, what is it?

The newcomer, a girl in her late teens, showed no surprise that her father knew who approached. Taller than her mother, she wore a long silken gown of pale blue, belted with a golden cord, that did nothing to disguise her shapely but athletic figure. Her long dark hair fell loosely below her shoulders; her pale, Peri-like face tilted upwards towards her father as her blue eyes showed her concern. The princess asked quietly, What will you do about last night, father?

Ahriman has declared war on me. I have no choice—I must face him again.

Tahmineh stood beside her father. Only a half-head shorter than he, she slipped an arm around his waist. Slim, unlike both her father and older brother, the Shah knew she was far stronger than she looked. Like Jem, she had been trained by Sepid in all the martial skills. She had all her mother’s grace and beauty. Despite her youth she was also a fully trained Mubid.

With a worried frown she looked at her father’s shoulder-length dark hair and beard, both streaked with grey though carefully groomed. His face, craggy as the mountains behind him, bore the marks of many battles; no scar more extensive than that which stretched from hairline to cheekbone, neatly bisecting an empty left eye socket protected by a black patch. The Shahanshāh had the look of a someone familiar with war’s changing fortunes.

Gently, Tahmineh touched the warrior’s arm. Father, you look worn out. Don’t worry so much. Your people will rally round you, as they did before. Why don’t you come back downstairs? I’ll call Azdahāg later, if you like. She might be willing to help us.

He made no immediate response, looking around the crenellated white granite tower on which he stood, then down to the outer walls below. The keep’s square tower rose to almost twice the height of the surrounding fortress. The White Castle, the Shah’s winter residence, was far from his principal capital of Balkh in the freezing highlands to the north. Tahmoures’ eye roved over a structure he had personally laboured to help build: its clifftop perch, battlements more than four times the height of a man on horseback—a mighty hexagonal fortress. The huge blocks in the outer walls were of the same white granite, each a man’s height and twice as long. At last he turned to his daughter.

What in the name of Holy Ormuzd caused Ahriman to launch this attack now, Tahmineh?

The warrior king stood motionless, ignoring the crashing waves that spent themselves on jumbled rocks at the cliff’s base, his pale blue eye’s gaze now fixed on a point near the southern horizon. There lay a small dark island whose narrow central spire stood like a sentinel against the leaden sky. He could see the white line of surf pounding its rocky shore, the low mist formed by wind-driven spray blurring its outline. Tahmoures could faintly see gulls wheeling and soaring in the air currents, but no sign of the blue dolphins for which the island was famous. And what’s happened to the dolphins?

Who knows the mind of Ahriman, father? I’m sure he’s behind their disappearance. Perhaps he still resents you and tries to invoke the prophecy. Should I call Azdahāg? she asked again.

Later, perhaps. The warrior picked up his shield, slinging it across his back and donning his helmet. He gently touched her elbow, saying, I’ve seen enough for the moment. Come along, Tahmineh, your mother will be waiting for us.

Together they walked to the door, down the tower’s stairs and along corridors to the castle’s great hall. The king handed his arms and accoutrements to a waiting attendant before mounting the Crystal Throne. Princess Tahmineh took up her accustomed seat before him and to one side. As the Shah settled himself, Saydās approached, bowing. His expression showed his concern. My lord, have you recovered from last night?

He nodded. Yes, thank you Saydās. Have the Mubids increased their wards in case of more attacks?

Her Majesty is with them at the moment, my lord. Shall I call her?

No, let them finish. The warrior looked across from his crystal throne to his consort’s vacant golden seat, noting as he did the empty space between, where Darkness, his battle-scarred old war hound, used to sit.

Goodbye Darkness, my faithful old friend, he thought. May Holy Ormuzd grant you as mighty a pack to defend the higher realm as you led on Earth.

The old war hound’s progeny, nearly a thousand of them, that Tahmoures referred to as the Sons of Darkness, frequently formed the vanguard of his army. They invariably created panic in the ranks of opposing armies. Dread of disembowelment or throats torn out by these ferocious unrelenting adversaries brought almost as much fear to his enemies as did the thought of facing the Shah’s mace or his enchanted sword. As these memories fleetingly crossed his mind he wondered if, perhaps, it was because the hounds, like most animals, seemed unaffected by daevas’ apparently magical abilities to confound or confuse an enemy by seeming suddenly to change shape or appearance.

The Shah looked around the room. Saydās, where is Prince Jem?

In the training yards with Sepid, my lord. Your son felt the need for action after the events of last night. The vizier could not completely hide his look of concern. Her Majesty and the other Mubids have locked the scrying-room’s door and ordered that they not be disturbed. They’re trying to foresee what Ahriman intends.

That shouldn’t take long. What he did last night is his declaration of war. We all thought after his defeat he would never worry us again. Obviously we were wrong.

Saydās nodded. My lord, even though you once enslaved him, it seems he has managed to break the magic that bound him. It must have been weakening over the years without our realizing it. Our Mubids say he’s preparing to attack your northern capital.

Attack Merv? How’s this possible without anyone knowing?

Tahmoures could see his vizier was worried. They say Ahriman used his magic, enslaving to his will those who would have informed us.

His power has grown so much? Can our Mubids’ magic no longer match him?

Perhaps so, my lord.

The Shah frowned. Is this linked with the disappearance of the dolphins, Saydās?

Her Majesty believes it is. Never before have they all vanished at once. How he did it we don’t know, since they’re not susceptible to daeva magic.

The discussion was interrupted by the sound of shouting and laughter outside the hall. Tahmoures looked up as the great double doors burst open. Two figures entered the room, becoming suddenly still and silent as they saw the Shahanshāh on his throne. Jem, blue-eyed and dark-haired, still barely twenty but nonetheless powerfully-built and tall as his father, stood beside Sepid, paler than most of his race but with a daeva’s build and eyes the colour of midnight. Though slightly shorter than the youth he was barrel-chested, solid as only a member of the Elder Race could be. Both were unarmed. Jem, dressed in a short knee-length tunic belted at the waist, wore oiled leather sandals on otherwise bare feet. Sepid’s bare, heavily muscled upper body shone with sweat. A loose kilt fell to above his knees. He also wore leather sandals.

Both came to stand before the Shah, heads bowed.

I’m sorry, father. The young man tried without much success to look serious. We didn’t realize you’d already started the day’s audience.

Jem, I know at your age it’s almost impossible to contain your exuberance, but try to leave it in the practice yards. Sepid, Tahmoures glanced at the other, "you’re his mentor. As well as teaching him battle skills and something of your other arts, I