Prince of Persia 1. Chapter 1

**Third Chance**

Author: Gege

Category: Romance/Adventure, peppered with a dash of humor

Summary: Treasure, magic, love, princesses and thieves, flying carpets and dastardly foes, ancient knowledge and dark gods are abound, though not necessarily in this order!

Beta: none, and I would be glad for any help, as English isn't my first language

Rating: T, for the moment

Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Persia, but it's alright, because the folks at Ubi are doing a really great job

She gasps. Air fills her lungs, burning air, welcome air. The first breath after so many long hours. Frozen blood comes alive as her heart beats for the first time; it feels as if liquid fire courses through her veins. Muscles that grew rigid in the cold of death agonizingly stretch once more. Energy fills her, unearthly power, magic that _should not be_.

Her eyes snap open and her back arches high as she convulses in intense pain, not unlike that of birth's. Very, very few walk under the blue skies of this earth, who know what it feels like to return from the Beyond, and none who were lucky or cursed enough to experience it twice.

She sits up slowly, feeling fainter than the _first time_ she returned from the dead. With a dreadful, sinking feeling, she takes in the familiar surroundings, the high gates of the Temple, the cold marble altar of her people, and the Tree of Life stretching upwards, towards the high heavens, larger than eternity. Yet the roots of this glorious tree cover the most terrible secret in this world, hiding the resting place of a fallen god. Her gaze drifts from the mighty building to the worried face of her resurrecter.

The Prince, the concubine called him. Sharp features and a few days of stubble, framed by his scarf. His glacier-blue eyes are filled with worry instead of the usual insolent smirk, as he seeks her eyes. The realization sinks in.

_Men will do stupid things for women._

He betrayed her, just like her father before him, and all the sacrifices, all that she lived for, all that she died for, is null and void. She feels the very fabric of reality shaking as Ahriman breaks free of the last of his shackles. All she can do is breathe out one word, filled with unspeakable hurt before she collapses into the welcome arms of unconsciousness.

'Why?'

She does not feel when the Prince lifts her lithe body, cradling her in his arms, but she regains her consciousness for a moment when the world explodes around them. She feels his intense gaze, yet she turns away, unable to meet his eyes. She feels empty, like never before. There is nothing left. No fertile grounds, no temple, no Tree of Life, no City of the Light. No hope for mankind. All that she knew, all that ever mattered, has fallen.

Ahriman is free, and the man who carries her is the reason for that. Betrayed is the word that describes her feelings most. She gave all she had, more than anyone could have asked for, more, more and more, and it was not enough. In the end even her sacrifice, her noble death was stripped away from her by this… _stranger_, someone who did not even divulge his name. And the heart wrenching feeling of hopelessness is infected with the tiniest bit of guilty gladness, that yet, she lives, once again, defying all odds.

The sky darkens above them, and the scorching heat of this forsaken desert is overcome by the icy cold of death and decay. The storm of Corruption rages around them, with dark tendrils snapping at their heels, still, they leave the valley of the Ahura unharmed. The shock of being alive again still makes her weak, and the steps of the Prince do not falter carrying her weight, not even once. She is too tired, too drained physically and emotionally to protest against being held this close to him.

Then suddenly it's over. The cacophonic noise stills as the Prince takes the last steps leading out of the valley, and suddenly there is clear, azure sky stretching above them to the horizon. The otherworldly wind that tugged at them wildly is gone, only the constant, light breeze of the desert remains, caused by the entirely mundane shifting of hot and cold air. She slowly opens the eyes that were clenched shut, at the sudden peace. Maybe they have died. Maybe this was all a dream in the afterlife. The blinding light hurts her sensitive eyes; eyes that got used to the dark of corruption in the last couple of hours.

Was it only hours? Was it days? The mad dash through the crumbling capital of a once vast empire, trying to do the impossible, to reach all the chains that once bound a god, racing against an unseen clock. And for a moment she dared to believe that they have succeeded. That she can finally rest in peace, her final task complete. Bitterness fills her again. The world is done for. Who could resist Ahriman, unleashed once more, roaming the Earth unchecked?

Her dark thoughts are interrupted by a rude sound; the loud, happy braying of a thirsty donkey. Strong arms lower her to the ground and place her gently on the sand. He says softly,

'Stay here, okay?' She doesn't acknowledge him, even hearing his voice fills her with helpless rage. Raising to his feet once again, he turns to the still braying donkey, that trots over to them.

'Farah!' Patting her head, he start to looks through the disheveled packs still bound to the animal's back.

'There you are, good girl, good girl!' and answering the insistent donkey,

'Yes, I know you are hungry and thirsty, just give me one second, oooh here you go, just don't drink like a pig' He puts one of the waterskins to the dehydrated animals mouth and gives her the full content, then puts the fodder on her neck.

'You are good girl, you found me, you found me', He continues to talk soothingly, and keeps patting her head. 'Now eat, and stay still while I check your bags.' Elika moves for the first time in the past minutes, raising her body from the sand, and looks up. Even though she is

trembling with fury, she can't help the feeling of, well, _normalcy_ she feels seeing the perfectly domestic scene, Man Taking Care of Donkey. The serenity is shattered when the man reaches into one of the carefully closed bags and pulls out a couple of trinkets that shine brightly in the noon sun. Gold. _A king's ransom_, she remembers. Grabbing another waterskin, he closes the few steps to her lying form, and puts it into her trembling hands. Like hot and cold, the fury is gone, and despair took its place.

'Why?' she asks once again, her voice quivering. His answer is quite unlike him, soft spoken and almost apologetic.

'You must drink, you need strength. We need to get away fast.'

'WHY!?' she screams throwing the waterskin far away. It lands with a thud and the life giving wetness starts to seep out the half open cork. He walks swiftly to pick it up, then turns back to her. He kneels next to her, his face dead serious; there is no half smile playing on his lips.

'Who do you think sent me to your kingdom?'

'WHAT?' She screams at him, too angry to hear his words.

'Who. Do. You. Think. Sent. Me?' He grabs her so strongly that his fingers are going to leave marks, and the waterskin falls to the ground, forgotten, while he forms the words one by one.

Magic wells up in Elika, rising to meet her need for death of another. She feels the blinding-white flames dance under the skin of her palm, yearning to burn, to consume. She hisses back at him, through clenched teeth.

'Let go of me.' He eases his grip and continues:

'Who do you think sent me? It was no accident I fell into your hidden kingdom, you said so yourself. So who guided my path? Whose pawn am I? Ohrmazd's or Ahriman's?'

Finally tearing herself from his grasp she stands up in one fluid movement, ready to fight, the weakness of her resurrection forgotten.

'You are the lapdog of Ahriman, for all I care!'

'When was the first time you used your magic? It was to save me!'

'And don't you think I won't regret that until the end of my days!'

'Think about it! If Ahriman's ploy had lured me to that place, would Ohrmazd have allowed you to protect me countless times? Would he have allowed me to stay unharmed in his Fertile Grounds when you cleansed them of Corruption?'

'Only to have you sell them to Ahriman himself once again!'

'Can we please stay on topic?' He bursts out, indignant. 'I'm trying to explain myself.'

'There is no explanation, there are not even words for your betrayal!' She spits the words. The magic is itching to be unleashed.

'You think so, Princess?' He takes a step back. 'Let's see what your god thinks! Come, do your worst, blast me or whatever you do! Let's see if your god thinks I'm a servant of evil!' He lowers his hands, offering his unprotected chest, the trademark smirk back on his face. He is 

_enjoying_ this, she realizes. He betrayed the world and now ridicules his deed. Her eyes narrow to slits, and quicker than lightning her hands snap up. White streaks of deadly magic are let free, fueled by need and anger. They race towards his chest, and time freezes.

In slow motion, she sees his eyes widen in terrified surprise, and cold fear grips her heart as well. Realizing what she has done, she wants to call the magic back, but it's late, too late. 'No, no, no, no more death, not him, no,' she thinks in the split second that takes the power to

bridge the short distance between them.

Then, at the very last moment, the snakes of white light veer off harmlessly, just in front of their target. He stands there unharmed, and apparently pleasantly surprised that once again, somehow, he cheated death.

Spent mentally and physically she falls on her knees, and suddenly his strong arms are around her. Instinctively, her arms close around him as well, and sitting in the sand, under the cruel eye of an unforgiving sun, she starts to sob, uncontrollably.

The dam breaks, and all the unshed tears, all the locked away pain begin to flow, while she clings to him with a death grip. The final goodbye to her mother, the despair at watching her kingdom die, the loneliness of the endless nights spent alone, under the stars on top of the Queen's Tower, the weight of the world on her untried shoulders, the knowledge that if she failed, none will pick up the mantle, the loss of his father to a fate far worse than death… These pent up feelings, kept under the cool exterior, now ran amok in her. Each of them, alone, would have reduced the strongest of men to quivering wretches, but she stood her ground, stone cold, unfeeling. Then come the tears for herself, for the life she resigned to sacrifice so that others may live, the tears for an Elika-that-could-have-been, patched together from half-hopes and daydreams, from tales of travelers, and knowledge from books.

All of this and more are finally given way. She shakes violently, and tears drench his shirt, until she can cry no more, and all the while, he holds her wordlessly.

Time passes.

Slowly, she stills, and when he thinks she is ready, he lets her go. Hazel eyes meet blue ones for the first time in her life. This life. And once more, she asks softly:

'Why?'

And this time, she is ready to hear his answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

'Why?'f

'Because we have only won the battle, but, eventually, we would have lost the war. Because, when you left me – and don't think for a moment I have forgiven you for that – you left me alone in an entire kingdom, with a dark god imprisoned under my feet.' He was getting himself worked up, it was clear that this was a speech he had planned in his mind for a while.

'What did you think was gonna happen? I, alone, should have repaired those crumbling towers, to keep the Fertile Grounds from falling a thousand feet and shattering? And even more importantly, I, alone, was supposed to keep away all whom Ahriman would lure there to free him?'

Still sitting with just inches separating them, she opened her mouth to protest, but the touch of the smooth leather of his gloved hand on her lips silenced her. Both of them were surprised that she did not react violently at his touch. He didn't stop to marvel at his good luck, but continued his speech.

'A single band of brigands who retreat too far into the desert. That is all it would take for Ahriman to be free. And with you dead, there would have been none left in the world who would have had any clue how to deal with him.'

'And your solution was to let him free yourself?' Her voice was devoid of anger, almost sounding amused.

'I sat there, in the shade of that dirty big tree you guys worshipped, and one thought kept running over and over in my head. Who among the celestials dragged me there, with sandstorms, and lost donkeys? If it was Ahriman, it was bloody stupid of him. I mean he was half free when I arrived, and if I'm not there, there is no way you could have imprisoned him again just by yourself, Princess.' She opened her mouth once again to protest by reflex, but a single look from him stopped the words from forming.

'And if it wasn't Ahriman, then it was Ohrmazd. I wondered what he could possibly have wanted from me? Locking Ahriman away was at best a temporary solution, and I don't think the God of Light is a fan of patch-work.'

'Blasphemy apart, let me ask again, from all of this, how did you arrive to the wondrous idea of letting him go?'

'He was already free, if not now, then in a few decades. He is a god, and as such, immortal. But if we let him go on our terms, we might have a fighting chance.'

'Fighting chance? What are you talking about? He is a god!' Her temper was rapidly rising. His 'explanation' was nothing but self justification for… she didn't even know what for, and doubted that he himself knew.

'So? He was defeated once, it can be done again!'

'Only by the direct intervention of Ohrmazd himself!'

'Well, then there is our plan!'

'Plan? What plan?!'

'Find Ohrmazd, and have him lock his brother up a little bit more permanently this time.'

She started to laugh, almost manically.

'Find Ohrmazd? That's your big plan? Find a god that left us a thousand years ago? This is why you sacrificed the world to a monster?'

'What other choice do we have? Let Ahriman have the world?'

'Excuse me, but it wasn't me who let a dark god out!'

'He was free, no matter what. It was only a question of time. At least this way he is free on our terms!' Hearing the term ''terms" the second time, she froze, a dark suspicion forming.

'Terms? You made a deal with him, didn't you?'

'Of course I did!' He exclaimed, proudly. 'And a pretty good one, if I say so myself.'

The fight was suddenly gone from her voice.

'You sold your soul to Ahriman for me.' It was not a question.

'Don't get your panties in a twist, Princess, I am not that stupid. I learned from your father's mistake. I sold my one time services, and I got a very good rate for them.'

'You. Made. A. Deal. With. Ahriman.' She said, anger rising in her once again.

'I ran out of options. And yes, I double-crossed a god, and walked away laughing. There is no need for praise, really.'

'Double-crossed?' She asked, incredulously.

'I might have… indicated that we don't have any intention of standing in his path, when he comes back. In return for his freedom, I just asked for a couple of trivial things to help to spend our remaining days in relative peace.'

'Such as?'

'Oh, I don't know… Like no creature of Ahriman will chase us from now on… Or a donkey full of gold, more than enough for a couple of lifetimes. And hmm… there was something else… oh yes, your LIFE, and you are welcome for that by the way.' He said this obviously proud of himself, with eyes twinkling and his trademark smirk playing in the corner of his mouth. Imprisoning a dark god, then tricking him, all in a day's work, was pretty good even for him.

'No one will come after us?'

'Nope. We are free to run to the farthest corner of the Earth and hide there, trembling in fear… or we could go and look for Ohrmazd and find a way to destroy Ahriman.'

'How do you know he will keep his word? How can you trust him? How _dare_ you trust him?'

'I think that he _has_ to keep his word… You remember what you told me about the King? That even after he sold himself to Ahriman, he kept his people free? I think he is bound by his word. Ancient stories are full of stuff like that, and I thought, what the hell, it could work!'

'And you risked it all on a hunch?' She asked stupefied. She simply could not believe anyone would dare to take such risk.

'Hey, it did work! We are still alive, aren't we?' If looks could kill, the Prince would have been dead already. 'Look, it was a risk, but a calculated risk. And apparently I was right. So you can drop the death stare. If he could have, he would have squished us flat, and yet here we are, talking.' She stood up in a fluid motion, and threw her hands up in sheer frustration.

'I can't believe you. I just can't believe that anyone could be so damn irresponsible, irritating, so… so… bloody stupid!'

Still sitting, propped up on his gauntleted hand, he looked up at her.

'Elika, what was I supposed to do?'

'I don't know! Anything but freeing the god I died to imprison!'

'Do you honestly believe that no one would have freed him, in a decade or two?' He asked, quietly.

'I don't know! I just don't know, okay?' Rising, and closing the distance between them, he put his gloved hand on her shoulder.

'We will get through this, I promise. We defeated him once, we can do so again. Alright?'

'How?'

'We will figure it out. But I am sure about one thing. 'Lot's of dead, naughty children', is something I won't allow to happen.'

She managed a half smile, remembering her own offhand remark. Taking a deep breath she weighed her options for a moment. His reasoning was sound, even if twisted by his own typical selfishness, and he was obviously not corrupted, as the power of Ohrmazd would not harm him. The cat was out of the bag, and once again, she had no choice.

Sighing wearily, she asked.

'Where do we start?'

'Actually I was hoping you could point us in the likely direction of the God of Light. Couldn't you just wave your hand or something?'

'It doesn't work like that.'

'Well you mentioned other fertile grounds beyond the city…'

'And no one knows where they are.'

'No one? Are you sure?'

'Maybe the scholars of Nineveh, they were often welcome guests in the City of Light…'

'Nineveh? You mean the Nineveh that was conquered more than twenty years ago by the Assyrians, was burned to the ground, and every living soul within its walls was put to the sword?'

'Is there another Nineveh maybe?'

'Wow, you people were sure out of touch with the world!'

'Okay then smartass, where should we go?'

'Head to Babylon. You can buy everything in Babylon. Wine, women…'

'And thick carpets, I know.' She interrupted.

'And even more importantly, you can buy knowledge there, and that's what we need. But if you have any better idea, I am open to suggestions. You are the chosen of Ohrmazd after all.' He thought for a moment. 'You are still the chosen of Ohrmazd, right? I mean you can still do all the magic stuff?' It was Elika's turn to look unsure.

'Look, I really don't know much about what you so eloquently called the 'magic stuff'. When the kingdom was founded, it was common knowledge. There were texts on the finer points of wielding the Light, and certain… exercises even, but nothing about what it really is, apart from that it comes from Ohrmazd himself. Like if you go to a library, you could find books about how to breed a horse, how to make saddlery, but nothing on what a horse is, and what it is generally used for.'

'About those texts,' the Prince tentatively began, 'they would be bloody useful, if they were still around.'

'You can go back and check,' she pointed behind them, at the swirling column of darkness that rose from her homeland.

'I suppose you don't remember much about them.' She shook her head.

'I never thought I would be the one who would start using it again.'

Silence settled between them. Standing just beyond the edge of the valley, they looked back. Thick, impenetrable darkness churned in the valley of the once lush capital of the Ahura; not even the high towers of the palace could be seen. Malevolent menace radiated from the vale, and though the corruption was not spreading, it was clear that this was only the calm before the storm.

'So much for my own tower,' muttered the Prince under his breath, then he looked at her companion. 'Hey, are you okay… with all of this?'

'This was just a place,' she said softly. 'It's not the stones that matter, but the people, and no one remains, but me,' she said, looking pensive, 'I am the last princess of a forgotten people. All that we were is destroyed.'

'Queen.'

'Sorry?'

'You are not a princess anymore, Elika, but a queen. And your throne awaits you atop the Queen's tower. And I will see you crowned there, you have my word on that.' She laughed dissonantly at his words.

'A queen, you say? A queen of whom? No one remembers us anymore. The only ones who are left are those who fled from their duty.'

Looking at the sea of corruption, the Prince said darkly,

'I have the feeling that all will be reminded soon enough.'

He turned from the fallen city, and wordlessly began to gather up his belongings. He took the fodder bag off Farah and checked once more if the buckles holding his loot were secure, while Elika stared blindly at the dark waves of chaos that swallowed her kingdom. So much beauty destroyed now, the city of gods taken once again by the ancient enemy. She had the feeling that it will be a long time before she saw her beloved home again, if ever. The minutes ticked by as she scanned the depressing scenery, acutely aware of the Prince waiting politely a few steps behind her. When she finally tore her eyes from the once-familiar landscape, the tears were already gone, replaced by the mask of iron determination. She stepped up to the Prince, and looked him in the eye.

'Take me to Babylon, then.'

'Actually we need food, water, supplies and mounts first, as Babylon is about two months of journey from here.'

He was fighting not to smirk, and losing badly. Elika's determination was shaken, as she realized that she knew virtually nothing of the world outside her city, except for the tidbits of knowledge she gained from books that were outdated by hundreds of years at best. Seeing her faltering, he added:

'First we should head for Ankuwa, that's the closest hellhole, and then we can probably catch a caravan heading west. Once we reach the Euphrates, we will be back in civilization, and our path will be much smoother then.' On her confused look, he just added.

'Look Princess, just trust me with the little details, like food and water, and worry about the Big Bad behind us.'

Not knowing if he was making fun of her or not, Elika reluctantly nodded.

'But we should _really_ get going; spending the night nearby seems like a supremely bad idea. Let's move out, Princess,' he added, and began to lead Farah towards northwest. Elika fell in step.

'I really wished you stopped calling me that. I do have a name, you know.'

'One that will be known soon enough all over the world. I thought it might be a wise move not to flaunt our real names.'

'Speaking of that, I still don't know yours.' The Prince tried to deflect the question.

'I am not sure if I even remember mine. The people who know me best, just call me the Prince.'

'You are kidding me.'

'Am not. Though they usually add 'of Thieves' to the honorific.'

'So the Concubine was right.'

_In more ways than you could know_, he thought, but only said 'Yeah, no idea how she guessed, though' aloud.

'So you claim to have no real name,' Elika said, almost teasingly.

'I'm only saying, that even though I might have one, I do not throw it around carelessly, and I suggest you do the same.'

'We are in the middle of a desert, with no one around us for almost a weeks' travel. Who do you think would eavesdrop on us?'

'Apart from a Dark God? Names have power, _Elika_, in my profession as well as in yours. And just as I would not shout it in the middle of the bazaar, I would not whisper it here, not for the crown emerald of the hettite kings.' Now the curiosity of Elika was piqued. She could easily imagine that a magus could do real harm knowing one's true name, and she could see that a thief needed to hide his identity behind aliases, but she could not guess, why was he secretive even back then, when she first asked his name.

'The crown emerald of a king? So is it only a question of price?' He turned towards her, and the intensity of his sparkling blue eyes left her breathless.

'And you are far from ready to meet mine, Princess.' Not waiting for her outraged retort, he broke the eye contact, and said simply.

'You can call me Shabhaz, in front of strangers, it's a name I used before, but not overused.'

'Falcon. Somehow fits you. But what do you mean by overused?' She asked.

'There is no bounty on it.'

'Oh. Just out of curiosity, how many of your names have bounty on them?'

He flashed a trademark grin towards her.

'Dunno, I stopped counting after the first dozen. They give death sentences for such trivial offences nowadays. But I'm proud to say that alone in Babylon I'm viable just for quartering as three different persons.'

If the Princess didn't fully realize so far that she wasn't travelling with the gentlest of noblemen, it sure sank in now. Kind of afraid to hear the answer, she asked.

'What did you do?'

'Took all the sacrificial offerings from the temple of Marduk. Then again the next week. Then took them from chest under the High Priest's bed the week after that, but the last one was more trouble than it was worth, to be honest.'

'You desecrated the temple of Marduk three times in a row?' She asked incredulously.

'Not a big fan of gods, sorry, even less their priests.'

'You are unbelievable.'

'I am just very, very good at my chosen profession. Anyway, later a rumor started, that the robberies were committed by the same man, instead of three different ones, and they started to call him, well, me, the Prince of Thieves.'

'You lead an interesting life.'

'Don't think it too glamorous. It has its moments, but it mostly consist of bad food, and long waits in filthy hideouts, not to mention unsavory companionship, interrupted by bursts of blood-freezing danger. Unfortunately, most people in this line of work are neither as handsome, nor as charming as I am.' Elika rolled her eyes exasperated. It was good to have the banter back, to focus on witty remarks and barbed retorts instead of the crushing reality of what they were trying to accomplish.

'Those hideouts became filthy before, or after you set foot in them?'

'Your insinuations wound me.'

'Insinuations? I wasn't aware that you knew such long words.'

'Hey, I did read a book once!'

'With lots of bright pictures, I suppose.'

'Actually yes, it was titled the 'Thousand and One Ways of Pleasure', an Indian religious text, I believe.'

'Oh,' was all Elika could say, fighting not to turn bright crimson.

'That certainly piqued your interest Miss 'I'm well read', I can see.'

Desperately trying to change the topic, she suddenly asked:

'So if I should call you Shabhaz, then what will you call me?'

'Any ideas, nicknames?'

'Not really.'

'How about Farah, then?'

'I won't be named after your donkey!' She protested violently.

'It's a good name!'

'I don't even want to know what's going on in your head when you sprout stuff like that.'

'Hey, it was just an idea, Princess, don't bite my head off!'

'Someone will have you quartered one day, you know that, don't you?'

He just shrugged.

'They have to catch me first for that, and so far no one was quick enough.' Silence settled on the pair for a minute, then. 'What about Nastaran?'

'Wild rose? I… like it, I guess,' said Elika.

'It's just like you, beautiful, but prickly.'

'Geez, are you that smooth with every girl you meet? No wonder you are traveling with a donkey.'

The Prince, unable to think of a sufficiently witty report, just continued walking.

The sun was well past noon, but the heat was still scorching. He ran a mental calculation of their remaining water and food stock. When starting this journey he had not expected it to take this long, neither had he brought enough for three. But the first rule of desert voyage was to always overestimate your needs, and underestimate the distance you can cover a day, so he thought that they probably had enough to last until Ankuwa. Still, it would be better if they could speed up. He was reasonably certain that Ahriman would keep his word – to the letter. But he most definitely did not trust him. Looking at his companion, he noticed her bare feet, her short pants and her silk shirt that did not leave much to the imagination. It was a good attire for scaling walls when you needed flexibility, but not so much for a desert journey.

'Tell me when you need to rest, Princess.'

'I'm fine,' she said gritting her teeth.

'Really?' he asked, concerned.

'I died twice in the last three days, my family is dead, my kingdom is in ruins, and everyone I ever knew, everything that ever mattered, is gone! What do you think?'

'Actually I only wanted to ask if you would like my spare sandals.'

'Oh.' Then, 'Sorry. I didn't want to… Look, I'm grateful for your help. I didn't mean to…'

'It's okay. You had a rough day.' Stopping, he started to rummage through the packs.

'Here, these will help. Not exactly the top of fashion, but they will keep your soles from bleeding.' He took out two well-worn sandals, which turned out to be a tad too big for her.

'Thanks.'

'It's nothing.'

She put her hand on his forearm, instantly getting his full attention. Looking deep into his eyes, she said once more.

'I really mean it. Thanks. For… everything.'

Swallowing the thousand witty remarks that jumped to his tongue, he just nodded and said quietly.

'You are welcome.'

The rest of the day's walk passed in uneventful monotony. The Prince fell in the easy steps of an experienced traveler, while Elika struggled with the tiredness of a twice-dead body as well as her inner demons. Yet she matched his pace, keeping up through sheer willpower. The Prince stopped Farah just before the sun fell under the horizon. They managed to put more than a dozen miles between them and the City of the Light.

'Let's set camp here', he said, and Elika sat down wearily on a large rock. Their surroundings were bleak. Flat, rocky plain stretched as far as the eye could see, with pitiful, dried-up bushes struggling here and there with the harsh mistress called Mother Nature. No animal larger than a rat, or the occasional bird of prey could live in this scorched land.

The Prince began to open the buckles securing the many bags to Farah's back, and put them down one by one, while Elika watched with a glazed expression. Some of the bags twinkled when they hit the ground, some just landed with a dull thud. When the last of them was off, Farah brayed happily, glad to be free of the weight she carried for days. Her master tied her out on a long tether and the animal began to reduce the surrounding flora to nothingness.

He walked back to the tired princess with a brown leather bag under his arms.

'Time for dinner. We have some hard cheese, bit of smoked ham, and some bread that was dry when I got lost two days ago. Not exactly a banquet, but hey, at least none of it is rotten!'

Elika tore bits off the cheese and the bread and started to slowly chew.

'Not in a mood for conversation, huh?' His cheerful voice sounded fake in the empty desert.

They ate in silence, then out of nowhere, Elika asked.

'How far are we to Anku…?'

'Ankuwa. Tomorrow, or the day after we should reach the caravan road, then two more days' of easy walk until the city walls. But hopefully we will meet up some travelers on the road and can buy water and food off them. Or we can meet some brigands, and they usually have wine and food as well.'

'Your kind of people.'

'I have little to do with highway banditry, except run from them when I can, and fight when I'm cornered. It's a nasty business, with a lot more violence than I would enjoy, and a lot less comfort than I expect from life. Bandits usually have the charm of a pack of hyenas. And that's not the only similarity between the two groups.'

They finished their meal in silence, Elika too tired to talk, and the Prince sensing her need for silence, left her in peace. He pulled a brown quilt out of one of the bags, and smoothed it out on the ground.

'Your bed awaits you, your highness,' he pointed at the quilt with a flourish.

She lied down on the hard ground, and tried to arrange the material, so none of the rapidly chilling air could get to her unprotected midriff, and watched as the Prince sat down, with his back against a larger boulder.

'You aren't going to sleep?'

He turned sideways, looking at the tightly wrapped form of his companion, unable to stifle a smile.

'I am just about to,' he replied, leaning back his head against his hard pillow, gazing up at the sparkling stars.

'Oh.' Silence. 'Let me guess, we have only one blanket.'

'Really didn't plan on picking up companions without any kind of supplies in the middle of nothing.'

'You can have your quilt back then.'

She started to unwrap herself. He was instantly on his feet, closed the distance between them, and took hold of her hand.

'Nonsense. I'm in desert gear, and you are wearing… well.. something more suitable for indoors. You are tired, cold, and not to mention other, supernatural circumstances, while I'm used to this. This won't be the first night I spent under the stars, but I bet it's not a regular experience for you.'

She still looked unsure.

'You need your strength. We have a mission. Go, wrap yourself back before you catch a cold. The nights here can get freezing.' The mention of their mission convinced her and she retreated into the bundle, though not for long. Just when he was getting ready to fall asleep, he heard her voice again.

'You are right, it can get freezing.'

'I have seen worse.'

She unwrapped herself again.

'This is big enough for two. We can share if you keep your hands to yourself.' The Prince played with the idea of refusing; he was never much good with the idea of self-restraint, then common sense won over chivalry, and he jumped to his feet and walked over to her.

'I promise I won't touch if you can control yourself.'

There was some rustling of cloth.

'You know this would be easier if you would just throw your arm around me,' he said.

And a little later,

'Are you comfortable?'

'As much as the circumstances allow,' she said dryly,

'Good. We have a long day tomorrow.'

The air cooled rapidly around them and the rocks started to crackle. They lied with Elika cuddling to the prince, under the velvet sky. A myriad stars twinkling high above, and it was almost possible to forget the insanity of the last few days, the darkness, the death, the chaos and destruction. Almost.

'…Prince?' Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but in the silence of the night he heard her clearly. Her breath felt torrid on his nape, and he seriously considered what would happen if he just turned around and covered her lips with his. 'She would probably turn me into a newt or something,' he mused. Getting involved with emotionally scarred chicks was never a good idea.

'Yes, Elika?'

'Thank you… For not letting me stay dead. I really didn't want to be dead.' In the darkness, she didn't need to hide herself. She sounded almost vulnerable.

'You are welcome. Any time.' He did not sound like he was joking. Then a bit later.

'What was it like?'

'What?'

'Being dead.'

'I… don't remember much. It was cold… and lonely.'

'Why didn't you tell me, you were going to die to imprison him?'

'I was afraid you wouldn't let me. Would you have?'

'No. I don't know. Maybe. I'm not keen on the thought of throwing one's life away for an idea.'

'That's what I thought as well. Would it have changed things if I explained to you?'

He thought about that for a while.

'Possibly. Ahriman wouldn't be free yet. On the other hand his minions would be chasing us. There is little point in playing what if. No man can change the past.'

'I've read about someone who did.'

'Change the past?'

'Yes. There was an hourglass involved somewhere. And a dagger. And several scantily clad women. I don't remember much.'

'My kind of tale then. I would love to listen to it another night. But we should sleep now. I doubt Ahriman will leave much rest for us.'

Silence.

'Good night, Prince of Thieves.'

'Good night, Queen of the Ahura.'


	3. Chapter 3

A/N I would like to thank you for all the wonderful reviews! And also, I would like to thank my wonderful, wonderful beta, Magicallioness for all her hard work weeding out my numerous spelling and grammar mistakes

The Prince woke with the first rays of sunlight. He breathed in a lungful of chill dawn air, and took a quick inventory. His body ached all over, full of bruises, cuts and other mementos of the dozen or so battles he fought in the days past. It took him a moment to reorient himself, then another to notice the delightful warmth at his back, and the weight of an arm casually thrown over his side. A soft smile appeared on his lips as he carefully disentangled himself from the mess of limbs; then he turned to watch the sleeping princess.

'She looks so serene,' he thought, and indeed, the usual rigid mask of concentration and worry was gone. Her windswept tresses fell into her face, and he had to fight the urge to brush them off to the side. He wondered how old she really was. When scaling walls and fighting magic with magic, no one would have thought her a child, but now, peacefully asleep, she looked barely out of her teens.

'Just what am I doing here,' he wondered. He could just turn his back and leave, and that was exactly what he should have been doing. Standing up to a god was exactly the kind of mentality that got his parents killed, the kind he swore never to partake in. But now he was bound by the strands of fate to this girl lying in front of him. In the end it came down to one thing; there really was a dark god on the loose, and he himself had set him free. He could have just walked away, leaving a dead princess and imprisoned god behind. It would have magically become someone else's problem; another generation's. Damn, he hated to take responsibility for things that didn't directly concern him… Except that it did concern him.

The reason for that was currently sleeping peacefully, looking innocent and beautiful. During the rush through the crumbling kingdom, they had saved each other's lives a dozen times. It was hard to ignore how perfectly her hand fit in his, how easy was to reach for her when he needed an extra boost in the middle of a neck-braking jump, how eagerly her hands found his for support. He never fought with anyone who trusted him so completely to protect them, nor did he meet any other on whom he could rely so much. They worked seamlessly together, and had the corpses of demigods as proof for that.

This was not the kind of camaraderie you turn your back on easily. Not even if your partner keeps certain things, like her imminent and inevitable death, to herself. Not to mention said partner was beautiful, smart, sassy, and not to forget, could fly. He doubted that if he walked now, there would be anyone who could measure up to her.

So while the common sense and caution of the thief whispered to him to run and not look back, the adventurer within him yelled that he had been looking for this all his life. The thing. The grand adventure, the ultimate thrill; saving the world, rescuing the princess, stealing the riches. The picture was almost perfect, except that there was no gold in sight. But he was cautiously optimistic that somewhere along the line, huge piles of money would turn up as well. They always did, if one looked hard enough.

His train of thoughts was derailed by the princess whispering coarsely.

'Quit staring. I can feel your gaze scorching me.' The Prince had to swallow the obvious retort about her hotness, and instead asked gently,

'Did you sleep well?'

Her eyelashes fluttered open, and she stretched like a cat, unaware how much the move accentuated her feminine curves.

'Let's say I've slept and leave it at that.' She sat up, and tried to smooth out her hopelessly wrinkled shirt, then soon gave up with a frustrated sigh. 'Do we have any breakfast?'

'Same as yesterday, except a bit dryer.' Standing up, he took a long look around, and while he walked to fetch the food, he remarked, 'It looks like the corruption didn't swallow us overnight.'

'Did you worry about that?'

'It crossed my mind, yes.'

'I never thought of that. We should have kept going.'

'You were too tired to move. We needed the rest.'

'But…'

'You need to learn to take chances, Elika. I was reasonably sure that we would be still alive come first light.'

'Reasonably sure?' Her voice took the same incredulous tone that was becoming common in their conversations.

'Sure enough to let the fate of the world ride on taking the chance.'

'I wouldn't have dared to test it.'

'That's why I didn't tell you.'

'You didn't have the right to make such decision.'

'Neither have you any right to order me around. They were standing face to face, she with her hands balled into fists, while his palm drifted unconsciously to the pommel of his sword.

'I'm a princess!'

'But not mine!' He said, exasperated. Before she could take offense he threw up his hand and continued in a placating tone.

'Look, we clearly need to work on communication. Bickering constantly will get us nowhere. We need each other. You need my sword, my contacts and let's face it, my money, because no one will help you just because of the purity of your heart and the righteousness of your cause.' She considered this carefully for a moment.

'And you need my magic and my knowledge of the enemy.'

'Exactly. So how about we drop the crap with making decisions behind each other's backs that could doom the world.'

'I'll play ball if you will.' she said. To be honest, he expected more resistance.

'Princess, if you are planning to cross me, I warn you…'

'You don't trust me? That's rich,' she said indignantly.

'Excuse me, but we are in this mess right now, because you conveniently forgot to mention that you were going to, I don't know, _die_ when we put Ahriman behind bars!'

'Oh so this is all _my_ fault now?' The Prince felt the situation rapidly spiraling out of control. He wanted to stop having arguments like this, instead of starting the whole thing again. It was getting tiresome to jump through the same hoops again and again.

'I'm only saying that from now on let's try to make decisions as a team. We do have a god to kill, and we won't make it if we can't spend five minutes together without fighting.' Like always, the mention of her duty made Elika rethink the situation. She swallowed her temper, and continued in an even, polite tone.

'You are right, and I apologize. There are more important things than quarreling.'

He took a deliberate half step and came uncomfortably close to Elika. She refused to back out of the intimate distance. His voice dropped to a whisper.

'There are. But can I trust you with my life? Elika, should I trust you?' He didn't need to add 'Will you abandon me again?'

'I want to say yes… I really do. But the stakes are too high.' Her simple, brutal honesty threw him off track.

'Can you at least promise that, before you do something frighteningly noble and stupid, you will let me know in advance?'

'Would you stop me, if I did?'

'I will try to talk you out of it. There are other ways to victory, than through defeat.'

'There aren't easy answers to every question, you know.'

'You'll never know if you always rush blindly into danger. I'm yet to meet an enemy that couldn't be tricked into defeating himself.'

'Supposing we try it your way first. Let me ask you the same question in turn. What if it doesn't work out? What if we need to take the hard way instead of the easy? Can you promise that you will let me go, if you need to? Can you promise me that if I ask you, you will walk? I made a choice and you have undone it for me, condemning everyone in the process. If we are to work together, I need to know that the world comes first, and anything else is second.' He took her hands in his, and she involuntarily took another step forward, bringing them almost flush against each other. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, as they stood next to the remains of the forgotten breakfast, outlined by the rising sun against the bleak desert backdrop.

'You have my promise,' he said solemnly, 'the world comes first. As long as you keep your end of the bargain, I will keep mine.'

The air became heavy with the silence. She was acutely aware how close they ended up, she felt the heat radiating from him through her thin clothes, and the intensity of his sparkling blue eyes gazing into hers formed tight knots in her stomach. She swallowed dryly and her eyes started to close, almost magically.

The Prince felt her weakening and held out on the sweet edge of the precipice for as long as he could, just staring at the eldritch creature in his hands. When the need to kiss her became almost unbearable, he broke off and took a faltering step back. They both felt the loss of contact as a physical blow, and the same thought ran through both their minds, though with a different undertone; 'Ormazd help me, what am I getting myself into?'

Avoiding each other's eyes, but stealing covert glances, they packed whatever little they had, and secured the treasure bags on Farah's back. The Prince folded the quilt into a neat package, then began to don his gauntlet.

'Do you always wear that thing?' Elika asked, voice still a bit throaty. The Prince just looked up and shrugged.

'Saved my life countless times, both as a tool and as a weapon. Not many foes are prepared for you grabbing their sword.' They fell into their routine of easy banter as they started out for the day's journey.

'Point.'

'And usually it is too damn late to start putting on armor when you are surrounded.'

'Point again. We should get me a sword,' she said, out of the blue.

'Do you even know how to use it?' He took a politely disbelieving expression, one that was guaranteed to get a rise from Elika.

'I might not be as good as you, but I'm a fairly competent swordswoman, thank you.'

'Not many princesses I know have either the guts or the will to go through training. You were already preparing for the inevitable release of Ahriman, or what?'

'There really wasn't much to do in the City, and Father let me run my own education. So when I wanted to learn swordsmanship, I did. Just how many princesses do you know, by the way, if you claim to be such an expert?'

Ignoring her question, he asked her, 'But you still have your magic, don't you?' She gave him a disparaging look.

'There might be situations when I should not use it. Wild tales of a Light-wielding woman would leave a mile wide trail for anyone to follow. Besides, relying solely on one thing is always a bad idea.'

'I see your wit is not only quick when you have to take a jab at me.'

'There is a lot about me that you don't know, Prince o' Thieves.'

'Such as? And call me Shabhaz, we need to get into our roles, _Nastaran_.'

'Tut, tut, why should I tell you all my secrets? It would destroy my mysterious, yet alluring aura.' She, herself snorted while finishing the sentence, and the Prince broke out laughing too. He stood fascinated by this young woman who could so easily switch between dead seriousness, and easy teasing.

'Beautiful? Yes. Magical? Definitely. Smart, sassy, and quick on her feet? Sure! But mysterious? No. Don't be deluding yourself, the only aura you might have is that of an unwashed body.'

'Look who is talking, mister I-wear-my-scarves-day-and-night.'

'I need them to hide my horribly disfiguring scars of battle.'

'Oh sorry, I didn't kno-' Then seeing his amused expression she stopped mid-sentence. 'I fell right for that, didn't I? I am really, really surprised that no one threw you overboard on your sea trips.'

He just laughed and shook his head.

'You don't take defeat easily, do you?' He asked her.

'Never had to.'

'You should get used to the idea, that you don't get your way every time in the real world, Princess. Sometimes it's easier to bow your head and avoid confrontation. This reminds me, do you want to be my wife?'

She missed a step and almost fell flat on her face, then she turned quick as lightning.

'_Excuse me?'_

'Or my sister?' He met her death stare with a smirk and she realized that he was talking about their cover.

'I'd rather pose as your sister, if I get a choice. Besides, aren't you married already to Farah?'

'You're never gonna drop that, are you?'

'Not in a while.'

'Well if you are my sister, with a little work we could sell you off to someone rich enough, then after you scouted the place, I could slip in during the night and we could clean…' His words died slowly in his throat seeing her glare. 'Wife it is, then.'

'Does your mind really work like that? Do you only see other people as possible bags of money?'

'Don't get all judgmental with me Princess, not everyone had readily available hot food and a soft bed. You only get what you take for yourself, and what you can protect from others.'

'How old were you when your parents…?'

'They were killed when I was five. My uncle tried his best to raise me, but we fell on hard times, and he had little time for a child.'

'Must've been hard.'

'I learned the important lessons of life early. Some people are 'haves' and some are 'have nots'.'

'That's how you ended up as a thief?'

'I never was a street urchin, if that's what you are asking, or a pickpocket. But money was tight, and life was always expensive in Babylon. And cheating a rich merchant out of his money in a game with loaded dice pays faster than being his bodyguard.' He was talking in a monotone voice, not meeting her eyes.

'Why do I get the feeling that there is more to this story?'

He just shrugged.

'The past is the past, and there is little use dwelling on it.' Knowing that tight-lipped expression, Elika gave up the probing; he wouldn't tell more about himself until he was ready.

'You grew up in Babylon? What was it like?'

'It was home, for a while. The locals call her the Whore of the World, and they are right. She's beautiful, magnificent, but rotten to the core and will take all your riches, your sanity and your life if you are not careful.'

'Tell me more about it. I've read that it has temples to a thousand gods.'

'You can find every sort in Babylon, from bronze Egyptians with their fake hairs and ebony bodyguards to fur clad horseman of the north, from Greek oil merchants, who say that true love can only exist between men, through Indian ivory traders who measure wealth in wives, to tight lipped, yellow skinned men of the Jade Empire who worship dragon gods and sell silk for its weight in gold.' Her eyes widened as he told her of the procession road to the temple of Ishtar, covered in the brightest blue glaze, where golden lions stood guard over those who would visit the goddess of love and war. He told her of the bazaar where merchants of a dozen empires met and traded their wares, where they haggled in a dozen languages and dealt in a hundred currencies. He shared with her memories of the great festivals when the rich temples tried to outdo each other in showmanship.

But he did not tell her of the slave markets, and what happened to those who were too weak or sick to be sold, of the poor and the sick who littered the streets, of the whores who sold their body for scraps of food, of dark rituals that took place under the new moon when cloaked priests took the still beating heart of a stranger and drank his blood to gain favor with their gods.

There would be need for those tales as well, so she did not end up on the wrong end of a sacrificial knife, but he did not have the heart to crush the flame of excitement that danced in her eyes.

She is like a curious kitten, he thought. So proud of her claws, and blissfully unaware of the dogs that lurk in the alley's of the big city. Then he remembered the white-hot streaks of death racing towards him. Maybe she is a tigress, and the pack is just about to learn that not everything that goes 'meow' in the dark is dinner.

But even the tiger can be brought down by rabid dogs. His hand unconsciously found the hilt of his sword. It'd be up to him to protect her in the most dangerous jungle of them all.

'What about Ormazd?' She interrupted his tale. 'Do they revere him there? Do we have anyone to turn to?'

'I'm afraid not, Nastaran. Ahriman is just one of the many demons with whom children are threatened when they don't eat their soup. Not an imprisoned dark god, menacing the whole world, just one more made up name for the monster under the bed.'

'And Ormazd?'

'I heard his name before by chance, but I think very few others did. No temples, no priests, no festivals or followers. Should there be?'

'I… Don't know. He is the God of Light! He should be revered all around the world!'

'Faith is a business, Princess. If your religion can't give food to the poor, doesn't hold bloody or carnal festivals, it just won't make the cut. Competition is something fierce now. Every pantheon of every empire is trying to win over the faithful.'

'But, but, he is a real god!' It was hard to tell if she was shocked or outraged more.

'What does that matter? When was the last time your god manifested himself?'

'Yesterday,' she snapped.

'And before that? Nothing for hundreds of years… No wonder your empire fell to ruin. There isn't much you could do to convince a follower of Ishtar that he should switch to praying to your god.'

'He protects the world from Ahriman!' She was almost crying in sheer frustration at his pig headedness. 'You know he does!'

'I do. But how many others do? Did you send out missionaries to preach his name, teach his tales?'

'We had to stay hidden from the world.'

'And you are surprised that people forgot you?'

She stayed stubbornly silent.

'Elika, does Ormazd need followers?'

'I don't understand your question.'

'Does he get weaker if no one prays to him? Do sacrifices make him stronger?' She looked truly baffled.

'Of course not. He is a god.' She bit her lip and thought for a bit. 'Or at least I don't think so.'

'Then why do you care if he is revered or not?' The question truly surprised her.

'Because he should be! He saved the world and it's his might that held Ahriman in chains for a thousand years!' The Prince was thankful that she diplomatically didn't bring up who unchained him and when. That was a conversation he had one too many times.

'I see where you are coming from, but no one _knows_ about those deeds. You need to decide what it is that you really want. Secrecy or worldwide recognition? Because they are kind of mutually exclusive.'

'It's just… frustrating to hear about all the fake gods and empty idols and not a word of the protector of the world…'

'How do you know that there are no forgotten vales where the power of Ishtar is alive? No peaks where the voice of Marduk still thunders? Who knows what goes on, on the peak of Mount Olympus? As someone with lightning at your beck and call, you write off marvels pretty easily.'

'You really mean that, or are you just being controversial to spite me?' She asked, and he only shrugged.

'Little bit of both, I guess. A week ago I would have never imagined taking this side of the argument, but…' He left the words hanging in the air. She reluctantly agreed.

'There might be other gods out there… The world is a big place.'

'What does Ormazd have to say on the subject of other gods?'

'Not much. We were guardians of the Tree of Life, not his priests. We were supposed to keep the Fertile Grounds safe and healthy, we were not supposed to let Ahriman out, or let anyone else let him out. And we failed miserably on all three counts, something that I would have previously thought impossible.'

'Not big on tenets, is he? Popular gods are usually pretty clear on what you should and should not do and what are the rewards and punishments. You sacrifice a carrot to your god, you get a thousand carrots in the afterlife. You have relationships with sheep that goes beyond professionalism, your eyes will be carved out in this world, and you will be returned the favor hundredfold by well-hung bulls in the afterlife.'

'Ugh.' She visibly shuddered. Even lacking any personal experience, she could easily imagine the scene. Way too easily. She tried to shake off the mental image.

'Exactly. The clients, sorry, the believers need a set of rules that they can easily follow, but one that is not _too_ easy or they feel cheated. It is important that you don't go overboard with the punishments either. Getting the bulls for murder is okay, but for cursing you need something gentler, or people will go to the competition.'

'Aren't gods supposed to give their own commandments?' She asked with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, as she watched the Prince's monologue about creating a successful religion. Ignoring her question, he went on.

'And you need something to bring in the entire family. Maybe a fertility goddess for the women, so they can gossip and do super-secret rituals where they can feel important, showy ceremonial parts for the children, where they are put in the center of attention, so later as fathers they can aspire to have the same rituals performed by their own sons.' Caught up in a sudden idea, he turned to Elika.

'Say, wouldn't you be interested in running up an Ormazd religion when we are done with this stuff? With your magic, we could easily up the Marduk cult in a decade. We could make him the chief god of Babylon, and you would have all the worshippers you need!' He exclaimed proudly. Elika looked at him pleasantly surprised, an expression which turned to hurt and anger when he added, 'Then we could really start raking in the big doughs.'

'Is everything just about money with you?' Seeing that he really overstepped his bounds, making fun of her beliefs, he rapidly apologized.

'I'm sorry, Elika. It was a joke in bad taste.' She turned away, shoulders hunched. He put his gloved hand on her shoulder gently.

'I'm really sorry,' he said in a deeply apologetic tone. When she turned rapidly and shoved him hard, he was caught totally unawares. Fumbling for support he slowly fell over. He tried to grab Elika to drag her down with him, but she easily danced out of her reach. He landed with a thud and stared dumbfounded at her laughing at him.

'You got me, vixen, but I guess I deserved that,' while she nodded her agreement eagerly, he reached out his gloved hand, asking silently for a pull. Seeing that, Elika just shook her head, saying,

'Uh oh, I'm not falling for that.'

'Had to try,' he said and rose to his feet.

As they resumed their journey towards northwest, Elika explained,

'Look, I'm not made out of glass. I know I haven't been the easiest to get along with, but you don't need to tiptoe around me.'

'You just died, Elika. Twice.' He said, his voice suddenly devoid of playfulness. 'I don't know how much more you can take without breaking.'

'I'm fine. Really.' He raised his eyebrow at her.

'Okay, actually I'm parched. Could I get some water, please? All this talk of gods made me thirsty.'

He fetched a waterskin from Farah, and handed it to her.

'You should treat this more seriously. You've been through a lot, and there is only so much that even you can take before crashing and burning.'

'I'm _fine._' She stressed the word fine, and her glare made it clear that the topic was not to be discussed further.

'Elika, you can't pretend that nothing happened and everything is just dandy. If you do, you'll break at the worst possible moment.'

'I. Am. Fine.' She almost hissed the words, her eyes narrowing to slits.

The Prince had the good sense to drop it, but not without a final word.

'Fine. Have it your way, for now. But we are not done.' She made a 'hrmph' sound and resumed walking purposefully towards the caravan road.

'Princess?' He asked, his voice quietly amused.

'What?' She spun around, ready to kill.

'Can I have the waterskin back, or you planning on carrying it all the way to Ankuwa?'


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! And without further ado, here is the next part.

The hours passed slowly as our heroes traversed the rocky barrens that hid the kingdom of the Ahura from the outside world. The Prince moved with the efficient steps of an experienced traveler while Elika who, despite being athletic, never had to walk dozens of miles a day; only having his cast-off oversized sandals as footwear didn't help in making the journey comfortable either. Soon he had to slow down so he didn't overtax his companion, who would try to keep up with him even if it destroyed her. He had already decided that he would force her to go easy on herself, as she didn't seem to have enough common sense to admit that even she had her limits, divine power or not.

They stopped to rest every other hour and ate a few bites, but there wasn't enough of neither drink nor food to fill their needs. So it was a relief when they reached the caravan road in the early afternoon, earlier than the Prince expected them to. This stretch was unpaved, and seldom travelled, but still the track trodden by many feet was clear. It shot through the desert in an east-west direction. There was no one on the road in either direction; they stood alone under the clear blue skies. As they turned west and began the next part of the journey, he immediately began instructing the princess, in his unique style.

'Nastaran, we need to get you ready for Ankuwa.'

'Yes?' She turned to look at him.

'First mistake. You don't look me in the eye, especially not if we have company. Second, you hold your head too high. You will be radiating challenge to everyone around.' She gave him an evil look.

'Third. No glares, no pursing of lips, rolling of eyes. You are my obedient, silent, shy wife. I will be the flamboyant idiot who will draw the attention from you. If they don't notice you at all, that's the best.'

'And why is that?'

'I am a competent swordsman, and not much more. You are the one wielding the power of Ormazd. Whoever will be looking for us, will be looking for you. Pity I don't have a hooded cloak with me.'

Her breath caught when she realized what he meant. '_Rather me than you_.' Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

'Don't worry, Princess, we just need some supplies, cloths, and that's all. Don't talk to anyone, don't touch anything, and don't object no matter what you hear me say.'

'Why, what might you say that I would object to?'

'I don't know, I will probably go with the retiring imperial courier cover story, and you will be my wife from…' he paused for a moment, thinking, '… from Belias.'

'Where is that? Never heard of it.'

'Neither has anyone else. Just made it up. I think it should be a fishing town on the shore of the South Seas. With cute little houses made of red bricks, with white tiles. I guess you don't know much about fishing?'

'I lived my entire life in a desert kingdom. What do you think?'

'Then let's say you were a potter's daughter, and I bought you for five gold dinars and three goats. You don't really speak the language, and you are honored to be chosen as the wife of an important man, such as myself.'

'Did you spend the entire last night on this, or what?'

'This is just from the top of my head. But anyway, I'll do my best so you don't have to talk to anyone. We go in, grab supplies, and leave.'

'Didn't you mention something about catching a caravan?'

'We can scrap that plan; I don't want to advertise where we are going. So we will leave through the east gates, and circle back around the city. Do you know how to ride, by any chance?' He was in his element, planning the details of an elaborate guise. His eyes shone, and filled with excited energy, he sped up his steps unconsciously.

'Actually I do.'

'Excellent, then we have to get two horses, and another donkey.' He stared into the distance, going over some mental checklist.

'And most importantly, don't let it slip how much money we've got.' Seeing her disparaging look, he continued, 'If they even get a whiff of what we have, we won't make it out alive from that dump.'

'Wouldn't the guards protect us?'

'Are you kidding me? They would be the first to slit our throats. Or simply drag us to trial on some fabricated charges, confiscate all our property, and execute us to tie up the loose ends. Any money that is carried by someone who can't protect it becomes money that is carried by someone who can, faster than you could say 'daylight robbery'.' As an afterthought he added:

'You are pretty enough that you would be raped to death, probably by the prison guards before you make it to trial, though.' An uncomfortable silence settled on them.

'Just because a dark god is after us, girl, doesn't mean that a cutthroat can't get lucky. Dead is dead, either way.'

'Funny you say that, as the two of us died a total of two times so far,' she said with a sardonic smile.

'So far? Enough's enough, you are not dying anymore, it's my turn now.'

'You are morbid, you know that?' she asked him.

'Princess, I rob _tombs_ for a living.'

'And see where you ended up? And you say that there is no karma.'

'Ormazd, Ahriman, or whatever power chose to trip me down that cliff, I'm walking with you now, because I _chose_ to be here. There might be supernaturals that tried to trick me, but I'm doing my best to return the favor. And you can never be sure who is manipulating whom until the very end. For the moment, I think we are ahead of the game, but I guess so does Ahriman. We will see who has the last laugh.'

'I don't know what to make of you. Everything is a game to you, yet you do your best to stay on the path of goodness.' She looked at him from the corner of her eye, trying to seize him up. First he had been an innocent bystander, swept into a conflict far greater than him; then he had become a comrade, a strong arm to lean on in the hopeless fight against the immortal servants of a dark god. He warned her, soon after they met. '_You rely on someone, they will let you down._' And indeed, he had. The memory of that first breath, full of bliss and full of fire still burned her.  
Why did he do it? Why?

She was forced to agree with what he said. The kingdom of the Ahura could no longer serve its purpose; the time of Ahriman's imprisonment was over. But there was more to him resurrecting the god than sound arguments. She couldn't read him, and it has been frustrating her to no end. Was it all a game to him? Taking one big risk to see if it would pay off? Why, why, why? She couldn't believe that someone would so carelessly risk it all… for thrills? Adventure? What do those things matter in the grand scheme of things? She wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him; she wanted to finally wipe that insolent smirk off his face. Still, for all his bravado and shady plans, he came through. Other men would have run, a dozen times. Other men would have _died_. Yet he followed her to the depths of hell, and when the abyss swallowed her, he brought her back.

'Me? Good? Is the sun too hot, should we get you to a shade? When have I been "good"?'

'Don't be like that.' She said frustrated, 'You could have left me. Walked away before it all began. But you stuck around, again and again. If you were half the scoundrel you pretend you are, you would have taken the easy way out long time ago. What's your game, Prince? What's in it for you?'

Elika saw something she saw never before; the Prince of Thieves, stuttering.

'I… I was looking for the donkey?' Now they stopped on the deserted road, too caught up in the moment.

'All along? On top of the Royal Spire? Even when the Concubine promised you riches and immortality, you stayed.' She spoke gently, light as a caress. Amazement shone through her voice, now that she gave up trying to understand the mystery wrapped in scarves wrapped in an enigma. Who was this man? She felt the need to unravel the web of secrets he wove around himself.

'Hey, I don't date stuff with tails.' The obvious retort, 'like Farah?' was on her tongue, but she swallowed it back. He was only baiting her, trying to lead her away from dangerous waters. She gave him the oldest of looks.

'Fine. Deny it if you want. But we both know the truth.'

'Which is?'

'That you care about more than just yourself. You care deeply enough to risk everything. But why is that such a bad thing, that you must hide it from the world?'

'I don't think I can give you the answers you want to hear,' he said sadly, avoiding her eyes.

'You told me atop the Spire of Dreams, that you would show me the world if I wanted. Does your offer still stand?'

He swallowed visibly, even if he didn't know why. He felt the control rapidly spiraling out of his hands.

'The offer stands, Princess.' For the first time, the title didn't feel like a veiled insult. It truly felt like an honorific.

'Then I will take you up on it. You will show me the world I died to save.' He bowed his head slightly, his amused half-smile back on his face.

'I shall.'

She took a step closer, and while the rational part of her brain wondered, just what the heck she was doing, she placed her palm on his chest, in the wide rip on his shirt. His skin felt hot and rough against her fingertips. With more boldness than she actually felt, she said,

'And you will tell me your name.'

The look he gave her made her rethink just how smart an idea it was to touch him, as slowly, deliberately he took her hand in his gloved one and lifted it off himself. They were both aware of their dynamic shifting again, as he said huskily:

'I probably will.' Elika, not really understanding what had just happened, only felt that for some reason she'd lost, and he had the upper hand again. Then the mood was broken when he laughed out loud and asked,

'Is it always so intense around you?' She felt a blush turning her cheeks crimson. 'No, don't answer that, I'm not sure if I want to know,' with that he turned, and set out once more towards the slowly sinking sun, leaving her staring after him.

As she started to walk west again, she wondered, if she was the same girl that set out to check on the rumors about the Fertile Grounds failing, a few days ago. Dying can change someone, in more ways than one, she mused. It certainly put things into perspective. The girl who had watched the stars twinkle all night long atop the Spire of Dreams was gone, blown away by the winds of change. She wasn't sure who she was anymore. Princess? Queen? Warrior? Wizard? Where was she headed? To stop evil from overtaking the world, sure, but she had little idea of the how. All she had was the man by her side, and the magic crackling under her fingertips.

The magic… She hadn't had time to stop, time to process that somehow, she became something straight out of the legends. It felt… _alive_ for the lack of a better word. Something that was part of her, yet still separate. It yearned to do things, to lash out and burn all that is not true, to scour the shadows and purge evil from the face of the world. In the city full of darkness, it was easy to reach for it, and to hell with the consequences. But now, out here in the world, she vowed to keep it under iron control. She was beginning to learn that there are myriad shades of gray between light and darkness and that was not an easy lesson for someone whose whole life was built around blind faith in a god that left them a thousand years ago.  
Elika, lost in her thoughts, didn't take notice of the passage of time as the afternoon slowly turned into evening. She was broken out of her reverie by the Prince shouting her name.

'Elika!'

'Huh, what?'

'I've called your name a dozen times, but you seemed lost in dreamland. Is everything alright?'

'Yes, I'm fine. Just spaced out. What was it you wanted to say?'

'We should set camp, preferably somewhere out of sight.'

She quickly scanned their surroundings. Somewhere in the past few hours they reached the edge of the barrens; more and more grass and plants appeared, and now the unpaved, but well travelled road cut through dried up grasslands. Gently sloped hills stretched until the horizon, with no sign of human life in sight. The only place of relative safety she could see was a large rock outcropping, some boulders surrounding a thirty feet high needle, a half a mile ahead.

'I guess that's where we will spend the night?' She asked, pointing at it.

'Yes, and let's hope no one else has the same idea,' he said, starting to lead Farah that way.

'We haven't seen anyone all day, isn't that odd?'

'In this season, in this part of the empire? I'm not at all surprised.'

'Which empire is this? And spare me the sarcasm, please.'

'It's hard you know, when you keep asking questions like this,' he said, then seeing her look, he took a pained breath and began. 'We are in the eastern backwater of the Medean empire; the largest in this age of the world. Around us for a month's travel lie the forgotten, poor provinces. As you can see the land has little to offer here above ground, and even less underground. No abundant floodplains or rich mines in these provinces. The people around here are like their lives. Short, boring and mostly unpleasant. Far to the southeast, past the high peaks of the Hindu Kush lie the hundred warring kingdoms of the Aryan. To the west, is the mainland of the Medea, and past it are the Babylonians, between the cradling arms of the Tigris and the Euphrates. North of them are the Assyrians, enemies of all people, sometimes even their own. A bloody war has been going on for the better part of a hundred years; the Babylonians and the Medes against the Assyrians. Last I was at home, there was a tentative peace, but everyone knows that it's only a question of time until the drums of war thunder once again. Though the golden age of the Babylonian empire has faded, she is still the capital of the world, and her king, Nabopolassar is a sly old bastard, a master of balancing the dozen or so factions of power that would rip the city to shreds.'

'You sure know a lot about the world.'

'Firsthand experience, mostly,' he said. They reached the rocks while talking and he began unfastening the clasps holding Farah's bags, while he continued talking. 'From the valley of the Nile, to the valley of the Indus, I have traveled everywhere, where money was to be made.'

'You should be rich a dozen times over then.'

'And I am,' he said, patting a leather satchel holding enough gold to buy a handful of villages, 'but easy come, easy gone. I was always better at getting money, than at keeping it.'

'Exactly what can you spend so much money on?'

'Let me tell you, I can be a _very_ gallant lover,' he said, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. She made an exasperated sound.

'You are impossible.'

'And since we are on the topic, are we sharing a quilt again?' he asked, holding in his hands their only protection from the chill of the night.

'We will be sharing a quilt.' Her icy tone made it clear that it would be only thing shared that night.

'I'm going to climb this beauty, and check if I can see anyone or anything that could become a nuisance during the night.' She looked at the rock towering high above them. It looked like a dangerous climb in the evening dusk, full of serrated edges and unsteady footholds.

'And I expect you would like me to watch over you in case something goes bad.'

'Something like that, yes. Can I count on you?' She raised her clenched fist in front of her. Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow breath, reaching to that stormy center, deep within her, where the magic dwelled. She felt it pour out and inundate her veins, pulsing through her body with  
every heartbeat. Power ran through her blood, intoxicating, beautiful and deadly power. She slowly opened her eyes, and unclenched her fist.

White flames danced on it.

The Prince didn't need any more encouragement, and started the steep climb. Elika watched with breath held back as he made his way on the face of the monolith, moving slowly, testing each foot- and handhold before putting his weight on it. When he reached the top, he stood up carefully, and started to slowly scan the horizon. Though there was still enough light, and the rock needle stood atop a smaller hill, visibility was limited by the dust in the air. In the far distance, fifteen miles, maybe twenty, he could barely make out the walls of Ankuwa, and the fields surrounding the city, but in the other direction, he could see the dark clouds swirling over the City of Light clearly, even if the city was hidden in a valley.

'That is so not going to stay hidden for long,' he murmured under his breath. For a few minutes he scrutinized the countryside, trying to spot movement, a pillar of smoke rising from a fire, or the telltale shimmer of exposed metal, but there was no sign of human life. Satisfied with the results he glanced down to check if Elika was still watching over him; then began the perilous descent. He toyed with the idea of jumping, just to test his companion, but even though he was "reasonably sure" that she would catch him, he didn't want to risk another argument. 'I'm becoming an old fisherman,' he thought, 'more afraid of the wrath of the wife, than of the sea'.

'Nothing, at least not nearby. If we don't make a fire, we should be safe for the night,' he announced after getting back to ground level.

'You find a spot where no stones will dig in my side, I'm still bruised from last night, and I'll tether Farah,' she volunteered.

'You want me to kiss it better?' She paused mid-step, then continued as if she hadn't heard. She wondered briefly what would happen if she called him on his teasing, if she would turn and simply lift her flimsy shirt. She doubted he would be stupefied for too long; he was not the kind to let an opportunity go to waste. A predatory glint would appear in his eyes as he would close the distance with his long strides, sweeping her up in his arms…

'Get a grip, girl!' she scolded herself under her breath. 'He is a rogue, this one, isn't he?' she asked the donkey, scratching behind her long pointed ears. The animal brayed her agreement, or she was just glad that someone with fingers found a particularly itchy spot. 'But we know how to take care of ourselves, don't we? You were clever enough to stay out of my kingdom, weren't you?' Farah gave loud notice once again, conceding that she was indeed an animal with extraordinary prowess of deduction. 'Us girls have to stick together, right?'Farah spotted a particularly juicy-looking thistle and chose this moment to lean down and start munching on it.

'Fine, you leave me too. See if I care.' She said with mock bitterness.

'Who else left you?' A deep voice sounded right behind her. She jumped, startled and doing a one eighty mid air, she landed facing the devilish grin of the Prince.

'Don't you sneak up on me!' Her exclamation, intended to sound outraged came out more like a squeal.

'Be more alert then, Princess. If I can catch you unawares, so can the enemy.' His voice was serious but his eyes twinkled with mischief. 'Your royal quarters await you, our bed is made.' He gave a mocking bow and pointed with a flourish at the thick, but simple quilt arranged next to the towering rock. 'With a little luck we will stay out of sight from the road.'

'Do you often sleep like this?'

'With magicians sharing my bedding? No.'

'No, you oaf! I meant on roadsides… like this…' she made a hesitant motion, trying to include the entire desert.

'In the dirt, on hard ground, exposed to the weather and predators, both animal and human?'

'Well… yes.'

'Not if I can help it. I prefer soft beds, thick carpets and hot food as much as the next person, but this is the price you pay to travel.'

'Why did you choose this life?'

'I told you there was-'

'I know. You had a hard childhood. But since then you could have left that life behind a dozen times or more, even if half your tales are true.'

'Every last word of them!' he protested loudly.

'As you wish. So if your tales are true, you could have retired already. Why didn't you?'

'I told you, I'm not very good with holding on to the money.'

'And why is that?' she asked. 'It's not that you are not smart or savvy enough. There must be a reason why you chose the life of a lone wanderer again and again.'

'No reason, no grand plans. I live life as it comes. If you want to hear philosophy from me, Princess, you have come to the wrong place. Try the boy-lovers in Athens. Heard there was a guy who lives in a barrel there, and people come from all around to listen to him.'

'You are really not into sharing, are you?

'You don't want to know me, Elika. You think you do, but you really don't.' His warning was half mocking, half serious.

'I need to know who I am entrusting the fate of the world upon.'

'You only need to know that I won't let you down. And I won't.' The intensity in his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

'And think about whose loyalty you question next time.' He turned away; the conversation was clearly over as far as he was concerned. 'Come to sleep', he said, as he lied down in the middle of the quilt. Elika, unsure if she had just offended her only ally, followed slowly. She lied down next to him in silence. He covered them with the other half of their quilt, and she felt strong arms encircle her waist. She stiffened, then forced herself to relax into his touch. To let him know that it was okay, she snuggled closer to him. In response he pulled her even closer, and now she was flush against him. The warmth radiating from his body enveloped her, and she felt safe in a way she hadn't since childhood. She lifted her head, and his arm slipped under it, offering her a pillow.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

'It's okay' his hushed voice raised the small hairs on her nape and formed unexplainable knots in her stomach. '_So this is what it feels like to be in the arms of a man_,' she thought and soon she was asleep.

A/N I know that there is still no plot in sight, but don't worry I have a lot planned. But at the moment I'm having so much fun with the characters that it should be illegal. Also, I will be taking an extended holiday in january, but I will have my trusty X1 with me, so I will do my best to continue writing.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N I have returned from the jungle with a new chapter! Thank you all for your reviews, it was really heartwarming to get so much encouragement and positive feedback!  
Also thanks to my better half and soulmate, MagicalLioness for the beta work she did on the original of this chapter, which was created on a small-screened X1 phone during busrides, without any kind of spellchecking software available, so you can imagine the number of typos she had to fight :). And without further ado, here is the next chapter!

They rose with the sun, wordlessly disentangling from the intimate embrace. They didn't need to share words as they packed their few possessions and ate their meager breakfast. What was the practice of just two days together, to an outsider would have looked like the routine of months spent on the road, with just each other as company. They soon started out towards the city walls, with the Prince dictating a steady, but not taxing pace. Elika's legs and feet ached from all the unfamiliar exercise they got in the last few days, but she clenched her teeth and accepted the burn in her muscles for what it was; a sign of growth.

Well-worked lands replaced the plains as they slowly got closer and closer to the city. Though the effort was evident, it was sadly clear how little these lands would yield, come harvest-time. Irrigation canals separated the tables of land, but there was precious little water trickling in them; these weren't the bountiful floodplains of the Two Rivers. They passed small fields of barley, and wheat; groves of hardy olives, and fig trees.

There were already men and women on the fields, weeding, pruning, and keeping the canals in good repair.

Elika watched them with barely guised fascination; the small tracts of arable ground in her home were fertile enough that even with very little care, they had produced enough to keep the few still living in the kingdom well fed. In contrast, these people had no other choice but to work their master's lands from dawn till dusk, just to keep from starving. They wore clothes cut from hardy cloth, patched here and there to fight the wear and tear. Their skin was darker than hers or the Prince's, and their eyes slightly slanted.

They spoke Sumerian with their own accent, giving their words, in her opinion at least, a strange, citric feeling, as if they had bit into a slice of lemon in early childhood and had never let go. The Prince bought a man's fresh dark bread, probably intended as his lunch, for a silver bit, and they shared his waterskin as well. The first gulp of fresh water in the last three days felt like drinking from the fountain of the gods. Still tired and dirty, but nevertheless refreshed, they said farewell to the man and continued towards the city.

He kept drilling Elika on their cover story as the morning passed, and by noon, when they reached the walls, she had a fictional family she had left behind; made-up friends, anecdotes and dozens of little details memorized. She felt that all of this was completely unnecessary, and learned it only under protest. So they were both irritated and snappish when they were stopped in the shadow of the walls.

There were four guards on duty, three of them checking the few who went in or out; the fourth sitting behind a rickety table, making notes on a long sheet of papyrus. All of them wore ill-fitting leather armour, and bronze shortswords on their sides, while their spears rested against the wall.

Approaching them, the Prince gave Elika a look that said 'Let me do the talking'. He stepped right up to the table, tall and proud, his hand casually resting on the pommel of his sword.

'May Marduk shine good light upon you!' He greeted the guard.

'Let his wisdom guide you on your path,' came the reply. The guard slowly looked him up and down, noting the expensive clothes and the longsword. He stood up with a calculated gesture, pushing back his chair. Well into his forties, he was a wide-shouldered, stocky man, almost a head shorter than the Prince.

'Whom do I have the honour of addressing?' he asked.

'I am Shabhaz, courier of his Imperial Majesty Nabopolassar.' The guard clasped the offered forearm with a strong grip.

'I am Hurabb-Awil, sergeant of his Divine Majesty Astyages.'

'Well met, Sergeant.'

'Well met, indeed.' They released each other's forearm, and the sergeant got down to business.

'You are far away from home, Babylonian.'

'I am returning from the east, carrying personal letters, and bringing with me a little diamond I found lying on the side of the road,' he waved his hand casually towards Elika, who was standing a few feet behind them with Farah, getting more and more aware of how little she was wearing, under the leering eyes of the passerbys.

'She indeed looks like a fine thing,' the sergeant agreed.

'Considering the price I paid for her...' the Prince sighed. 'But you know how it is when you are in love. No price is too high.' Then, as an afterthought he added. 'Though I am not sure if Ishtar is looking down favourably on our union, we had nothing but bad luck since we started out. We got caught up in a sandstorm and somehow both our horses and our other pack donkey broke free.'

'That is bad luck indeed; make sure to place a proper offering on the altars to soothe the gods' wrath.'

'I will do that once I washed the dirt of the road from my body, it would only offend the gods if I came before them covered in sweat and dirt.'

'Your words show wisdom, courier. However, before I let you enter the city I need to know you are no beggar-' At his words the Prince's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Steel rang, as he drew it halfway out and shouted.

'How dare you call me a beggar! I am an imperial courier and my way is guarded by the very gods!'

The other guards reached for their shortswords quickly while the sergeant raised his hand pacifyingly.

'Calm down, Sir! I ask your forgiveness, if my words have offended you, that was not my purpose. It is the laws of the city-'

'That require you to insult those visiting it?' he interrupted the sergeant again, getting crimson with anger.

Elika took a hesitant step away, preparing for a fight. Her will gently brushed against the stormy centre deep within her, where her magic resided. She began to draw power, eyeing the rest of the guards and the passerbys. They were creating a spectacle; those few who could afford the time to return home from the fields for lunch stopped to watch the street theatre.

'No need to get nasty, Sir,' the sergeant said, his eyes on the partially drawn steel blade, calculating how many blows his bronze one could take before breaking in half. 'The city only requires strangers to pay two bits of silver before entering the gates.'

The Prince grunted, threw his sword back into its scabbard, and reached into his purse. He threw a broken in half silver coin on the table.

'Will that be enough?' he asked in a condescending tone.

'That will do. Have a good day, sir,' the soldier nodded.

'Before I go, please tell me if I can find a countryman of mine who would give shelter 'till the morrow, or at least point me towards a good inn,' the Prince asked casually, as if he hadn't been about to cut the man in half moments ago.

'No one from your homeland lives here, Sir, but I believe our tavern offers lodgings that would please the most refined tastes. Ask for the Morningstar's Dream.' He pointed down the main road leading to the centre of the city. The Prince reached into his purse and took out another piece of metal, this time about the size of a twelfth of a coin.

'Thank you for your advice, and good day!'

'To you as well Sir!' the soldier said, pocketing the silver bit from the table.

Without further words, the Prince turned and took the reins of Farah from Elika.

'Let's go, wife! I want you to wash the filth off me, as soon as possible.'

When they were out of the sight of the onlookers she hissed at him, furious.

'Are you out of your mind?'

'Chill it, girl, or all that show was for nothing,' he whispered back at her, not even slowing down.

'You almost had us killed!' her hushed tone could barely contain her anger. He turned and grabbed her upper arm with his gloved hand, his fingers painfully bruising her flesh.

'No, I have not. You are the one getting us killed right now. So shut the hell up and follow me. I will explain when we are behind closed doors.' He released her with a push so strong she almost stumbled, and turned away, leading Farah towards the city centre with swift steps. Elika was left in the wide road, then she began to hurry after him. She caught up two corners later, just before they got to the bazaar square.

The Prince took the reins in his left, and reach behind with his gloved right. Wordlessly, she took his hand as he led them through the main square of Ankuwa.

The city had never been an independent kingdom, just a trading outpost that slowly grew in size and importance, until the Medeans had decided that they needed a new regional centre. Soon after, city walls were erected, the already existing irrigation system was given a complete overhaul, and the "unnecessary" buildings were cleared away, giving Ankuwa two wide main roads, one heading from east to west, the other north to south. Around the central square temples of the major gods popped up like mushrooms after the rain. A small bazaar formed by itself, occupying the empty space and the nearby streets, where dark skinned craftsman and traders passing through the city offered their wares and services from stalls under painted canvases to anyone who could afford them. A five hundred strong garrison, tasked with keeping the roads bandit-free, was stationed in the city. In two generations, Ankuwa became an unimportant, backwater government centre of around eight thousand, with just enough trade and agriculture not to starve.

Shabhaz and Nastaran crossed the square, the Prince making way using his shoulder and his faithful donkey as an offensive weapon, while the princess trailed after them, trying to not to look overwhelmed by the throngs of people surrounding her. The crowd parted before them, no one wanting to meet the donkey's copper shoes. Soon, they stood on the other side, in front of a two-story building, once painted bright red and gaudy yellow, of which now only faded, peeling spots remained. A large copper star, hammered thin, hung over the main door, indicating that this was indeed the serai they were looking for.

The Prince led them first into the stables which opened right next to the building. He got the saddlebags off Farah's back, then gave the reins to a stablehand. Hoisting them on his shoulders, he entered the main part of the inn, with Elika trailing close behind.

The inside was kept in better repair than the outside. Soft pillows surrounded low tables, copper braziers hanging from the ceiling illuminated the room. About a dozen men sat around the place, taking an early lunch or simply sipping weak coffee, but there was room for thrice as much. The portly owner stood up from his rickety chair by the curtain-covered door leading to the kitchen. He started towards the newcomers with alarming speed considering his girth.

'Welcome, welcome to the Morningstar's dream! How may I serve you my lord?' He said addressing the Prince. He quickly assessed the probable wealth of his new guests.

'Your best room, Innkeeper, for me and my rose, and send up your best wine along with a hearty meal.'

As the innkeeper opened his mouth the Prince threw him a full silver coin. He plucked it from the air with practiced ease and bit on it.

'Anything you command, good sir!' His grin, revealing a mouth full of half rotten teeth, grew even wider.

'And a bath too, after the meal.'

The owner just nodded eagerly.

'Whatever you desire, sir! Let me show you to your room.' He led them up a wooden stairs to the second story of the serai. 'The servants will bring up the rest of your gear.'

'We have no more gear, alas. It was stolen in the night.'

'Terrible, terrible thing.' The innkeeper said, suddenly getting worried if his guests are truly as rich as they looked. The Prince just shrugged and shook his purse, which twinkled promisingly.

'Nothing was lost that a little gold can't remedy. Tell me, my good man, what's your name?'

'Mubbaharan, sir, owner of this humble adobe.' he answered while opening a door. He led them into a sparsely furnished, but spacious room.

'So Mubbbarahan, would you be so kind to send for the best tailor Ankuwa has to offer? We need someone who has a good eye for style and color, and is not afraid of hard work. Both me and my bride will need new sets of clothes before travelling on tomorrow.'

'You are leaving so soon, my lord?' the disappointment in his voice was evident, that his golden bull was leaving.

'Indeed. Time is short. I have urgent business in the east.'

'And what should I tell the tailor, who asks for him?'

The Prince turned back from surveying the room, looking at Mubbarahan maybe for the first time.

'I am Shabhaz, courier of the almighty Babylonian Empire,' he said with as much pride and arrogance as he could muster.

'I will remember that, sir.'

'See to it that the tailor does not come before dusk. After lunch and a bath we will rest for a while. I don't take kindly to being disturbed.'

'Your wishes are my command, Sir. I will send up the best the kitchen has to offer immediately.' The Prince only acknowledged him with a nod, and turned away; the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. He kept up his stuck up sneer until the owner left the room, then crossed to Elika in one step and embraced her closely. She stiffened, put up her hand against his chest, trying to keep a distance between them. He whispered into her ear,

'There are probably eyes and ears in the wall. We need to talk discretely.' When he felt her tentative approval, he whispered,

'Tumble on the bed with me. Land on top.' Before Elika could fully process what he was saying, he moved, and sort of fell on the mattress backwards, pulling her with him. She landed half on him, half next to him, his arms still around her, her hair falling in a curtain around them.

'Now we can talk, but keep it low.' There was a certain amused quality to his voice, suggesting that he enjoyed this just a bit too much.

'Just what the hell do you think you are doing?' She whispered furiously, but she learned to trust him enough not to pull away indignantly. Yet.

'Do I need to spell it out?' Seeing the lightning gathering in her eyes, he quickly continued. 'The soldier at the gates sent me, the courier of an allied but foreign nation to this very inn. This means that we can safely assume that everyone here reports to the Medeans on travellers. I wouldn't put a couple of listening or spying holes past them either.'

'You mean they are watching us right now?'

'Better than even chance.'

'With me in... In a bed with you?' the righteous indignation in her hushed voice made his grin even wider. He was definitely enjoying the situation way too much for his own good.

'Can the act. No one knows you here, and that was kind of the point of the show I put on today.'

'You could have blown fanfares and that couldn't have made a more remarkable entrance.'

'Exactly. The point was that they will remember me. You have faded into the woodwork magnificently.'

'Fat lot of good that will do us.'

'Whoever might come looking, will look for a princess and maybe a guard travelling with her. They will remember an arrogant but fair Babylonian and maybe they will recall he travelled with a concubine.'

'Just how were you fair? Arrogance was in abundance, but I did not spot the other part.'

'You have a lot to learn about how the real world works, Nastaran.' Even though only she could have heard his whispers, he didn't use her real name. 'I offered an arm to the gate sergeant. That almost made him my equal. That's not something he would expect from an imperial courier. On the roads of Babylonia I'm like a god. I can commandeer horse, and help as I see fit. That's why he got suspicious. But I also tipped like someone whose expenses are paid by a loyal treasury. He will think of me fondly over a mug of wine or two.'

'What if he had called your bluff?' she whispered, leaning down, her ear right at his. He shivered, and that gave her a smidgen of satisfaction.

'Bluff? I have a legal clay tablet proclaiming me the courier of the mighty Babylon, appointed by Nabopolassar, in Marduk's name.'

'Legal?'

'As real as they get. Cost a fortune too. It's very expensive to bribe the scribes who make the tablets. They lose their head if I'm ever found out.'

'Oh poor you, having to spend so much...' The contempt was evident in her voice. He just shrugged.

'The man owed a large debt to a couple of unsavoury characters. Gambling debts, as I was made to understand. They had their hook in him. I made the debts go away. Now he owes a debt to me.' There was a steel edge to his voice when he spoke about clearing up the debts. She shivered, and not in a good way this time.

'How... How many people have you killed?'

'That time? No one. I just made clear my displeasure over their methods. Those dice didn't roll like they were supposed to.'

'And in total?'

'Do I look like I keep count?' He asked, but there was nothing joking in the way he said it. 'I rob the dead when I can help it and not the living. I only kill when I'm forced to, and never as a first solution. But it is a tough world out there.' But even to him, he sounded defensive.

The princess rolled off him, her so far rapidly beating heart suddenly stilled. She sat up on their low mattress, her face unreadable. The Prince rose slowly, and said 'I will look after our lunch. It will be good to have a warm meal.'

The door closed with a hollow-sounding thud.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N 1: As many of you have remarked, the fic is trying to be historically accurate, and that involves some research from time to time (which sometimes fails, I could not find out what was the name of the Mediterranean in the Babylonian language, only what did the name mean in English). I set the story around 600-700 BC, and I'm doing my best that the materials, foods, customs, beliefs, names and politics stay in the given time frame, excluding the blatant anachronisms used by the protagonists oh-so frequently :)

A/N 2: As neither me nor Magicallioness are native speakers, we make mistakes from time to time. If you spot one, please be so kind to post in the comment that "This here and there was misspelled" or point out if I made a grammar mistake. Or just drop a PM to me. I will correct it and repost it sometime later, the final goal is to have an error free text :)

A/N 3 and finally, sorry for the long wait kids, I have been busy with work, university and a shiny new girlfriend (fanfiction net - the dating service), but hopefully I can get back on a tighter posting schedule. So without further ado, here is the next chapter

Chapter 6f

The woman in white sat on the edge of the bed, staring into emptiness, a million thoughts chasing each other in her head. Unable to think anymore, she gave in and touched the magic within her; let it run through her. White fire surged, rushing through her veins and burning her from within, yet she remembered the Prince's warning and reined the magic in, before it could leap forth from her fingers. She longed to lash out, to unleash the power; to let the light run free and cleanse her. It had been so simple before. Follow the path set by the God of Light, and make the ultimate sacrifice that would set all wrongs right. Now nothing was straightforward anymore. There were no more good guys and bad guys. Just shades of grey.

The reality slowly sank in. She was traveling with a thief, a scoundrel, a graverobber and worse. A murderer, someone who kills without guilt or remorse. How could she dare to trust him with the fate of the world? He was a man without a past, without a name, without roots. Only dropped hints and whispered half truths he shared with her oh-so unwillingly. He set their path with confidence she could no longer believe in, for motives that were questionable at best.

What was his deal with Ahriman? What_ really _was it? The shock of actually saying those words, admitting so carelessly that he killed again and again, made her question everything he said before and put all his actions since escaping the valley into a darker, more sinister light.

For the first time since drawing her _third breath_, she wondered if she should just walk. Just walk, step out that door and disappear. Find her own path, and go where the might of Ohrmazd leads her.

She drew a deep breath, forcing the magic back to its own place deep within her. She let out the breath with a sigh. It was not easy being Elika of the Ahura nowadays. Her dark thoughts were interrupted by approaching voices from the corridor and soon the door was opened by her companion, with a couple of servants trailing after him. Pompously, he directed them as they set up a lavish feast on a low table they brought with them. Clay dishes were placed on the finely etched copper surface, and within minutes they were filled with poultry and lamb, steamed vegetables, baked potatoes, and thick, spicy gravies, more than enough food for half a dozen.

A large tin can with filled with watery wine was placed in the middle of the table, and with it finely crafted tin glasses. Elika sat down cross-legged on one of the pillows that were placed around the table, without a word and waited while the Prince ushered the servants out.

When the last of them was out of the door, he relaxed his merchant-mask; there was a hint of the mischievous smile she got so used to, as he plopped energetically down across of her. Instantly he winced, swore under his breath, then adjusted his scabbard so his crossguard wasn't digging into his groin anymore.

'Let's tuck in!' he said, reaching for a spoon, and helping himself to a generous serving from one of the bowls.

Elika forced herself to relax, murmured something unintelligible in response and reached for the food as well. For a while only munching sounds could be heard in the room while they caught up on a dozen or so missed meals. Periodically, servants appeared, inquiring if the most esteemed guest or his lady desired anything. At the end of the meal the Prince requested for a bath to be readied for him and another for his "Nastaran", though only one after the other, so the room and the treasures within wouldn't be left alone for a minute. When the serving girls escorted Elika back to their temporary headquarters, he was laying on the bed, peeling oranges, apparently quite pleased with himself.

'How was the service?' he asked.

'Overly zealous. I can take a bath by myself. It is definitely not a three person exercise.'

'You don't even need someone to wash your back?' He popped a slice into his mouth. Elika shot him a dirty look.

'I can manage, thank you.'

'I just can't imagine how…' said the Prince and his eyes glazed over, suggesting that he was actively trying to picture it. He was startled out of his reverie by an orange hitting him square in the chest.

'Hey! What was that for?' Came the voice of righteous indignation.

'Be glad I didn't pick the watermelon,' she said, snatching up an apple and biting down on it, hard. Now on a full tummy and after a hot bath the world didn't seem so bleak anymore. She plopped down next to him on the bed and asked casually, 'So what are the plans for the near future?'

'Clothes. Horses. Then we leave the city heading west.'

Dropping her tone, she asked, 'Didn't you plan heading east and doubling back?'

'I had, but it wouldn't work. Too many have seen us enter from the east. I really didn't expect the gate guards to stop us.'

'They didn't during your last visit?'

'I didn't exactly come during the daylight hours,' he shrugged off her question. Seeing her expression he quickly added. 'Don't think of any wall-scaling and jumping from roof to roof. I just got here at sundown, when the guard was changing. And when I need to be, I'm good at being overlooked.'

'No moonlit chases, dashing swordfights, daring escapes? I'm disappointed.'

'I know it might be news for you based on your kingdom, but I generally prefer using the stairs to climb vertical surfaces.' He started peeling another orange.

'Now you are just destroying your carefully cultivated image.' Though her tone was dripping with sarcasm, a smile played tugging at the corner of her mouth.

'I guess I'll just have to find a way to rebuild it, won't I?'

'You know, eating normal food, sleeping in a bed, climbing stairs and using doors, you are starting to look just like the rest of us.'

'Hey, you are the one with the power of the gods, I'm just a mere mortal,' he said, his teasing tone dropping to a whisper, but still retaining its impudent quality. Elika's heart skipped a beat hearing the deep, quiet voice.

'So we leave the city. Then where to? How will we imprison Him again?' she asked, changing the topic quickly.

'Babylon. Head to Babylon. I have been doing a lot of thinking in the past days.' She swallowed the obvious interjection that sprung to her tongue, and listened. 'You originally wanted to head for Nineveh. There weren't many who made it out of that city after the Assyrians took it under siege, but some fled before, and there must have been scholars among them.'

'How long ago was the city's destruction?'

'A long time ago by the measure of men, but not long through the looking glass of history. Twenty years perhaps? Maybe a little less. So some of the scholars should still live.'

Elika shrugged, almost fatalistic. 'Better than any idea I have right now.'

'And anyway, even if we can't find the scholars of Nineveh, Babylon is still full of libraries, priests, prophets and magicians. I always presumed them to be crooks and dexterous tricksters, but since then I have seen a few things that made me rethink my position.'

'Do you think any of them might be the real thing?'

'Who knows? Do you think there are hidden kingdoms where sorcerous princesses battle dark gods? I sure didn't.'

'I have no idea what you might mean,' she said, nonchalantly.

'Yeah. Right.'

An uneasy silence settled between them. Elika tried to think of something to say, something to easen the tension, but her mind drew blanks. At the same time, the Prince wondered why he shouldn't just put an arm around the waist of the now nice-smelling brunette sitting next to him, pull her down and let nature take its course. His problem was that he could easily list half a dozen reasons why it would be a terribly bad idea. Actually all he could come up with were cons, except for one argument: he wanted to do it badly and strongly suspected that Elika would be more than receptive to the idea. But that was where the pros ended, everything else was against it. He never mixed business with pleasure, never committed himself when he couldn't vanish in a puff of smoke if something became too serious, definitely didn't tumble into bed with people who had stronger enemies than himself, even if that point was sort of moot now. And if he could help it, he didn't take girls as lovers who would be naïve enough to expect more of him than he could give. Unless they were really pretty and their fathers and brothers were unlikely to find him afterwards, he added as an afterthought.

Coming to a decision, he jumped to his feet with a sudden, fluid move, breaking the reverie they fell into.

"Any preference in horses?"

'Huh?' she shook herself because of the sudden change of topic.

'I am gonna head out and see what this backwater town has to offer in the way of mounts.'

'Good idea.' she said, and she too hopped off the bed.

'Hold your horses, Princess! I am going horse shopping. You are staying put like a nice, well behaved lady of your stature should.'

'And how are you going to make me do that?'

'Someone should stay and look after our belongings. These are the only things left after that sandstorm after all.' he said, addressing any possible eavesdroppers.

'That's not fair.' Elika pouted. The Prince wondered once again just how old she really was. A curious kitten and a prowling tigress on the hunt and a dedicated den-mother lioness all molded into one.

'There will be other cities as well, with bazaars that easily outshine the local. Actually I have seen villages that held better markets than Ankuwa. And I wouldn't want the eyes of the common people feast upon you until you are dressed to match the local customs.' he made a vague motion that seemed to include her uncovered belly, her pants and the flimsy material of her shirt. 'You would make a quite _lasting impression_, I'm afraid.' He saw that she got it, but she didn't like it. 'Anyway I will be back soon, and we will still have to deal with the tailor in the evening.'

'What should I do while you are gone?'

'Stay here and rest, I would say. We have a long, hard ride ahead of us, and I'm not sure if you are used to spending six hours a day in saddle.'

She made a grimace, she could easily imagine what the state of her behind would be like after spending even one day mounted.

'Got it, oh my master. Any other wishes?'

'Just be good till I get back. I know you are a big girl and can look after yourself, but I would rather if you didn't have to.' He paused for a moment, thinking. 'So any preference in mounts? How good are you?'

'I'm a practiced rider but definitely not a master. You know what? I will put myself in your hands.'

'Smart. That way, whatever faults your horse may have, you can blame me.'

'If you want to put it that way, yes.' said Elika.

'Any requests that the tailor won't be able to accommodate?'

She thought for a moment.

'Get me a brush. And at least a dagger, I feel naked unarmed.' She grimaced instantly, realizing the verbal opening she left. The Prince gave her a long sweeping look, from toe to neck. With false disappointment ringing in his voice he said,

'Let me assure you, you are anything but. I will see what I can do.'

'I hope you meant about the dagger not the nakedness?'

'We shall see when I get back, wont we?' He wriggled his eyebrows at her and stepped out of the door before he would have to duck any other flying fruits.

Elika looked at the closing door and muttered, 'He just to had to have the last word, didn't he?'

A few hours later the Prince led two fine horses back toward the Morningstar's Dream, with a boy of six years trailing behind him, leading another pair. They passed through the double gates leading to the stables next to the tavern. Ruffling the boy's hair, the Prince sent the son of the horse trader on his way back. The two mounts and the pack horses were entrusted to the care of a stable boy and the Imperial Courier accentuated his request to give them the best care with two shining silver bits. The stablehand's eyes grew as big as saucers, he probably never held this much noble metal in his hand before. He promptly started to unbuckle the straps holding the so far never-used stirrups. Then the animals were fed and watered, then finally given space next to Farah, but by this time the Prince and his new knapsack full of freshly acquired goods were long gone, through the side door leading into the tavern.

It is amazing how much you can achieve if you have a king's ransom in gold, and you are not shy about throwing it around, the Prince thought as he took the main room in, looking for sources of trouble. And when he found one, he swore silently and started towards the stairs with long strides, hoping he wouldn't get noticed. He prayed in vain.

'I cannot believe my eyes!' The Prince muttered something dark again, then turned, smiling wide.

'Is that you my old friend?' A short, plump, dark skinned man, baked almost brown by the sun of his homeland, was rising to his feet slowly from a low table surrounded by hard pillows.

'I cannot believe my eyes!' He repeated himself, and threw his arms wide in greeting. 'Come join us, my friend for a glass of wine.'

'Nothing would please your friend, Shabhaz, courier to his Imperial Majesty more than sharing a sip and a story with you.' he said, already moving through the room.

'Then let your humble friend Agastya, loyal servant of the Rule of All Earth, King Brihadratha of Kasi share his food and wine with you. Whatever I have, is yours.'

Agastya was somewhere in the latter half of his middle ages, wider than tall, with a winning smile missing only a few teeth, and sparkling black eyes full of mischief. His three companions were tall, muscular and silent, giving the Prince an evil stare as he and their master embraced.

'Fate has treated you well, Agastya,' the Prince said, trying out the freshly learned alias. 'Or have you taken a vacation in Phoenicia?'

The Aryan man was dressed from head to toe in various shades of purple – the most expensive color there gold could buy only produced with painstaking labor from sea snails along the east coast of the Upper Sea (which the Romans would name Mare Nostrum in the arrogance typical of empire builders in oh-so many generations). Gold and jewels flashed and jingled when he moved, and move he did. His arms were constantly flying, and his voice was that of a trader, accustomed to making hard sales with a honeyed tongue.

'I only have the Gods to thank.' he replied as they sat down. 'And what about you, how did you end up so far from home?' he asked as he poured some wine for the Prince.

'I go where the winds of fate blow me.'

'You look like you have been spit out by a tornado this time. Are you in a bit of a rough patch?' He asked looking at the Prince's still battle-torn garments.

'Money is the least of my problems,' he said, confidently. Seeing the Aryan's raised eyebrow, he added, 'Yes, really. Dark times are coming, my friend. You would do well to leave the city by the first light of the morn.' he said lowering his voice.

Agastya leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his closed fist. 'Are there any major wars coming that I'm unaware of?' He asked, half-joking.

'Yes,' said the Prince, and there wasn't a hint of playfulness.

'Yeah, right.' Agastya started to chuckle, then he realized that the Babylonian wasn't joining him. Slowly, his own expression darkened as well. His bodyguards sat up a bit at the change of the mood and the wine cups disappeared from their hands. 'You are not kidding, are you?' It wasn't a question.

'No.'

'What do you know?'

'Have I ever sold you false information?' The Prince asked, with a sudden glint in his eye.

'I'm not gonna like where this is heading, am I?' The Aryan asked with false exasperation. 'No, so far you have always been reliable.'

'Then I have a long tale to tell you, old friend.'

'And if your tale is worth it, I have a deep pocket,' he replied.

'Like I said I have little need of money now. But if you are headed west I could use traveling companions.'

'We are headed to Babylon, laden with goods to sell.'

'And eager to hear what your spies learned in your absence, no doubt.' The Prince said, half laughing.

'Silk and gold are not the only valuables worth trading… or stealing if it comes to that.'

'Indeed,' acquiesced the Prince. 'Share the road with us tomorrow at daybreak and prepare to be amazed.'

'And in return?'

'I will have a few questions of my own.'

Agastya seemed deep in thought for a long moment, then nodded and said, 'Let it be.' Then he stood up surprisingly fast for a man of his girth, with the Prince following suit, and they both spit in their palms and clasped hands, sealing the deal.

As an afterthought he asked.

'And Shabhaz?'

'Yes?'

'Who is "us"?'

'Oh just a jewel of the sand I picked up along the way. I will introduce her tomorrow. Just don't share too many embarrassing stories with her on the road, please. They aren't for her weak heart.' The Aryan trader nodded, understanding what he was asking for.

'One good deed deserves another.' He then flashed a wide grin, and the light from the fire of the hearth danced on his gold teeth. 'So one finally managed to sink her hooks into you?'

'All she needed was her magical personality and enchanting smile and I was a goner.'

'And what's the name of this special lady?'

'At the moment? Nastaran.' Agastya raised an eyebrow at the temporary nature of her name, then shrugged it off.

'I am looking forward to meeting her.'

'Tomorrow morning it is.' They clasped hands once again, nodding to each other, two masters of their chosen trade, the Prince of Thieves from Babylon and the Master of Spies from the mighty kingdom of Kasi.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Prince snuck into the room quiet as a mouse. An uncharacteristic soft smile appeared on his face, seeing his companion curled up on the bed, fast asleep, using her upper arm as a pillow. Despite the fact that half-a-dozen feather-stuffed monsters surrounding her, each of them so large and soft that they threatened to swallow anyone who got too close, she managed to fall asleep on the only tiny spot not covered by them. He gently slid his bag from his shoulder to the floor, and pulled in the door behind him. He started to sneak through the room, carefully moving only next to the wall where the floorboards were less likely to creak, taking slow, measured steps towards the princess. Above the baked-yellow roofs of the city, Shamash, the yellow-haired, fair-skinned god of the Sun, was already on its way to the underworld, where his scorching rays will keep the monsters of the Abyss at bay for one more day, and his last spears of light painted the room with a golden glow. He crouched low when passing the wide-open window, keeping his shadow off the girl dreaming amongst the covers. He took the last two steps towards the bed still crouching, carefully shifting his weight from one leg to the other, stepping only on cracks, trying to keep the old wood beneath his feet silent. He wasn't the most wanted thief in the capital of the world for nothing, there were no tell-tale noises; silence reigned supreme, only broken by the easy breathing of the princess.

He slowly reached out, pinched a stray lock of hair between thumb and forefinger, and tickled Elika's nose with it. She snorted and waved without opening her eyes, trying to shoo the pesky fly on her face away. The Prince withdrew to avoid her hand, and when she seemed to drift back into sleep, he reached out again, and tickled her nose with her own hair once again. Like before, Elika snorted, and she turned her back to her assailant, pulling the covers a bit higher. Silently, the Prince reached out and picked up a knife from the bedside table and put the handle to her nape, while leaning over her, and whispered in her ear.

'And you are dead.' His voice cold and serious; the playfulness gone, evaporating like dew on desert grass come morning.

Elika woke, startled out of her sleep. In a wild move she tried to grab his hand and jump away from the sudden, frightening cold pressure on the back of her head. Her hand only grasped at air, the Prince stepped back in a fluid motion.

'You should be more careful. It could have been Ahriman's assassin, I could have been a robber, a thief.'

'You _are_ a thief and a robber,' she said pointedly, her heart hammering in her chest from the fright.

'A bad mannered one, then. Sleep with one eye open if no one you trust is around,' he said. Elika bit back the question "And can I trust you?"

'Are you done lecturing me?' she asked instead.

'When I can catch you unawares you deserve a good tongue-lashing.' He stepped back to the bed and leaned closer to her. 'You are the brightest hope we have. Should you fall, no one else would be able to stand against the darkness.'

'No pressure, right?' She slowly sat up, the wooziness of sleep frightened away by the press of metal against her nape and the coarse voice hissing in her ear. She shivered. It could have been the real deal.

'I just don't want to come back to an inn one day and find you lying in a pool of your own blood. Even your magics won't help you if you are struck down in your sleep.'

Her first instinct was to argue, to challenge his right to care for her, but she bit down on that and slowly counted to ten.

'I know. I will take better care,' she said. He looked her in the eye, and nodded slowly, and that was it. She released a breath she didn't realize she was holding when he then broke eye contact, turned, and crossed the distance that took him almost ten minutes to sneak through in four long strides. He fumbled with his bag for a while, and then pulled out a small package, which he handed to Elika with a flourish.

She unfolded the dirty white cloth to find a brown leather scabbard inside with a simple bone hilt showing. She slid it out silently, and found a graceful, double edged dagger, barely a feet long and slightly curved. It was forged out of black iron that took the deep red light of the dying sun and instead of reflecting it the dagger drew the light in and became the color of long-dried blood. Putting down the scabbard, she turned the weapon slowly, trying to figure out the weight balance. She then slid out of the bed, still in the clothes of the last few days and stepped into a low, defensive stance. She went through a couple of exercises, stabbing an unseen foe in the heart, then slashing at his neck, and delivering a nasty backhanded cut to his armpit. She then stood down.

'Well balanced,' she gave her judgment.

'And strong material too. Thrice-forged iron. Cost a fortune, by the way.'

'Doesn't come close to your sword though,' she replied, not even acknowledging his complaint about the gold lost.

'Nothing does,' he said, patting the blade on his side lovingly with pride evident in his voice. 'She came from far away.'

She looked up from examining the fine etchings on the blade and raised an eyebrow. 'She?'

'A water-spirit has been forged into her blade, or so the previous owner told me. Based on the drawings I saw around his house, a definitely female water spirit. Equipped with almost all the required assets,' he said. Elika froze for a second, thinking about what prompted the Prince to add that "almost" to the description, then decided she did not want to ask a more detailed description from her companion, knowing well that it would be quite graphic and might involve wriggly hand movements.

'Let me guess. You came back during the night and stole it.' She didn't bother to hide the contempt in her voice.

'You wound me. She was a gift for services rendered.' She turned away from her own blade once again, giving her full attention to the Prince.

'That sounds like the beginning of an interesting story.'

'Not for today, I'm afraid. The tailor should be here soon, and we have a few more details to take care of till then. I found us traveling companions for the morrow.'

Elika slid her new dagger back into its scabbard. She made a mental note to get the tale of his sword out of him later. She never even heard of an iron blade this long and strong, shining so brightly in the sun and being so flexible. The man seemed to be full of mysteries and tales of adventure. If only she could get him to share…

'What companions?' she asked, hesitantly.

'An old hmm…' he paused for a moment, '_friend_ of mine is heading to Babylon, and with him a couple of hired swords almost as sharp and tough as yours truly. It might be wise to join them for the duration of the journey.'

'A friend, you say?'

'More like a client with whom mutual respect and a certain amount of good-will has been established.'

'Great. More thieves and robbers,' sighed Elika.

'Oh, no, not at all. A well-known and widely respected, and not to mention filthy rich trader, welcome everywhere from the royal courts of the Zhou, to the house of the Pharaoh,' said the Prince.

'And despite all this, he associates with a grave robber like you? I'm impressed.'

'Not only associates, but he gets frequent buyer discounts, though his merchandise is usually far less tangible than the gold bearing faces of god-kings.' His eyes lit up with a conspiratory gleam. 'A lot of merchandise passes through his hands, but he values information the most. And he owes me. And I already have quite a few ideas for the ways in which I could collect.'

**At daybreak, next morning**

'Mount!' the Prince said, and they mounted their beasts. Six people rode out that morning, him and Elika, Agastya, and his three guards. Two pack horses, Farah, and half a dozen other pack donkeys followed them. They checked once more if their saddlebags were secure, and exited the stables, setting a comfortable pace. As every mounted animal led at least one piled with packs, they progressed barely faster than a walking man. During this early hour only field workers were leaving Ankuwa, and they stood by with head bowed as the wealthy and powerful passed. The company rode in a column of three, with Agastya, the Prince and Elika leading the way, the latter two dressed in new clothes, delivered by the tailor just before dawn broke.

Elika shivered in the morning chill and pulled her new cloak tight around her, holding the reins in one hand, clasping the cloak together with the other. Her sandals were replaced by red boots made out of the softest cured leather, embroidered with white flowers snaking around her ankle, up her calves. She wore simple, loose, gray pants, a white blouse and over it a doe-leather jerkin, embroidered with the same white thread. Her new dagger was hanging from her hip, carefully arranged so the scabbard wouldn't bruise either her or her mount.

"Shabhaz" maneuvered his horse till Elika was in the middle, protected by the two men from the sides. Agastya's jovial fat man's look from last night was gone; he was dressed in dark brown traveling robes, with a tough leather jerkin hidden under his clothes. In the sharp morning light, his bulk seemed more muscular than decadently fat, and he rode his horse with the ease of a life sent in the saddle. He and the Prince scanned both sides of the street and the rooftops of the two story houses as they rode in silence, trying their best to look more like tourists than bodyguards on the lookout for prospective assassins.

They cleared the western gates without any trouble; Agastya flipped a full silver coin to the guard stepping up to stop them. He caught it, bowed and let them pass. When they reached the imperial road, they loosened the formation a bit. The fields they rode past were already filling up with peasants beginning another fourteen hour day, moving between the rows of plants, weeding, cleaning up the watering trenches, toiling away their short lives to keep the threatening shadow of famine at bay. The company took no notice of them, apart from a cursory glance from Agastya or the Prince, sizing them up for signs of hidden weapons or inappropriate interest.

When there were finally no workers in earshot, Agastya turned to Elika, and waited politely till he got her full attention.

'I believe we haven't been introduced yet, my lady,' he said, 'I am Agastya of Kasi, humble merchant and purveyor of exotic goods,' and he gave her a bow as deep as the saddle allowed it, and some more, causing him to almost fall of the horse. Elika laughed, her voice tinkling like small bells, delightfully contrasting with the harsh landscape.

'Shabhaz warned me not to believe a word from you I haven't paid for in gold.'

'I am wounded that I don't bear the trust of those I call friends,' Agastya said in a sincerely hurt voice. The Prince turned in the saddle, and joined the conversation

'I only warned my wild flower that though you have the most honeyed tongue east of the Tigris, still, sadly, it's forked.'

'Forked tongues, oh my poor heart will surely break, that I have been shamed such in front of beauty as radiant as yours,' Agastya said, clutching at his chest theatrically, laughter twinkling in his eyes.

'You are a master of words, I will have to give that to you, Agastya of Kasi, and I will reserve my own judgment for the rest.'

'Beautiful and can think for herself, watch out my friend, you might have bitten into more than you can chew,' Agysta said, laughing aloud.

'She is the one doing the biting, not me,' the Prince cut in. Elika turned towards him, in silent outrage, mouth hanging agape. The Prince just winked at her, nudging her to play along. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to put herself into the role of a lover instead of a… traveling mate? Friend? Comrade in arms? She then turned back to the Indian man, her smile dazzling.

'Someone must wear the pants in this relationship, he can't find his own ass with both hands.' The Prince groaned loudly.

'If Shabhaz protests so loudly, then that is a story I must hear,' said Agastya as he uncorked his waterskin and took a long sip.

'Well the first time we met, he was wandering like a raving lunatic in the desert, alternating between mumbling about kings' ransoms and shouting "Farah" at the top of his lungs.'

'And Farah would be?' inquired Agastya.

'My donkey. Not my ass. Donkey. With all my gold,' cut in the Prince before Elika could spin the tale to her liking.

'Well looks to me that you made a fine swap there, losing the gold and gaining the most beautiful treasure between the Tigris and the Hindus,' said Agastya giving a slight bow to Elika, which she acknowledged with a gracious nod.

'Actually in the end even the gold turned up. Maybe it was the god's will that I lost my donkey in the first place,' the Prince said looking at Elika questioningly.

She met his eyes, and nodded almost imperceptibly. 'Indeed it was.' They continued to bore into each other's eyes until Agastya cleared his throat loudly.

'Forgive me for my impudence, jewel of the heavens, but I still don't know of whose beauty I shall sing odes all over the civilized world.'

She gave it some consideration before answering him.

'Elika. Elika of the land of the Ahura.'

'Ahura? Forgive me my lady, but I have never heard of such a la… Hmm, it does ring a bell from somewhere. Wait!' He raised a finger asking for patience. 'I take a small pride that I have been educated by masters of history and geography and though I am nothing but an unworthy student, not fit to clean their sandals, let me try to recall the lessons of the long gone past nevertheless.'

Elika looked at the Prince questioningly, who translated, 'He knows everyone everywhere between Kingdom of Kus and the far off empires of the Zhou, and it pisses him off that he can't place you.' They looked back at Agastya who was riding his horse apparently deep in thought, mumbling to himself, combing through his memory.

'Ahura, Ahura, where have I heard that,' then he muttered a few phrases in his own tongue. Then it clicked and he looked up at Elika and the Prince.

'Ahura. The legend of the warrior-priests guarding an ancient evil for all eternity. I remember it now.'

'You almost got it right. At least closer to right than I did originally,' the Prince said.

Agastya looked at Elika questioningly, and suddenly the theatric flirting was gone. 'My lady?'

'It's not a legend. The Kingdom of the Ahura is real… was real.'

Agastya looked at the Prince and raised an eyebrow. 'How could a kingdom stay hidden in this age?'

'In a far-off, lush valley guarded by miles upon miles of uncrossable desert. Not a very large kingdom, mind you,' he answered, then, feeling Elika's glare boring holes in his nape, he added hastily, 'But a rather pretty one.'

'You are saying there is a hidden kingdom that no one knows of, lost among the sands of the desert? This is the great danger you were talking of?'

Elika and the Prince exchanged an ominous glance. 'We should leave that for later, when we are farther away.'

Agastya looked around; the nearest worker, weeding among the olive trees was at least a hundred yards away.

'Farther away? From what?' he asked.

'Trust me on this old friend; this isn't the time yet. There are some words that shouldn't be said aloud right now. Tomorrow perhaps,' the Prince said. Agastya regarded him suspiciously, but he didn't get to where he was now by pushing questions his informants obviously weren't ready to answer yet.

'And how come no one ever heard of this kingdom of yours?' he asked them.

'The few merchants who visited had the good sense not to advertise their trading routes. And they weren't allowed to see too much of the city anyway. I'm not sure they realized our numbers,' Elika answered him. That, the Aryan could understand. Greed and secrecy, he was familiar with.

'And now you are fugitives?' He asked. They shared another glance.

'Tomorrow,' the Prince answered. 'Tell me about how fate has treated you since we last parted in stead.'

Agastya remained silent for a few moments, composing his thoughts, committing the details he deemed important to his famed memory.

'Well, when I last saw you, you were headed for Ecbatana, right?'

'Yes,' the Prince answered, 'and you were headed for the land of the Nile, loaded with squid-stones.'

'Well, you know how Aegyptos is. Scorching heat, mosquitoes, and bureaucracy.'

'You drink lots of liquid against the heat, with the bureaucracy and you burn it against the pests,' the Prince finished for him.

'Something like that, yes. Apparently the Keeper of Rakes for the Stables of the Apis Bulls wanted to raise taxes on silk imports, which would have been completely unfair to poor traders like me, and would have seriously endangered the profits of dozens of merchants, who asked me to represent them before the court of the Pharaoh,' began Agastya.

'Keeper of what?' asked Elika incredulously.

'The minister of finances.' Answered both Agastya and the Prince in unison. They shared a glance, then Agastya continued.

'When you deal with Egyptians you have to remember that the less important the title sounds, the more power the actual person carries. In this case the Keeper of Rakes is basically responsible for the control of most of the domestic trade, and all of the foreign, including that of silk.'

'And it's only a coincidence that Kasi went through three wars in the last two decades to keep complete control over the silk route heading west,' said the Prince matter of factly, 'and uses the profits reaped by those oh so poor merchants to finance the push further south into the jungles.'

Agastya ignored his comment and continued with the story. 'Well, it turns out the Keeper of Rakes needed a little extra income, not only out of loyalty to the Gift of the Nile but for himself as well. And unfortunately, like I said, his title does not only give him control over a bunch venerated agricultural tools, but all the trade agreements of the Two Kingdoms. Just as unfortunately, for his elderly years he has taken shine to a porcelain-white lily of the Delta, a delicate little thing, with features chiseled by the very gods, flowing dark hair, dark, sensuous eyes and the cutest little buttons for nipples you ever saw.'

'You gotta love the Egyptian fashion; the heat certainly leads to practical solutions. It's always a pleasure to visit the court of the Son of Horus,' the Prince interjected. Elika looked left and right between the two men discussing power-games and intrigues of nations she only heard of. At that moment, she felt very much small-town compared to their intimate knowledge of international politics. 'So I guess the Keeper of the Rakes wanted to make up for his failings in other areas with lavish gifts for his new toy,' continued the Prince.

'More like with a temple-complex dedicated to Isis, sculpted in her image,' said Agastya. Hearing this, the Prince sucked in a breath. Egyptians never took religion half-heartedly. When they built a temple, they built it to last, and they spared no expenses, whether it was spent on alabaster, gold, mother-of-pearl or simply ten years worth of food for a couple of hundred laborers. He asked Agastya, 'And how did the Isis priests react to this?'

'Would you mind talent after talent of gold being spent on your goddess? Who will care if the sculptures were made after the image off a wench in a few generations? Besides I'm pretty sure that some of the tinkling coins would have found their way to the pockets of the high priests.'

'So how did the "poor merchants'" appeal in front of the Son of Horus go?'

'Well the wearer of the double crown is eight years old now, having inherited his throne after his father's untimely demise. I can't say that he was swayed by our arguments that the greed of his minister of finances would decrease his income in the long run.'

'I feel a however coming…' said the Prince, leaning back comfortably in the saddle, listening intently to the tale of his occasional employer, occasional opponent, ultimately friend.

'However,' Agastya continued, shooting a dark look at him, 'it turns out that the Keeper of Rakes' new girl-toy wasn't as dedicated to him as he was to her. A little magpie sang into his ear that he should head home an hour earlier if he wanted to be treated to a show, and indeed he was not left wanting.'

'Ouch. So what happened then?'

'Well, in his rage he had her head chopped off on the spot, along with her lover's. He was quite inebriated at that time, if I remember correctly, and thus prone to making rash decisions.'

'And what of the Isis priests and their temple? Plans of that size are hard to cancel, once a good deal of powerful people spotted an opportunity to make themselves even richer.'

'Well the Keeper of Rakes wasn't really in the mood for his shame being displayed ten meter high, carved from alabaster. There were heated words involved, as I've heard. But the Apis priesthood stood up for his own, and after some mud flinging everything quieted down, and the tax-increase was forgotten.' Agastya finished his story and took a long sip from his waterskin, to wet his throat.

Elika, forgotten between the two men, rode in silence, listening closely to every word that was said. Her companion did not sound like a street-urchin forced into a life of crime at all. "Shabhaz" was obviously good friends with someone moving in the highest circles. Coming to think of it, he wasn't properly awed when she revealed she was of royal blood. Surprised? Yes. Impressed? Not at all. Now she could understand why. He explained last night what was the real position of the short, fat man riding with them, and that Agastya smiled so wide and laughed so easily because the three others riding with them were the best and most loyal swordsmen the Kasi kingdom could offer, ready to kill on his command. Tall, strong, and baked brown by the sun, they were typical Aryan, sons of a strong, rich kingdom that sprawled from the peaks of the Hindu Kush to the well-guarded border of the empire of the Zhou dynasty.

For a few minutes the only sound that could be heard was the dull thud of the horses hooves against the dusty road; it was this silence that the Prince broke with his next question.

'And tell me, old friend, did the lover of the Keeper of Rakes actually cheat on her master?'

'Of course not, she knew exactly what would be the consequences,' said Agastya nonchalantly, '_That _accident took yours truly two months of his life to arrange.'


	8. Chapter 8

The hours passed; and so did the miles. They left the talk about gods and magic for another day, and exchanged anecdotes and entertaining tales of the road. Well, the Prince and Agastya played catch-up, and Elika listened. After the story of the cuckolded priest, she enjoyed the Prince's tale about how he acquired the treasure that was being carried around by Farah nowadays, "liberated" from its century-long rest. He was definitely not one for false modesty; his cunning, dexterity and general awesomeness was highlighted repeatedly throughout the story, but even after deducting all the self-embellishments it was still an impressive feat of grave-robbery.

As they chatted on, the walls of Ankuwa slowly disappeared behind them, along with the green fields surrounding the city. The courier road was dusty, and seldom traveled in this season, but it was well defined and worn-out by the countless caravans passing from the east to the west nevertheless, leaden with goods alike those swaying left and right on the back of Agastya's pack donkeys. The rocky desert stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see; the only thing that broke the flatness of the barrens was the occasional boulder or gnarled tree, sucked dry by the biting wind. if one strained the eye, , the outline of the Zagros Mountains could be seen Far in the distance. Reaching towards the skies weeks of travel west of our heroes, only appearing as a slight shadow at the sky touched the earth, stretching towards the north and south in a thousand mile long line.

They stopped for a lunch break of cold mutton and unleavened bread, then continued the journey west. "Shabhaz" and Agastya continued their banter, while the burly Aryans riding behind them stayed silent and stoic. The small caravan moved west with a slow, but steady pace. Elika fell a few paces behind, blocking out the sound of the men talking, and let her gaze drift over the bleak landscape they passed. The rhythm of her horse's steps and the oppressive heat lulled her into a meditative, relaxed state, maybe for the first time since she woke up oh-so few days ago from her fatal fall to the death, realizing that her father threw the world to the wolves just to have her back. Apart from the five men ahead, she was alone in the harsh, unforgiving landscape of the rocky barrens. Now that they had enough food and water, clothes and mounts, and their very survival wasn't at stake anymore, she could fully take in the cruel beauty of the desert. There were lessons to be learned here, both from the creatures that survived this place, and from those who did not.

She remembered tales of old – tales of the war, tales of the desperate, hopeless struggle against the endless armies of a mad god. Cities fell and empires toppled, civilizations vanished in the onslaught of the soldiers formed out of corruption. And when all hope seemed lost, victory was snatched from Ahriman's clutches by his brother. The world still didn't heal from the wounds of the last war, she thought as she looked around. The once lush green empire of the Ahura was reduced to one desert oasis – no, not even that anymore. Ahriman finished what he started millennia ago. Where trees had grown and rivers had run, now sand covered everything. The people had forgotten the horrors of the infernal war fought long before pyramids rose in the valley of the Nile, but the land has not. The land was still suffering the blight of Ahriman's corruption, and might never recover from it.

Thousands of years have passed since the war, she thought grimly, and if the legends are to be believed the armies of men in this age wouldn't stand a whisper's chance against the tornado. There is no force in this wide world that can stand against the armies of darkness, and if Ahriman wins, it won't be just one desert sucked dry by the magics of the battling gods, but earth, from end to end would be covered in death. She took a new hold on her reigns and spurred her horse into a slow canter, to catch up with the men, now a good hundred yards ahead of her. Falling into apathy won't help, girl, she chided herself. We have magic, steel and gold and we hold the gods' favour. What else could we need?

'Sweet wine down my throat, fiery music and a fine wench in my lap, that's all I ask of life,' were the first words she caughtfrom the mouth of whom else but the Prince.

'Lad, the clinking coins and sparkling jewels don't even make it to your top three anymore? Who knows you might be growing up one of these days,' said Agastya.

'Let's not be so hasty. All I'm saying is that fat lot of good will that gold do you if you are lost in a desert,' the Prince explained.

'Or if you are fighting for your life?' interjected Elika, pulling up to them.

'Well I have been in quite a few scrapes that could have been avoided or the outcome changed by a few of the aforementioned clinkers. Rare is the soldier who will fight even when he is paid not to.' said Agastya, while nudging his horse to the side to open a space for Elika to ride between the two of them. The Aryan bodyguards kept their respectful distance behind their master, riding four horse's lengths behind.

'Aren't soldiers usually paid to fight?'

'By their masters, yes. By the enemy? Not often, and in my experience they are generally happy to get paid twice. I much prefer those battles that were decided well before they were fought. Providing, of course, that I am the one deciding them.'

'There might be those who would betray their lords for money, but most warriors consider their duty sacred, and are loyal to their people. There are those who cannot be bribed.' Elika's reply came fast and hot, like the desert wind.

'Even though it makes my heart bleed, I will have to beg your forgiveness my lady and disappoint you. Few and far between are the generals who think of their kings ahead of themselves, and the only thing the average soldier wants is to get home safe and get paid. People don't fight for ideals, people fight because they would get executed by the sergeants if they didn't rush the opposite dude and tried to stick something pointy between their ribs. They aren't that hard to persuade not to do that with a little bit of honeyed talk.' Agastya, veteran of many almost-battles explained patiently. 'Dying for a noble cause is for the star-eyed fools who have listened to the priests for too long.'

Before Elika could give a proper scathing reply to the cynical spy, "Shabhaz" reached out, put his hand on her forearm calmingly, and said, 'He is just baiting you, don't rise to it. Agastya wouldn't have risen to where he is now if there was even a shadow of doubt to his loyalty.'

'Come on, I was just having some innocent fun.' laughed the Aryan suddenly, his grim face turned into a full, open mouth, belly-shaking laugh. 'I will be soon worthless if you shed light on all my tricks.'

'Tricks?' asked the princess. Agastya and the Prince shared a look and the Prince started to explain.

'You see, it's like this. If someone is loyal and beyond reproach, that's great and he is a real pillar of the community. But if someone carefully maintains an image of corruption, then the ill-meaning members of the said community will try to approach him with sweet words and shining gifts. It's the equivalent of the cat advertising a cheese sale and waiting for the rats to turn up.'

'As long as the enemies of the Aryans believe that Agastya can be easily bribed, he can have an idea on what's going on inside the enemy camp.' The prince furthered the merchant's explanation. 'The only drawback is, that if you are well known to be corrupt, then you must have the unquestioned trust of your own superiors, lest they believe the talk on the streets and have your head on a platter.'

'And I soooo would not look good with an apple in my mouth,' the burly Aryan joked.

'But you just told me all of this, and this means I could tell your enemies, couldn't I?' asked the princess, still dubious. 'How can _they_ know that they can trust you?'

'If you went to someone who believes me to be in his pocket and told him that I was just playing him for a fool, I could easily convince him that I was just pretending to play him for a fool, so you don't report me to my own king. And I'm really good at selling half truths.' Explained Agastya.

'Yup, he is. Once the Phoenicians deliver five shiploads of…' the Prince started, only to be interrupted by Agastya.

'And after thirty years of trading secrets and dealing with kings and emperors I fancy myself a good judge of character. You are not the sort who would try to sell this knowledge for petty cash. Besides, he,' he nodded towards the Prince,' vouches for you and that's good enough for me.'

'How can you live like that? Just thinking about all this intrigue is making my head hurt.'

'You will get used to it girl, I'm afraid. You will get used to it or die.'

'Everything is do or die these days isn't?' said Elika, more to herself than to the men.

The Prince sighed softly, watching the girl's shoulders slum. Had it really been less than a week since he followed her through the treacherous canyons surrounding the City of Light? She was so desperately defiant back then, alone against the world, sure of the death that awaited her at the end of her journey. And him? He was just following her out of idle curiosity and giving in to the inherent urge in all men to turn after a pretty skirt.

He watched Elika go quiet in the saddle, and his heart went out for her. Not for the barb-tongued princess or the mysterious sorceress but the frightened little girl under all of that. Innocent, carefree and sheltered from all the evil, suffering and hunger rampart everywhere else in the world. He yearned desperately to protect this innocence. She was just a girl who had seen her home, her family, her entire world and everything she cared for go up in flames in less than a turn of the moon.

And with sudden clarity, he felt the years stretching ahead of them, starting from this moment. It was deep empathy, a vision sent by the gods, or just a bad hunch, but he saw the strands of time weave themselves into an intricate tapestry. He saw that she would pull herself together, raise her shoulder and look ahead with new determination, and he saw the flicker of playful innocence that made her so alluring die a little bit in her eyes. He saw her closing herself off from everyone as the months would pass to protect the inner child from the harsh and cruel world. He saw her bitterness at trying to stop the tide of darkness surging forth from her homeland and only meeting disinterest and ridicule from the rulers of men, he saw her crying tears of hopelessness and frustration into a dozen pillows in the capitals of the world, and he saw the tears growing more and more scarce, then as she hardened, stop entirely. And he saw her grow, as the years passed, and with her, her magic. He saw her become like a tall cliff, silent, powerful and unshakeable, sure in the righteousness of her cause. He saw white hot magic arcing over battlefields, men flocking to her banner and, he saw himself standing behind her, casting a longer and longer shadow with each passing day. Killing for her in the sunlight, on the battle fields and killing for her in the darkness, the knife under the velvet glove of diplomacy, because there was no other choice; because some ends justify every means. And with every stormy night, taking a life would become just a tiny bit easier; and it wouldn't matter if it was a man or just a boy, the wife of a troublesome nobleman or his only daughter. Just towers to scale, cracks to slip through and throats to slit, and all the while his queen awaited him with more and more orders, trying to keep a desperate gambit against a waking god together. A lone shining beacon of light against the darkness brewing in the depth of the desert; purging light, scorching light, burning light. Colder than ice, harder than a diamond, the human being long forgotten, only a vessel for Ohrmazd, a queen in this fratricidal war, and himself, a pawn.

'No.' he said. 'Not this way.' Elika startled in her saddle, her caravan of thoughts attacked by bandits. He reached out and took her hand in his, lifting her right in his left. Her hand felt soft and warm, and fragile in his own calloused one. 'It's not always do or die. And not everyone is an enemy. There are good men in the world and you will have allies, and you will have friends. And you will have me.' She looked at his sudden intensity bemused and perplexed.

'So you are neither my ally, nor my friend? I better watch my back then,' she laughed out loud. He smiled wide as well, and the ice broke. Then something flared in his eyes, and quicker than lightning his palm slid to her wrist, took hold and he heaved, pulling her half out of the saddle. Immediately, his other hand reached out and grabbed her upper arm. She was stuck hanging between the horses, her legs trying to keep control of her own horse, that sensed something really wrong was happening and was, for the moment, undecided between getting spooked and running away, or just going along with it. Clasping the hand holding her, she looked up into the grin of her companion.

'So what am I, Princess? Friend or foe? Choose quickly before your horse chooses for you.'

She glared at him and tried to use his arm as leverage to push herself back to her own horse.

'Friend or foe, Princess?' he asked again, loosening his hold on her for a second then grabbing her again before she fell.

'Friend, friend, damn you!' she shrieked as her horse, having had enough of the commotion, pulled free from under her.

With one fluid move, "Shabhaz" leaned out of the saddle, slid his other hand under her arm, and lifted her onto his lap, facing him. His horse grunted in protest at the extra weight, while Elika's jumped off. Agastya urged his own mount after it, and caught the reins easily before the spooked horse could bolt.

She gasped, taken by surprise by her change in position.

'Princess.' The Prince gave his new passenger an almost imperceptible nod in greeting. Her thighs were crossing his, his hands still holding her under her arms, in dangerously uncharted territory. Her hands came up to put some distance between them, but there wasn't much to be had on the back of the horse.

Her palms came to rest on his chest. Avoiding eye contact this close, she rather looked at her own hands, like she'd never seen them before. He replaced his storm-torn rags with a new shirt in Ankuwa, soft and thin, and clinging to his body from the heat of the desert sun. She felt the heat of his skin radiate through the fine cloth, and the shift of the muscles as he slid his hands down to her waist from their rather risqué previous position.

After a too-long moment of silence, Elika looked up to find the Prince watching her watching him. The ever-present annoying smirk played on his lips when she flushed crimson with embarrassment, but she couldn't break eye contact and look away. His gaze locked into hers with an intensity that she found almost dangerous.

'You have friends, Princess, not just enemies. You won't stand alone, no matter the terror we face. Don't ever forget that.'

The quiet strength in his words sent chills down her spine and her breath caught in her throat. Then the moment melted like dew-drops in the morn, he smiled, and the playful shimmer returned to his eyes. 'Or I will have just have to drop you between the horses next time, so you will remember better.'

Not understanding what just happened Elika tried a weak smile and a nod, still acutely aware of how close they were and how easily her body betrayed her, turning on and off like a switch whenever he got near. She felt that she was losing a game, where the rules were unclear. She had no idea what the goal was and she had a distinct feeling that her companion was not only more experienced than her, but was actually cheating somehow.

It infuriated her to no small measure that she was being played for a fool. And she did not care much for his smirk, which she felt was more than a bit condescending.

'And maybe I will just break my neck the next time. Now put me down.' she snapped.

To the Prince's credit he managed a serious face when he answered 'As you wish' instead of the soft laughter he knew would only infuriate his charge even more. He stopped his horse, and turned sideways the best he could, offering his arm for Elika instead of simply lifting her off the back of the horse, like he put her on it.

Agastya was watching the exchange from the sidelines and was ready to offer her horse back to the Princess. She mounted in half-feigned haughty silence, not sparing a look for the Prince who was watching her, now openly amused. The apprentices of Agastya were as stoic as ever, apparently they had taken a wow of silence somewhere in the last decade and they weren't about to break it right now.

The Aryan cleared his throat, positioning his horse between the thief and the queen-without-a-kingdom, and asked in his best "let's get back to business as usual kids" voice (or as the natives of his homeland would have called it "Let's pretend there isn't a pachyderm in the chamber"):

"Should we put on a bit of speed before the night falls, or should we just set camp? That outcropping looks like a safe spot against the biting desert wind."

The Prince run a quick mental calculation on the possible state of Elika's backside, and showing uncharacteristic self restraint decided not to point out that some members of the company having never ridden a full day from dawn till dusk before, would be probably be quite happy with a break right now and a sufficiently large bowl of ice-cold water to sit in. Instead he only said "I'm fine with calling it a day now. We covered enough miles, and I would like to get dinner started before Shamash sinks below the horizon," nonchalantly.

"Is that fine with you, my lady?" Agastya asked Elika, who nodded her agreement. Not bothering to get input from his guards, he turned his horse towards the three boulders that stood a good twenty feet tall against the backdrop of the afternoon sky. There were maybe two hours of sunlight left by his estimate, but the sky ahead of them was already getting an orange tint.

Soon, seven pallets were surrounding a small campfire, like petals of a strange flower, while the horses were unhappily munching on the sparse desert vegetation and the contents of their feed-bags. Dinner consisted of stripes of dried meat with a few loaves of bread shared around the campfire, washed down with water already going stale, from the waterskins.

Elika mused on the transience of earthly possessions as she chewed on the tough jerky. A month ago she was cooked for, even if in the simple style of an understaffed palace of a failing kingdom and wouldn't have considered touching dry, salty straps of meat unless her life depended on it. And now her life depended on it, and comparing to the possibility of starvation from two days ago, she was more than glad to have enough to eat and drink, no matter the quality.

She looked around the campfire. To her right the four mysterious men belonging to Agastya sat in a semi circle talking in quiet voices in a language she couldn't understand, nor even place. It reminded her of wind weaving through reeds on the lakeside in the Queen's tower, full of sighs and hisses. Agastya was sitting opposite of her, poking the fire idly with a stick, while the Prince was sitting cross-legged next to her, with his sword in his lap and was intently rubbing it with a piece of oil-soaked cloth.

She shivered and pulled her cloak closer around her; the desert was cooling rapidly as the stars shone up one by one. She was _so_ not looking forward to it, but she felt an urge she did not want to resist all night, an urge that is same in kings and slaves alike. She slowly stood up, and the wind seemed to be just waiting for this; a sudden whiff of air came out of nowhere, to sneak through the folds of her cloak and to spirit what little warmth she gathered away. The Prince looked up at her and raised an eyebrow questioningly. She gave him a sour grin and nodded towards a nearby boulder, maybe a hundred yards from the fire. He nodded silently and returned to cleaning his blade.

Half smiles and glances are enough now, she thought. We are in harmony, she realized, despite all that sets us apart, I trust him to cover my blind spots, to look out for me when I'm asleep. Strange, I wouldn't trust him not to cheat in a game of dice, but I trust him with my life. While musing, the Princess walked around the boulder, trying to offer the least possible target to the wind. When she was out of sight she fumbled with her clothes, mentally preparing for the unpleasant touch of the night air on the soon to be uncovered bits when movement caught her eyes.

She stopped, half crouching and stared. For a moment she could see nothing on the horizon, and then she spotted a dark shape against the blackness of the sky. Then another. And another. A fourth. Too many. Horsemen approaching from the east, from Ankuwa, after nightfall. This couldn't be good. She stood up quickly and ducked back into the dancing light of the campfire. She walked to the Prince, who was preparing some catty comment for the better part of the last minute, but his jest died on his lips when he saw the intensity in her eyes.

'Riders from the east. At least half a dozen, maybe more.' She said in a low voice and reached towards her saddlebags for her dagger, wasting no time.

'Shabhaz' rose as quiet as a shadow, leaving the scabbard of his sword forgotten on the ground with the cleaning rag, and stepped closer to Agastya.

'Raiders. Prepare.'


	9. Chapter 9

A/N I would like to thank you Hans for helping to weed out all the mistakes in this chapter, and for all his encouraging comments! Thanks, buddy!

Chapter 9

Agastya barked an order, and for the first time in the last two days his bodyguards exhibited signs of life beyond that of a potted plant. They jumped to their feet and hurried to the pack donkeys, and to the pile of bags lying next to them. With a smooth, economic move, one unrolled an oiled water buffalo skin containing five short bows, and while two of his mates started to string them as quickly as possible without damaging the weapons, he ran to the smoldering fireplace and kicked sand into it, shrouding the camp in darkness. Meanwhile the fourth Aryan unrolled a similarly nondescript package revealing around four dozen arrows made of finest yew, tipped with expensive, iron heads and adorned with fletches of matched half-feathers of some noble bird.

Agastya was already buckling a wide sword-belt with a dangerous looking flame-shaped blade tucked into it to his impressive waist. While the easterners picked up their bows and half a score of arrows each, the Prince and Elika held quiet counsel. Heads bent together they were whispering urgently, as the Prince was donning his gauntlet and tightening the straps.

'We are too close to the City,' he argued, painfully aware of the riders closing in on them. Needles were running down his spine as he was listening for the tell-tale clatter of hoof-beats betraying the enemy drawing near. From his satchel, he snatched up four heavy, flat, iron crosses with all four ends chiseled into points and started tucking them into his belt. His motions were quick, economic, his voice even. He showed neither fear, nor anxiety, despite what he felt.

'Don't underestimate the danger, mortal bronze tears our flesh just as easily as the dark powers of Ahriman would,' hissed Elika. She was clenching and unclenching her fist, threads of power coursing through her veins; white puffs of lightning dancing in her palms. She felt the magic respond to her own heart hammering in her chest, ready to spring forth and deal with whatever the world would throw at her.

'There wasn't much use for all the secrecy if you light a bonfire of sorcery in the middle of the freaking desert now, leading the hounds of Ahriman straight to us.'

'There is no use for the secrecy at all if we fall to the arrows of common bandits.'

'I would like to see them try,' said the Prince darkly, putting the last of the throwing crosses in its place.

The Aryan warriors were already knocking their arrows on the string, filing behind the large rock that provided shelter to their makeshift camp from the biting wind; the same rock Elika wanted to use for privacy less than two minutes ago. The stone was almost four men tall, and ten feet wide, a jagged blade thrusting towards the night sky, its brown stone chiseled sharp by the cruel wind of the desert. Now it was their hiding place, something to throw their back against, to keep the horsemen from completely surrounding them. The Aryans stood motionless there, lying in wait for the approaching enemy. The thunder of hooves drew nearer and nearer, and Agastya was beckoning them urgently. Time was running out fast.

'Don't be a fool!' Elika snapped. 'The mightiest swordsman can be shot in the back with a single arrow. You might have some fancy tricks up your sleeve, but you are certainly not arrow-proof.'

The Prince stared at her angrily, and swallowed his retort. She was right, and he knew it. It was just a matter of giving in without losing face.

'Okay, but if we are going to unleash hell, we better do it in style.' He gave her the once over. 'And one more thing, if you are going to throw yourself into the fray, we really need to get you in some armor. Like as soon as possible. You are unacceptably vulnerable this way.'

'Yes, but…' Elika started out, her next argument already on the tip of her tongue, but when the Prince's words caught up with her, she switched mid-sentence. 'Wait, what do you mean, unacceptably?'

'You are unarmored. Unprotected. You might as well be naked. If we survive this, we have to rectify that. Let's go,' said the Prince, and without further ado, grabbed Elika by the hand and pulled her towards the spymaster, effectively terminating the conversation.

'At least the enemy would be distracted,' she mumbled, while running behind the Prince.

'More than distracted, trust me on that,' he replied, having heard her low-tone comment.

'Well, I can only serve them a different surprise tonight.' she said, skidding to a halt next to the rest of their troupe. The Prince nodded grimly at Agastya, who touched his lips, then his heart with two fingers, saluting death, their enemies' or if it came to that, their own. The Prince returned the gesture, and positioned himself next to the old trader, preparing for the assault.

Fear gripped Elika's throat in an icy hand as she pushed her back against the rock, and she swallowed hard. Cold and hot inundated her at the same time in the pre-battle rush of adrenaline. Her heart was beating like it was about to burst out of her chest, and the world slowed down to a standstill in the last few seconds before the storm hit. This wasn't about cleansing her homeland from evil; she did not feel her god watching over her, guiding her steps. This was dark, confusing, terrifying. She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and looked up.

Her eyes met the Prince's and he threw her an encouraging smile. She heard the tell-tale ring of iron on bronze as he pulled his sword free of his scabbard. The sound of the approaching horses was painfully loud and she could almost count every single hoof-beat… They were almost there… almost… almost…

NOW!

As the first two riders tore past the rock, the small group sprang into action. Two sharp pangs could be heard clearly, even over the sound of a dozen horses streaming past them. The first two attackers fell from the saddle from the force of the short, twice-curved bows the burly men fired. Without pausing to even see if they hit, they reached for their second arrows from the stack struck tip-down in the ground next to them. Simultaneously, two more distinctive pangs rang out, and another raider joined his brethren on the ground, clutching his side where the arrow hit him point-blank. The fourth arrow missed by an inch, flying far in the night.

The raiders apparently planned to take the sleeping camp by storm, trampling the unarmed and unaware company. They definitely did not expect all seven of them laying in wait, ready to strike, and they paid for their reckless charge in blood. It was a dark night, with only a sliver of the moon providing illumination, and the travelers were hiding in the shadow of the jagged rock outcropping, an advantage that they exploited mercilessly. The fallen did not even have time to realize where their demise had come from.

The first few heartbeats of chaos were only the beginning. After the opening shots, they all sprung into action, and things suddenly got really confusing. On Elika's left, the Prince launched himself from his crouch, landing on the rock, his feet finding hold and propelling him in another jump right on the back of the fifth rider. He sailed through the night air like a wraith, enveloping the enemy, toppling him from the saddle and dragging him to the ground. On her other side, Agastya's flame-shaped kris thrust out, and buried in the side of the next horse. It spoke volumes of the aging spy's strength and his sword's sharpness that he could pull his blade free from the flank of the galloping horse and not lose it. The mount screamed out in agony, going wild from the wide wound in its side.

Meanwhile Agastya's bodyguards launched another volley, with less success than their first, but still taking down a bandit, and wounding another. By now their attackers had figured out that their prey wasn't waiting for them as pheasants in the bushes. Within three heartbeats, five of their number were down. Four more streamed past the rock, one of them bringing up a bow. Elika broke out of her stupor, and without thinking threw up her hand, barking a word in a voice not quite her own.

She felt the magic surge down her arm, leaving her body cold and numb, as if all her life was concentrated in the white fire springing forth from her hand. The moment seemingly stretched out to an eternity as the magic sizzled through the distance between her and the raider, hitting him square in the chest. She couldn't see, but rather _felt_ it hungrily gnawing at his chest, burning a hole straight to his heart, rending and scorching flesh. He shouldn't have had time to cry out, but he let loose an inhuman scream of pain as a god's vengeful will ended his life.

The flash of light blinded all combatants for a moment, except the Prince. He was prepared, nay, waiting for it. He used the moment of surprise to slam the tip of one of his throwing crosses in the neck of the bandit he was wrestling with on the ground. He ripped the iron out and blood arced from the wound, black as the night sky, black as death itself. With the same fluid move, he half turned, and threw the star straight into the chest of the man thundering toward him, trying to run him down. He threw himself to one side, as the horse with the dying rider on it tore through where he knelt a heartbeat before, trampling the man lying on the ground.

Another bow-pang. The arrow tore into the back of the Aryan closest to the Prince, and he went down. The Prince threw a glance around, taking in the battlefield. Of the dozen attackers, more than half were dead or dying, but the rest had managed to turn their horses around, and were about to run down the small group still huddled against the rock. His princess was standing shell-shocked, staring at the man she killed; Agastya was dancing around two horses, sparring with their riders; outnumbered and at a height disadvantage. The three surviving Aryans dropped their bows and pulled their swords, each blade long and curved, with a vicious little back-edge, and charged the horsemen still trying to get their bearings.

'Elika!' the Prince shouted at her, trying to snap her out of shock, but he couldn't spare more than a moment for her; another raider targeted him, and was riding towards him in full gallop. He rolled out of the way, trying not to skewer himself with his own sword, while the blade of the rider nicked him in the side. The pain came from far away, muted by the rush of the battle, but he still felt its sting. He came up standing from the roll and threw another battle-cross with his left hand. The weapon flew true and buried deep in the flank of the horse. 'Where the hell are you girl,' he muttered, steadying his sword, preparing for another last second jump, 'we need you.'

Elika was fighting her own battle. She felt the pain of the man she killed, she could taste the sharp taste of the flesh she burnt, could feel the gaping hole in his chest almost as if her own heart was being consumed by flame. She put a hand against the cold stone, bent double by the agony of someone else's death. She didn't see anything anymore, just felt the dreadful weight of taking a life that belonged to another.

Her magic, her own life was flickering in white flames on the corpse. This was so different from calling on Ohrmazd's fury against the servants of Ahriman! She felt as if every year she took from her victim was weighing upon her, felt her very magic turn against her, trying to devour her just as it devoured the bandit, and leave nothing but two charred corpses behind.

'Elika!' The voice of the Prince reached her in her agony. She gasped for air and with an extreme force of will she opened her eyes. They needed her, _he _needed her. She released the stone she was holding onto and fell to her knees. Fighting against an invisible weight, she brought up her right hand, palm open. She _willed_ the magic to return to her; calling the flames back from the dead man. For a moment nothing happened; then hesitantly the flames flickered out, leaving the feast lying on the rough desert sand, and she felt the magic fill her again, eager for another kill.

She breathed out a relieved sigh and almost fell forward as the pain lifted. She felt exhausted beyond measure, terrified by brutal backlash of her own power. She raised her eyes from the midnight-dark sand and opened her awareness to the battle raging around her. Shapes fought in the night; on horseback and on foot with blades flashing pale-white in the moonlight; ripping into flesh, spilling blood, ending lives.

It looked like a grotesque play of shadows to her, not real men dying in a desperate struggle. She watched in a daze as another Aryan fell slowly, grasping at the wound opened on his throat as if he could hold back his life force gashing out, spilling on the thirsty sand. The world slowed down around her, splitting time into distinct, clear moments following each other as beads on a string, and she had all the time in the world to scrutinize each and every one of them.

She saw Agastya thrust upwards, striking as fast as the king cobras of his homeland, his sword buried in the side of a man on horseback, and saw the vicious counterstrike from his comrade unerringly exploiting the opening Agastya left and his sword struck deep into his side.

Shrouded in darkness, but still as clear as if lit by the noon sun, she saw the Prince jump and roll out of the path of a charging horse, saw his precious sword tumble from his hands, landing almost six feet away from him, a distance halfway between death and eternity, in the chaos of the battle.

And she saw herself raise her hands, and shove against the hard, hard air, against the man with a triumphant grin bearing down on the rogue who gave her life back. She more felt than heard the sickening crack of a broken spine; it felt as easy as snapping a dry twig. The raider fell out of the saddle instantly, unable to move arms or legs, dropping to the ground motionless in his silent terror.

But even before he hit the ground, Elika's gaze was elsewhere. Her hands moved with sudden alacrity, weaving the strands of magic together in another net. She threw a jet of white fire at one of the three still in the saddle, releasing her hold on the magic the moment just before it reached its target. She cringed, closing her eyes, bracing for the pain of the backlash, but it did not come. When she dared look up she saw the man lying on the ground, the white flames engulfing him.

A bolt of shadow arced through the night, the last of the Prince's throwing crosses burying itself in the chest of the second to last horseman still up in the saddle. The white flames feeding off human flesh gave an eerie glow to the campsite. The last of the attackers turned and with a scream of primal terror tore away into the darkness, both him and his mount crazed from fear. He didn't get far; one of the surviving bodyguards snatched up a bow, pulled and released in one fluid motion, and even in the dead of night, his arrow unerringly found its mark.

The raider fell with a strangled cry, rolling over several times in the dirt before coming to a halt; his horse continued its gallop without him. The other surviving bodyguard put his sword through the heart of one of the wounded with a vengeful grin, almost pinning the corpse to the ground.

The world seemed to grind to a stand-still after the mad rush of the battle. Only five shadows were standing, with riderless horses milling around the camp in fear and confusion. The bodies would need to be searched and buried, the wounded questioned and disposed of, the horses gathered, but it could all wait for a moment, while they caught their breath.

Agastya, clutching his side, limped to the rock, and slid down to the ground with a wince. His blood was flowing strongly from his wound; a pulsing stream of ruby life-force. The Prince felt for his side as well; his shirt was wet and getting heavy with his own blood; and was ruined beyond redemption. He gritted his teeth as he hurried to the rock, and knelt next to the old spy.

'Let me see,' he said, peeling Agastya's fingers away from the wound. Elika stepped up to them as well, and leaned in. 'Make light,' the Prince said, and without a word, she complied.

That which was the stuff of wonders only a few nights ago became just another tool to use. She called the magic to her fingertips almost without a thought. White light shone, casting long shadows around the trio. The Prince took a quick glance at the wound and hissed. The cut went straight through Agastya's billowing robes, rent the leather vest he wore under, and opened a two inch deep, long gash in his side right under his ribs, right through his liver. Blood pumped out of the wound, hopeless to bandage or to cauterize. The two Aryans, having finished off everyone who could move or pose a threat, drew close as well, more concerned with the wound, than with the magic; for now at least.

'How bad is it?' croaked Agastya, his voice getting weaker.

'We need to clean the wound fast, then stitch it together,' the Prince began, but his heart wasn't in it. Agastya got what he wasn't saying; he had told the same lies to too many soldiers in the field himself.

'Save the fast talk for the tourists on the Ishtar road, boy. I'm dying.' He spoke in quick bursts, every word an effort. He looked up at his guards and in began to talk hurried Vedic, 'Ashvavati prathamo gosu gachati martyastavotibhih tamit…' determined to finish what he had to say before his time ran out.

The Prince looked over his shoulder, up at Elika. 'Can't you do anything?' he asked, desperate and demanding.

'I… I don't know…' she said, hesitantly. 'What could I do?'

'Heal him, close the wound, stop the bleeding, whatever. If Ohrmazd gave you power to kill, then you must have it in you to heal as well.' His words tumbled out harsh and hurried, trying desperately to find a way to push on the skin slippery from blood to stifle the flow; but it was hopeless.

'I have never tried… I have no idea what to do, or even if I _can_ do anything like this.'

'You can. You are his only hope.' He sighed and said softly: 'Please.'

She slowly nodded and lowered her glowing hand, reaching for the cut, palm down. She hovered above the wound, and her eyes clenched shut in concentration. The light flickered and tendrils of pure magic reached down from her wrist, one, two, three, touching the edges of the gash. Agastya gasped, arching his back. His apprentices watched mesmerized as the tendrils danced in the wound, cleaning out the sand, sucking up the blood, knitting the torn flesh together; but the Prince only had eyes for Elika. She didn't look down; didn't even open her eyes, but he could see her gaze flickering under her eyelids. Dust, sweat and dried blood smeared her face and tangled her hair, and the pale glow of magic gave an eerie sheen to her skin. She looked more like the shaman of a feral desert tribe than the queen of a civilization older than Babylon herself.

Slowly, the Prince felt Agastya relax in his hold, his body growing heavy, and he finally glanced down, tearing his gaze from the mage, to the magic. The fingers of light were slowly retreating from the wound; leaving only flesh, whole, pink flesh behind. The Aryans, instinctively drew protective symbols in their palms to keep evil at bay.

Elika's eyelashes fluttered open. In a quiet, emotionless voice, she said, 'He will sleep now. His body has a lot to catch up with.' Without another word, she stood up straight, turned, and starting walking away in resolute, but unhurried steps. The Prince nodded at the closer bodyguard, putting Agastya in his care, and stood as well, setting out after her.

The first two hurried steps reminded him that he didn't escape the skirmish unscratched either. He took the next step with a little less spring and wondered if he was doing the right thing, going after her; if he should just make sure she was alright, or actually try to find out what was going on. Empathy was never his strong suit, at least not when it wasn't tinged with selfishness. Consoling a grieving widow and offering her more than just comfort was one thing; this genuinely-caring-for-another-human-being was something else. Elika solved his dilemma for him. He saw her double over not twenty yards from him, her hands finding support on her knees, her stomach loudly giving up the contents of her dinner.

While he was not equipped to deal with aches of the soul; he could definitely deal with someone puking her guts out after her first kill. But before that, he wanted to make sure that he himself wouldn't bleed to death. So, keeping an eye on her, he unbuckled the straps of his gauntlet, letting it drop to the sand before his feet, and then slowly, carefully slipped out of his shirt, flinching as he lifted the soaked-through material away from the cut. He let the shirt hang from one arm, and examined the wound. It didn't look too deep, but it was hard to tell in the near darkness, and it definitely hurt like hell. That in itself was not a bad sign; he knew from experience that if a wound goes numb, that's when you really need to start to worry. All in all he deemed it not life-threatening, and started to carefully, methodically tear up the non-soaked through parts of his shirt into one long stripe to be used as a bandage.

Elika slowly straightened up after she finished emptying her stomach and wiped her mouth, disgusted. She was weary, weary beyond imagining; and numb from the battle. All the adrenaline drained out of her. She knew she was filthy, but she didn't give a damn anymore; all that mattered was that she was alive, and looking at the corpses scattered around their camp, she knew she was lucky. She knew she spent more magic than she ever had, but that was once again a cost she would have to pay in the morning. Right now all she wanted was to collapse somewhere away from the smell of death and sleep for days.

Her feet were taking her back to the campsite on their own, and she almost walked straight into the Prince, who was struggling to secure a bandage over his side using only one hand. Trails of dried blood disappeared under the dirty-white cloth, already forming crusts on his skin. Not thinking, she raised her hand and gently began to unravel the dressing.

'Let me,' she said, dreamily, and slowly more and more skin appeared again from under the awkward bandage the Prince had tried to wrap around his side and shoulder. Removing the last layer of the wrap, Elika let the cloth fall to the ground and took a closer look at the wound. It was only a shallow cut, maybe half an inch deep, just an inch under his right shoulder-blade, close to his side.

She let her hands rest on his shoulder, cupping it, then she trailed them down, slow and gentle, her fingertips drifting over his bare skin, meeting over the wound. The Prince stood silent, watching her ministrations with an unreadable expression. Her palms cupped the cut, she drew in a deep breath, and when she breathed out, she let the magic _flow. _It was different than with Agastya; smooth, instead of rough, round, instead of jagged. She had no words for the feeling of touching another life with her own, connecting on a level deeper than the gods reserved for man and wife. She didn't have to think about what would happen inside the wound, she just slowly let her magic, her being, seep into the cut. Instead of mechanically knitting the flesh together she let the magic run free, to do as it desired. Her power lingered in the cut, and through his blood, she felt his heartbeat mix with her own, felt the touch of dry air on his lips, the tangy taste of blood on his tongue. She felt the edge of the chaotic swirl that was Him, not enough to make sense of it, but enough to make her eyes go wide with wonder. She got a glimpse into what it was to be inside someone else's skin, an experience few others had had before her, at least not without the extensive use of herbal help.

'That tickles, you know,' he said, his words resonating in his chest, under her fingers; bringing her out of her reverie. Her flame flickered and went out, once again leaving only smooth skin behind. Embarrassed, she snatched her hand away, as if burnt by his bare skin. She took a half step back and looked down, avoiding his eyes searching for hers.

The battle-thunder in her blood was gone, the weariness was gone, the elevation of the magic was gone, all replaced by profound embarrassment, tinged with no small measure of desire. She felt being caught with her hands in the cookie jar, prying into things not meant for her to see. He took her unresisting hand into his and raised it slowly to his face. Her gaze followed it, and she watched as a calloused thumb stroked her palm. Her olive-skinned hand lay in his sun-bit one as a dove ready to fly away at the first sudden move. He lifted his gaze from their hands to her eyes; and there was no mischievous twinkle dancing in his this time.

'Thank you,' he said softly, simply, and from him, that carried more meaning than any solemn oaths of gratitude would have.

'It was nothing.' Her voice was barely above a whisper.

It would be so easy to lean down and kiss her, he thought, damn the sweat, the wounds, the vomit, the blood and the gore. In the ever-observing, cynical part of his mind he noted not for the first time that she was ripe for the plucking, and if she had been anyone else, anyone else at all, it would be all too easy to take her in his arms and pull her against him. He knew how confused she must be now, and how vulnerable. Having killed, flush with triumph and drunk with the joy of survival, full of death and darkness; and magic and life, her soul bursting with a thousand emotions. It would be so easy to lean close and let nature take its course.

So easy.


	10. Chapter 10

The morning came, and the chariot of Shamash rode out from the underworld, leaving Ishtar's warm embrace far behind. His rays dispersed the blanket of darkness covering the plains outside the walls of Shushan. Two men high, and wide enough for two horses (though actually getting a horse up on the walls would involve at least a crane), the battlements had seen many armies camped before them, but none that could take the city. Though it had been a while since the sprawling capital of the Elamite empire last had a ruler wary enough to carry out the much-needed repairs on the brick walls, they still filled the heart of Shushan's citizens with pride. Six mighty gates guarded the city, andalready there was a queue forming in front of the east gate, despite the early hour. The night guard, only half-awake, watched the small crowd from the top of the gate-tower and stifled a yawn. It was too damn late for him to be really interested in the men ready to haul baskets of fresh dates to the market, or in the women, wrapped from head to toe in colorful scarves, balancing jugs of still-warm donkey milk, jostling for position, all eager to feed the thirty thousand hungry mouths behind the city walls.

Behind him, the priestesses of Kiririsha began their song. Two hundred and sixteen women clad in green and gold sang in unison, of the glory of the Mother, and of the duty of all living things to venerate Her. The ziggurat was almost a mile away from him, but the guard could still hear them clear as if he was kneeling in the central square, head bowed, praying to the goddess for good fortune, strength and luck. Six and six and six priestesses stood in neat rows on the man-made mountain and woke the city, as they did on every single day for thousands of years. Shushan was old, older than Babylon, older than many of the burned ruins where once proud city-states stood and she did not let anyone forget it. Where other gods have failed, and disappeared with their peoples under the sands of time, the walls of Shushan were still strong, and the song of Kiririsha still carried far in the morning air.

The Elamites were a proud people of a proud city, and uncounted centuries survived backed up their claim.

The guard surveyed the wide road leading west; worn and well-traveled. This early he expected no traffic, save the folk of the surrounding countryside; merchants usually weathered out their last night before reaching the city walls in the caravan-seray half-a-day's journey from Shushan. Yet, outlined by the white fire of Shamash, riders approached from the east; a dozen or more horses strong. The guard tried to shade his eyes with his hand, and make out more. No one risked traveling during the night, especially not on horseback, unless they had a reason, and he idly wondered what that reason could be. Merchandise easily spoiled? Urgent messages? Sheer stupidity?

When the last notes of the hymn died behind him, the gate slowly started to open. The ingenious system of pulleys and ropes was operated by four of the day guard. The massive wings of the gate, each weighing more than an elephant, reinforced with bronze and decorated with peeling gilt, creaked open and the peasants outside started to file in. Two guards climbed the ladder to the top of the gate-tower and greeted the night-guard. He returned the greeting, and after giving one last curious glance to the approaching horsemen, he climbed down the same ladder and headed off to his wife and a well-deserved good day's sleep.

On the road below, an argument raged amongst the riders.

'I told you we should have stopped in the seray! I'm itching all over!' Elika's usually demure tone was replaced by righteous indignation.

'Hey, no pain, no gain,' shrugged the Prince, mentally counting down the steps until he could fall in a feathered bed and sleep for at least a full day.

'Little I can do to change the past, milady, but I promise I will do my very best to make up for the inconveniences of this night. But to be fair, even Sabhaz couldn't have known that there was an anthill just under the briars.' Agastya interjected, trying to be the voice of reason.

'Damn right, I couldn't have.' The spymaster sighed. The Prince was _not_ helping.

'Let's just focus on getting through the gates and finding an inn, alright?' he said. 'Bickering won't lead anywhere, just attract undue attention.'

'What's our story anyway?' asked the Prince, breaking the quarrel.

'I will go as Agastya, I travel through Susa occasionally and I have not made enemies that would wish me dead in the city, at least none that I know of; so no point for me to invent another identity. I'm traveling with my lovely, but unruly daughter Nastaran whom I hope to marry off to a rich Babylonian merchant to seal a deal. My son and apprentice, Shabhaz and my manservant Turva are accompanying me on the journey. We started off with four guards but got attacked in the desert by bandits we successfully repelled, that's where the extra horses are from. Clear to everyone?'

A round of nods followed from the rest of the troupe.

'Though we have little reason to believe anyone wishes us ill inside the walls, we still have to keep our wits about us at all times,' he continued. 'I shouldn't have to remind anyone of the stakes.' He shot a pointed look at "Shabhaz". He met the old Aryan's gaze and nodded solemnly, his mischievous mood whisked away by the morning breeze.

Agastya looked up, towards the gates. 'And I will do all the talking.'

'That went easily,' Elika remarked, remembering the gates of Ankuwa.

'We didn't give the guard any reason to give us trouble so he gave us none,' said Agastya.

'And it definitely helps if you look rich,' the Prince added his two dinars.

'But not too rich,' said Agastya.

'Nor too eager,' so the Prince.

'or too cautious,' said the Aryan.

'Always stick to the anonymity of mediocrity.' finished "Shabhaz". The princess looked left and right between the two men, trying to follow the exchange. It was obvious they had this conversation countless times before and enjoyed showing off immensely.

She gave the Aryan merchant-spy another good look. She didn't know where she stood with him. He was a strict parent, a playful comrade, a sly jester and ruthless diplomat at the same time. When they first met, little over a week ago, she guessed him above fifty, weak and fat. Now, she had seen him move in battle with the grace of a gazelle, strike with the alacrity of a cobra and ride with the resilience of a camel. Neither of these fit the image of the soft, slow merchant he tried to project.

The man was an enigma. He swore fealty to her; kneeling in blood and sand and gore, he swore that he would repay his life with service. He asked no questions where the power that re-knitted his flesh came from; he offered his loyalty for his life, no less, no more. And he seemed good on his word.

The streets of Elam were busy despite the early hour; men and women jostled and elbowed their way through the quickly thickening crowd. Vendors had already started hawking their wares and everywhere meat was roasting over coals, filling her nostrils with the smells of foreign spices and making her mouth water. The crowd parted before them; the Prince took point with Agastya and Ugrasena, the last guard accompanying them, taking the flanks, boxing Elika in. The three men rode silently, and despite the mishaps of the last night, their eyes scanning the crowd were alert, their gaze darting from men to men, from the street level to the roofs looking for signs of trouble. Elika felt this was a bit over the top; she never had guards half as vigilant as these three; even when all knew her as the Queen-to-be.

Maybe the throng could sense that they meant business, or maybe those on foot learned the hard way that those on horseback demand their way, and woe onto he who stands in their path; either way, they cut through the masses without any trouble.

While the men played at being bodyguards, Elika surveyed the city, mentally comparing it to her only other experiences: the City of Light and Ankuwa. The Ahura's city was… had been... all marble and stone; daring arches and proud towers; a vertical city using the narrow canyons of the fertile valley to the fullest. On the other hand, both Ankuwa and Shushan were horizontal, only bound by the city walls. But while Ankuwa was a cesspit, as far from civilization as possible, Shushan was the birthplace to an empire only slightly younger than the City of Light herself. The two, three, sometimes even four level houses lining the main road leading to the city centre were brightly painted in myriad colors; sunflower-yellow, turquoise or verdant green with the door and window frames lime-washed so thoroughly that they were blinding in the bright morning light, each house trying to outshine the next.

As long as Elika lived, her home had been on the decline, with barely enough people left to fill half the houses, with more and more leaving every year. The dark secret of the mighty tree standing in the centre of the valley lay on their souls as a stifling cloak. The signs were everywhere if you knew where to look: intricate patterns carved into the walls seeming to swirl and move if you watched them from the corner of your eye, towers standing so high that no foundation should have been able to bear them, and the Fertile Grounds placed in an arcane pattern around the Tree, meant to bind an ancient evil to the very land for all times. The chains that shackled the dark god crisscrossed the tiny kingdom and bound her inhabitants as much as her prisoner.

Shushan was free. To Elika's eye it was full of joy and spirit and a pulsing force of life. People didn't tiptoe down echoing marble corridors followed by the sound of their own footsteps. They stepped hard and strong, and if there was another sandaled foot caught under theirs, then so what? So the young queen watched with her eyes wide open, trying to take in the thousand faces, colorful vests, sweeping robes and the chatter, shouting and cursing going on in a dozen languages.

While Elika was enthralled by the first real city she had ever seen the Prince had rather different thoughts running through his mind as they rode from the eastern gate of Shushan to the inn the Prince was leading them to.

There were allies to meet, friendships to rekindle, and scores to settle in Shushan, some important and some could wait maybe till the end of days. He had come to Shushan with nothing more than a hazy plan, a faint memory of a great wizard who made this city his home. He doubted that Berisath wielded half the power Elika displayed so readily, if any; but he was wise in his years and learned in the ways of magic and that might count for more in the war to come. The Prince was awed by the feats of magic Elika displayed regularly, but she desperately lacked knowledge on the theoretical. He hoped that the elderly wizard would have more of an answer to offer to their current most burning question, namely: "How to kill/bind a dark god". Currently they were going with "In any way we can", and while that answer had a definite style and bravado, the Prince felt it was sorely lacking in the practical department.

It had been four years, almost five, since he had last seen Berisath; and they had not parted on the best of terms. He was younger and even more hotheaded back then and felt that endless, droning lessons were not what he expected from life; he sought alternate venues of entertainment, ones that involved busty women, moonlight chases and large amounts of intoxicating liquids, sometimes at the same time. When he left Shushan to head back to Babylon, the goodbye was bitter and angry words were exchanged - his tutelage at the hands of the old wizard failed. Still, he knew that if he asked, Berisath would help – if he still lived, that was.

The other question that arose was how to bring Berisath into the picture without him revealing too many connections the Prince was not yet prepared to share with the rest of the team. The Prince was sure Agastya had his own theories about him: the spymaster had enough resources to find out virtually anything, but was also a firm believer of the don't-ask-don't-tell policy. Elika, on the other hand, had the annoying habit of digging until she was satisfied with the answer. It was harder and harder to elude her inquisitiveness with each passing day, but for some reason he couldn't define for himself he wasn't willing to share his past with the woman he staked his future – everyone's future- on.

His eyes never stopped moving while his mind kept spinning. He was the first to dismount when they reached the inn, and entered, leaving the others mounted outside. He gave the main hall the once-over. It was equipped with all the luxury he expected from a high-end joint. Low mahogany tables surrounded by feather-stuffed pillows, eager lads and lasses making rounds with milk still hot from the teats of the donkeys, serving fruit and fresh bread to the breakfasting patrons.

He wore a traveler's garb; gray and dusty, covering him from head to toe, shielding him from sand and heat and cold alike. The only thing betraying his wealth was his sword, and like everywhere else, it drew appreciative glances here as well.

A soft-faced youth hurried to greet him, his skin tender, his clothes finely cut and his hair smoothed back with scented olive-oil. He bowed deeply in front of the Prince.

'Noble visitor, your presence honors the Dawn's Wonder. I am Tiutme, your humble servant.'

The prince waited just enough to make the wait uncomfortable then nodded.

'Indeed. Have rooms prepared for my father and I, and for my sister, they will be along momentarily. We all desire a bath, and the best breakfast your cook can conjure up. Also place a pallet for our manservant.' He looked away for a moment, then added, 'That's all for now. Oh and spare no expenses.'

Tiutme was used to the rich and the powerful and how they treated those below them. He bowed and backed away, while the bastard so obviously just in from the desert walked around the Dawn's Wonder's hall trailing sand behind him. One of the younger girls would have to clean that up, or there would be beatings all around. The master was very particular about cleanliness, both of the premises and the staff. If one of the help caught the eye of a rich merchant, a lot of extra cost could be added to the bill after all.

The new guest picked up a juicy plum, bit into it and marched outside, leaving the servant to do his job, and do it fast. They would expect a room by the time they got in, or else. He quickly issued orders, set the staff of the seray to their tasks, and by the time the guests were ready to see their room, everything was prepared for a grand tour to show off what luxuries the Dawn's Wonder could pile on them.

'… and just pull on this cord and a bell will ring for us, and we will be here in the blink of an eye to fulfill your every wish, master.' Tiutme finished, wearing his brightest smile as a shield to hide his worry behind. The fat man gave a thorough once over to the suite, in Tiutme's opinion attaching a price tag to every piece of furniture, pillow or carved windowsill, and when the total came up with a high enough number he nodded his approval. A wave of relief flooded him, three rich guests staying for an indefinite time meant that the master would be happy and there would be more leftovers to eat for the kitchen staff.

The merchant's son cared little for the room or the slave showing it to them, he already deposited himself on a pile of pillows, and started to stone a fig. If he kept up eating like that he would soon end up like his father, Tiutme thought. The woman though gave him a genuine smile when he backed out of the door, and for some reason that gave him a shiver. No good ever came from being noticed, he had learned that lesson all too well. When he was safely out, he turned and hurried away to check on the kitchen and the meal promised to the new guests.

In the suite he left behind, Elika plopped down on another pillow, leaning back until she lay on her side supported by an elbow. She irritatedly shook her head to shake her stray locks out of her face and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She felt her muscles slowly release the tension. She ached all over; after weeks of fighting, fleeing and hard riding, she felt like she was covered in one huge bruise.

She was tempted to give in to self-pity; Ohrmazd knew she had a thousand reasons to feel sorry for herself. But she had to be strong, the hardships endured were only the first few steps of a long and perilous road, she was sure. So she forced the pains, both that plague the body and those of the soul, down, way down, put on a faint smile and opened her eyes.

The Prince was lying on the pillows, almost mirroring her, holding a bunch of grapes in his left while simultaneously supporting himself and using his right to pick the best ones, seemingly unperturbed by the layer of dust and grime covering his hands. He popped a grape high in the air, trying to catch it with his mouth. Instead it bounced off his nose, disappearing somewhere between the pillows. He fumbled for it, lifting the corner of the nearest, then he looked up and met her gaze across the room. For a moment he looked genuinely embarrassed, caught with his guard down. Then he recovered and flashed her a bright smile, as if the bickering of the morning was all forgotten.

Elika wanted to be angry with him for being so easy with life, but found that she couldn't. Instead, she felt a pang of envy that he could afford to think no further than the next seray, the next meal, the next joke. Barely a month ago, she would have thought such an attitude irresponsible and shallow. Now, on the road and on the run she could understand that he took whatever pleasures life offered him and let tomorrow take care of itself. There was a certain sort of attraction to living in the present, instead of spending every moment preparing for a future that might never come.

Quickly as her anger rose it disappeared, 'I can let go' she thought, and let her perfunctory smile fade, as she locked her eyes with the Prince and reached for a bunch on the tray in front of her. She plucked a grape, threw it high up and threw her head back almost horizontal, opening her mouth wide, eyes trailing the small missile's arch. The cool fruit landed right between her waiting lips, and she squished it with her tongue, rolling the sweet flesh around in her mouth, enjoying the taste fully, humming appreciatively.

She sat up fully, closed her eyes and rolled her head, neck cracking as she did so. Like a cat, she stretched, rounding her back, unconscious of the view it offered the thief lying across her; not many dared to look down the shirt of a royal princess where she came from.

She looked up, the meeting the Prince's eye again. He had a hungry look about him, intense and dangerous. She hadn't seen him look at her like this since the night in the desert when they were attacked. She felt an involuntary blush rising in her cheeks, and her heart rate sped up. Inwardly, she cursed that she reacted so fast whenever he as much as smiled at her. She felt it was unfair, that he could turn on this powerful magnetism when he felt like it. Throughout the long ride, there hadn't been as much as a flirtatious joke passing between them, and now she could feel his gaze scorch her bare skin.

He rose slowly from his laying down to sitting, just staring in silence. Like a big cat, Elika thought. And he is going to pounce on me at any moment.

There was a polite knock on the door. The Prince almost growled, but then closed his eyes, and his expression relaxed.

'Come in,' he called out. Three servants appeared, carrying plates of still steaming unleavened bread, a quivering pile of eggs, smoked meat of all varieties and a large jug of watered down fig-wine. They placed them on the low table in the centre of the room, right between Elika and the Prince, and backed out silently, but bowing profusely.

Agastya walked up from his previous perch at the window, and Elika suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment wash through her. She had no clue how much the old spy had seen, but if he had any thoughts he hid them well, seeming more interested in the food than in either of them.

The breakfast made up for the many missed meals during the journey through the desert; Elika was soon filled to bursting and she sank back to the pillows.

When the men were finished all laid back for a while, just digesting. It was Agastya who spoke up first.

'Shabhaz, what did you want to do next? You said you had a plan for Susa.' The Aryan used the Babylonian name of the city, it rolled off his tongue like a barbed curse, not the sweet whisper the residents used for their home.

'I did and I have. I have an old contact here; a wizard from the fallen city of Nineveh. Nastaran said her people had contact with them, maybe he could help us or at least point us in the right direction.' Though they were alone in their chamber, neither him, nor Agastya felt secure enough to use real names. Elika took her cue to chip in.

'Indeed. The learned and the wise of Nineveh did visit my homeland; though the visits stopped some two score years ago; and we never knew why. There was little contact with the outside world, news was scarce and unreliable.'

'And Nineveh was far away, four hundred miles past Babylon to the north,' the Prince remarked, more for her benefit, than Agastya's. 'No wonder news traveled slowly, even though the city fell almost twenty years ago.'

'How did Nineveh fall? Who is responsible?'

The Prince and Agastya shared a glance, and Elika focused on the young thief; she missed the slight nod of the old spy. He began to explain.

'Assyrians. In their maddened by their hunger for conquest, they launched a sneak attack. Without warning ten thousand men marched on the city, while traitors within opened the gate. The massacre was said to be so terrible, that from the twenty thousand living souls in the city barely half survived. The nobles, the priests, the merchants, the wealthy and the educated were all put to the sword along with their children so no one could lead a rebellion against the new overlords later. Now the grain of Nineveh feeds hungry mouths in Nippur, while the children of the raped wives and daughters starve even in years of bounty.'

The Prince told the terrible tale, as if he was reading it from a treatise on history, without any emotion, but Elika could see the fires engulfing the city, the screams of pain and terror, could almost hear the clutter of bloodthirsty bronze-clad warriors as they rampaged around the city, murdering, raping, looting. She shuddered despite herself; her homeland had seen no war for thousands of years, and no violence, save the occasional drunken brawl over the smile of a girl. She could imagine all too vividly the helplessness of the innocents quivering behind closed doors, huddled together, waiting for someone to kick down the door and take all they had and all they were. She swallowed hard, and shivered again; the temperature seemed to drop to a chill despite the rising sun outside.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, she felt how sheltered her life had been in the Valley, where such monstrosities belonged to the books of history, not to the sobering reality of everyday life.

'And the laugh of Ahriman echoed in his prison watching with gleeful pleasure,' she thought out loud.

'It would be his kind of thing, indeed,' nodded the Prince. Agastya looked between them, still wondering if this all wasn't a pipe-dream. Talk of what a god of unspeakable evil might do or not do while standing in the bolts of sunlight flooding the room with lazy heat seemed surreal, yet he only needed to remind himself of the flashes of silver fury striking down bandits, and how it felt when his life-force was gushing out from his wound, the world slowly growing stone-cold and sky-distant. This was real, this was here, not in the babble of priests or the tales of midwives.

He looked over the two youngsters, barely more than children, wearing the weight of the world on their shoulders. Untried and untrained, both of them, yet harder than bronze and sharper than obsidian. But bronze melts and obsidian shatters; and there were plenty of crucibles ahead of them. He saw how the daredevil who scaled the highest palace towers to steal a kiss or a sparkling jade acted as an ever-wary bodyguard, and approved of the change. It was time he grew up; and time he assumed some responsibilities, not necessarily the ones he was born to, but some nevertheless. His own homeland had little interest this far to the west, apart from keeping the trade routes open, but he had a vested personal interest in the Prince of Thieves.

And as for the fledgling queen, barely two weeks had passed since they first met and he already owed an oath of fealty to her, something that he owed to none but his own king before. But some things came before kingdoms, and some debts have to be repaid. These two will shake the world at its foundation, if they survived long enough.

He realized what they had not; that this was how myths began, that this was the genuine article, grander than any intrigue or border war he'd had his hand in during his long life, and that what he did now would echo through history forever.

He was living the beginnings of a legend, and these two were the protagonists of tales that would go on for thousands of years, and it was his sacred duty to see that those stories would be told and retold again next to campfires; to children huddling in their beds; written and read until the tale was altered so much that no one living it would recognize it anymore as their own. Still; it would be the tale of two heroes, like the Epic of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, of Isis and Osiris, and all he could hope for was a side note in this saga.

After a long life of deceit, treachery and murder, the old spymaster felt he was finally doing something worthy, something to make amends for all the lives he ruined, all the men and women he trampled over in the name of duty and loyalty. A cause burning so bright that its flame could singe the very heavens.

If only he could protect the torchbearers, while the flame was still weak and easily dowsed.

Otherwise all would be lost and darkness would reign forever.


	11. Chapter 11

Oblivious to the epiphany of the Aryan, the Prince and Elika continued their conversation.

'And no one has raised their sword to avenge Nineveh?' she asked of the rogue.

'The fallen have few friends, I'm afraid. It was an abject lesson to everyone that Assyria was not to be trusted. Nebuchaddenezar died soon, and Sinsharishkun took his father's throne before it could grow cold. Elam and Babylon drew their alliance a bit closer, preparing for the inevitable conflict, but neither them nor the Assyrians showed any exploitable weaknesses in the years that passed since, nothing that would have enabled the other side to attack.'

'The gods themselves should have struck down those who commit such atrocities,' said the Princess, still almost breathless with fury. 'War like this should not happen.'

Agastya spoke up, for the first time in a long while. 'War is not a pretty business, never was and never will be. The Assyrians will pay in time for what they have done but that will be more for political reasons I'm afraid, than born of righteous wrath.' The spymaster shrugged. 'And the gods rarely take sides in conflicts, despite what their priests would have you believe.'

'Blood will be paid for blood spilt, eye for an eye, tooth for tooth,' added the Prince darkly, and Elika, not for the first time that day, shivered from the emotion in his voice. In turn, the Assyrians would cry for vengeance, in a neverending circle of revenge where all suffer for the debts of the previous generation returned with interest.

'Dark thoughts and dark talk,' she said, 'and it does not help our cause along. Monstrosities of the past notwithstanding, how do we find this wizard of yours?'

'Berisath is his name, and hopefully easily, if he still peddles his services for the usual hefty fee. But not today,' said the Prince, and Elika raised a curved eyebrow.

'You have been on the run continuously for weeks now, not to mention having to deal with… well everything.' He said, choosing his words carefully. 'I officially apologize for bringing such despairing matters into conversation, and declare today as a day of rest and relaxation.' The cheerfulness in his voice seemed genuine, though sharply contrasting with the bloodlust displayed just a few heartbeats before.

Elika stood baffled for a moment, unsure what to do with the rapid change of mood. 'Time is a precious resource we can scarcely afford to waste,' she warned.

'Neither can we afford to make mistakes because we are too tired, milady,' said Agastya, taking the Prince's side. 'Besides I could use a bit of time for myself as well; I have letters to write, and matters to see to.'

'I'm sure Ohrmazd has a commandment somewhere that 'Thou shall not neglect the comforts of the body and the soul, lest ye perish from exhaustion,' the Prince added.

'You are spot on, as always, when it comes to matters of dogma,' she replied, heavy on the sarcasm, but the hint of a smile appearing on her lips. She raised her right high, striking an oratory pose, or as much of an oratory pose as lying on a heap of pillows would allow, and said pompously, 'Very well, let's put down the burden of the world for one day, and pick up the mantle of having fun.'

'I hope I can trust you two to behave responsibly while out there,' said Agastya.

'Actually, I suggest that we lay the foundation for the activities of the day with a solid nap through the morning,' said the Prince. Elika reached over the table and smacked him on his knees.

'Lazy bastard!'

'Long days spent in the saddle and cold nights on hard earth ignite a yearning in me for feathered beds, silken covers and lazy days when I have no more to do than ring a bell so a horde of eager servants could satisfy all my wishes.'

'Uhum,' murmured Elika, not in agreement, but more as an encouragement, wondering if the Prince would actually arrive anywhere with his hyperbole.

'A yearning, that can be suppressed, nay, denied, in the name of mundane practicalities, only to break to the surface ever stronger, when opportunity presents itself. And such an opportunity arose, my dear princess, and I'm planning to pounce on it, as the great cats of Kasi pounce on the unwary who dares to trespass in their jungle.' The Prince stopped his tirade to take a breath and cast a look around. 'Where did he go anyway?'

'He left halfway through your last sentence, I don't know, about five minutes ago. If you paid any attention to anyone but yourself, you would have noticed.' She picked a pear from the plate lying on the low table and took a bite.

'I try as hard as I can, to pay attention to all the right things, but your beauty is so radiant that it blinds me to everything else.' Elika snorted, and coughed, fighting to prevent bits of pear falling out of her nose.

'Do you actually mean anything you say, or you are throwing out compliments randomly?' She asked half teasing, half serious, and put the pear, an apparent danger to life and limb, down.

'Wouldn't you want to know, what goes on in my head?' he countered her question with his own.

'You mean apart from the rustling of straw it's filled with?' The Prince frowned.

'Straw? Elika, please, what are we, five? I expected better of you.'

'Oh, my insults are just not cutting it?' she laughed, her teeth flashing in the golden glow gently filling the room with lazy heat.

'There is a strict quality control that quips must pass,' he said, mock-serious.

'And get a seal of approval, I suppose?' she tilted her head to the side, and looked at him questioningly through the veil of hair that fell in her face.

'An unforgeable one.' He pulled himself up to a sitting position on the divan.

'And tell me, where would that seal go?' She tilted her head and shook the hair out of the way, exposing her graceful neck. She caressed the smooth skin with the back of her hand, as if offering it.

'That is approved on a case by case basis, but I would hazard that I would place it where it would be hidden from the leering eyes of the common crowd.' His eyes roamed over her curves, not even bothering to disguise that he was mentally cataloguing all the places such a mark could be placed, something Elika found both gravely offending and titillating.

'Somewhere commonly covered by clothing I assume?'

'Your beauty is only surpassed by your razor sharp wit, Princess.'

'And you are sparing in the application of your seal of approval, I presume?'

'There have been many applicants, but few have received it, I assure you. It's a rare honor but it's applied very _thoroughly_.' The way he stressed the last word lit up Elika's ears. The promise in his voice would have made a boulder blush.

'That makes your much coveted seal very alluring, I must admit,' she said with a sly smile. She missed this easy banter and the flirting that accompanied it; maybe she did need a day off to recuperate. 'But I am afraid my insults have rusted in neglect, and in honest competition I can't hope to achieve the prize.'

'If you intend to steal it, then I'm afraid you are up against the very best.'

'Oh then I am in a pickle, am I not?' she said, her eyes glistened with humor.

'In a tight spot, I'm afraid. Unless…' the Prince let his words trail off.

'Unless? Do go on,' she urged him.

'Well if you can't forge the seal, can't steal the seal, then you can always try to bribe the guard,' the Prince said, matter-of-factly.

'Oh I see,' she exclaimed, 'but such an honest rogue as yourself would want bribes far beyond my humble means to pay if it came to his renowned seal of approval, with hopeful applicants forming lines stretching beyond the horizon,' she made a sweeping motion, introducing an invisible throng.

'Bribery is a rough game I'm afraid, one can never know if his bribe will meet a warm reception or a cry for guards; one can only hope.'

'Oh your wisdom humbles me, Prince of Thieves, Fountain of Knowledge, He Whom The Gods Revere.'

The Prince laughed out loud, and then flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off his shirt, putting on a haughty expression.

'Most can only strive to achieve greatness, I was born with it.'

'And you don't let the rest of the world forget it for a second,' said Elika, giving him a look that she hoped was crushing.

'Yes, all these silly people seem to forget at every twist and turn, honestly sometimes I don't even know why I bother. They are not worth the hassle anyway.' The Prince was still preening himself, imitating a spoiled brat of an aristocrat so well, that Elika was sure that he wore this role often.

'And am I worth the hassle?' she asked.

'Are you?' he turned the question back.

'Why don't you come and find out?' It slipped out, unintended and unwanted, turning up the heat a notch, and though Elika wanted to suck it back immediately, she felt her heartbeat speed up as the Prince rose from the divan without hesitation, and crossed the distance between them with two long strides. He crouched in front of her and two arms slid under her knees and her back with practiced ease, lifting her off the pillows before she could open her mouth in protest.

'How,' he said, slow and deliberate, his face barely inches from hers, 'do you suggest, I find out?' He felt the cold headiness of arousal, but he enjoyed the thrill of the game and the feeling of control he had over her more than he wanted to rush into something she would regret the day after.

Elika's heart hammered in her chest, she groped for a joke in the recesses of her mind, something to take the sudden-serious edge off, but her wits failed her. The warmth of another, the quiet strength of his arms holding her, the mocking-blue of his eyes, the line of his chin called out for attention, distracting in a dangerously unknown way.

'I'm sure,' she said, her voice cracking, 'there must be precedents.' She was unsure if it was the right thing to say, or even the wise thing to say, if he would mock her or push her away. This was uncharted territory; dark and exciting.

'There are precedents for this sort of thing.' He said, and she felt the world starting to move as he started with her in his arms towards the next room. 'Fun, and crazy precedents.' Her arms snaked around him, almost by themselves, fingers burying in his dark tangle of hair.

He leaned down and gently deposited her on the pile of pillows that marked the sleeping area. He remained kneeling next to her; her arms still around him, her eyelashes almost caressing his. 'However,' he said, soft as a feather, 'I need nothing of that sort. I know you are worth the hassle. Every last bit of it.'

He gulped hard, as if his throat was filled with sand, and gazed in her eyes. 'Only you could turn hassle into a compliment,' she said, with a nervous giggle. Then as a bucket of water, it hit her. 'What are we doing, Prince? Shabhaz? I don't even know your name.'

The Prince felt heady with the possibilities. One whispered word, that was all it would take. One word he had not said aloud since he arrived to Babylon, six years old, battered and bloody. But there is power in names; power to unchain things hidden behind locked gates and reveal secrets guarded with death. For all his bravado, he was afraid to give his true name to another, of everything that it would represent. Unquestioned trust was not something he did. Camaraderie and friendship was all fine, lines clearly drawn and every interaction shackled with unseen rules and marked by boundaries. Telling her his name would mean he was ready to give her more than he _could_ give her.

Elika felt his hesitation and her eyes grew cold with hurt. Her arms suddenly felt awkward and out of place wrapped around him; she disentangled herself and slid away, looking up at him.

'What is your name, stranger of the desert?' He was still staring at where she lay moments ago, not meeting her eyes. The silence stretched out between them, every heartbeat pushing them apart further and further.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. 'I'm sorry,' he said, in an emotionless monotone. 'I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

He just shook his head in answer, struggling with the words that usually flowed so free.

'That's just great. Fucking great.' Elika's temper rose, hurt giving way to wrath. ' You'd… you would fuck me, but you would not tell me what you are called? I can't believe that I fell for that crap from you.' Bile rose in her throat, she felt used and betrayed.

The Prince fought to control himself, shame freezing him from the inside to cold and inhuman. 'There is more to it than that. There are factors you don't understand…'

'Don't fucking pull that mysterious crap on me. You are just a bloody damned coward, nothing else.'

'I meant no harm…' he stammered, for once not knowing what to say.

'I can't believe I let you touch me.' Tears gave fuel to her anger, as she snatched up a pillow and threw it at him. He easily swatted it away and grabbed her by her wrist and jerked her down, rough enough to bruise, snatching her other wrist as well, pinning her down to the pillows.

'Shut up and listen,' he hissed at her. She struggled in his grasp, but his iron grip would not budge. 'Release me, you bastard.'

'Not until you listen to me,' anger found its way into his voice as well.

'Release me _now_.' She flexed against his hold again and instinctively reached for the only tool still available: her magic. The white fire eagerly flowed from the empty space behind her heart, exploding out of her palms snaking straight towards the Prince with the speed of a striking cobra. Her eyes went wide when she realized what she had done, but too late. The tendrils of fire seared his clothes, and for a moment crazed terror filled their eyes, both sure that he was going to end up as another testament to a power greater than that of man, like the bandits buried in unmarked graves in the desert. But as the white light receded, jerked back by Elika, where charred flesh should have been left behind, unharmed pink skin showed. Momentarily overwriting her anger, relief flooded her. For a heartbeat she had thought her unbridled wrath murdered the man she was ready to offer her virginity, barely a minute ago.

'This is the second time you tried to kill me, Princess. Lesser people might take offense at this, you know.' Numb with shock, he released her, and sat up. A shiver ran down his back, and he shook. Few things seemed as inevitable in his career as a rogue as the fiery death rushing towards him moments before.

'H… how?' she stuttered, her anger gone and replaced by shameful regret.

'I don't know. Maybe you can't harm the innocent. Maybe I have been affected too many times, and the magic recognizes me. Maybe I'm blessed by Ohrmazd. Doesn't matter. Should I just fetch a dagger for you so you can finish the job proper?'

'I'm sorry.' She said, hanging her head. 'I'm utterly, absolutely sorry. The power broke free… I did not mean such harm for you.' These were easy words to say, easier than to think of how happy the magic felt reaching for him, almost like it was alive. Alive and hungry. And how easy it was to unleash it, how taking a life became the first option out of a tight corner. This was food for thought for later.

The Prince took her chin in his hand and lifted her head, forcing her gaze to meet his.

'I fought for you. I killed for you. And if the choice was between you and me, I would die for you.' He waited a breath, to allow his words to sink in. 'I ask you to have trust in me, when I say that it's no small thing that you ask of me and I have more reason for not giving you an answer than you could imagine. Trust me, like you trusted me against the armies of Ahriman, that I cannot give you my name, nor the reasons why I can't. I ask you as a warrior would ask another.'

Elika looked at him, searching his eyes for clues of mockery or deceit, but found only a hard, steady gaze.

'You are asking me to accept you as a bodyguard with secrets.'

'Yes, as I accepted a strange girl once, who would not tell me what she intended to do, or what would happen once we defeated all the Corrupted.'

Silence stretched out between them, thoughtful silence. Elika dared not ask, 'what if I don't'. Some questions cannot be unasked once voiced out loud.

'The question is Elika, how much you trust me?'

Her hazel eyes darkened with concentration for a long moment, then she sighed.

'I trust you. Completely. I wish I did not, but I do. And I'm gambling the world on it.' Her every word sounded like a heavy, dull thud in the silence of the room. He nodded gravely, understanding what she did not say. A bodyguard with secrets, an ally without a name, a friend without a past. A lot to ask from someone bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders.

'If you need to know, I will share with you. I won't let this endanger either you, or our mission, but there are other lives depending on some knowledge linked to my past…' he started.

'Don't explain,' she interrupted him, 'I gave you my trust. You don't have to dance around words you can't say and describe stories you can't tell. If you truly have to keep such things secret, for the sake of others, do so. But I ask you in return, don't invent fancy lies if I ask you something you think I should not know.'

He nodded, after thinking her words through.

'It will be so.' He touched his lips, then his heart, unconscious of the gesture.

Silence covered them, like a blanket. They were surrounded by colorful pillows scattered randomly on the floor of the small sleeping chamber. Above their heads, a narrow window let a beam of light fall through the room, piercing the shadows as a spear, coming to a rest on the opposite wall. Specks of dust danced in the golden shaft, and the muted hum of the street under them filtered through the window, as if it came from another world. They sat upright; their hands supporting their weight, their legs drawn under them. When they spoke, it was soft and serious, joy and anger forgotten, words detached and businesslike.

'I apologize for the hurt I caused you today,' said the Prince, careful, cautious. 'I had no intention of taking advantage of you.'

'You only took what I readily offered, and it's due to my own naiveté, that I expected more than you were willing to give.' She masked her hurt behind formal words, but the stiffness of her pose, the way she resolutely looked the other way betrayed her.

'I wish I could give you all that you want and more,' The words did not come easy to him. 'You are unlike anyone I ever met, unique and wonderful, and everyone else just pales in comparison.' Despite the soft tone, his voice was intense and deliberate. She snatched her gaze back at him, startled.

'I... don't know what to say.'

'You don't have to. I just wanted to let you know. For whatever little it counts, I want you to know I'm not just playing games or messing with your head. You are beautiful, vibrant, alive and full of hope in a world so filled with darkness and despair, and you inspire me to be more than I was.' His seriousness scared her a little. She was not used to anything simple when it came to the Prince, and much less to the honest truth, and had the feeling she was being treated a unique experience.

'Thank you,' she said, overwhelmed by all the emotions swirling inside her. 'I would like to remain alone for a while. I have a lot to think on, if you don't mind.'

He rose to his feet wordlessly, and started towards the other room.

'Prince?' she called after him. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder from the doorway, ready to step out of her sight.

'Yes?'

'Are we good?' He nodded, and gave her a sour half-smile

'We are good.'

He stepped out of the room, quiet as a mouse, leaving her sitting amidst a myriad colors, butterfly between the flowers of a summer garden.


	12. Chapter 12

Authors note: First of all, I would like to thank you all for the fantastic reviews! They really motivate me to continue when real life piles up on me. Second, I would like you all to give a big hand to Camille71, who has joined the beta team recently. She also started to translate the fanfic into French, a honor higher than I would have thought my fic deserves. The translation is now available on this very same site under the title Troisième Chance. Third, recently I picked up writing with greater enthusiasm again, 2 more chapters are under the process of being reviewed right now, so I will hopefully be back with more soon!

The morning had slowly faded as Shamash climbed high in his flight from the underworld, and the Prince was still lying on the same divan where he and Elika flirted hours before, slowly cleaning his gauntlet. He sat in complete silence, methodically moving from joint to joint, removing the sand, dust and grime, and then adding droplets of oil as a finishing touch, losing himself in the concentration the meticulous task required. Save for one slave inquiring whether he had wanted any further refreshments or take a bath, he had been alone for hours, but his patience wasn't wearing thin just yet. He was just done with the ring finger, when the rustle of pillows betrayed movement in the bedchamber. He put down the gauntlet deliberately, corked his oil flask, and only then looked up.

She stood in the doorway, resting one hand on the doorframe, her head cocked to one side. Watching her, his heart rate picked up in anticipation. He laid more on the line and was less sure of himself than ever before. Hunter and hunted was a game he understood and played well, basing something on honesty, and trust was entering untested, murky waters.

Her eyes were puffy from the tears shed, but there was no sleep in them, just determination. Wordless, she walked across the room and sat next to him, one hand casually coming to rest on his back. Even two weeks unwashed, hair dirty, tousled, uncombed, she radiated more quiet grace and elegance than queens of the richest lands.

'We are at war, you know,' she said, soft, and sudden. Her tone was almost conversational, but there was a forced cheerfulness to it, betraying the tension inside.

'I know,' he replied, his face a careful mask of neutrality.

'And in war…' A sigh. 'Look, I had this thing all planned out and it worked really well in my head. It did!' she blurted out, her carefully built control broken before she could finish the second sentence.

She drew an incredulous look from him, and instead of replying, he first took her hand in his, and ran a thumb over her palm, wondering at the smoothness of her skin. 'I don't bite, I promise. Unless asked to.' She gave a nervous laugh in return.

'What I wanted to say is that we could die any day. And I don't want not acting on this _thing_ between us to be my last regret. And I would very much regret it.' She looked up, from his hand to his eyes, hazel meeting ice-blue.

'Okay.'

'Okay? That's it?' she asked, almost indignant.

'Okay.' He said, simply. 'I like you, you like me. It doesn't have to be much more complicated than that.' She half expected a shrug at the end, but it didn't come, and it was up to her to decide why not.

'Oh.' She deflated a bit. 'And… and now what?'

'Various courtship rituals follow during which I slowly lull your wariness and make you comfortable in my presence while at the same time increase the level of sexual tension between us, which unavoidably culminates in a seduction scene where you succumb to my roguish wiles and jump my bones. Grinding of bodies ensues. Or at least that's the general pattern. It is frequently peppered with hiding from and sneaking around various male relatives.'

'I think we can skip that part in my case.' She felt a pang of guilt reverberate in her soul. A father who readily sacrificed the world for her, just like the thief drawing small, maddening circles into her palm with his thumb. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 'What happens after the grinding of bodies?'

'You know that's curious. I don't really know, you see. Usually the cycle would repeat itself a few times until she or I grew bored with it and that was it. We either parted ways with me promising to be back with riches or the aforementioned male relatives chasing me through half the city.'

'Interesting. But you already have the riches, and we established I don't have any male relatives to chase you.'

'That's what's makes you so unique, Elika,' he said, without sarcasm. 'Manipulating you into bedding me does not feel like a game to win. Rather, I want to protect you from making bad decisions like me.'

'Geez, you know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?' She didn't take his words to heart, though little in his mannerism suggested that he was joking. She just felt extremely self conscious, excited and scared at the same time. This was new, very new to her and the tingling feeling spreading from every point of contact between their bodies felt strange in a heady, but rather pleasant manner.

'Yes. That's the point. I know how to make you swoon and fall head over heels in love with me. I know how to make you feel the most special person in the world, what to say and when. I can be attentive, gentle, caring and make you believe it's the real deal. But you are too important for me for that.'

'You are working very hard to make me question your motives. Can't you just be genuinely yourself?' Through the mist of excitement, it was hard to focus on forming a conversationally relevant answer, though what he was saying was getting to her.

'There is not much of "me" to go around, Elika. When everything you do is playing a role, all is left is picking which role you will don for a particular scene.'

'That sounds like a lonely life.'

'Sometimes. But wine and women are generally good for easing loneliness for a while. There are always more adventures to be had, more of the world to see, reasons to keep moving and leave the hard questions behind.' A pang of jealousy reminded her, that she is one in a long line of conquests, many far more worldly and beautiful than her.

'Why are you telling me all of this? What role are you playing now?'

'I'm not sure myself. I'm trying to be someone I would like to be.' He gave a half shrug. 'Trying honesty for a change.'

'I appreciate it, though it sounds like you are trying to scare me away.'

He reached behind her ear and took a lock in his hand. With the light touch of her own hair, he tickled her neck. She squirmed a bit and gave a giggle, but his face guarded and controlled.

'I wanted to warn you. I'm good at this. I'm not called the Prince of Thieves for nothing. Had I used the right words, we would be in the next room, and you would be naked, writhing in pleasure under my touch. But I want whatever this is between us to have a chance to blossom into something more real than satisfaction of mutual lust grown out of near-death experiences shared.' He sounded almost melancholic, talking in an even voice.

'First, you give insultingly little credit to me. You may think that you are holding the strings to this puppet, but you might be surprised what happens if you pull on them. Second, what makes you so sure that I would not take the writhing in pleasure? It sounds damned interesting!'

'_You_ give little credit to me. I'm really, _really_ good at this. I like to brag, and this is one of my strongest points. I have an impressive arsenal of moves and you are grossly underprepared to meet them, not to mention you are not even trying to resist, which takes the whole point of seduction away anyway.' He started to liven up, leaving the despairing talk behind. This was obviously a favored topic of his. And nudity was involved, always a plus in his book.

'I thought the whole naked thing was the point of seduction.'

'For beginners. It's about the hunt for the masters, making the target feel that it was her idea all along, and it was she who seduced you and not the other way around.' He said it detached, as if oblivious to who he was talking to. A little shiver run along Elika's spine; this was not love sweet and true, but a war of manipulation and deceit between the sexes.

'And how do you want to apply all of this to me? To be honest it sounds more than a bit scary. Do you really see the world in such light?'

'If you want to survive out here, so should you. Good men are few and far between, and the rest are just looking out for themselves, trying to get by in a hard world. The more prepared you are for it, the less chance you have for trusting the wrong man with your life.'

'Like a bodyguard with secrets he is unwilling to share?'

'Hey, I didn't say you made a right choice with me, but I will try my best so you won't regret it. And as for how this applies to us? It doesn't. I just wanted to give you something to think about. I will try to show you a good time and have a good time along the way, and we will see where it ends up. How does that sound?'

'After what you just told me? Suspicious as hell.'

'Good. Then I made impression. And what if you discount my unexpected, and to be frank, disturbing bout of honesty?'

'I guess it's as good a start as any, but I'm far from the best judge of such things.'

'"I have read books", right?' Now the trademark smirk was back, and Elika felt relieved. It was not an easy day so far, and talking to an honest Prince was an exhausting journey through the darker side of mankind.

'Hey,' she exclaimed and punched him in the shoulder. Instead of the half-expected retaliation, he stood up in one swift move and reached a hand down to pull her up.

'I'm famished,' he said. 'Let's get out into the city and look for a meal. If the place is still open, I know the perfect spot.'

Barely ten minutes later, the Prince led Elika through the throng of people, down the eastern highway of Susa, towards the city centre and the ziggurat of Kiririsha. She wore the same clothes as every single day for the last two weeks; the tailor back in Ankuwa had time only for one set of traveling clothes. His smell was not much better either; though he had the luxury of having a change of clothes, the weeks of travel left an indelible olfactory mark on him. They did not stand out from the common folk of the ancient city; few had the opportunity or even the desire to regularly clean themselves, apart from the ritual hand and feet washing subscribed for the followers of the Mother. And while this suited those who believed that a good, strong body odor kept the evil spirits of sickness and malaise away, both he and she were used to a less itchy existence. In the Prince's case, when he could afford it, anyway.

The first order of business was still food; while the staff of the Dawn's Wonder did wonders with the breakfast, and would have served them everything their heart desired, the Prince felt it would be good for her to get in touch with the city, preferably during the daylight when its human predators slept or sulked in back alleys. And if he could reconnect with an old friend in the process, hey, two birds with one lunch, right?

'Two more corners and we should be there; they serve the best stuffed pigeon east of Tyros.'

'You do know your way around. How long did you spend in Shushan?' she asked.

'Almost two years. I was barely more than a boy, but I easily got into enough trouble for three grown men every week.'

'Because now you are mature and responsible.'

'Exactly,' he replied, ignoring the sarcasm. 'Now I don't pick fights I know I can't win. Unless I really feel like it, of course.' He casually sidestepped around a steaming pile of camel turd, and stopped Elika before she walked straight into it.

'Watch your step, the only thing that ever cleans Susa is the occasional thunderstorm. Oh and look out for pickpockets too. If you see any street urchins, there is a better than even chance they will try for your purse.' He patted the lump under his shirt, where his pouch hang from his neck. 'Well, mine, as I have the money.'

'Oh,' he added as an afterthought, 'many empty their chamberpots to the street, sometimes from the first story windows. When someone yells "Look out!" you better duck.'

'Charming city,' was her only response.

'And these are only her good sides. But there are perks that make city life bearable, for example establishments like this.' He stepped up to a curtained doorway not different from any of its neighbors, and stepped in uninvited. Elika threw a furtive look around the street - it seemed like no one cared that they were apparently invading someone's home - and followed suit.

After the heat of the city the interior was welcomingly cool. The hall-like room they entered was barely wide enough for one person, but ran along the full length of the house, ending in a steep staircase leading to the next level. The mud brick walls were low enough that she had to watch her head and the Prince had to bend. A couple of openings broke the white-washed surface on both sides, curtained off to give a semblance of privacy for the inhabitants. She came in just in time to catch the sight of a bare footed child sprinting up to the next level. The Prince stood in front of her, apparently content to wait for the owners to take notice of them.

He didn't have to wait long, soon steps thundered down the stairs and a man, olive skinned, and fat beyond anything Elika ever saw rushed at them. She readied her defenses, though there wasn't much she could do in such close quarters; the power of flight was of little use if the ceiling was brushing your hair. The Prince was obnoxiously in the way for any offensive magics, the best she could think of in the seconds before impact was that she could try to blast him off the Prince before he did any real harm.

'Terashaz!' the man bellowed and enveloped the unresisting rogue in a bone crushing bear-hug.

'Khatu!' he laughed, patting the Shushan's back. 'Put me down, old dog!'

While the two of them exchanged greetings, Elika swallowed hard, physically forcing down the magic lurking just below the surface. She would soon have to get a grip on this; it had become the first reaction to any trouble too easily.

'What flower did you bring to my home, Tera? Introduce us!' said their host, after he thoroughly checked if all of the Prince made it back from his adventures.

'Let's go upstairs, and I will make introductions, if I'm still welcome in your house.' There was little doubt in the Prince's mind that it was the case; the large man had no reason to have anything but fond memories of him.

'My house is your house, as always. Follow me!' Khatu turned and led the way down the narrow corridor, up the stairs he had just rushed down.

'I hope your food is my food as well, I lured the lady here with promises of your famous pigeons.'

'Straight to the subject, aren't you? Not as much as a peep from you for half a decade, and you would immediately descend like a swarm of locusts on my livelihood. You are in luck, friend, a priest canceled an order of ten for this evening; I was hoping someone would take them off my hands.'

They made it up to an open terrace, six by six feet, with a simple wooden table with four stools taking up most of the space. Around them the upper stories of the neighboring houses closed off the space, each painted brightly in different colors; orange, lime and light blue were reflecting the light of the noon sun onto the tiny square. Another curtained doorway led to the rest of the house, while climbing a ladder would put the visitor on the roof proper, used for sleeping most of the nights. Two kids, a boy of about five and a girl of seven were peeking around the curtain, eyeing the visitors with eyes big as saucers.

'I can't speak for ten pigeons, but I promise we will make a heroic effort.'

When Elika, helped by the Prince's offered arm, stepped up to the dusty roof, he turned back to their host.

'Khatu, let me introduce Nastaran, my joy, my morning star, my dearest treasure.' The lessons about her supposed behavior came back to Elika, and she bowed her head, lowering her eyes from the men to the floor.

'You always had an excellent taste, Tera. I'm happy for your happiness. Sit down and I will fetch a jug of poison for us. This deserves a toast. I'm sorry I was not prepared for your visit; my home is in a sorry state.'

'Don't be absurd. Nastaran is not a spoiled princess, but a woman easily my match.' Though his ear to ear grin didn't break, Khatu gave another once over to Elika, looking at her in a new light. She had the feeling she was being evaluated, though by what standards, she had no clue.

'I will fetch three mugs then, to spread the happiness around.' He said finally, then turned and disappeared behind the curtain.

'Khatu is a master chef and the scout of the local thieves. He maps out the homes of the rich and sells the information for a good price,' the Prince said under his breath to Elika.

'Couldn't you share these details, you know, before? I was seriously worried for your life for a second!' She scolded him. He just flashed another of his good-for-nothing grins at her.

'Where would be the fun in that?'

'You are impossible!' she exclaimed, exasperated.

'Ain't that the truth!' bellowed Khatu, appearing again, balancing a jug and three mugs. He sat the earthenware on the table and poured generous amounts of syrupy amber liquid into the cups. No sooner did he put the jug down, than he snatched one up and raised it high.

'Here's to love!' The Prince picked his own cup with a little less élan, and followed his example. 'To love!'

Elika, feeling slightly uncomfortable followed suit and mumbled 'To love' after the men. They knocked the drinks back and she gasped after the first gulp. Despite its thickness and overwhelming sweetness, the liquid was quite potent.

'Strengthens the heart, huh?' Khatu laughed and the whole floor shook as his belly quaked. Elika had the feeling that the man had no concept of indoor voice. He looked larger than life, tall and wide, the rickety stool barely supporting his weight. His sparse dark hair was oiled back and the large clay mug disappeared in the grasp of his sausage fingers. His wide smile revealed a yellowish, crooked line of teeth and the once-white robe he wore was peppered by dozens of different colored stains. Still, there was something generally likeable about the man. His laugh was infectious and Elika chuckled agreeingly despite herself.

'Half an hour, and a feast fit for kings will be ready, until then, tell me, where have you been since I last met you, and what happened to you? Last I saw of you, you were headed towards the north gate in a foul temper, vowing never to return to Shushan.'

'Oh, indeed,' said the Prince, frowning to remember. 'I would say that seems like years ago, but it_ was_ years ago. I wandered a lot since, and let me tell you, I have not met one kitchen that could come even close to yours.'

'Always the flatterer, aren't you?'

'Just the honest truth. I tell only the honest truth.' In response Khatu grunted, reached over the table, and put a hand on his shoulder.

'Good to have you back, kid.' He stood up slowly, mindful of his own girth. 'I will go and start the pigeons turning, while you ready your lies. I want to be dazzled by your tale, if you are going to eat my food.'

When he left the small terrace, herding his children in front of him, the Prince leaned back, and massaged the shoulder Khatu gently patted, wincing. From the kitchen, they could hear him setting the kids to their tasks, one turning the handle, one keeping the birds oiled, while he started getting the fire up to full strength.

Soon, delicious smells started wafting out the open door, while the Prince and Elika talked in hushed tones.

'So will you tell me why we came here, or will that be another fabulous surprise?' There was more teasing in Elika's voice than venom, but the warning was there.

'First, he makes the best pigeons within a thousand miles, second he is the go-to guy if you want information.' The Prince held up a hand, opening the fingers one by one. 'Third, he is a sort-of friend, I would expect a fair warning from him if there was a price on my head. I left town with quite a bang, though the dust ought to have settled by now. Fourth, did I already mention the pigeons?'

She gave him a sincere smile, and took a sip from her drink. 'They will have to live up to quite high expectations after that, you know.'

'I could go on and on, but I will let the birds speak for themselves,' he said, and Elika nodded.

'On a different note, I need new clothing. I expect that the smell of something three weeks dead is part of your usual allure, but frankly I find my own smell revolting.'

'The bazaar is largest in ten days travel; doesn't come even close to Babylon's of course, but we definitely need to visit it. I prefer not to itch too, you know.'

'Could have fooled me.'

'That's just because you don't know me,' he realized his mistake when he spoke, but it was too late. Elika's smile froze for a moment, but then she forcibly relaxed herself.

'Why don't you tell me something I don't know about you then?'

'I was born young…' he began.

'That's interesting considering how many Methuselah's are brought forth by midwives,' she interrupted. The Prince just laughed, and began anew.

'Something you don't know, hmm… How about a shameful secret?' Elika raised her finely curved eyebrows, more expecting a joke than a serious revelation. 'When I was little I had to learn music. I chose the flute, and I got pretty good at it. Now you know something I don't advertise; I would never hear the end of it.'

'Insert obvious phallic joke here?' she asked.

'Exactly. "I had to practice extra because I couldn't blow hard enough," is not something you would happily share with drinking buddies or at the thieves guild's meeting.' Though Elika could hardly call herself worldly, she could easily imagine the reactions to such a straight line.

'Thieves guild? There is actually such a thing?' The Prince just made a sour face.

'Bunch of glorified cut-throats, more like it. Roughest of a rough crowd. I ran with one of the guilds for a while in Babylon, but that didn't last long and didn't end well. They ask for too much and provide too little in return. Hierarchies are just not my thing. I prefer to freelance since.'

'How come every time you finish telling a tale, I get the feeling that you had to flee the city after?' she asked.

'I assure you that there were several business transactions that ended with mutual satisfaction. Just those don't make for interesting stories,' he said, and Elika's response was only a non-committal hum.

'What did you mean, that they ask for too much?' she asked after a moment of silence.

'You are supposed to pay a part of your profits into the guilds coffers, a tithe, basically. In return you get the protection of the guild, tips, help, gear. But mostly it just boils down to simple extortion, that if you don't hand over around half of your hard earned profits, you will find yourself taking a midnight swim with the crocodiles in the Euphrates.' Elika could barely imagine the dark alleys where such deals could take place, but she still shivered despite the full power of the midday sun blazing over them.

'Rough men.'

'Ahriman would be popular amongst them. There is little humanity left in them, the only difference between them and the Corrupted is the basic decency of the Corrupteds' intentions. They just want to take over the world.'

'Who are we talking about?' came the voice from the doorway.

'How are the pigeons?' the Prince asked back. 'We are starving out here.'

'The kids are handling them. It's good for them to do something useful instead of running around and getting into all sorts of trouble.' They both nodded in agreement while the large man carefully deposited his weight on the chair, which once more, unbelievably, didn't fall apart.

'So, what sort of mischief brought you two to Shushan? Or just passing through? Don't be shy with the details,' Khatu asked. Elika looked for a way to take control of the conversation; but she didn't have any choice but trust her companion to choose wisely what to reveal.

'Bit of both, actually,' said the Prince, 'We are headed for Babylon, but if we meet old friends on the way, all the better.'

'And are you looking for a job by any chance? If you are short on coin, I have just the thing that fits into your profile…' Khatu began but the Prince raised his hand, stopping him.

'Sorry old friend, but I went exclusive. Would love to help you out, but the circumstances don't allow for it. And don't worry for me; I'm more than good with coin. Might even spend some of it with you, if you could arrange a few things for us.' The Shushan leaned a bit back and took a long swig from his mug, then slammed it down on the rickety table.

'You have changed, Tera, though I would lie if I said your words are not music to my ears. You bring business and beautiful ladies to my home? You should visit more often!' He laughed heartily at his own joke, and they chuckled with him. He reached under the table and produced the liquor jar with a flourish. He refilled their mugs, pouring the drink from high, theatrically, but still hitting the target without a drop wasted. The Prince eagerly snatched up his cup, while Elika reached for hers more hesitantly. The night had been short, and the morning exhausting, she didn't feel at her strongest. Still she emptied the cup with the men and shivered as the burn spread through her body.

'Talk to me Tera, who do you work for?'

'No names, I'm afraid. But their coin is good and their career track is even better. But let's leave such talk for later, tell me instead, what happened to old friends and enemies while I was out of town!'

'You are a sly one, I see.' Khatu playfully threatened him with his finger. 'You were about to tell me your tale, and now you ask of mine? You weren't this secretive when we last parted. Maybe you have something to hide from someone?' He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively looking from the Prince to Elika.

She leaned over and threw an arm over the Prince's shoulders, her other palm coming to rest on the exposed skin on his chest. Her words were slightly slurred as she purred,

'Yes, be a dear and tell a tall tale to our host. We drink his wine, eat his food, the least we can do is to entertain. Isn't that proper?' When the Prince half-turned to face her, mildly annoyed, he was met by mischievously twinkling eyes, and eyelashes batting mock-innocently.

'Oh well, only to please my lady,' he reached over and gave Elika's hand a squeeze. 'From Susa, I headed back to Babylon, but I took my time, went the long route, saw the sights, you know the usual aphorisms. Long story short, it was almost four months before I got to suck the tits of the Great Whore herself again. Around a two weeks into the journey I crashed in the cutest little hamlet ever along the Tigris. Couple of dozen mudhuts, lining a single, but well maintained canal. When they saw my dashing figure, noble bearing and of course the bravery of my soul…'

'They ascertained that from your dashing figure, I presume?' Elika interjected, unable to contain herself any longer.

'No, I had to tell them about it, silly,' said the Prince, unperturbed by the sarcasm in her voice. 'Anyway, it turns out they were just looking for a hero of my magnitude to deal with a haunting problem they had.'

Khatu raised an eyebrow.

'Haunting? Something to leave for the priests, I would wager.'

'My first thought as well, till I heard the details. These were really peculiar ghosts you know. They were very specific in the types of offerings they required to be placated. Only select types of metals, flattened to thin circles, adorned by faces of kings would do, to stall their righteous wrath from destroying the village. They were very convincing ghosts, with lots of mysterious howling going over the swamp, few disappearances, strange lights playing in frightened-to-death people's windows, etc.'

'I can imagine,' Khatu said. 'So what did you do, joined their little scheme to rip off the locals?'

'You wound me!' gasped the Prince. 'I did the right thing, of course, and explained to bandits the error in their ways. They were hard of hearing, so they required a very thorough explanation, and after that I turned them over to the villagers who were keen to express just how very dissatisfied they were with their "ancestors' spirits" came to flesh. They thanked me profusely, before I left.'

'Hmm,' was all the crooked cook had to say. The Prince just grinned at him, shrugged and continued with the story.

'Oh, and of course no one asked what happened to the previous offerings. The villagers were so happy to get their hands on their tormentors that they forgot about that until I was well out of sight. But it all worked out in the end. It sweetened my travel home, the villagers learned an important lesson about spirits of the ancestors, and the bandits… well I'm sure they will be happy with whatever fate Marduk judged fitting for them.'

'A fine tale, I say!' laughed Khatu. 'It deserves a meal alike! I will soon be back with the food, and more drink.' He thundered away, the roof under their feet shaking with his steps.

The Prince and Elika shared a look, a half smile that softened their eyes. Her gaze strayed to their hands, hers still in his. She looked up again, voices silent, only eyes speaking. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and just for a moment, everything was alright in the world.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Once again thanks for the reviews, and comments, you, readers are the ones that keep this fic going! Also I would like to thank my betas, Magicallioness, Joyce, and Hans for their wonderful work, and effort in weeding out the innumerable spelling and grammar mistakes in the fic! You are the best!

'You really weren't kidding about the pigeons,' said Elika, as they stepped through the curtain leading to the street a couple of hours later. Compared to the cool of the inside, the heat of the afternoon felt like a slap across her face. She stopped dead and involuntarily took a deep breath, a grave mistake on a busy highway of Shushan.

'Told you. Even the high priestess of Kiririsha has to wait two weeks to dine on them, so high is the demand,' the Prince said. His gaze darted up and down, looking for interested third parties, but he couldn't spot a single suspicious character in the mass of men crowding the street. He could see several pickpockets, whores, and a few folk who would sell their own mother for twinkling gold, but no one paid them any particular heed. He put a hand on the small of Elika's back and steered her towards the west end of the road, where the inner city lay.

'Somehow I find that hard to believe,' she chuckled.

'Well, he always has a few birds set aside for last minute orders, just in case. But he is well known in the city, and quite popular. Many a noble family offered to take him on, laying fat sacs of coin on the table as a fee, but he wouldn't hear of it.'

'More profit in serving everyone?' she asked. 'Where are we going by the way? Isn't the inn the other way?'

'Don't forget that the actual cooking is just half his trade, he makes a lucrative living as a middle-man between people who have problems to solve and problem-solvers.'

'You think he can help us?'

'Maybe. We have problems after all. Susa is a large city, and he has contacts all over the place. If we run into any trouble, he should be able to give you a hand. Now Khatu knows you, so if you come knocking, he won't turn you out.'

'Oh,' realization dawned on her. 'That's why you dragged me along?'

'Among other things. Khatu used to be a friend, as much as you can have one in this trade. Unless the situation was suicidal for him, he would help you. But I also wanted to treat you to a meal to remember, let's not forget that.'

'You have interesting friends,' she remarked, thinking of Agastya, Khatu, and, finally, herself.

'I lead a charmed life,' he said, with a wry smile. 'Watch your step.'

He used his elbows and shoulders to break through the crowd. It was well past-midday, but the chariot of Shamash still rode high in the sky. Though this was nowhere near as busy as at sunrise or sunset, the crowd was thick enough that it didn't automatically part before the enormous sword on his belt. Usually the good citizens had the sense to get out of the way of the armed and the rich, but with the press of bodies there was just nowhere to go. He watched his step, the men in front and behind, his purse, and not to forget, Elika; sharing his attention between the tasks of urban survival and chatting. The princess was trailing behind him, looking more and more overwhelmed by the crowd, her personal space assaulted from every direction.

'He lives pretty modestly then if he is so popular,' she observed.

'Khatu is smarter than he looks, he knows his luck will run out sooner or later and someone else will be the next best thing. He has been investing his earnings, both honest and otherwise, left and right: he is a minor partner in a dozen or so businesses.'

'Then why doesn't he move to somewhere cleaner and greener? I can't believe this passes as prime real estate around here,' she made a vague motion encompassing their entire surroundings.

'And rub the smaller nobles' faces in the fact that a cook earns more than them? Maybe when he has the money to buy himself a title.' Elika looked pensive for a moment, filing away another bit of information for later processing. Then she shrugged, and turned to more important pending questions.

'You still haven't told me where you are dragging me –hey!' The last part was aimed at the owner of a sandaled foot that trod on her toes. The man walked on without a glance back, and Elika turned after him outraged. A dark skinned woman hauling a heavy clay jug filled with water almost walked into her, pushing Elika out of the way and cursing at her in the heavily accented dialect of Babylonian the denizens of Susa, or as they called it, Shushan used.

'Keep moving, or they will trample you,' the Prince said without much compassion. 'You gotta flow with the traffic.' He reached for Elika's hand and hers slipped into his automatically. 'We will turn right on the next corner!' he said over his shoulder, having to raise his voice over the increasing buzz of the people.

They were entering the inner city, where the already dangerously rickety two-floor buildings got topped with another floor of mud-bricks. The top two floors were sometimes covered with glazed ceramic plates, brightly colored to reflect the owners' profession and social status, and below, in the narrow side streets the masses flowed like rivers of heads, sweat and shouts. Every house had at least a window open with someone leaning out, hawking wares of every imaginable kind, claiming prices fit for beggars, with quality for kings. Eyes desperately scanning the crowd, the hawkers were looking for anyone slightly interested in a deal. Coins of a dozen nations exchanged hands for pots and knives, clothes and scarves, tools and food.

Grinning kids of ten were hauling water jugs around, filled with water drawn from the city wells, flavored with lemon, offering drinks from clay mugs hanging from their hands for the tiniest silver scrap. Tugging on the robes of the passers-by, they offered their services to everyone, chanting short rhymes, making faces, anything to get the attention that could lead to a sale, knowing well the trashing they would get if they turned up home at the end of the day without the coin to show for their effort.

Thousands milled around in a faceless, nameless crowd in the bazaar streets of Shushan, and the Prince and Elika weaved their way through them. The smells of heavily spiced lamb wafting from an open window did not haze them; they were still full with the warm meal judiciously washed down with Khatu's wine.

The cavalcade of sounds, smells and sights were overwhelming for Elika, and when she just could not take it anymore, she yanked hard on the Prince's arm. 'I'm not moving another step until you tell me where are we going!' she said, loud enough to be heard over the background noise, but quiet enough not to share it with the entire street.

He stepped aside, pulling both of them next to the wall and leaned close to her ear. 'I am looking for a tailor for both of us. The sooner we order clothes, the sooner we can wear them!'

'Thank you,' she said, and an unsaid "finally" was clear from her tone. 'Would it hurt to share these plans with me beforehand?'

For a moment, the Prince felt like making a joke out of it, but the frustration was clear in his princess's voice. Instead he went with the ancient practice of men everywhere: when in doubt, apologize!

'Sorry. I will try better next time. We should find a tailor, a leatherworker for new sandals, and if we have time, I would like to look around for a top-notch armorsmith that could come up with something for you. '

'So I won't be naked all the time?' she asked, remembering their hurriedly exchanged words before the desert raiders were on them.

'Speaking of which, we could hit the baths on the way home, get clean and have a relaxing massage after.'

'I could kill for some hot water to soak in,' said Elika, agreeing fervently.

'Well, they usually ask payment in coin, but I will try to negotiate some assassination barter-deal for you,' laughed the Prince. Elika punched him playfully in the arm in response, and everything was alright again. It felt good to relax a bit, to be able to laugh and worry over the small things, instead of the big, soul-crushing reality of the task ahead of them. One step at a time, she thought. One step at a time.

'Let's get me some clothes then!' she said and threw her head, her hair falling behind her shoulders. The Prince smiled a warm smile at her, and took her by the hand again, leading her down another street.

They emerged two hours, five tailors later, with the Prince's pouch noticeably less bulging than before. Elika had very little concept of money on the day-to-day level, her education had only involved balancing the economy of a small, self-contained city state, not that of a household, and the valley didn't really have shops. Merchants were rare, and growing more scarce every decade, and the heir to the throne got what little the valley could offer without having to ask for it.

Not being used to the lack of money, or to using money to manage personal affairs at all, she didn't know how to spend it in style either, the Prince realized, unlike some other women he had the chance to escort through a bazaar. She went for the practical, but finely made, simple yet elegant. The cuts she had ordered bordered on boringly sensible; clothes for a merchant's wife for the road, rather than for a princess. All in all, he found the experience pleasantly goal-oriented, straightforward, and smooth, especially as compared to what he expected.

Elika, though she noticed the silk and the velvet, chose linen: light, unattractive and inconspicuous on purpose. She was no longer a king's adored daughter, but a toppled queen hunted by deadly foes. She made a mental note that at least one set of luxurious clothing should be acquired for state purposes, she went for things that allowed free movement and wouldn't draw attention. As things looked up these days, she felt she needed to be able to scale a wall more, than impress a foreign dignitary. Coming out of every workshop, followed by the assurances of the merchants that her clothes would be delivered by midday tomorrow the latest, she felt more and more aware of how sorry a state she was currently in. The heat of the masses added to the scorching rays of the sun, and her clothes stuck to her drenched in sweat. The novelty of the crowd wore off quickly, and was replaced by the desire to be somewhere quiet, cool, and preferably with a drink.

'I think I had enough for today,' she said to the Prince, when he asked if she wanted to visit the next tailor.

'You have everything you need?'

'I have more than I had, for sure. Enough to travel comfortably with, but not as much that I would need an extra pack horse.' The Prince nodded briskly in approval as she continued, his eyes forever darting over the crowd seeking who glances away, looking for familiar faces, and the familiar pang of cold deep inside betraying the will of an enemy watching. 'Besides, I think I have been trodden upon, slammed into, felt up, and pushed over more times today than I cared to count. I would appreciate a gulp of peace and quiet. Are you listening?'

'Yes, sorry. Do you think you can hold out a little longer?'

'Depends, what do you have in mind?'

'As you are more or less the sole hope of the race of man, I very strongly feel that at least a set of light leather armor should be acquired before an assassin's dagger finds your heart. Nah-uh!' he lifted a silencing finger as she opened her mouth to protest. 'In this crowd, any determined agent of Ahriman could have knifed you. Me, by myself, can't really form a protective circle around you, now can I?'

'And you say this now?' she asked, indignant, and more than a little scared. She threw a glance around, to see if anyone was watching, if any eyes hid malicious intent, if anyone reached into their robes pulling death from the folds. The number of men that passed her within an arm's reach settled on her as a chilling reality.

'I'm reasonably confident, that we traveled faster than the news about us could have, unless through some mystical means. But sooner or later, we will have to stay in one place longer, where your enemies can and will find you.'

'It's a war, we fight,' said Elika, suddenly somber. The battle would come to them, the question was not "if" but "when". The Prince placed his palm on the small of her back, giving her the gentlest nudge to get moving.

'You are an amazing person,' he said, his voice full of admiration, as they walked through the crowd, riding its flow as driftwood rides a river.

'What did I do now?' she asked, confused.

'The things you say, the way you look at the world…' the Prince began, searching for words, murmuring softly in her ear as they slid through the mass of people gathered on the square. 'You are alone in a crowd of possible assassins, on the run, but you don't panic, don't retreat to the nearest sanctuary, just accept the reality. It's… really hard to explain.'

'There is no point in running back to the inn. Like you said, there is little chance that anyone wishes us more ill than what I expect is usual in a city like this. Better to get the shopping done now, than regret it later.'

'You know how many women, or men for that matter would think like that? I dined with nobles and rulers, few and far between are those who would not send me to do errands for them, were they in your position. You aren't brave because you misjudge the chances of things going wrong, like a hotheaded youth after a rowdy night, you are brave because you know what is at stake.'

'I still don't see what is the big deal about it,' said Elika, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

'No you don't, and that is why you are so unique. You were born for this, Nastaran. You don't deserve to have the responsibility you carry, but I cannot imagine anyone better suited for it. And the more I get to know you, the surer I am that it's no accident that you are who you are. There is a master plan behind the scenes, and that gives me hope that we will prevail,' he was whispering, but the strength in his voice made her shiver anyway.

'You are not going all mystic on me, are you? I thought that was my role.'

'I'm through with belief, dear. I have seen the gods, I fought them. I don't need faith to know there are forces larger than us at play,' he said, every wording ringing with conviction. And even though he was focused on Elika, keeping his volume down so only she could hear, his eyes were constantly moving, scanning everyone they passed. Being on high alert for hours was tiring, but the possible price for letting his guard down would have been too much to pay.

'Wouldn't have thought I would ever hear such talk from you.'

'We change, Elika. Sometimes we even grow.' She could only nod, probing her mind for words that could express the confusion she felt. She couldn't place this speech anywhere, couldn't decide what he had wanted. It dawned on her that earlier this morning, the Prince was serious when he said that he would try to be more honest with her. For her. And an honest Prince was still a disconcerting experience.

'Have you ever worn armor?' he asked suddenly, changing the topic, his tone smooth as butter, as if the heated words were blown away by the desert wind.

'Well… I had a padded leather vest, complete with shoulder guards and a helmet for practice, but apart from that none.'

'I think we can rule out metal in your case, you wouldn't be able to move even in a light bronze chestplate, not to mention if it was made of copper.'

'What about iron? Your sword is light enough for its size.'

'Iron armor is incredibly hard to make, as it's not a single hammered plate, but tens of thousands of chains linked together. And while iron chain takes cuts better than a bronze plate, a spearman can skewer you easily. It takes weeks to create. It's lighter than bronze, and harder as well, but still would weigh almost as much as you do, and would be rather inconvenient to wear for outings like these. Metal is for battle, not everyday streetwear.'

'Unfortunately, I seriously expect meeting armed opposition, like in the desert, where donning something solid would give me a measure of safety,' she pointed out. 'But I agree with you, metal seems impractical for day-to-day, how about something hidden. If someone stabs me,' she gulped, 'I would rather have him realize in surprise that I was wearing armor, than let him know beforehand so he can be prepared for it.'

'If it's up to me, you don't go anywhere near battles ever again, but being prepared couldn't hurt. An iron chain mail would cost a fortune, especially as it would have to be fitted to your rather spectacular figure and not to the one-size-doesn't-quite-fit –all grunt stereotype that an armorer might have ready, but for now we are good with coin. Also I'm completely with you on hidden armor, something made of hard leather. Leather stops cuts and slows down stabs, and while under it your bones still break, and you get a hell of a bruise from a hard hit, you would live. Wearing something like that would mean wearing bulkier clothes, possibly robes, because your current outfit is just too tight to conceal anything.' He said, then added hurriedly, 'Not that I mind, quite the opposite.'

They came to a halt on a wider square in the market district. In the centre stood a well, its bobbing crane being lifted by two young men to pour water into the wide trough next to it. Up and down, up and down the crane went while women, and some men, all carrying buckets, jars and amphorae pushed and shoved to get to the trough. The square itself was lined with blacksmith's workshops, armor and weapon merchants. The crowd of the bazaar, though it had thickened since they started their shopping trip, could spread out a bit here, leaving some breathing space for the Prince and Elika. The Prince picked up two oranges for a piece of bronze, tossed one to his companion, and started peeling his own.

'I can't really wear robes, or those heavy skirts like her,' she pointed at a baker's wife passing them, heading for the trough. 'My biggest advantage is my mobility. I can jump higher and run faster than most men, even without the aid of, you know. But we could work with some elaborate vest reaching just below the waist.'

The Prince tried to form a mental image, and nodded. 'It would need sufficient embroidery to distract from its true function, maybe something with lots of folds that lead the eye astray.'

'Saw something at one of the tailors that would work perfectly,' she mentioned.

'When they deliver tomorrow, we can have a quiet word with them, I don't think they would turn down more work. But for now, let's get some protection!' he said and started towards the nearest merchant.

Shop to shop, they walked around the square, inspecting wares, asking for quotes and haggling, haggling, always haggling. After the first two twenty-minute sessions, Elika just beelined for a stool in every shop they entered, and sat down resting her feet, leaving the negotiations to the Prince. While she had no concept of how much a silver coin was worth, she understood that the cheapest bronze plate cost more than all her clothes purchased this afternoon together. After a two-hour torturous ordeal, made especially awkward by the fact that most stores of this ilk had no maidservants to take measurements on a lady, they finally placed all their orders, some with a delivery date of just three days, some, like her chainmail, almost two weeks. The Prince spread the money around generously, promising extra coin for early completion, but you can buy only so much speed, metal still needs to be forged, leather needs to be cured. When the last deal was closed, they were the proud would-be owners of two light iron mails, with matching leather vests under to spread the force of the hits, and a light leather vest for Elika, with thin bronze plates sewn between the two layers of cured gazelle-skin. It would stop a swordcut and slow down an arrow, if not much more. A leather helmet was also produced from the back of the shop by one of the armorers, ordered for someone's son, but never picked up, that fit Elika perfectly. They left the name of the inn they were staying at with every merchant, and promised to pay the advance in the morrow if they came calling.

'Do we have enough gold to cover all this?' she asked when they finally left the armorer's plaza behind. The blistering heat of the early afternoon was gone, and the city sighed in relief. People flooded the streets, making the crowd they had faced before pale in comparison.

'Enough to arm a small army,' he said confidently. More sensing, than actually seeing her raised eyebrow, he added, 'Really. We could arm at least twenty and feed them for a year.'

'And imagine if you hadn't only had Farah but twenty more donkeys when robbing that grave…' she said, thinking of swordsmen to make traveling safe, couriers to bring news to all the corners of the world, nobles that could be bribed, if they had enough gold.

'So now that you actually have use for money, desecrating tombs is an acceptable way of making a living?'

'I did not say that,' she protested immediately.

'It just doesn't matter, where the gold is coming from as long as it pays for noble goals?' His ribbing was good natured, but it still stung Elika.

'I do not approve of ill-gained moneys in any way, shape, or form, but if we happened to have more of it, it would come in handy.'

'Doesn't gold always do,' sighed the Prince wistfully. Then, he cleared his throat, and continued, 'but I did hear it right then, that you admitted that money has no provenance.'

'You hear what you want to hear, but I said no such thing,' she said haughtily,

'Uhum,' he grinned infuriatingly smug.

'You are simply a bad influence on me.'

'I corrupt all the girls,' he said, and the grin faded from his face. 'Sorry, wrong choice of word.'

Elika shivered involuntarily. 'No matter how far we run, Ahriman will be only a step behind, always casting his shadow on us. What's your big plan?' she asked, her voice businesslike again.

'Get you to a bath,' he replied seriously. The thought of the dark god eclipsed his good mood as well.

'I mean for after…'

'Tomorrow. We save the world tomorrow.' Seeing Elika hesitating, he added. 'I promise. Let it rest for tonight.'

'Alright. But no more games, tricks, surprises. We make a plan and stick to it,' she said, sternly.

'Your wish is my command, Princess,' he said, with a mock salute, stopping dead in the middle of the street. Someone shouted something behind them, but he didn't care. He never had. He just fell back in step, one hand always resting near his sword, his eyes always scanning, faces, rooftops, side streets for signs of trouble, but never able to stay away from Elika.

'Didn't I tell you not to call me that?' she asked.

'Frequently, as I recall.' He nodded, eyes twinkling. Elika just sighed with the practice of a martyr.

'You know you really shouldn't draw attention to us like that.'

'There is no more danger around than what comes from being in a big city. And besides, I'm being cautious, even if it doesn't look like it.'

'I will just take your word for that, or you would talk my ears off,' she said, and smiled despite herself.

'That's the smart attitude of a ruler. You and I, we will go far together.' He said.

'Oh I don't doubt that. You already managed to drag me across a desert.'

'Hey, at least I got you to the nearest market, like I promised. Not my fault that it was so damn far!' he protested.

'You did indeed. Though you forgot to mention in your description, you know, the smell.'

'Nothing's ever good enough for women,' he sighed theatrically. 'And as for the smell, if we take a left here, we can solve that. At least the part that's coming from us,' he pointed at the next corner, where the stone-bound road split into two.

'Coming from _you_, you mean? I smell like roses, and rainbows,' she took the neck of her shirt in her hand, and waved it, which was a mistake judging from the expression running across her face. 'Alright, from us,' she conceded. 'How does bathing work here, anyway?' she asked, following the Prince, as he pushed his way through the congestion.

'You will see.' he answered over his shoulder. He was wishing he hadn't left the gauntlet at home, it would have had come in handy in breaking way. He remembered Susa was busy, but not this busy. He was far from an expert on Kiririsha's holidays, so he could only guess whether this sudden influx of people was due to any religious reasons. Then, he saw why they could barely move; two noblemen, both on horseback, surrounded by a ring of armed guards were discussing in the middle of the small square formed where the three roads met. As usual, he thought, bitterness rising in him. He became aware of Elika shouting at his back and shook off the weight of memories.

'Are you even listening to me?'

'Of course I am!' he said, like countless men before.

'Like hell you were –Hey, watch your step!' she shouted, her ire directed at the youth walking straight into her, and shoving past without even muttering an apology. The Prince's eyes narrowed for a second, looking for the quick hand movement of a pickpocket, realizing only too late that the money they had on them was safely resting inside his shirt. He reached for Elika's hand and pulled her after himself, trying to get through the throng.

'You were saying?' he asked, looking ahead, pushing and shoving.

'I said you are not pulling that "you will see" crap on me again. I want to be forewarned this time.'

'Let's get through this first and then I will explain, alright? Say, you don't wanna fly us out of here?' Elika seriously considered his request for a second. She imagined crouching and calling the magic to her, just to launch into the air riding the wings of Ohrmazd with the Prince's arms encircling her, like so many times before.

'It's very tempting, but I will pass. It would seriously violate the 'let's remain low-key' policy we set up.'

'You think there would be witnesses?' he asked.

'I don't see anyone around, but let's play it safe,' she said sarcastically.

The crowd thinned out once they left the intersection behind, and the Prince launched into an explanation about the public bathhouses of Susa.

'As you can see and smell, the overwhelming majority of the locals only attends to the religious duties, ritual foot and hand washes once a month. Thankfully there are other options available for people with more refined tastes. There is a series of pools going from hot to cold to refresh the bloodflow, and strengthen the heart. We can also rent a couple of bathtubs and be scrubbed down and pampered by servants. There are also extra services available, if you catch my drift.'

'I can imagine,' she said though she had little actual idea. Prostitution was not a part of life in the Valley, neither the religious, nor the profit oriented type. But she would have swallowed her own tongue before asking questions about the topic, especially of the Prince. 'If this is some trick to get me naked…' she started in a warning tone, shutting out the myriad people still milling around them, as they slowly made their way towards the bathhouse chosen by the rogue. There was an anonymity in crowds, she realized. Words that would have made her die of embarrassment if she had said them in a room with three, didn't bother her in a street filled with hundreds.

'Then I would be back at the inn with you, slowly exploring every inch of your skin.' He cut in. 'Seriously, Nastaran, cut me some slack. I'm not a fifteen year old horndog scaling roofs just to peek at bathing girls. At least not anymore.'

'I am _so_ choosing to ignore that.' She said. 'Also, you are inconsistent in calling me Nastaran, you know that. You called me on another name several times before.'

'Only after looking around!' he protested.

'Names do have power, like you once said. Not only mundane ears are a threat,' she said. He looked like he was about to argue, but thought better of it.

'You are right. I'm sorry.'

'He can be wrong! Wonders never cease!'

'Don't push it,' he warned, mock-serious.

'And what should I call you? Tera or Shabhaz?' she asked, changing the topic.

'Shabhaz is fine, unless you have a reason to think I would prefer to be called Tera. I will try to cue you in. I don't think that "Tera" left behind many enemies, but let's not poke the sleeping dragon, if we don't have to.'

'Don't you get headaches about this stuff? Webs of lies and deception everywhere. Wouldn't honesty be easier?'

'And more dangerous as well. I don't make the rules, I just play them to win.' He shrugged and pointed ahead.

'We are heading there.'

The bathhouse stood apart from its brightly painted neighbors with its wide, white, two-story facade of exquisitely carved limestone. The only entrance was a winged gate, wide open, leading to a small hall. Only the upper level had draped windows, and steam snaked out of some. The Prince gently took hold of Elika's wrist, stopping her, just before the entrance.

'So what should it be? Massages, baths, steam, what's your poison?' he asked arching an eyebrow.

'You go ahead and set it up. I trust you,' she answered, smiling with a confidence she did not have.


	14. Author's note

While the following story has no relation to Third Chance (don't worry, the next chapter is coming and will be legend… wait for it…), I would still like to share it with you all. I started this fic a little over two years ago, almost the same time as Magicallioness started Shades of Gray.

I reviewed her story, leaving some pointed criticism about historical accuracy, she reacted to mine, we started talking, betaing each other's work, emailing, and a month later, while I was backpacking through Mexico (I'm originally from Hungary, and she is Dutch), we spent more and more hours every day chatting, me sitting in net café's, she staying up till 3 AM, so we can have some time together. After I got back to Europe, I hopped on a bus immediately, still jet lagged, and sick from the flu, and we met up in Amsterdam, spending three magical days together. Ever since, we have been together, first hopping between countries every two weeks, spending stolen days together, and since this April, living finally under the same roof in Hungary.

And now, soon, we will set off together, to travel through South-East Asia for half a year, backpacking, fulfilling a lifelong dream.

The moral of the story folks: review. Maybe you will even find true love.


	15. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:**

**The fic's rating is officially M from now for sexual content**.** If you are not into that sort of thing, tune back in at chapter 16**

They entered the entrance hall, Elika trailing behind the Prince apprehensively. An airy, tall room welcomed them, with wide doors leading to an inner courtyard dotted with plants, where followers of Kiririsha sat around large, shallow pools, feet dangling in the water, chanting with varying degrees of immersion, the volume an inverse function of the spirituality the particular devotee felt. Stairs led up on the left to the upper story, while a double door, barred by two burly, no-nonsense men opened on the right. A short, thin-faced greeter, dressed in clean white robes, stepped up to them, bowed slightly, and begged humbly for their attention, inquiring how he might be of their service.

'Me and my sister desire to bathe and relax, and we will take the best of what you have to offer,' stated the Prince. 'Show us the way!'

The worried glances and the hushed tones of the day were left outside the gate of the bathhouse; his voice rang of command, without a shadow of doubt that he would be obeyed. Elika wondered silently how many faces the man had, how many roles he played during his life, or even how long that life was. He didn't have the soft lines of youth anymore, but the weariness of the years hadn't etched deep grooves in his face yet. Like so many other things, it just added to the long line of unanswered questions surrounding him.

'Follow me, sir, noble lady.' The greeter responded to authority as he always did, by folding in the right places. He led them past the guards, down a long corridor lined with milky glass windows looking out over the central courtyard on the left, unmarked doors on the right. While they walked, he launched into a winding explanation about the services offered, careful to avoid mentioning the prices, lest he offend his guests, glancing over his shoulder so frequently that Elika wouldn't have been surprised if he walked into a wall. The Prince held up a hand, muting him, while the greeter was only warming into it, and said,

'We will require two bathtubs to get clean, with maids to scrub us down, and then we will be massaged by the most skilled you have. Prepare a private steam room, with hot and cold pools for us. I would like some refreshments also, nothing heavy, just fruits and light wine. Also you will have our clothes cleaned and returned dry by the time we are done.'

The greeter stood silent for a moment, running a calculation of the available rooms and pools then nodded with a wide smile.

'I know just what might please you, my lord. If you would please follow me this way,' he said, taking a turn at the end of the corridor, and opening a door revealing a spacious hall with three marble-lined pools in the centre, each maybe five foot deep, with benches in the pools to seat maybe ten. Stone benches also lined the room, curved legs supporting smooth seats flecked with pillows, and plants adorned the corners, out of the way, but still creating a refreshing green presence. A table sat in the centre, large enough to comfortably sit around, small enough not to dominate the room, with backless, cross-legged stools surrounding it. A pair of ornate chamber pots stood covered in the farthest corner, partially hidden by two small lemon trees planted in pots large enough to be bathtubs anywhere else. The hall was easily two stories tall, with a couple of limestone windows carved with floral patterns placed high on the wall providing the only source of light. Unlit braziers hung on long chains from the ceiling, high enough not to bother, low enough for a tall man to reach, and a hole in the ceiling funneled the smoke away. Elika tried to take everything in while their host continued the sales pitch.

'One pool is cold, that one is warm, and that one is hot,' the greeter pointed. 'That door leads to the steam, and that one,' he said pointing to the last door leading out, 'to the servants. Please be seated, and I will immediately have refreshments sent.'

The Prince reached inside his shirt and got his purse out, reached deep inside and when he pulled his hand out, two pieces of gold glinted in it. He dropped them on the table and said 'Let us know if we overrun these.' He reached back into his purse and picked out a silver coin as well, and that one, he flipped to the greeter, who snatched it out of the air. 'And this one is for your trouble.'

The man bowed deeply, touching the coin to his forehead, thanking him profusely, and praising his generosity in a manner that made Elika's skin crawl.

'Also my sister will need a bathing shirt, for modesty's sake.'

'Of course, sir, I will see to it. Anything else, sir?'

'No, you may go,' the Prince said, dismissing him.

'Thank you, sir. Right away, sir,' the man said bowing, and backing out. Once at the door, he turned and hurried away, and they heard him shouting faintly, filtered by the wood, for everything the illustrious guests desired.

'I wouldn't want his job', Elika remarked, as they sat down by the table. 'I don't know what's worse, him debasing himself so disgustingly, or you playing the oh-powerful master and lording over him.'

'Many would kill for his job, and he probably did things that would give you nightmares, to climb as high as he has. Didn't you have servants in the valley?'

'Not like this. There were those who served, those who crafted, those who worked the fields, but in the end we were all servants of Ohrmazd, equal in his eyes, entrusted with the same sacred duty that each fulfilled to the best of his or her abilities.'

'Out here the powerful walk over the weak, and a man's place is set by his birth. If you don't act like you are supposed to, you draw attention, and that is exactly what we want to avoid.'

'And that's a good enough reason to humiliate those less lucky than you?'

'I don't make the rules of the game, Nastaran, all I can do is tip him generously.'

'The rules are evil. They need to be changed,' she said, with conviction.

'May it be so, it's not our task right now,' he said, placating. 'To the west, the philosophers of Hellas talk of all men being equal, and having an equal say in the city's rule. Though they also say that true love can only exist between man and man, and women are only good for carrying babies, so I would take their ideas with a pinch of salt.'

'How come those below suffer this and not overthrow those above?' she asked, unable to comprehend how the few could crush so many.

'It happens, occasionally. Peasants revolt. City folk riot. They mostly die, but even if they win, when the dust settles they find that they replaced the yoke of one ruler with another. Men are cruel, small minded and ignorant by nature, Nastaran, and if they have anything to gain by stepping on another, they will.'

'I really wonder sometimes how you can get up in the morning,' she said with a deep sigh. She turned away, her toenails suddenly overpoweringly interesting, only the tightness in her shoulders betraying how upset she was.

'I see the world as it is. You see what it could be,' he said, placing a hand on hers. 'I see how rotten the system is, but I only look at how I could sidestep it, while you see the dream it should be. You have the power in you to remold the word into a better place, and one day you will. But for now, let me lead you through it. You don't have to accept the injustice, the cruelty, the suffering all around us, but we need to focus on fighting one war at a time.'

Words of duty cooled her temper, as they always did; her forehead wrinkled as she turned his words around in her head, setting thoughts of social injustice aside for the moment. 'At least you tipped him generously?'

'More than a week's pay, of course. He will have to split it upstairs, and if he has sense, with those below, but what's left is still enough to spend a night whoring and drinking.' More sensing, than seeing her disapproving look, he quickly added, 'Or to set aside for a better future.'

While they were discussing, two dark skinned girls wearing white, simple dresses and wide smiles appeared and placed a tin plate packed bountifully with fruits before them. They bowed slightly and retreated through the servant's door only to reappear carrying a cream-colored folding screen. In their wake, four boys struggled to lug two large wooden tubs in by their bronze handles. The maids set up the screen between the baths in silence, quick and efficient, without looking rushed, and the Prince leisurely enjoyed a bunch of grapes watching them work, and Elika felt thoroughly uncomfortable. She had no problems with the concept of maids. Despite what she had told the Prince, there were enough people left in the kingdom that the king's only daughter didn't have to haul her own bathwater up to her room; and she was looking forward to being scrubbed down by expert hands, it was the presence of the Prince that put her on the edge between anxiety and excitement.

She could appreciate the irony of the contrast between keeping a cool head while battling a dark god, and marching into her death with chin held high on one hand and coming down with a case of butterflies-in-the-stomach from the prospect of being naked in the same room as the Prince on the other. There wasn't much she could do to rein in the confusion that was reigning supreme over her; it wasn't something books could prepare her for, the state of first love when every insignificant gesture means the world and every smile shared reverberates through the soul.

Her inner turmoil, while not unnoticed, went mostly ignored by the Prince. He walked his own path, like he always had before, the baby blues reflecting only idle curiosity in their surroundings. He rested his tired feet, watching lazily as the servant boys hauled in bucket after bucket of steaming water, while the maids went around and set all the braziers alight, laid out a couple of towels, a bathing shirt for her, and a pair of loose, short pants for him. By the time they were done, Shamash was already in the underworld, fighting off hordes of demons before he would emerge victorious the next morning, and only the dancing flames cast a warm glow over the bath.

As the last boy retreated through the servant's entrance, the Prince rose off his stool, and stepped towards his tub, stripping as he went. His belt with the sword hanging from it went up on the frame of the painted screen put between the tubs, his pouch previously hanging from his neck soon following without much care. They didn't have much left in it; and besides the establishment was as trustworthy as it got, stealing petty pennies from well paying customers was bad business for everyone involved. He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on the stool before Elika realized what was going on. Her eyes widened first, watching in fascination as he struggled with the straps of his sandal, bare-chested. She was brought back to earth by the wretched face he made when the smell of his own feet reached him.

'You coming?' he looked up, wrestling with the other sandal.

'Umm… yes.' She hemmed, looking away, then her gaze flickered back to him only to be jerked away when she saw him starting on the cord holding his pants up. She stood up quickly; three quick steps, and she was safely behind her side of the screen.

'You look adorable when you are flushed,' came his voice from the other side, and while she could barely make out the outline the Prince's shadow cast on the textile of the screen, she could picture his smug smile perfectly. Despite his infuriating arrogance, he was right, and she turned a different shade of scarlet when the shadow-figure, copying its master, pushed his pants down to its ankles, stepped out of them, and kicked them over to the rest of his clothes by the table in the centre. The underpants followed as she stood transfixed, looking for details she knew had to be there, but made obscure by the flickering flames. He stepped into the tub, gestured at his clothes, and asked the maid to make sure they were clean and dry by the time they were done.

'Right away, sir,' the maid replied, speaking for the first time since she entered the bathroom, in a surprisingly pleasant, quiet voice. She gathered the garments and hurried out of the room to place them into the waiting arms of one of the boys just outside, to be taken to the back yard of the bath where older women waited, no longer pretty enough to smile at the rich, hunched over washbasins from daybreak to sunset and beyond, day after day, year after year until they were no longer strong enough to earn their keep.

Elika realized that she was still fully clothed when the Prince finished lowering himself into the bath, and let his satisfaction be known by a long, drawn out sigh. She started on her sandals, painfully aware that the braziers on the wall would paint her silhouette just like they did his, or even more so, as her light came from right behind her, while the one drawing the smudged outline of the Prince on the screen crossed the entire room.

He would be watching, she thought, possibly enjoying her embarrassment more than the sight the shadow of her body could offer. She hated that he could make her run around in circles inside her own head without saying a word, , making her feel like he could see into her head and plant thoughts there. A spark of defiance bloomed inside her. She was a queen in waiting, not a village airhead to be played with. She would be in control, even if it killed her. She kicked off her other sandal, and instead of turning her back to the screen, she turned sideways, pulled her shirt over her head, and stretched, feeling the light caress her body, drawing her contours with gentle brushes on the canvas in golden brown. She hesitated on what to take off next for a split second, and then untucked the corner of the scarf wrapped twice around her chest. She pulled the cloth free and put it into the waiting hands of the maid standing next to the tub. They shared a conspiratory smile, connecting for a heartbeat; the maid knew as well for whose benefit she pulled her shoulder blades back so. Then a cold hand gripped her guts and wrenched; the backstory the Prince invented placed her as his sister, and a sister was definitely not supposed to try to entice her brother. A different kind of embarrassment washed over her, and she unceremoniously slid out of her pants and undergarments without any kind of further shimmy or wriggle.

While her maid rushed off with her clothes, Elika lowered herself into the tub, and a sigh mirroring the Prince's broke from her lips. The warm embrace of the water felt soothing against her parched skin. She never missed the basic comfort of cleanliness for so long before; for a few sweet moments everything else was forgotten, the Prince just on the other side of the screen, her slip-up a minute ago, the hounds of the night baying for her blood. She closed her eyes and let her head rest against the boards of the tub, and muscles tensed up since the desperate panic of the bandit attack in the desert finally started to mellow. She more felt the presence of the serving girl next to her than heard her footsteps. Opening her eyes slowly, she looked up. The maid was holding a tray of small jars, full of creams, salts and dusts dazzling her nose with a dozen smells.

'Which fragrance would my lady prefer? Something light and fresh maybe, like this magnolia and citrus mix? Or something more seductive? Crushed lily blooms in rose oil perhaps?'

Elika raised her hand slightly, not enough to break the water's surface, but the maid understood the gesture, and her sentence died on her lips.

'What's your name?'

'Puabi, my lady.'

'Surprise me, Puabi, please,' she said with a soft smile, and put her head back against the board. The flickering lights of the braziers barely illuminating the spacious room, the infusing warmth of the water, and the honey-sweet smell of the bathing salt Puabi was sprinkling in the water filled her senses with wonder and with a magic very different from the kind that leapt forth from her fingertips. The maid stepped around the tub, lowering herself to her knees right behind Elika, and gently pushed her forward. She gave up control and let Puabi guide her, bending her over her knees while she started to work on her with a soft sponge, first gently running it across her back, then with stronger and stronger strokes, moving from side to side, top to bottom, to the small of her back. Elika almost purred, feeling several weeks' worth of salt, sand and sweat give way to the ministrations of the girl behind her. Too long she missed the simple luxury of more than a few gulps of water; the desert rarely presented opportunities of this kind, and this morning's plans of rest and relaxation were derailed by emotions running high.

'You are truly beautiful, my lady,' Puabi said, and though her hands were roaming on Elika's naked back, she leaned as far back as she could, not to breathe into Elika's ears.

'Thank you,' Elika replied. 'You are not bad yourself.'

'My lady is too kind.'

The quiet intimacy of the bath was shattered by a satisfied groan from the other side of the screen.

'Yeah, that's the spot. Just a bit lower. Oooh yes.' Elika's eyes shot left, trying to make sense of the shapes on the textile. Like her, the Prince was having his back scrubbed, and judging from the noises, some areas just begged to be scratched. Elika's observations were confirmed a moment later by the Prince moaning.

'Rub stronger… very good. You have golden hands, girl, anyone ever told you that?'

'He will be safe in Enana's hands, my lady.' Elika was startled by Puabi speaking up next to her. 'She knows the boundaries well, you don't need to watch out for your lover.'

Speechless for a moment, Elika quickly recovered and remonstrated. 'He is my brother, not my lover.'

'We see "brothers and sisters" frequently here, my lady. You don't have to worry. Discretion is part of the services of the house,' said Puabi soothingly, without a hint of admonishment or judgment.

'Was it that obvious?' asked Elika sheepishly, going with the flow, rather than trying to explain the complicated web of trust, lust, and loyalty that bound her and the Prince together. The maid slowly stood up, moved to the other end of the bath and kneeled back on the floor.

'No sister would try to impress her brother as you tried to impress him, or the gods' curse would soon descend on that family,' she said smiling, and reached into the water, lifting Elika's left foot out, straightening her leg. Elika felt the pull of muscles left unstretched for too long and forced herself to relax into Puabi's touch, as the maid started to work on her sole. 'And no brother's eyes should burn holes into the screen, like his did.'

'Did they, now?'

'Definitely, my lady. He was watching you like a hawk.'

They chatted in soft tones, voices masked by the gentle sloshing of the bathwater, sharing an occasional smile or giggle while the water steadily got murkier around Elika. She didn't know how much time passed while Puabi cleaned her legs up till mid-thigh, and her arms, alternating slow, caressing strokes of the sponge with strong rubs, attacking particularly clingy bits of dirt transformed into mud by the water. Finally she leaned back and sat up on her heels.

'Would you like me to do your front, my lady?' Elika turned the thought around in her head for a moment. The touch of Puabi was gentle and proficient, intimate without being arousing, but there were things Elika still preferred to do herself. She held out a hand for the sponge and said, 'Thank you, I will manage on my own.'

'As you wish, lady' Puabi said obediently, and stood up in one fluid motion. 'I will be right with you, my lady,' she said and walked out of the room. While Elika was busy with the parts of her the maid couldn't get to, Puabi, soon joined by Enana, brought in two light wooden tables, placing one next to each tub, and covered them with wool quilts, and then placed a clean white cloth on top of that with quick, practiced movements.

By the time she was done Puabi was standing next to the tub again, holding a towel in her hands. 'Rise, my lady, you will only get dirtier sitting in there.' Elika complied, water cascading down her body. She looked down, marveling at the darkness left behind.

'I feel like I should take another bath just to get properly clean. And my hair is still a mess,' she remarked, while the maid went around the task of rubbing her dry in a businesslike manner.

'A good rub-down, followed by a steam bath will cleanse you, my lady, but if you would like another bath, you just have to ask, I would be pleased to serve you. And as for your hair, I know women who would kill to look after a full day of pampering by a dozen slaves, like you did when you came in here.' She helped Elika step out of the bath, and let the towel drop.

'You exaggerate, Puabi,' Elika said, lying down on the table on her stomach, her head turned towards the screen. She wondered why the Prince was so silent for so long and felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of hands of another exploring him, but pushed it down. An emotional minefield awaited in that direction, not something she wanted to focus on now. She was brought back to reality by Puabi's protest.

'Not at all, my lady,' she said, dipping her fingers in oil and spreading it around on her hands. 'You are slim as a gazelle, with perfect, firm breasts, a graceful neck and a complexion statues of goddesses are formed after.'

'You embarrass me. Auch' she hissed as the maid dug her fingers into Elika's shoulders.

'Should I be gentler, my lady?'

'No, go on. Those knots have been bothering me for days.'

'Then let's dissolve them, shall we?'

While Elika melted into a puddle of relaxed muscle, bones, and sinews under the expert ministrations of Puabi, the Prince on the other side of the screen was struggling with a question entirely unknown to him before: what to do with a beautiful girl obviously in love with him, now that he got her naked. While he had gently, but firmly pushed Enana's hand away earlier, when she wanted to wash certain parts of him more thoroughly than even the highest standards of cleanliness required, now he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to start the rest of night with weeks of sexual energy pent up inside him, looking for an outlet. He'd stopped himself after fleeing the City of Light, reeled himself in at the last moment after the bandit attack, and his self control, not his strongest suit to begin with, was wearing dangerously thin. Unfortunately he couldn't count on Elika to be the smart one in this case, he thought sourly, the girl was utterly unaware of how readily she offered herself to him, acting more like a love struck rosebud than the iron-willed queen standing up to a god. And while his general philosophy was that not saying no several times loudly meant asking to be seduced, he had strong misgivings about bedding Elika, which he couldn't explain properly, even to himself.

He wanted her, he wanted to run his hands through her hair, pull her close and devour her lips with his a dozen times a day, he wanted her to sigh from pleasure and call out his name in the velvet embrace of the night. Through the long ride through the desert he had imagined a hundred times how he would guide her in the arts older than written word, picturing her an eager pupil in his mind, hungry for all the experience life had denied her so far. These excursions to the land of waking dreams did not make sitting on the horse an iota easier, but there was little he could do to lock them out. Still, despite the lust he felt for her, despite the way her hand fit into his, and her wit matched all the barbs he could offer, how she seemed to read his mind in battle, the little signs and the big, obvious ones that all told him that their pair would be a successful one, he still felt a huge "but" looming over everything. This "but" was that he couldn't afford to screw this one up. He let a dark god run free, for her, and some other perks he still kept for himself, and he had every intention of burying that menace underground, where it belonged. And sex complicated things. Love complicated them even more, though it had been a long time since he applied that term to himself. Throw a virgin's expectations and a priestess' prudence into the blender and you've got one very explosive mix. A lover's spat could not be allowed to endanger all of mankind. A tumble in a haystack couldn't distract them from finding a way to put the lid back on the pit where the Tree of Life once stood. They were racing against an unseen clock, and while he could put the overwhelming reality of the task ahead of them aside for an hour or a day, every minute lost brought the time Ahriman rose from his desert hideout to engulf the world closer.

He was so lost in thought, torn between lust and reason, that the hour Enana spent working his back, arms, and legs with scented oils flew past without him noticing much of the process, apart from a general sense of wellbeing. He only came back to reality when the hands were replaced with a towel, slowly rubbing his back dry. He blinked twice, and asked without moving a muscle,

'We are done?'

'I await your further requests, sir,' she said, with more than a smidgeon of flirtation hidden in her smile.

He slowly pushed himself up to all fours on the table, then stretched like a cat.

'Be a dear, and pass those shorts to me, and then fetch a jar of wine and two mugs.

'Anything you desire, sir.' She handed him the garment, and walked out of the Prince's sight, giving her full hips just enough swing that his eyes followed her. She made it clear both with touch and in soft whisper that her full package was available if the customer so desired. It would have been an easy solution to his problems, but not the one he wanted.

Through the small windows high up, he could see that the stars were shining bright, it was perhaps two hours past sunset. The Prince paid his silent respects to the unnamed genius drawing the plans for the building, as the chill of the night outside cooled the room to the exact comfortable temperature for a naked body, speaking of intent and thought in the design. The warm and the hot pool provided enough heat, even without the wisps of steam escaping the closed door of the steam room to replenish whatever escaped out to the streets. They would have to make their way through the dark city, he mused, if they did not end up staying in the bath overnight; the place must have rooms somewhere. He shrugged mentally, putting aside the problem, stepped into the simple, white shorts and tied the string into a loose knot.

'I am done, Nastaran,' he called out over the screen, his voice of a normal volume, but in the silence of the bath room, it sounded as loud as a shout. Soft whispers came from the other side of the screen, and the Prince looked around in indecision. He couldn't well go and sit at the fruit laden table between the three pools, it would give him uninhibited view of Elika's massage table, and the Prince felt that while Elika would happily bare anything if asked nicely enough, she would take offence at being peeked at. So he hopped back on his own table, facing the screen, resting his bare feet on the tub containing his now lukewarm bathwater. While going out of his way to stare would be a breach of his own twisted moral code, he would be damned if he looked away if something interesting happened right in front of his eyes!

He didn't have to wait long. The two braziers hanging right behind Elika's table cast clean, sharp shadows on the screen separating them, showing the events in a black and gold pantomime. Puabi fetched another towel from the stack along with the bathing shirt, throwing a wink towards the Prince on her way back to Elika. After being gently rubbed down, the towel collecting most of the oil, Elika sat up slowly, and stretched with her back to the lights, showing the graceful lines of her waist. The Prince watched as Puabi helped her into the shirt, another simple, white cloth reaching to around her knees.

'Are you decent?' she called out.

'Just as morally decadent as when I last checked, but yes, I'm dressed,' he replied, and she stepped around the screen, while Puabi and Enana bustled in the background, pouring wine, gathering towels and trays of oils and bathing salts. The retort died on Elika's lips when she came face to face with the Prince. Covered only from knees to waist, his oiled muscles gleaming in the dancing light of the flames, the sight of him leaning casually back on the table, supported by his arms, flexing all the right muscles sparked a glow in her loins she had rarely encountered before. While he noticed the trail the wandering eyes of the princess left on his chest, the Prince's mouth dried out as well. The shirt, though was created to preserve some modesty, was not thick enough to hide how leaving the warmth of the massage table behind had twisted Elika's nipples into rigid points, and the shadow of a dark triangle above the apex of her thighs answered the question he had oft pondered during his daydreams, namely whether the women of the Valley kept their hairs trimmed. The moment when the material would meet water filled him with both dread and anticipation; he longed to see how little it would leave to the imagination then. Hunger rose in him, and he had to fight to keep control of other, more visible responses.

'How was your bath?' he asked, forcing a casual tone, and yanking his eyes back up to Elika's face.

'Excellent, I feel like I was reborn again,' she said, and he smiled at the private joke shared. 'How about yours?' she asked.

He was saved from the forced small talk by Enana stepping up to them, offering two goblets of watery wine. The Prince emptied his in three big gulps and handed back the goblet for a refill, and Elika copied his example, suddenly realizing how thirsty she was. By the time Enana refilled the cups, Puabi was done with the rest of the chores, and came to stand next to her colleague, hands clasped in front of her.

'Anything else you desire, sir, my lady?' Enana asked, handing over the goblets once more brimming with thin, diluted red wine.

'Take your leave for now,' said the Prince. 'If we need anything, we will come to the door and call for you. We don't wish to be disturbed otherwise.'

'Your wish is my command,' they said in unison, bowing slightly.

'Wait for just a minute,' said the Prince and stepped up to the screen, fetching his pouch. He reached in and took out two silver coins, pressing one each into the hands of the maids. 'For the excellent work.' A long stream of overflowing gratitude followed, some of it even genuine, before the Prince waved them off, finally left alone with Elika.


	16. Chapter 15

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! And especially thanks to everyone who pointed out the copying error I made originally!  
to mgomez091: I have no clue how communities work in , but if you need anything from me, let me know!  
This is the longest smut I've ever written, my three betas had three completely different opinions on it, so let me know what you think  
Oh and just to repeat the warning: **The chapter is absolutely, explicitly rated M, don't read if its not your thing.**

He picked up a bunch of grapes, and started to pluck the best ones off the stem, popping them into his mouth one by one, enjoying the cool juice inside the fruit while going over safe and less than safe topics of conversation in his mind, ranging from "Tell me about your grandparents", through "You are so beautiful" to "Seen you looking, wanna do it?" a line that proved more successful in the past than any reasonable expectations.

'I meant to ask you,' Elika started, stepping up to him, 'how they keep all these pools at the right temperature?'

Grandparents it is, he thought, then answered, 'The cool one is easy, that's just the natural temperature of the earth. Under the warm and the hot one a complicated system of pipes takes the water around to large furnaces somewhere in the building.' He shrugged apologetically. 'That's all I know I'm afraid. The steam room is heated the same way.'

'What exactly is a steam room?' she asked, valiantly ignoring the near nakedness of the man standing next to her. While a young laborer working the royal gardens taking his shirt off drew idle curiosity from her, that feeling didn't compare to the impossible-to-ignore presence of the Prince. Confusing, heady, dry-mouth, full body bloody blush intensity, and she had no idea what to do with it, but the thought that he probably had, and even more, planned to, filled her with tingling anticipation.

'A room filled completely with steam,' he replied, finally looking directly at her instead of staring into nothingness.

'I deduced as much, but what is it good for?'

'Sweating purges the body of all the malignant spirits and materials, at least in theory. I simply find it refreshing, but some doctors swear by it,' he said.

'We just go in, feel uncomfortable, and come out?'

'That's about it, though I swear it's better than it sounds. We also start off with a cold bath, and finish with one.

Upon hearing this, Elika stepped up to the cold pool and stuck her toe in carefully, yanking it right back.

'No way,' she said with deep conviction.

'As you wish,' said the Prince. He took two nonchalant steps towards her and simply gave her a strong shove, taking her completely by surprise. The room echoed with the splash and the high pitched yelp that followed his action.

Elika came up, gasping for air, ready for vengeance, but the Prince was already three steps back, outside the range of any effective retaliation.

'You will pay for that. I don't know when, and I don't know how, but when you least expect it my vengeance will find you, and it shall be terrible, and you shall remember this moment as the source of all the suffering I shall exact upon you, and you shall know it was all your doing,' she said, folding her arms over her chest, nostrils flaring.

'Oh come on, ' he laughed, stepped back to the pool, crouched, and putting his arms on the edge, lowered himself into the water, while Elika stood in the shoulder-high water, shooting daggers at him. 'It's not so bad.'

'Ten thousand years of torture is "not so bad". What you did was plain cruel,' she pouted, in a gesture so entirely unlike her that the Prince couldn't help but laugh out loud again.

'Alright, then I have no other choice but grovel for forgiveness. What can I do to make it up to you?'

'Get me someplace warm first, and I will think about it. But you are not getting off the hook easy on this one,' she said, suppressing a shiver. 'By Ohrmazd, this water is cold as a stream in spring.'

'Well, warmth is easy; it's sort of the plan anyway. Just get out of the water and head there,' he pointed at the door of the steam room. 'And this water is cool at worst, we are just overheated.'

'Who in their right mind would want a pool with cold water anyway,' she grumbled climbing out of the bath by taking the stairs in the far corner of the pool.

'I will ask that question of you after you have spent an hourglass's time inside,' he replied, watching her retreating behind with deep interest. Her bathing shirt was completely soaked now, confirming beyond any doubt whatsoever that she was completely naked under it. The wet material clung to her ass like second skin. The play of muscles dried the Prince's mouth in a heartbeat and made him glad that he was standing chest deep in a cold bath. He had the feeling that he would return here frequently throughout the night.

'Ohrmazd help me,' he muttered under his breath.

'Sorry, what did you say?' she turned at the top of the stairs, still hugging herself.

'I said I'm coming,' he said, wading out of the water and leading them across the room.

He unlatched the door and gave it a tug, and it opened, squealing in protest. 'In you go,' he said and swatted Elika playfully on the bottom, the smack echoing twice in the hall before dying down. He half expected an explosion of outrage, but only got a spirited 'Hey!' in answer as she hopped in. The hunter in him wanted to up the ante, stalk the prey and push his luck, find out what the boundaries were and how to cross them safely, while the cautious part of his soul wanted nothing else but to get through the night only showing Elika a good time, while clothes stayed on on everyone.

'Ugh,' was Elika's first reaction when the oppressively hot steam enveloped her, and she quickly followed with a few coughs. The Prince stepped in after her, and closed the door behind them to prevent the steam from escaping. The room was only seven by twelve feet or so, with two benches standing along the long walls and a wooden grille covered a wide chasm on the floor in between, whence the hot air was rising.

'It helps if you breathe very slowly, and only through your nose. The reflex is to breathe through the mouth, but that way it will actually burn more in the end.'

'You seem quite the expert,' she said fighting down a cough.

'Common knowledge, really. Sit', he pointed at a bench. 'The lower you are, the less uncomfortable it is.'

'I know, hot air likes to go up, that's how the alchemist's flying contraptions worked,' she said.

Choosing to ignore the comment, the Prince sat next to her, elbows brushing against hers. The room could easily seat ten, but he didn't feel the need for any further company. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his knuckles propping up his chin. He turned his head towards Elika, taking slow, controlled breaths through his nose, letting the burning air infuse him. Even wrapped in a wet shirt that was closer to a sack with three holes than any real piece of clothing, her hair a mess, she still radiated the same inner beauty, the same force of personality that had made him follow her through the winding canyons of the Valley not even a month ago.

'I'm not cold anymore,' she said after a while, looking at him sheepishly through her hair. Water droplets trailed along her tresses, and upon reaching the hair tips, dripped slowly to the ground, mournful diamonds spattering on the boards underneath. Silence stretched between them, comfortable, and full of promise.

'How are you..'

'This is kinda..' they spoke up at the same time, and then broke out laughing, the Prince's throaty chuckle providing the bass to Elika's jingle. They waited for a moment and they spoke in unison once again.

'You go first.'

They shared another smile, eyes laughing.

'How do you like the heat?' he asked quickly, before she could take another breath.

'Sultry, but strangely satisfying, though my skin is starting to get uncomfortably warm.'

'I have it a bit easier than you, no shirt to soak up my sweat. Let me know when you are ready to leave, a dip in the cold pool should cool you off nicely if it becomes unbearable.'

'This time I'm going in by myself, you understand,' she raised a finger in warning.

'I wouldn't dare dream of anything else.' He couldn't hold the deadpan serious face long though, a wolf grin spread as soon as Elika looked away to try and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. When it fell out straight away, heavy from sweat, condensed steam, and water, she sighed and gave up. She looked back up at the Prince, realizing suddenly how close he was, an inquisitive pair of eyes a mere hand span away.

'Thank you,' she said.

'For?'

'For this. The bath, the massage, the pigeons, the company, the guidance, the protection. I would be lost without you.'

He looked away, lips moving silently, trying to find the right words. 'Everything would be lost without you.'

She hopped off the bench, and started towards the exit, trying to step on the already wet parts of the overheated floor. When she reached the door, she looked back over her shoulder, and said softly:

'For future reference, if a queen gives you her heartfelt thanks, don't make excuses, but accept it graciously,' her expression unreadable. The Prince's gut wrenched and he opened his mouth to apologize, but the ice already broke, and her expression turned into an impish grin.

'Last one in is a rotten egg!'

He jumped up as well, and dashed for the door, but he was hopelessly late. Elika splashed into the pool the moment he took a step outside, so rather than rushing after her, he latched the steam room's door safely and walked leisurely across the hall, his skin still steaming. He felt her gaze caress his skin, run up his arm, touch upon his chest, and follow the line between his abs under his own rather wet and clingy bathing shorts.

'Like what you see?' he called out, coming to a stop by the edge of the pool. He flexed his muscles, posing like the sacred contestants of Olympia before the beginning of the games.

'Didn't have time to form a complete opinion,' she replied from the water, eyes glinting with naughtiness. 'Why don't you give me a twirl.'

He put his arms out, and turned slowly, talking as he did.

'Will you also sample the merchandise or just look? We have a money back guarantee.'

When all he got in response was nervous laughter, he took the last step to the pool, and lowered himself in. Though his pirouette outside took the edge off the heat, the water still felt soothing against his skin. He dipped his head underwater and emerged showering droplets everywhere.

Instead of letting any of the dozen compliments and charming observations that lurked near the tip of his tongue flow, he waved towards the table.

'Make sure you get something to drink before heading back.

'I figured as much, mum. Also, I'm famished. And getting cold, once again. I think I will get out before I turn blue.' Instead of the stairs, she took the direct route, pushing herself up on the edge of the pool, putting one foot on the stone outside to propel herself up. In the process her shirt slid high on her thighs, and pulled taut, and the Prince was treated to a direct close-up of her tight butt, which made him wonder how much of her innocence was play-acting, and how much of her sensuality was pure instinct. 'Vixen,' he thought to himself, but two could play that game. He hauled himself out of the water, and while Elika poured their goblets full, he picked up a bunch of grapes. Leaving the wine to rest for now, he plucked a juicy grape, and popped it into his mouth.

'Want some?' he offered, raising the bunch.

'Sure,' she replied, holding out a hand, expecting him to pinch the stem, breaking the bunch in half, but he nipped off only a single one and raised it to her mouth, held between thumb and forefinger. She opened her lips and her eyes closed involuntarily. She felt the cool grape slide slowly into her mouth, and the Prince's thumb escorted it only long enough for her to taste a hint of salt, while his palm cupped her face, his forefinger gently drawing a trail from her ears to her jaw, then retreating. She felt him step up to her, another warm hand touched her hip, and she felt his breath, scorching as the desert sun, brush against her neck.

'Time for the next round of steam,' and as quickly as that, he was gone. Elika fought down a protesting moan at the loss of contact and her eyes snapped open. The Prince, as nonchalant as ever, stood by the table, goblet in one hand, and plucked another grape off the bunch, that now having served his turn as a weapon in war of the sexes, rested peacefully on the tin tray. Her heart beat like a songbird's caught in the palm of the beholder, and magic alien to the vigilant white fire living inside her coursed through her veins. A conscious, detached part of her whispered that this was but a delicious dance around something primal and inevitable, but the rest of what made up Elika was lost in the haze of the memory of his skin against hers. She forced a smile, trying to act as if nothing had happened, and she picked up her own goblet, emptying it in three big gulps. Avoiding the Prince's eyes, she picked up an apple and bit deep into it, unconscious of the effect the two trails of apple juice streaming down her chin had on the Prince.

The hunter in him reared, and he had to shake the image of him stepping close, snatching the apple out of her hand and kissing the sweet drops off of her chin. Instead he picked up an apple himself, turned his back to the table and proceeded to devour it, focusing only on taking even, careful bites, letting the lust subside. He wasn't completely done yet when Elika, having finished her own apple, walked past him, asking,

'Are you coming?'

He placed the fruit back on the plate, pushed himself away from the table, and followed her wordlessly across the room, back into the steam.

He sat down opposite of her, and stared at the wooden grille on the floor, focusing on breathing in and out, in and out, the surrounding warmth caressing his tired skin.

'Did you come here often?' asked Elika, too high strung to be able to relax in quiet.

'After many a long night, I ended up in baths, sometimes alone, sometimes with people I would call friends those days. Nothing banishes the tiredness like a good rub-down followed by a long soak in a warm pool. This bath though, I visited once, maybe twice. It was a bit out of the way,' he answered without looking up. He didn't offer any more details, and she didn't ask, her mind racing along dangerous tracks.

'You might be right,' she spoke up again, out of the blue.

'That is the usual state of the world,' he said on principle, then asked, 'About what this time specifically?'

'That this might be more enjoyable without the shirt soaking up the sweat.' He snapped his head up at the way the end of her sentence almost squeaked, only to see her stand up, reach down and grab the hem of her shirt, and pull it over her head in one fluid motion. The garment landed on the bench with something between a thud and a splash, and Elika sat back down, forcing her palms to rest against the bench, legs crossed, fighting the urge to cover herself up.

'Elika,' he began hesitating, searching for words. He didn't know how to react; only if he put her down even in the gentlest ways, he would hurt her greatly. If there was a time to talk about emotions, wisdom of choices, benefit of waiting, it wasn't now. He had his misgivings, but the lady had made her own choice crystal clear. So he choked down the words of warning, and fell back into the role that fit him best; the one of the dashing rogue. A salacious smile spread across his face, he sat straight up, and leaned back, his chest puffing like a songbird's. His voice shifted from a conversational to a deeper, richer tone, a change not entirely unconscious, and he asked, eyebrows wriggling,

'How does it feel to let your skin breathe?'

'Liberating. And surprisingly hot,' she replied lightly, even though she felt anything but. Excitement, fear, and just plain nerves ran hot in her, and it took her everything she had to keep her cool.

'Normally, someone would hop in every few minutes and wave a large towel around to get the air moving, now _that_ would feel scorching,' he waved in the air, imitating the motion.

'Thanks, I'm already feeling pretty adventurous right now, trying a steam bath and everything,' she said.

'Princess, no one in their right mind would accuse you of cowardice,' he laughed. 'Tell me,' he leaned forward casually, 'How does Ohrmazd feel about cleanliness?'

'No holy text I can recall touches upon it, though when performing a sacred rite, both your body and soul should be cleansed, as a basic courtesy to your god. But he is not big on dogmas, at least not compared to the local religions around here.'

'What about tenets the followers should well… follow?'

'Interested in converting?' she raised an eyebrow, half mocking, half questioning, fully aware of every square inch of her exposed skin.

'I serve no god, but if I'm going to spill blood for one, I want to know more about him.'

'Well, he isn't big on commandments either. Ohrmazd offers no rigid framework to bind your life into, just a generic "try to live your life doing the most good and the least evil". Help those who need help, protect those who need protection, and be gentle with others. No fancy rules, and no loopholes, just you and your conscience.' She felt a huge "but" coming from the Prince, so she quickly amended. 'Obviously the Ahura were closer to him, and more goal oriented, but that had more to do with the Tree of Life than the actual religion.'

'And you wonder why there aren't more followers around,' he said. 'You need a catchy slogan, clear duties and punishments to bring in the big crowd,' he continued, more poking fun at her, than trying to carry on an actual discussion, wanting to see if he could get her gesticulating vividly enough to set certain exposed bodyparts in motion.

'So you said before, but some people are actually in the religion business because they believe.'

Talking of her god, trying to present her faith in the best words helped her get over the initial nervousness. The Prince had not laughed at her, hadn't told her she was but a silly girl, neither did he pounce on her, as her treacherous blood had whispered to her he would when she had lain under the stars during the journey from Ankuwa. Apparently, being naked was… okay. Exciting, tingling, but the Prince wasn't reacting in any of the ways she had imagined.

'Well, I would love to see you argue with the priesthood of Marduk, where learning about profit margins features more heavily into the training of young priests than the actual prayers,' he said. Elika just shrugged.

'I don't feel the need to argue with anyone. I'm the real deal, and my god protects every step I take.'

'I thought that was my job.'

'Do you think you can share the responsibility?' she asked, teasing.

'It is Ohrmazd who will have to learn how to share,' he said with conviction. 'How is he with sharing you, anyway? What's the word from upstairs on priestesses, prophets, queens, or whatever your title would be?' he asked the question that had been bothering him all evening. Every religion had their own dogma about the family life of god's servants, from the sacred whores of Ishtar to the priestesses of Hestia, who were buried alive if they knew the touch of a man.

'Are you asking me, if it is okay for me to lay with a man?' came the question, her expression suddenly dangerously blank.

'Yes, I guess I am,' he said slowly.

'And what if it's not?' A decade of practice in seduction had honed the Prince's instincts, and now all the alarm bells were screaming that there were a lot of wrong answers to her question, and there might not be a right one. Time to decide how the night would end. Time to see if he knew her as well as he thought he did.

'Then Ohrmazd will be very upset when I kiss you.'

'Oh,' was the only answer he received, but what was left unsaid, was more than enough. Her silence told him that he chose his words well. Her own sense of duty worked against her, twisting what he said into a grand compliment in her mind, even the cost of possibly angering their strongest ally dwarfed by the power of his feelings.

'Well?' he asked.

'Well what?'

'Would it be okay if you lay with a man?'

'Theologically speaking, not a problem. From a personal point of view…,' there was a thought's pause. She looked up, and the pretense broke for a moment. She looked vulnerable and unsure of herself as she asked, 'What will happen tonight?'

He stood up and held his hand out to her, drops of clean sweat and water forming a trail down his arm; an empty, irrelevant detail that somehow still irrevocably burned itself into Elika's memory.

'Come with me and let's find out together.' It was more a statement than an invitation. She looked up, and met unreadable eyes, and a tight lipped smile showing no teeth.

She took his hand, and his muscles tensed for a moment, pulling her straight up. The reality of her nudity, almost forgotten before, came back to her full force, but the Prince's eyes held onto hers steadfastly, not exploring the uncharted territory, at least not when she would have noticed. He led her out of the steam room, and they stepped onto the cold stone tiles. The air did not feel cold, just refreshing, and wisps of smoke parted from her skin, snaking around her, towards the ceiling. She looked at her other hand, and said, bemused,

'I'm smoking.'

'Let's put you out before you catch fire!' he called out, bending forward and pushed an arm into her knees from behind. She fell into his waiting arms, willingly. He straightened up, muscles in his back playing a complicated game under his skin, and her arm found its way around his neck of its own accord. The feeling of his coarse skin against her own set her nerves on fire, and once again, a large lump seemed to appear in her throat out of nowhere. The Prince's hair stuck to his scalp and his shoulders in a tangled mess, no longer bound by his scarf, and for a portentous moment Elika imagined what it would be like to have it fall as a curtain around them, with the his eyes boring into hers. But instead of on the girl in his arms, his gaze was fixed ahead.

With a dozen careful steps, he carried them to the stairs of the cold pool, and set her on her feet. His hand followed the lines of her body lithely, from her bottom up to her shoulder blades in a feather light caress, before he stepped away and walked down the few steps into the pool. She followed him, the touch of water cooling her overheated skin. He turned, and she felt that for the first time since she threw her shirt over her head, he really_ looked _at her.

'You are so beautiful,' wonder rang in his voice, unmasked, melting the uneasiness in her. Elika raised a hesitant hand to his shoulder, and her fingertips traced his arm, sending shivers down his spine. He felt stretched deliciously taut with anticipation, drawing out the moment before they finally clashed for as long as possible. This was the sweetest wait, tinted with mystery that would be lost forever after their lips had met, and he intended to get the most out of it.

'You are not so bad yourself,' she whispered, and her words seemed to come from far away. Her hands found their way onto his chest, resting for a moment before continuing their journey north. His hands set out roaming under the water as well, palms on her naked hips, moving up her slender waist in a slow caress, full of marvel. She ran a finger along his chin, grazing the four day stubble there.

'Scratchy,' she whispered, the lump gone from her throat, replaced with a raspiness she couldn't quite explain.

'Silky,' he said, his smile softening his words. His inner arm brushed against her breast, and his fingertips gained hold on her shoulder blades. 'Brave. Smart. Full of life and fire. And incredibly, amazingly beautiful,' his voice broke on the last words, and Elika felt at the edge of her consciousness that something profound was going on, something that made all the struggle and pain worth it. She looked up and their eyes locked once again. He had no words left to tell her how he felt, and the magnetic pull of her slightly parted lips became slowly irresistible. Unconsciously, the tip of her pink tongue darted out and wet her lips, and she swallowed. At the last moment, with a flash of will, he broke eye contact, reached deep underwater, and swooped her off her feet once again, eliciting a squeal of protest from her.

'Where are you taking me?' she asked as he carried her out of the water.

'After the cold, comes the warm ba-ath,' he groaned as she pulled herself closer to him and bit his neck playfully. He looked down to meet the twinkling eyes of the imp in his arms.

'I see that you are going to be a handful.'

'What will your hands be full with?' she asked racily.

'Let me put you down and you will find out.'

'Is that a threat or a promise?' she quipped.

'A promise. And I keep my promises,' he growled and she shivered at the ferocity in his voice. She didn't even notice that he had entered the other pool until her bare bottom was lowered into the warm embrace of the water. She let her legs go, never releasing her hold on his neck, but letting her body unfold against his length instead, ending up flush against him, their foreheads touching, her toes barely reaching the bottom of the pool. Accompanied with a silent 'ah-ha' she felt a hardness she expected, but had never felt before, press against her hip through the material of his shorts.

Hands, forceful, urgent, grabbed her thighs and lifted her, spreading her around him. Elika hooked her ankles over his ass instinctively. The tension born of a month of flirting and teasing, all the emotions suppressed, all the tears unshed found an outlet finally, slamming into her, fanning the flames of desire burning in her veins into an inferno, leaving little conscious thought besides the undeniable need to touch, to feel, to _be._

Her left hand slid down and her fingers dug into the muscles of his back. She pressed on his nape with her other hand, pulling his mouth close.

The Prince, with his last shred of willpower, resisted, panting, 'Elika.'

Her eyes focused for a moment, but she didn't stop kneading, pulling and pushing. 'We have to… be careful… I cannot get you with child.'

The only response was bright blue light inundating her eyes, making them two gaping holes of azure radiance for a moment, then as quickly as it flooded her, the magic retreated. '_You won't_' she said, her words shadowed by a metallic echo.

The sudden display of power acted as a bucket of cold water on the Prince. 'Alright, that was scary. Impressive, but scary,' he said, the seductive baritone replaced by the hurried tenor of a camel merchant just before the customer finds the plaster teeth. They froze into the embrace, her legs looped around him, her left hand still buried in his hair, her right grabbing his ass, his holding her up, only a soaked layer of linen and a gasp separating them from becoming one. Sensing his retreat, Elika's blood cooled rapidly as well, and the friction between her nipples and his chest, maddening only a moment ago, was embarrassing now. She unhooked her ankles, and slid away, and his hands fell to his sides, letting her go. Her hand reached to her hair, and pulled it out of her face, her arm hovering protectively in front of her breasts.

'What happened there, Elika?' his voice was soft, but serious. He saw a lot of ingenious ways to prevent a seed from sprouting, and while some of them involved magic, none of them involved the magic that he had just witnessed.

'I… it…I'm not sure,' Elika struggled to put into words what she herself didn't understand. 'I think it reacts to need and emotions, the stronger the need, the faster the magic rises to help,'

'And your need was pretty strong, huh?' he said, a hint of smugness returning. His self-satisfied look didn't help Elika's embarrassment; she was glad the heat of the room hid her blush. She tried to hide behind a sour smile, saying,

'You could say that.'

'Hey, there is no harm in being human.' The easy lie that he had never felt like this before was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back, and said instead, 'I haven't acted this crazy in a long while either.' A pause. 'So you can't get pregnant?'

'For tonight.' She looked away, and said, 'I haven't realized, but I missed my time of the moon as well, it should have come in the desert, with the new moon. '

'If you could bottle that, you would be richer than Creosote.'

'It would be a worthy use of the powers bestowed upon me,' came the sarcastic reply and she took another half-step back.

'Magic, or no magic, everything I said still stands. You are the most amazing woman I ever met, and I would not trade a year with huris for a moment with you.'

'Even if it means flaming eyes, weird voices, vengeful gods and everything else that follows me around?' she asked, still unsure of herself.

'Especially not then,' he reached out to place an entirely non-sensual hand on her shoulder. 'You might not have noticed, but I am not drawn to the safe and average. And you are danger, mystery, and innocence wrapped into a knock-your-sandals-off stunning package.' His eyes ran down her body, deliberately taking his time to study everything Ohrmazd had blessed her with.

'Thanks,' she said, feeling lame and inarticulate for not being able to offer similar words in return. 'I broke the mood, huh?' she said after an awkward silence. The Prince just shrugged.

'There are some things that can't be helped. Next time, I won't shut down if your light starts to shine from unusual places, I promise. How does it feel, anyway, to have the magic come and go?' He walked past her as he talked and sat down on the stone bench inside the pool, throwing his arms over the side carelessly, his head resting against the rounded tiles of the edge.

'Next time?' she asked, arching an eyebrow, ignoring his question.

'You can't stay away from _this_ for long.' he indicated himself with a sweep of his arm.

'Are you always so insufferably sure of yourself, or do I get special treatment?' she asked, folding her arms over her chest, still standing in the middle of the small bath.

'As a warning, if you deny it, I will make you eat your words when I'm proven right,' he said, without even looking up. Elika hesitated for a moment. She wanted nothing more than to throw some insults into his face, but she suspected he would grow even more arrogant if they ended up in a compromising position again, and now that reason had finally gotten a grip on emotion, she was not entirely sure what would happen tonight, or how far she was willing to go. She hoped that this was not the end of it, whatever that indefinable "it" between them might be.

'Your silence is telling, Princess,' he remarked, with eyes still closed, and that was the final straw. She hit the water, sending a wide spray arcing over the surface, hitting him square in the face. He rose spluttering, and slowly, deliberately pulled himself up from sitting into a crouch on the bench, eyes radiating menace.

'No, no, no, no you don't!' Elika repeated, backing away, hands raised in defense, the pitch of her voice climbing towards the heavens.

The Prince, suddenly lunged across the pool as if he had been sitting on a giant spring, arms stretched towards her. Elika shrieked, and disappeared with him underwater, only to resurface right next to the Prince a few confusing seconds later. She looked up at him, ready to splash him once again in retaliation, but her raised arm fell into the water forgotten, when her gaze met his.

She stood mesmerized, as he leaned in, her head tilting back, eyes closing as her body betrayed her once again, and finally, the Prince's lips brushed her own, first gently, a soft caress, then a tug on her lower lip, demanding access.

The lips of another on her own felt alien, wet, but finally she responded, slowly, hesitantly, uncertain if she was doing it right or wrong, working only on instinct and on giggling half sentences shared between the kitchen staff at her father's palace.

The Prince, almost detachedly, led her slowly, guiding her first with lips and a palm cupping her nape, then with a teasing tongue, stealing a taste of her. Her enthusiasm flared in response and teeth collided. He muffled her mumbled 'sorry' with an encouraging caress, while he kept the kiss going. He had walked a dozen through their first kiss, and despite all the other circumstances, when it came to love, Elika was no different from the ones before her. With an almost calculated gesture, he slid his hands from her head, trailing her spine, to the hollow of her back, and spread his fingers, letting her get used to the weight of his touch, while his tongue slowly intensified the battle with hers.

Elika sensed nothing of the internal commentary running through the Prince's head, she gave herself to the kiss completely; focusing on the thin slice of now suspended between past and future. Eyes closed, only the feeling of his lips and hands existed; the touch of water underneath her and the caress of the air above. The heat pooling in her loins filled her with an urgency to touch, and she hungrily tried to take all of the Prince in at the same time, hands roaming over the muscles on his back, skin sliding on wet skin awkwardly. His mouth was gone suddenly and reappeared attacking her neck ferociously, placing an opened mouthed kiss on the tender spot just below her ear. She gasped and threw her head back, allowing greater access. He sucked the skin in, and gave it an experimental lick to see how she reacted. He was rewarded with a stifled moan, and nails scratching at his back.

A hand ran up her front and cupped a breast, a rough thumb running over a nipple, again and again, pushing Elika past the last milestones of desire she ever thought were possible. Her body was aflame, and the Prince had been only warming up, barely beginning to explore her body. She roughly yanked his head back up and attacked his mouth again ferociously, trying to pull herself as close to him as physically possible, and closer.

Her want was infectious, and reserved teaching gave way to passion. His left hand grabbed her bottom, fingers digging into toned muscles, lifting her off the bottom of the pool, as if she was weightless. Their kiss broke but his mouth didn't stay idle; capturing her free nipple between his lips instead, tugging at it carefully. Her legs once again opened, and then closed around his waist, her hands buried themselves in his hair. He worshipped her breasts with intense licks on one side and teasing tweaks on the other, his other hand holding her up, fingertips curved underneath her, close enough for her to become aware of what was not being touched yet. Unthinking, she locked her ankles and lifted herself even higher, allowing him to shift his hand, reaching her finally, albeit at an awkward angle. He could barely caress the coarse hairs there, but it was enough to color her desire with a bright tint of anticipation. She didn't have to wait long; his thoughts followed hers. His right left her breast and snaked between them, and she lifted herself off him again to give him room. He cupped her vulva, and his forefinger found its way through her folds to the glistening skin, massaging around her entrance in slow, deliberate circles. She gasped, and once again the fever in her rose to previously unimagined heights. Never would she have thought that she could be so completely aware of such a tiny part of her; the route his fingertip took rose through the symphony her senses played, like a violin tortured by a crazed genius to an ever faster allegro.

She pushed down on his shoulder, hard, almost lifting out of the water completely, not knowing what she wanted, just sure that she wanted more. Her nipple slipped from his lips but he recaptured it deftly, sucking it in with passion, blood flooding into the already achingly hard point. She collapsed back down onto him with a gasp, and her hand left flew to her other breast, now untended, and pinched her own nipple. The sight egged the Prince on; he probed her entrance with a fingertip, forcing himself to be slow and careful. He met no resistance, a detail he filed away for later, and found her fully ready, even the water of the pool could not wash all her fluids away. Him entering her was a sensation that muted everything else in her, for a moment nothing else existed, just the ring of her untried muscles squeezing his exploring finger, and the delicious friction inside when he curved his finger against her wall, just two digits deep. His thumb run from her entrance to the nub peeking from under its hood, carrying the slickness with it, and started running fast, light circles around it while his forefinger continued its ministrations on the inside.

She recognized the feeling that reverberated inside her from her own nighttime explorations behind the safely locked door of her bedroom, but the spiral leading to the finish never before was so steep, so quick as now, under the loving care of the Prince. His own needs forgotten, he exulted in showing her what love could do, making it a matter of pride that he could even send a virgin past the final frontier on her first night as a woman. His mouth fell in rhythm with the rest of his movements, sucking a puckered nipple, rubbing it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. His right hand was busy between her creamy thighs, a finger rubbing against her inner wall again and again with the same come-hither movement, his thumb flicking over her clit rapidly. His other hand held her up, by her ass, a finger applying firm, but patient pressure against her anus. He rocked her in his arms, the rhythm increasing with every move, sending her into a sensory overload.

She came fast and hard, only minutes after he first touched her clit, her mouth forming a silent o, her breaths speeding up to rapid panting, eyes clenched shut. Her entire body shivered, then went rigid, all the muscles tensing up and her walls clamped down hard on his finger, relaxing and clamping, again and again in waves. He kept her there as long as possible, but wasn't intimate enough with the workings of her body to know when and how to ease off to turn the epilogue of an orgasm into the intro of another. A meek, throaty sound let him know it was enough, and he eased his finger out of a trembling Princess, his hand closing around her back, holding her close as the last tremors of pleasure ran through her. His pants, roomy as they were, became too constricting in the last minutes, and there was a hunger in him that demanded he possessed this girl, like he had so many others before him, in every way possible. He pushed it down and listened to her heartbeat turn from that of a mouse to more regular thuds. Crashing after her orgasm, she collapsed on him, her chin resting on his shoulder, arms closed around him, legs holding him close with intimacy, rather than fervent desire.

'I…' she began finally, 'I have never…'

'I know.'

'That was amazing.'

'I know.'

'You are cocky.'

'In more ways than one.' His pun only elicited a grimace from her. She disentangled her legs, and slid away from him, still shaky and he breathed a silent relief; his back was starting to kill him, though he would have never admitted it. He half swam, half walked past her, and sat on the stone bench, a strange calm taking over his desire. He felt the weariness in his bones, of the long ride, and the long day. He let his muscles relax, and watched Elika watch him in silence. Unreadable, she walked up to him, no longer bothered by her nudity, and he took stock of her assets with renewed interest, his inner peace departing as suddenly as it came.

There was little about her body that came as a surprise, he had held her enough times to be familiar with the tightness of muscles and smoothness of her skin. Still it was one thing to acknowledge her slim waist when catching her after a perilous jump, and another to enjoy the sight at one's leisure. She stopped in her tracks, and raised her arms to her sides, outstretched.

'Enjoying the view?' she asked.

'Definitely,' he said pulling a knee up, to rest his elbow on it, and he placed his chin in his palm. 'Turn around.' She spun obediently, palms hovering above the water. 'Slower,' he said, and she complied, feeling silly and titillated at the same time.

'Should I do tricks?' she asked over her shoulder, mid turn.

'In a moment,' came the reply. 'You have a great ass, has anyone ever told you?'

'Strange as it may seem to you, this is not a compliment a queen-in-waiting hears frequently,' she replied. 'But thanks,' she added, as an afterthought.

'I'm serious. All that scaling of cliffs and jumping chasms stuff really pays off.'

'What's it with you and asses?' she asked, finishing her turn, and a pained expression ran across the Prince's face. Only with great difficulty did he manage to swallow a verbal retort; that was not the direction he wanted the conversation to take.

'Well, I know I want this one in my lap. Come here!' he beckoned, and she sashayed towards him, feeling bold and sensual, the haze of desire having never really lifted from her mind. When she reached him, she leaned forward, her breasts following her movement only sluggishly in the water, swishing to and fro after her hands came to rest on his knees. 'Tell me,' she said 'should I sit facing towards you… or away?'

He reached out and gave a nipple a twist, just painful enough to send a sharp jolt through her body. 'The real question is, beautiful, if I should wear anything when you do.'

The implications and the seriousness hidden behind the playful question didn't register with Elika. Strangely, the Prince valued her virginity more than she did. She had no social rules to answer to, no would-be husbands awaiting a soiled sheet on their wedding night, no future to plan for, just the feeling that this, now, was right. When she had pulled her shirt over her head, not even an hour earlier, she had given herself to him in body and soul, and any further boundaries were only technical, not emotional.

'There wouldn't be much point otherwise, would there?' she asked back, and her hands slid up his thighs, trying to caress him through his clothes. The rough material running over the soft skin of his tip eliciting a wince from the Prince. He reached down and guided her hands to the waistband of his pants, and untied the knot on the string with a single tug. When she pulled, he lifted his ass off the bench; then kicked the garment off towards the center of the pool. She immediately looked down, her right hand exploring her new toy, marveling at the texture, the color, the shape, while her left hand rested on his upper thigh, supporting her weight. She wore an expression of pure amazement, as she carefully, experimentally pulled his skin back just like she saw in a book in her father's library.

Her inexpert touch filled the Prince with the need for more, much more, but first he had to set some ground rules. He took her hand in his, and adjusted it on his shaft. 'Hold it like this,' he said, taking shallow breaths. 'And watch the tip, it's just as sensitive as your…' he motioned vaguely towards her dark triangle. 'It only likes to be touched when wet.' He struggled to find the right words, while Elika, now having a better hold, applied her book knowledge and gave him a few experimental jerks. 'Not with water though, but viscous things. Oil, you, or saliva for example.'

'My saliva, huh?' she asked, her hand moving up and down slowly, holding him gently, basking in the look on his face. 'Now there is a thought.'

'Hold tighter, don't be afraid to squeeze, but don't pull too hard when your hand…ooh that's it.' She stepped closer, and rested her slightly bent knees against the bench he was sitting on, and her other arm, no longer needed for support, roamed around his front, caressing his face, neck, shoulders in an absent-minded way, while her attention was focused on getting a steady rhythm going on his shaft, watching his face for clues on what he might or might not like, what was too strong, or too gentle. She felt out of her league, trying to follow his guidance, and hoping her clumsiness would not bring derision. The way the Prince panted in time with her movements told her that she must have gotten something right, but a little voice in the back of her head whispered to her, mocking her that this was just play acting, and she could never hope to give him the same pleasure he had given her.

She needn't have worried. Soon, the Prince let out an animalistic moan, and grabbed her hand, pulling it from his shaft towards his neck forcefully, yanking her close for a kiss. A strong hand buried itself in her hair, and his lips covered hers once again, taking possession hungrily. He only let her go once air was starting to become an issue and growled at her,

'I want you.'

She had seen him watch her before, seen his eyes darken to a murkiness that exhilarated her, and thought she had it figured out how to recognize when the Prince was feeling amorous, but the intensity in his eyes was startling. His pupils dilated to the point where she felt there were only two black pools left, and all that attention was focused on her. She heard a thread-thin control in his voice, and the prospect of that last thread snapping was breathtakingly glorious.

'I'm yours,' she exhaled, surrendering to the force of his desire, anticipation flooding her. Unsure of what to do exactly, she put first one knee, then the other on the bench, hovering mere inches above him. His hand ran between them, his palm first cupped her mound, running through the thick mat of hair, then slid between her legs and parted her folds expertly. She stared into his eyes, lost in the moment, while his finger penetrated her, quick and probing, then another joined it, the stretching sensation unknown, but not entirely unwelcome.

The Prince put his other hand on the gentle dip at the small of her back and guided her downwards, lining his tip up with her entrance. He stood still for a breath, basking in the sheer sensuality of the moment. Elika, unable to hold back anymore, slowly started to descend, and he slid into her perfectly. The intensity of the skin to skin contact made both of them moan in unison. She moved inch by agonizing inch, stretching herself over him slowly, and he fought against the overwhelming instinct to move, letting her get used to the penetration first.

The pain was sharp, almost as the smell of lemons, and she fought back the tears that threatened to spill. But it dulled quickly, and gave way to a complex feeling unlike anything she ever experienced. She sighed when her thighs finally came to rest on his, a long, drawn-out exhalation, the completeness of the moment overwhelming her being. She leaned forward and kissed him gently, the crazed mating haze dispelled by the pain giving way to a strange tenderness. Their lips caressed each other and she rolled her hips experimentally, the pleasure emanating from inside her reverberating through her. Instinct took over, and she watched, trapped within, muted, as her body moved of its own accord, a stranger, an observer, while her muscles were controlled by a primal force. She was submerged by the tidal wave of feelings rising from where they were joined, from her lower lip captured between the Prince's, her thighs rubbing against the rough texture of his skin, from the white-bright point of electric excitement emanating from her nipple trapped between his fingers; the sensation overwhelming from within and without.

She held onto him, and her hands buried themselves in the hair of his nape and grasped his shoulder, while she rocked in his embrace, sliding back and forth on his member. The buildup was slow and steady this time, through protest of never-used muscles. The Prince bit down on her shoulder, his awareness focused on their point of contact, the last weeks' lack of privacy making holding back long enough almost impossible. The rhythm she dictated was torturous to him, teasing him to the edge of explosion too soon. Clinging to his last shreds of sanity before he would flip her over the edge of the bath and fuck her senseless, he grabbed her hand and shoved it between them. She got the hint and started to rub herself without breaking the rhythm, first careful, then faster and faster.

He took hold of her hips, helping the movement along, speeding it up. Her panting filled his ears, his world, and he felt he could not hold on anymore. A guttural groan burst from him and he went rigid with pleasure, jerking hard inside her, then again and again. Her moans were broken by a sharp intake of breath as the feeling of him flooding her pushed her over the edge as well, and she came with him, her fingers furiously working her clit. They shivered together, riding their joined climax.

Then slowly, they came to a halt, finding rest in each other's arms, as intimate as two people can be, him still sheathed in her, just holding each other. Minutes passed, wordless, and Elika's thighs and knees slowly started to protest.

She eased herself off him, his seed gushing out of her, leaving a thin white trail in the water. She took a step back and reached down; trying to capture a slippery thread with detached curiosity, anything but face the Prince.

'Come,' he said, amused and relaxed, slowly standing up and stepping up onto the bench, ready to vacate the bath. 'Let's move to the hot pool.' She looked up from her experiments underwater, meeting his penis dangling half-limp at eye height. She forced herself to look away, up, and grabbed the hand extended to help her. They stepped out of the water together; the air decidedly cooler than it had been when they got in. Hand in hand, naked as the day they were born; they walked across the stone floor and descended into the hot pool. They sat down on the bench in the corner in silence. The Prince leaned against the wall, and opened his arms for her, and she nestled against him, her back to his front, her head leaning against his shoulder, eyes closed, letting the thud of his heartbeat wash the confusion out of her heart.

'Th-thank you,' he said, his voice buckling.

Only silence answered him, wary silence.

'Thank you for trusting me,' he tried again. 'Even though I gave you a thousand reasons not to. Thank you for trusting me with your life, your heart, your body. Thank you for sharing with me the wonder that is you.'

'How could I not?' she asked. 'You came through, every time. Bitching and whining about it, but when it mattered, you came through. You might have damned the world to eternal darkness in the process, but you showed me how much you cared.'

'I guess I have, huh?'

'Huh, indeed,' she said, smiling, and though he couldn't see her face, he felt the smile spread through her. He put his arms around her midriff in response, pulling her even closer. They were quiet for a few moments, before he spoke up,

'This is the moment when you thank me, by the way.'

'Oh is it?' she asked, feigning surprise, delighted at the change of topics.

'Yup. For making your first night as a woman an experience you will cherish till the end of your days.'

'You are awfully cocky,' she said, reaching behind her and grabbing his flaccid member. 'Hmm not so much anymore.'

'That pun never gets old, does it?' he groaned. 'I didn't say that you should take away your hand!' he added quickly, protesting. 'But seriously, you have been treated to a fantastic tour of the stimulation of all senses. And I bring further glad tidings for you: it will only get better.'

She wriggled around in his arms, coming up kneeling on the bench, face to face with him, her hand still toying with his slowly rousing dick underwater.

'Are you sure that you can top this? Because it was a pretty awesome ride so far.'

'If you let me, I will guide you to lands even the writers of your textbooks never heard about.'

'Pretty bold claim, my Prince,' she said laughing pulling his foreskin back with an evil glint in her eye.

'You know me, I'm a dauntless daredevil.'

'Then I have no choice, but follow you wherever you lead, if only to find out whether or not you are bluffing.'

Something shifted inside her, and her hand stopped playing with him, her eyes cleared for a moment, and a dark gravity tinted her voice as she said, 'But just because I would follow you blindly, doesn't mean you have a license to lead me where I don't want to go.'

'Understood,' he nodded solemnly, eyes not leaving hers. She nodded in response to an agreement reached. She closed her eyes for a tired second, and when she opened them again, the same fire glinted in them as before.

'Now be a good rogue, sit up on the edge, and explain about that "saliva" thing in detail...'


	17. Interlude I

The lovers' laughter reverberated through the chamber as they explored each other, and wisps of dull echoes escaped through the high windows.

A dark shape, having seen enough, spread its wings and kicked away from its perch on the windowsill, and with forceful beats pushed itself high, riding the winds above the city.

Something was wrong with the shape, a line here, a shadow there, telling that the bird, that was not a bird, was a not a vulture, merely the idea of one. Details were missing, bones that should be straight were crooked, and it lacked a quality of color so inherent to real things that it almost shone against the velvet backdrop of the sky. It was black, not the children's black, a simple absence of any color, but a black in its own right, alive and dangerous.

It could pass for the real thing if one did not look close enough. But no living bird would stare ahead unblinking with pupilless pools for eyes, no animal would scrutinize everything with such malevolent intelligence, no wings could lift without feathers, and nothing hatched from an egg could fly fourteen days through the desert without pause, without food, without water.

The bird, that was not a bird, banked, and turned, and set out to report back to his dark master, flying east; always east.

* * *

_A/N Thank you very much for the reviews, and welcome to the new readers! I am glad that the reactions to the smut were positive, and I promise that we are getting back to the actual story. Now, after two and a half years of writing this fanfiction (which is a slight oh my god, has it been that long), I finally know how Third Chance will end, and have a rough outline what path the characters will follow. The good (or bad) news is, that I'm not even halfway through the story, though considering that 40% of all work was completed in the last half a year, and I dont feel like slowing down just yet, I hope I won't take another two and a half years to finish this_

_Also, as of now, all the clues are given to what is the Prince's real name, if someone versed in ancient history. If you think you have it, please send it in a PM, do not post it in the reviews, don't kill the fun for others._

_And another note, before someone calls out on this: I drop a lot of references to contemporary history (contemporary to them, not us :), and if you read around, you will realize that I'm compressing two centuries of events into a single lifetime, and might be pulling in things from even farther, so don't reference me in your AP World History paper :) However, I try my very best to keep the surroundings and lifestyles completely authentic, but a lot of things is just guesswork and conjecture, we simply don't know a lot of things about everyday life 27 centuries ago. If anyone knows of a comprehensive work on the topic, let me know, I wouldn't mind spending a few dollars on the e-book, right now I have to hunt bits and pieces from a dozen reference homepages, some of them questionable in content.  
_


	18. Chapter 16

The first rays of sun sneaked past the curtains and tickled a foot sticking out from under the covers. It was not the cleanest foot in the world, though most of the grime and dirt of yesterday was gone, and neither was it unblemished; the scar of a cut long-healed ran straight across the arch, but experts around the world would have agreed that it was a cute foot nevertheless. Delicate toes curled, trying to chase away the warmth, but to no avail. Soon, the foot kicked out, eliciting a deep grumble from somewhere under the sheets. Rustling followed, and with a deeply satisfied sigh as bodies curved into each other, and another foot appeared, one that had nothing to do with cuteness. Calloused heels and blistered toes featured on this article, with a fair amount of hair showing on top. The alignment of this second foot with the first, coupled with the shape of the lump under the covers left no doubt that the owners slept or at least lay together in a fashion that could not be explained to any father or husband if one were to burst through the doors.

Thankfully, no such threat loomed over the lovers, and though the Prince woke up twice during the morning hours, he always stopped halfway out the window and climbed back into the bed next to his Princess, shaking his head half-asleep and muttering about old habits. It was him now as well, who kicked off the blanket, exposing their naked bodies to the late morning air. He crawled out of the bed, relieved himself unceremoniously in the chamberpot and poked his head out the door. He picked up their neatly folded clothes, and closed the door once more with a quiet thud. He stepped into his underpants quickly, and he was halfway through putting his pants on when Elika finally managed to open her eyes a crack. A wide, serene smile appeared on her face and she watched in silence as her lover got dressed. She rolled the unfamiliar world in her mouth silently, tasting it. _Lover_. He picked up her clothes and dumped them unceremoniously on the bed next to her, banishing the lazy peace of the warmth-filled room.

'Best get dressed quickly, we will have a long day,' he said, his mind racing ahead, planning, organizing, only half in the present. A shadow of self-doubt ran across Elika's face, and she swallowed, her mouth dry first thing in the morning.

'Good morning to you too,' she said, reaching for the fallen covers, feeling suddenly cold and self-conscious. 'Why the rush, won't you come back to bed?'

'Hmm where is my sword… nah, thanks I'll pass. Last night was fun, but I'm more interested in breakfast right now,' he said, not sparing a glance for her. Her hand slowly drifted to the pile of clothing beside her, and picked up her underwear.

'Fun? Last night was fun?' There was no mistaking the warning tone this time, still the Prince ignored it.

'Definitely. We should do it again soon,' he said absently. 'Now where do you want to have breakfast? Should we look for something here, or rather try a street stall? They make amazing pastries filled with honey and jam.'

More than a little unsure of what to make of this cold reception; half hurt, half pissed off, Elika started pulling clothes on with short, sharp gestures, while the Prince chattered on, apparently deeply occupied by listing every baker within a mile radius.

'Don't give a damn where we eat, or what,' she blurted out finally, interrupting him.

'Hey, is something wrong?'

'Something wrong? You are asking me if something is wrong?'

'Relax a bit, no need to get cranky,' he threw up his hands defensively.

'Why are you acting like this?' she asked, panicky, exasperated. She had no expectations for the morning after, none at all, but this surreal behavior of the Prince scared the shit out of her; it was as if all the threads connecting them had snapped overnight, and she faced a complete stranger now.

'I'm not acting like anything, no need for the kicked-puppy look. Just get dressed, and let's go,' he said, and each syllable sounded off-key, dissonant to Elika's ears.

'Kicked-puppy look? What happened to you?'

'Oh come on, you are acting like it's the end of the world or something, even more so than usual,' he talked rapidly, his eyes darting all over the room, seeking escape.

'Even more so than usual? What's that supposed to mean?' she asked, anger seeping through the wounds his words caused her.

'Nothing. Nevermind. All I'm saying is…'

'No, tell me what that was supposed to mean. 'Cause I thought we shared something special, and now you are acting like a completely different person!'

'Me? You are throwing a Princess tantrum, because I don't buzz around you non-stop. This is exactly why I didn't want to lay with you!' he threw up his hands in exasperation. Elika reeled as if she had been slapped.

'You… didn't want to sleep with me?' she didn't shout, or scream, but there was a quiver in her voice he never heard before, and it stopped him dead mid-rant.

'Look, that's not what I meant. I only meant that it complicates things...' he backtracked.

'Oh and you like things simple, don't you.' her words were dripping with venom. 'Fucking everything that moves, because you are so damn smooth.'

'Don't criticize my life choices, I'm not getting into yours either, and there is enough to pick on there,' he warned her, knowing the words were cruel as he said them, but unable to stop himself.

'By Mithras you are! Ever since I had the misfortune of meeting you, I had heard nothing but a litany of insults against me, my people, our land, religion, and everything we stand for!'

He sighed, exasperated, and started pacing. 'Great. This is just great. Exactly what I didn't want.'

Elika just stared at him, speechless with fury. 'Sod this,' she broke out, yanked her pants on, threw her blouse on, and finally, snatched her sandals up from the bed and marched out barefoot.

'Where do you think you are going?' the Prince shouted after her.

'Back to the Inn!' the reply echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps.

'Yeah. Right,' he mumbled to himself. 'She will be back, she doesn't know the way.'

He waited for around a minute, then suddenly jumped for the door, cursing. 'Shit, when did that ever hold her back!' He raced back from halfway down the hall and snatched up his sword and his purse, then dashed out again, ran down the corridor and thundered down the stairs. He threw a coin to the doorman, shouting over his shoulder to get their room in order, and that he would be right back, and burst out onto the square before the bath. He forced himself to stop and stand still as he scanned the crowd. It was nowhere near as busy as last afternoon, but still over a hundred people were in sight, unfortunately , none of them royalty.

He took hasty steps to the nearest beggar, a one-legged, wizened husk of a man resting in the shade, his back thrown against the cool stone of the bathhouse's wall.

'Greetings.' A wide, toothless smile spread on the man's face and he squinted up at the Prince. 'May the Mother watch over your steps, Lord.'

'Yeah, yeah.' The Prince squatted on his heels, lowering his face to the man's, the stench twisting his nose. 'Have you seen a girl storming away? Young, pretty, mighty pissed off?'

The man sniggered, leery. 'Lover's spat, huh? She went that a-way, and looked like she was in a hurry.' He raised a hand and pointed down the main road leading to the city centre.

'Bhaal's arse!' the Prince swore, dropped a copper in the beggars lap, and started walking in the indicated direction with determined steps, scanning the crowd, eyes darting left and right.

He stopped the next time the road forked, and asked a fruit merchant, who recalled seeing someone like her stomping away, and pointed him down another road, which, to his surprise, more or less lead in the right direction.

He hit a figurative dead end at the next crossroads, and spent five minutes at the stands on the little square until he found someone who remembered a girl asking directions to the Dawn's Wonder. Allowing himself to relax a little, he invested in a honey melon and sat down on the rim of the crack-woven basin in the center. He thoughtfully, methodically started to apply the stall keeper's wooden spoon to the cold, glistening inside, enjoying each cool mouthful to the fullest. Men and women pulled up bucket after bucket of water from the well, and poured it behind him, the splash wetting the back of his shirt, but it didn't bother him; it would dry soon enough as the sun would turn the air from merely hot to sweltering.

Finally, when he finished the small melon, he reached a decision as well; he would leave her alone for the day, give them both time to cool off. He had some apologies to make, and those did not come easy to him, and some words to say that he had to think on.

Still, a fight was not the end of the world, but if he let it stop him from what he planned for the day, it might bring it closer. With this sentiment, he set out in a direction opposite of the one Elika had taken half an hour before. After fetching the rest of their gear from the bathhouse, he let his feet wander and carry him on routes last traveled almost half a decade ago, and turned his mind to other matters. When he next looked up, he was standing in front of Khatu's home. Like before, he simply stepped through the curtain separating the house from the street and took a deep breath of the cooler air inside. He headed up the narrow stairs, minding his head; the thousand bruises he had suffered there faded from his body long ago, but not from his memory.

With the natural ease of a cat, he made himself at home on the same little terrace he and Elika lunched on a lifetime ago, wove his fingers behind his head, and leaned against the guard, two legs of his stool lifting off the ground, waiting for the owner to come around. Patiently, he stared out over the flat rooftops of the city, watching a flock of pigeons zigzag high up.

'What do we have here? Seems just like yesterday when I last found you in my house, uninvited,' came the deep rumble of Khatu from the kitchen doorway.

'Because it was only yesterday, senile old man,' he pushed himself away from the low wall, the chair coming to rest on the roof with a thud, and he stood up, turning to face his host.

'The bones may feel when the wind turns, but the mind is as sharp as ever, and something tells me,' he tapped his forehead with his finger, 'that like always when you turn up on my roof, you will eat my food, drink my mead and whine at me like a little boy running to his mother with a booboo.'

'You read me best, old friend,' the Prince said, offering his right arm. Khatu grabbed him, their hands closing around each other's underarms in a warrior's armshake.

'You definitely want something when you call me friend,' Khatu laughed, and the Prince forced a smile of admission. 'I will get us something to drink, and you can tell me what ails you,' he turned and stepped back through the curtain, and the Prince followed. Inside the kitchen-slash-alchemist's den, where Khatu concocted most of his magic, he went to the cupboard and fetched two mugs, while the older man picked up a pitcher, falling back into the rhythm of days long gone. Khatu lifted the clay lid and peered inside, his nostrils flared, and he even stuck the tip of his tongue out in concentration, as he made his decision. 'This one will do.'

They settled down outside after, Khatu bringing a dozen dead birds with him to pluck and gut while they talked. Leaning as far back from the bloody process as the dimensions of the rooftop terrace allowed, the rogue began his explanation of what he needed, though without the why.

'So,' he took a sip, 'I want to let bygones be bygones and smooth things with Berisath. Is that old fool still around?'

Khatu raised an eyebrow incredulously. 'Well he is undoubtedly still around, and isn't going anywhere for a while. You definitely have been out of the loop for too long.'

'Why do I have the feeling that I'm not going to like what you are about to say?' the Prince sighed.

'Tera, it's the news all over town. He got into some pissing contest with the King, and got himself locked up in his tower.'

'Tammaritu? He practically worshipped Berisath!' Seeing Khatu's look, he added. 'Admittedly my info is kind of outdated. Also, what tower, what happened to the house on the dyer's street?'

'One thing at a time. He was promoted to court astrologer shortly after you left, and moved into the old observation tower in the palace. And the King is still fond of him; that's the reason that he is still alive. From what I've heard the priestesses want his head,' the cook explained.

'I really can't catch a break, can I?' sighed the Prince again, and raised his hand to his forehead, massaging his temples with his thumb and ring finger. 'When did this happen?'

'Around a fortnight ago.'

The Prince sat up, suddenly taut with alertness, his fake headache forgotten.

'Can you give me an exact count?'

'I can try. Let's see… a week ago, I had that order up to the embassy… three days before that… and then…' Khatu's lips moved in silence, counting. Halfway through the Prince realized the answer would be of little use if he didn't come up with a sum of his own, and utilizing the tools mother nature had provided him with, he started to trek their journey through the desert backwards in time.

'Thirteen days, fourteen maybe,' came the final number from Khatu.

'Would you look at that,' said the Prince, genuine surprise on his face, 'there really was something to the old fool after all.' He mumbled, staring into the distance dreamily.

'What is going on, Tera? I don't like your expression. Last time I saw that expression, things ended with the largest gambling den in Susa on fire. Don't do anything crazy.'

'Daring, dashing, heroic. Never crazy. We, my friend, are going to spring Berisath.'

'You can go and get yourself killed, you are old enough to make your own decisions, but I have two kids to think about.' He put the knife and pigeon down, and leaned closer to the Prince, putting his considerable weight behind his words. 'Leave me out of whatever harebrained scheme is cooking in your head, you understand?'

The Prince on the other hand, leaned back, smooth and casual, dropping an arm over the edge of the tiny terrace. 'We will pay you,' he said, in a sing-song voice.

'You don't understand. I don't break out prisoners of the King, it's bad for business. It is not a question of money. You are a friend, I would help you for free if I could.'

'A mina(*),' the Prince added, his voice climbing into falsetto.

'Even if you had a mina of silver, and I seriously doubt that you do, I will not risk my family for that.'

The Prince reached for his cup, raised it to his lips slowly and took a deliberate sip, dragging out the moments, then put the cup down with a dangerous smile.

'Who was talking about silver?'

'You are shitting me Tera. You don't have a mina of gold.'

'If it's in your hands by tomorrow, will you help?'

'You are kidding.' Khatu said, suddenly sweating profusely. 'You are serious. No, you must be kidding.' Then he burst out. 'Where did you get a mina of gold?'

The only response the Prince gave him was an enigmatic smile as he stood up. 'You just think on how you would spend it. I will be around first thing tomorrow. Don't stand up, I will see myself out,' and with that he walked down the stairs, down the hallway and back to street, whistling a tune to himself.

Barely an hour earlier, a short walk away from the happily strutting Prince, Elika burst into their suite in the Dawn's Wonder like a tornado, her face a grim mask. She marched past a surprised Agastya, who had barely begun a convoluted greeting, and slammed the door of her own bedchamber behind her. She threw herself on the pillows and let the tears flow. She did not know where the pain came from anymore, she only felt daggers of betrayal twisting in her gut. She had given herself to him, body and soul, and he cast her away, as just another notch on his belt. Her old life left her unprepared for this kind of emotional pain; she experienced it all through the magnifying glass of first love; the highs ever brighter and the lows ever darker.

She sobbed into the covers, uncaring that the door opened slowly behind her, and Agastya stepped into the room. He knelt next to her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her tears to stop.

'Tell me, child,' he spoke up after an eternity, 'what ails you?'

She turned around to face Agastya, her eyes puffy, cheeks red. 'Me… him… we were…' she sniffed, trying to get the words out. 'Then in the morning, it was like he didn't know. He didn't care!' Her voice was hoarse, and sobs shook her again.

'I'm sorry, Elika,' he said, stroking her hair. 'I will have words with him about treating a priceless treasure like you properly. You deserve nothing but devotion and respect, and unfortunately he is sorely lacking in both, isn't he?'

He poked her in the ribs, which technically was a case of lèse majesté, but managed to curl the corners of her mouth up a bit.

'You could say that.'

'Don't let him get you down then, turn him into a newt or something! He deserves no better fate for hurting you,' Agastya leaned back and gesticulated wildly, imitating wizards in a street-theater.

'I'm sure that is beyond my powers,' she said, wistfully. It would be an easy solution to so many problems, not to mention a great comeback, for when she ran out of witty lines.

'Well if not a newt, maybe something else, a camel mayhap? He could even be useful then, and put in an honest day of work for the first time in his life.'

'That is even more appealing, but I'm afraid all he would do is spit and bite.'

'Well, I will leave the magic stuff up to you; just remember that he cares about you, deeply, even if he can't show it properly.'

'Hmpf,' was her only comment.

'You don't believe me? I will bet you the sun and the moon that he will come back groveling in the evening, and you could ask anything of him. He likes you a lot, more than he would be willing to admit.'

'He has a strange way of showing it,' there was still barb in her tongue, but maybe less than before.

'I know so. While his childhood has left him… how to properly put it… less than capable to deal with emotional situations, his heart is in the right place.'

Elika chose to ignore the opportunity to dwell on the Prince's origins; that was a story he should tell her himself, not one weaseled out of his friends. Instead she asked, 'Well it would be nice to see him bend his knees for once. Do you have any ideas, how I should punish him?'

'I cannot help you with that, I'm afraid, but I have absolute faith that you will succeed spectacularly.'

'Agastya, can I ask you a question?'

'The question is always yours to ask, as the answer is mine to give.' Seeing her puzzled expression, he added, 'Ask away!'

'How did you and the Prince meet?' she asked, and for some reason her palms turned clammy while waiting for the answer. She swore she won't push for answers he wasn't ready to give, but this wasn't exactly prying. Still, it was a shot at unraveling a thread of the tapestry.

'It is kind of adorable that you call him the Prince, you know, especially with you coming from a line older than history itself.'

'He calls himself Shabhaz now, but his friend named him Tera, and I bet you knew him by another name. He gives a new name to everyone he meets, but he never gave one to me, so I'm stuck with a title,' she said, half-sarcastic.

'It is an unfortunate drawback of his trade that one cannot be the same person for long. The answer to your question, however, would take longer to give than it is comfortable for my old bones to bend like this. Why don't we move the conversation to somewhere with a backrest and order food? I have the feeling you have yet to eat today.'

'Now that you mention it, I could devour an ox.'

'It would be a mighty challenge to fit one through the door,' Agastya laughed, 'so I would recommend cold mutton and the house mustard instead.

They traded the wooden floor of her bedchamberfor the brightly colored cushions in the main room of their suite. After fastidiously arranging them, Agastya finally sat down and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. He then promptly reached forward to ring the bell. Curt commands were given to the servant appearing in the doorway, and soon the table was laden with pickled onion, barley bread, chick pea paste, and wheat cakes filled with honey and dried figs. Elika started to wolf down the food, her grumbling stomach reminding her of the workout she had had last night, and of the fact that she had had very little to eat since yesterday afternoon's pigeons. While she ate, Agastya talked, his words flowing like a majestic river nearing its delta; impressive, but a bit slow.

He told the story of how he had heard rumors of a daring thief desecrating the coffers of Marduk not once, not twice, but three times, and how he had done what the blood-hounds of the priests could not, namely track the young rogue to a tavern where he was enjoying the attentions of several nubile ladies more interested in his coin and loin than his personality. He had done nothing but observe for a while, sure that the kid would be quartered before he could squander all the gold, and he told Elika how surprised he was, that Zoran, the name he had used those days, disappeared from the dice table only heartbeats before the soldiers of the temple broke down the door.

He explained in flowery prose how he had tracked Zoran down once again, and how he had offered him work, through several intermediaries. At first trivial busywork, just to test him, then greater and greater challenges when he was growing sure of his new tool. And one night, when the time was right, he had revealed himself to the Prince of Thieves, as he had began to call himself, starting a relationship that evolved into friendship through the years.

'But I still remember the first night I saw him,' he finished his tale, 'he seemed full of energy and life, not the bravado of thugs, but the spirit of an adventurer, who would dare the journey to the end of the world, not for glory or riches, but just because it was something no one had done before. He wasn't swallowed up by the brutality of his peers, but glided above it, barely touching the surface. I hadn't thought that he would live to the see the next moon, but I knew the world would be poorer without him.'

'A tall tale,' said Elika. 'How much of it is true?'

'You wound me, milady. Would I tell anything but the truth?'

In response, she only arched an eyebrow.

'I assure you, I haven't uttered an untrue word,' the Aryan protested. Elika cocked her head to one side, giving him an "are you serious?" look.

'I'd bet anything that the details you left out would account for more than what you did tell me,' she said, amused, rather than angry.

'Just to cut the story shorter, afraid that my humble tale would bore you,' he answered, servile.

Elika just laughed in response, and waved dismissively. She would never get more out of the old spy than what he chose to tell; he was far too good at his own game.

'You are wise in your years, Agastya, tell me what should I do next?'

'My wisdom amounts to little in situations as unique as yours. I fear few faced the challenges ahead of you before.'

'The wheel of time turns eternally, there is little new in this world. Ahriman rose before, and he was struck down before.'

'You answered your own question then, milady. What path did your ancestors follow?'

'That is the problem. The ancient texts that could maybe help us have been lost with the City of Light. Nineveh , our lifeline with the outside world, has been sacked, and is under the yoke of the Assyrians. Where could we turn to?'

'What about other holy places of Ohrmazd? While few follow your god, he is not forgotten either, men still pray at his altars.'

Elika slapped her forehead, and cried out,

'What a dolt I've been! By gods, Agastya, you are right.'

'I'm glad I could help, milady, but why the overt enthusiasm?' asked Agastya, a bit taken aback by her outburst.

Elika jumped up, and started to rummage through their bags lying in the corner. 'I got so caught up in following his schemes and hanging onto his words, that I lost sight of my own plans. Hundreds have left the valley in my lifetime, and thousands before me. They must be still around, and if I sound the call they will come!'

'What makes you sure that those who turned their backs on your people once will hear you out?'

'They know the danger is real. They know all will be lost if Ahriman isn't stopped. They might even remember the lore of ages past.' She talked to him over her shoulder, feeling blindly for something. Finally finding it, she pulled her dagger and the accompanying scabbard and belt out of the sack. She turned and slid the dagger home. 'Lead me to the grandest temple Ohrmazd has in Susa!'

It was not a request, but a command.

'To my best knowledge, Ohrmazd is praised in only one place in this city, but I shall take you there,' Agastya replied, rising slowly from the pillows. He picked up his own sword and pouch.

'I only beg you milady that you give me a moment's leave; then we can depart immediately.' Not even waiting for her answer, he made for the door and stepped out to find Turva, the last of his bodyguards. Only two of them survived the clash in the desert, and the other had long departed east, to Kasi, with missives of warnings.

Minutes later, when they stepped out to the street, Elika realized how much Agastya seemed to have changed since she gathered her first impressions of him in Ankuwa, weeks before. The illusion of the fat, content merchant travelling from one end of the world to the other was almost completely gone. There was spring in his step, his eyes darted spiritedly from face to face, street to roof. He carried his iron _kris_ in a loose scabbard on his waist, his right hand rarely straying far from the hilt; he was the only line of defense between the Queen of the Ahura and all who wished her harm, and he was acutely aware of that.

He would have felt safer with Zoran, Shabhaz, Tera, or however he chose to call himself these days by his side, but he felt that Her Royal Majesty was too volatile at the moment to be receptive to ideas like waiting for the Prince. It was an acceptable risk, but a real risk nevertheless. It was a while since he had been responsible for anyone's life but his own. This wouldn't be his first time, though, that he stood in the shadows behind a young ruler, ready to catch his charge if he might stumble.

Still, in this case several factors were working against him. He was alone without readily available backup, in a foreign environment. He even had to stop to ask for directions once; Susa was a big city and, unlike the Prince, he hadn't spent years exploring the back-alleys. So he breathed a silent sigh of relief when they turned the last corner somewhere in the outskirts and found the door marked with spread-wings symbol of Ohrmazd wedged between two warehouses.

'This is it, milady.'

Elika took a moment to absorb her surroundings. A broken cart lay forgotten against the wall, and something furry scurried frantically out of sight. Susa, where proper sewage treatment meant dumping the crap in the open canals running down the streets instead of just out the window, was not a clean place, but the odors of this corner of the city put the main road's to shame.

'This? A house of worship?' Equal measures of disbelief and outrage mixed in her voice.

'Kiririsha is a jealous goddess, a trait enthusiastically taken up by priestesses as well. This is prime real estate as far as holy sites for competing religions go.'

'This is unacceptable,' she shook her head and stepped closer, eyeing the sorry collection of cracked planks that tried to pass for a door. The house that hid the temple was maybe thirty feet wide, and two stories tall, clearly a converted grain warehouse just like its neighbors. Elika raised her hand to knock, then stopped inches away from the wood, hesitating. This would be the first time in what seemed like a lifetime that she had a chance to meet someone from home.

'Unacceptable or not, this is the hall of Ohrmazd in Susa, milady. Do you wish me to come with you, or should I wait outside?'

'I want you by my side, Agastya. I might share my faith with these people, but there is no guarantee of any other kinship. After all any refugees from the City of Light in here fled from their duty, and might not take kindly to a reminder of the past.'

'Maybe we should get reinforcements then,' he suggested. Elika just shook her head.

'No. We just have to be cautious. I'm more than capable of defending myself after all, especially in a house of Ohrmazd.' And with that, she grabbed the door knocker, nothing more than a faded ring of bronze, and banged it against the metal plate, once, twice. She let her hand drop and took half a step back, ready for anything. Soon, they heard rustling from the other side, and the door swung inward, revealing a simple corridor.

The man in the entrance greeted them with a suspicious once-over; and a curt and unwelcoming "Yes?"

'We seek entrance to the temple of Ahura Mazda.'

'What reason do you have?' He asked, still eyeballing them. Elika's eyes flashed, her patience was wearing thin.

'Since when do I need a reason to enter a holy place? Stand aside.' The man just stood there, in the simple robes that almost all men of Susa wore, with an expression that suggested he wouldn't budge until he got a satisfying answer. Elika stared at him with a calculating look, knowing that she was in the right, and thinking about the thousand ways she could knock him aside. Instead of resorting to violence in a place of worship, she sighed, and began reciting. '_Paoirim asanghamca shoithramca vahistem frathweresem…'_

The angular words of the Sacred Language rolled off her tongue with effortless ease, spoken with true understanding, not just recital of rote. It seemed to satisfy the man, and he stepped aside without a word. They passed him, and the door closed with a thud reverberating between the moldy brick walls. Agastya looked back, and watched the guard slide two heavy, hardwood deadbolts into place. From the inside, the door looked more impressive, revealing that the half-rotten outside was just disguise for massive, gnarly cypress planks. To his expert eye, it was clear that even if it couldn't withstand prolonged assault, any attacker would have to waste minutes getting past it. The hinges were reinforced iron, and there was a clear hole in the floor for a pole to support the door if someone tried to break it down. Coupled with the narrow alley outside, that left no room to get a momentum with a ram, and the fact that the building had no windows, it told Agastya that whoever picked the site, survived at least one assault, and did not care to repeat the experience. He assumed there were tunnels leading out of the building, or at least hidden doors to the neighboring warehouses. That was the way he would have planned the building, anyway.

Once the entrance was secured, the man led them inside to a larger hall taking up most of the building's space. Worn mud-brick walls rose to sixteen feet, and intimidating crossbeams supported a simple, flat roof. Side doors opened to unknown places at sporadic intervals, though none of them looked much more than a couple of planks of wood on the cheapest hinge. Both the left and right walls had an altar in the middle, one for fire and one for water. The embers were smoldering on the left; maybe a ceremony had taken place not long before. The basin on the right held clear water, or as clear as you could get from the wells in the floodplains. No symbol adorned the walls, nor did any unnecessary furniture clutter up the floor; for a temple it was simpler than Agastya had learned to expect. On the other hand he had the feeling Ohrmazd was a different god from the rest. Real, to start with.

Maybe a dozen faithful stood in the chamber, in small groups of three or four, talking quietly amongst themselves. They looked up when Agastya and Elika stepped in, their posture neither challenging, nor welcoming, but simply wary of the two strangers armed to the teeth. The pair met their gazes one by one, until all turned away, cowed by their presence. From the back, an elderly man hurried forward, long gray hair and beard complementing the gray robes billowing behind him. Sinewy fingers and stained skin spoke of his age, but his blue eyes still held the fire of conviction, even if he had to squint to properly aim the righteousness.

'Greetings and welcome!' he called out, his cheerfulness alarmingly contrasting with the reception they'd received so far. 'Welcome in the name of Ohrmazd!'

Elika took a pose of respect and bowed slightly, while Agastya stood rigid a step behind her. This was the home of foreign gods, so he was going to keep a respectful silence, but he wasn't going to kowtow to them.

'Who are you, strangers of the Faith, and what wind blew you to Shusan? It is a rare, but joyful occasion that we can welcome visitors in our temple.' The priest talked slowly, solemnly, forming each word with care, as if he talked to a multitude. There was genuine interest in his voice, tinted by only a shadow of caution.

'I am Elika of the Ahura,' she replied, pulling herself up, her words shining with pride. 'And I bring grave tidings, _Athravan_.'

'Child, I'm not sure I follow…' the pomp melted off quickly, just tones of uncertainty remained.

'The end has come. The Tree of Life is split in two, and Ahriman is free of his shackles. The City of Light has fallen, and the Kingdom of the Ahura is no more.' She said the words stone-faced, ready for an explosion of fear, panic, denial, anger. She was primed to defend herself if anyone asked how they could let this happen. What she was not prepared for, was benign confusion.

'Child, try to compose yourself. Where are you from? What is your name?' he asked her, while Agastya slowly faded into the woodwork beside them.

'My name is Elika, _Athravan. _I am of the City of Light.'

'We are all of the City of Light, child, I mean where do you come from specifically, in this world.' Now it was Elika's turn to be confused. They spoke the same language, Babylonian, but it wasn't the first language for either of them. Maybe the respected elder misunderstood her? She tried phrasing it differently.

'I come from the Kingdom of the Ahura. We fled it after we failed to contain Ahriman.'

'We must all struggle eternally to keep evil at bay in our heart, indeed, so we can one day return to the City of Light,' said the priest almost reflexively. 'I meant are you from Shusan? From Anshan? Or Ur? The man you came with, is he your husband?' Though respect was due to those who guided the people, her patience was tried one time too many that day already. She tried once again, slowly articulating every word.

'I am not from Ur or Babylon or Susa, teacher. I am from the City of Light. I literally left it two weeks ago. I left the city Ahriman raged in, and rode across the desert to get here. Do you understand me, _Athravan_?'

'But… child,' he said, hesitating, 'the City of Light is just a metaphor. It is the state of unattainable perfection, the place where we all long to go to become one with Ahura Mazda, the one true god.'

Agastya watched, bemused, as Elika began to stammer. By now, he had drifted to the opposite wall, and hovered behind a cluster of men watching the exchange with mute intensity, Elika the cynosure of their attention. He couldn't tell if they believed her or were just getting riled up for a good lynching; the only expression they wore was one of apprehension. They had been wary, nay, afraid, but he did not know of what. While Kiririsha claimed absolute supremacy over Shusan, Agastya never heard of religious prosecution or pogroms, and the neighborhood looked only run-down, not torched. He remembered the signs of reinforcement, but he saw no marks indicating they were tested recently. As the argument raged on, he tried to commit every face in the hall to his fabled memory unobtrusively, for later usage.

'It is not fiction! It was a living, breathing city, where thousands guarded the Tree of Light!'

'You are mistaken, child. Millions upon millions await in the City of Light, preparing for the time when Ahriman, the creator of all evil, is finally vanquished by Ohrmazd and they can return to the land of the living.'

'Where do you get all this nonsense from?' she asked in exasperation, the respect for her elders forgotten.

'It is written in the scriptures, child "_Ashem vohy vahishtem asti. Ushta ahmai hyat ashai vahisht ai ashem._' he recited, his intonation shifting to the rhythm of the rote, his expression returning to the previous solemn superiority.

'It is pronounced "vochy". Also, unless happiness is a "she", it should be "ushtaa" not "ushta",' she corrected him, irritated.

'There are many debates among the scholars on how to pronounce the Sacred Language,' he said pacifying, 'I'm afraid much of the meaning is lost to the ages. Your study of the Avesta might have been extensive, but no one knows how the grammar works exactly, all we have is guesswork.'

'Avesta is not a dead language! I used to speak it every day with the palace staff over lunch,' she protested. The priest's eyes grew large as saucers in shock.

'You dared to profane the Sacred Language with common speech?' his outrage seemed genuine, and Agastya felt it was time for him to intervene. He turned to the only lone man, who was, like him, leaning against a doorframe, and asked conversationally.

'She is a handful, isn't she?' The man looked at Agastya, guarded, but with humor dancing in his dark eyes.

'You could say that.' A sour grin appeared and faded away, almost too fast for Agastya to catch.

'Why don't you go and put an end to this? If she gets worked up like this, it will take forever to put her to sleep in the evening.' Agastya's sarcasm was carefully skirting on the line of informal camaraderie between professionals and disrespect to someone he pledged his life to.

'What gave it away?' the man asked, not betraying surprise, only curiosity.

'Everyone looked up when you entered, then looked away. No one offered a greeting, or even a nod,' he replied as a professional courtesy.

'You are _good_,' his counterpart admitted. 'And I guess it's time to end this charade, even though it was fun while it lasted,' he pushed himself off of the wall, and started towards the arguing priest and princess, the Aryan falling in line behind, taking the position of a watcher once more, instead of an actor. The growing crowd of silent bystanders parted before them and the old spy watched judging eyes follow his every step.

'…who do you think you are, entering a home of holiness, spouting blasphemy and heresy…?'

The old man and Elika stood face to face now, shouting at each other, Elika reciting recipes in Avesta, just to show she could, the priest threatening her with eternal suffering in the afterlife, if she didn't stop this instant. The man dropped a hand on the priest's shoulder, and spoke quietly.

'That will be enough, _Athravan._ I will take it from here.'

'But… every word this witch utters…' the priest stuttered.

'Is hers to account for when we are all judged. Please, Princess, come with me. Let's continue this discussion in private.'

The word "Princess" froze Elika in her tracks; she only gave her name when she entered, not her title. She snapped up her head, finally giving the newcomer a good look. He was tall, taller than her or Agastya, and in his best years. Short, dark hair framed a fair-skinned face, and brown eyes, sparkling with intelligence, sought hers. He was hauntingly familiar; she knew she'd seen him before, but she just couldn't put her finger on it where.

'Who are you?' she asked suspiciously.

He just smiled politely and bent at the waist, his hand motioning towards one of the side doors.

'This way please. I will explain everything, but crowds make me nervous.'

Elika started to open her mouth in protest; she was way too riled up to be herded around like cattle, but caught the eye of Agastya, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She had learned to respect the spymaster's wisdom, so she swallowed the forming tirade, and just gave the man a nod of acquiescence.

They left the main worship hall, dozens of heads swiveling to follow as they walked. There was something disturbing in the wordless stares; not aggression, not aversion, but a wariness made inhuman by being reflected on so many faces.

They followed a small spiral staircase up to the next floor to a small office. The room was barely seven feet by seven feet, its window a narrow slit overlooking the neighbor's roof, the only furniture a roughly hewn desk and a simple stool.

'So who are you and how do you know me?' asked Elika, her frustration simmering under the surface, ready to be unleashed in an explosion of wrath.

'You don't remember?' he asked, pretending to be unaware of his impending doom. Not leaving her time, he answered himself. 'I guess you were too young when I last saw you, barely starting your letters.' Elika's eyes narrowed to slits, her mind racing along the highways of memory, trying to recall faces from the mist of the past, and trying to add the missing years to the images she kept, to account for the ravages of Time.

'Master Sarushan's scribe,' she blurted out.

'At your service, milady,' he bowed theatrically. Now it was Agastya's turn to narrow his eyes.

'You still haven't given us your name.' There was a warning in the spy's voice, a far cry from the wide smiles and jolly attitude he usually projected. The hint at horrible things to come instantly dampened Elika's joy at the serendipitous reunion.

'Naramholan. I haven't heard yours either, if we are at introductions.'

'One thing at a time, "Naramholan",' said the Aryan, 'what clothes did she wear when you last saw her? And don't tell me you can't recall, I bet those times were stressful enough that the details should be burned into your memory.'

'What are you doing?' Elika mouthed the words at him.

'Making sure he is who he says is,' Agastya replied at a normal volume, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on Naramholan, who stood with closed eyes, making a show of trying to recall.

'Blue,' he said finally. His eyes opened and he stared into the distance as he spoke. 'Periwinkle blue with a light sash. It was on the third floor of the Queen's tower, on the east side. I came to sneak some scrolls out before we slipped away quietly in the night. You were there, doodling something on the corners of your homework, and asked me if I wanted to see the rose you had drawn. I said some other time, knowing there would be no other time.' He focused on Agastya, and asked him, 'Are you happy now? Or will you still run me through with that wicked blade of yours?'

The Aryan looked at Elika, who seemed just as lost in the land of yesteryear. After a while, she nodded, and continued his story for him. 'I went to show my drawing to Master Sarushan, but couldn't find him anywhere. My father was in a mood that week, and I remember asking why I got a new teacher, but no one would tell me anything.' She turned to Naramholan and asked him, 'Why did you leave the valley?'

He gathered his thoughts for a while in silence, then spoke in a measured voice. 'Before I answer, could you please tell me what you are doing here in Susa? I only heard the raised voices, not the actual news.'

Now it was time for Agastya and Elika to decide what to reveal and what not. Agastya shrugged, letting Elika take the lead; she knew this man after all, and it was her kingdom, not his.

'The Fertile Grounds failed. The Tree of Life was destroyed. Ahriman broke free. The City of Light fell. The Kingdom is no more.' She spoke in a quiet monotone, just stating the facts. There were no words for the magnitude of their failure, no excuses.

'And the people? The king?'

'Dead, or worse. Everyone is gone. I am the only Ahura who made it out of the crucible.'

'Just as we feared.'

'How?'

'There were signs,' he began to explain. 'Fourteen nights ago the stars shifted. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a dozen new ones shone, stars no one ever saw before, pushing everything off to the side, changing the whole night sky. There have been scuttling noises in the night, shadows gnawing at our doors. Nightmares haunting our sleep. Birds, strange and dark birds, watching from the rooftops.' He shrugged. 'If you know where to look, the signs are there, whispering that something is afoot.' After a moment of consideration, he added, 'Not to mention, the King's pet wizard proclaimed that an ancient evil broke free in the east and will swallow this city whole, killing everyone in it. That didn't go down well.'

Agastya watched in silence as they talked, once again taking the role of an observer, trying to make something out of the man. He prided himself on being a good judge of character, and there were enough pauses in his speech to hint at hidden thoughts. He was not telling them everything they needed to know, but to be fair they left just as many details out from their tale. He didn't miss that Elika didn't mention how exactly Ahriman broke free, or the company they kept.

'So to answer your question, Princess, my master and I left the Kingdom, because we didn't like where it was heading. Your father was pushing for resurrecting old, forgotten crafts to revive what was already rotten.'

'Our glory has been faded for a long time. Maybe father foresaw something and tried to prevent it,' she rose to the king's defense, but her heart wasn't in it.

'I'm afraid not. I'm sorry to contradict you, but the things your father was asking for… they were not right. He was pushing for knowledge best forgotten. Some secrets were meant to remain secrets.'

Elika just stared at him, unable to form a response. For her, her father had always been an intense, loving parent, right till her mother died. Then he retreated, further and further, and his smiles grew scarce, but this… this was hard to believe. She would have risen outraged, if not for the fact that she saw her father make a deal with Ahriman, saw him cut through the Tree of Life, destroying everything they had sacrificed for millennia.

'Tell me Princess, how did Ahriman break free? How did you manage to escape alone?' There was a dangerous edge to the question, suspicion and more. Agastya tensed. If she gave the sign, he would cut the man down in a heartbeat. Like Naram said, some secrets were meant to stay buried.

Elika took a deep breath and shivered.

'My father made a deal with Ahriman to bring my mother back from the dead. He destroyed the Tree of Life, and damned us all. We tried to fight it. Destroyed the four Corrupted, and I killed my own father, when madness engulfed him, but we couldn't stop Ahriman from rising.' She was less collected now, trying to fit together the pieces of a story she didn't dare to tell in full.

'And you are the only one who made it out alive?'

'The only Ahura. There was one more. A stranger appearing in the darkest hour, blade in hand, fighting by my side.'

'That would be you, I assume,' he nodded towards Agastya. The Aryan didn't like the way he took control of the conversation, and feared that Elika's guilt would make her say things she should not.

'Nope. A friend of mine.' Before the other man could ask the next question, Agastya posed his own. 'Tell me Naramholan, what scrolls did you take from the palace? Whatever ancient lore was in them, could come in mighty handy about now.'

'Call me Naram please, for the sake of simplicity. About those scrolls…' he sighed, then continued. 'They are rather useless I'm afraid. All they contain are the secrets of the ancient mages, but no one has wielded the Light in a thousand years. Just their topic alone made them dangerous, we didn't dare risk leaving them within reach of your father, lest he use them for questionable purposes. When we raided the library, we didn't really know ourselves what we were taking, just that it was knowledge worth saving. I had a decade since to study them, and I'm afraid to say that to anyone but a sorcerer, the only purpose they can serve is as kindling.'

'I would still like to take a peek at them, nevertheless.' said Elika, putting everything she had into masking her excitement. This could be it, the break they needed! The first hint that they might actually stand a chance, and the Prince hadn't simply thrown the world to the wolves for a quickie with her. Thinking about him twisted her gut into a painful knot, and she pushed the feeling down. This wasn't the time to fall apart. This was the time for doing the thing she knew best: her duty.

'Unfortunately that will not be possible,' said Naram apologetically.

'Is that so?' the threat reappeared in Agastya's question; he neither trusted nor liked this man. In his world there were people who stood by their land when she was in trouble, and people who turned their back on her, and there was no doubt in which group their new friend fell.

'I'm afraid. They are locked in the wizard's tower, with the wizard himself.'

A nasty suspicion started to form in Elika's mind. 'This wizard wouldn't go by the name of Belisath, would he?'

'Berisath.' Naram corrected her. 'It is him. Why?'

Agastya and Elika shared another meaningful look.

'It is getting a bit late,' said Agastya, 'Why don't we continue this conversation somewhere else? We have a suit back at the Dawn's Wonder.'

Naram looked from him to her, then back, trying to figure out the meaning hidden under the surface, then apparently gave up and shrugged.

'Why not? Let me get my gear and inform the Athravan, then we can be on our way.'

The Prince walked into the inn after revisiting one of his old haunts for an early lunch, ready with a plan how to grovel himself back into the good graces of Elika, only to be informed by an indifferent Turva, that the master and the lady had left about an hour before, heading to the temple of Ohrmazd. The rogue figured that the way there would take them well over an hour, an hour tops to conduct whatever business they had, and another to make it back to the inn; he knew Agastya wouldn't want to be out on the streets after dark. The Aryan had always been very conscious about avoiding situations he couldn't control, and this was no time to let standards slip.

So he sat down to enjoy some wine and deal with his thoughts, but a never-ending stream of merchants rattled his doorknob, delivering the clothes, footwear, armor and weaponry they had ordered the day before. He inspected everything, and though he had a very hands-on experience with Elika's measurements, a memory he enjoyed reliving; still, he could only estimate if the clothes would fit her when she donned them. It was well into the late afternoon when he ushered the last blacksmith out the door after trying his new throwing crosses on the impromptu target he made from a couple of pillows, and could finally take a deep breath.

He really wasn't kidding when he told Elika that they could arm a small army; everything they had spent an afternoon ordering, and he had now wasted another afternoon paying for, didn't make a perceptible dent in his cache. He carefully proportioned a mina of gold into a pouch and pulled the string tight. It hurt him to part with so much wealth, even though it would go to a good cause. There was something in him that detested spending money on anything but luxuries. It felt alien to hire shady characters instead of being the shady character for hire.

'It is part of growing up, I guess,' he sighed to no one in particular, and glanced out the window. The sun was low on the horizon, its rays almost skirting the flat rooftops, shards of sunlight splattering over the city. He stared out into nothingness for a while, squinting against the sharp sky, debating the pros and cons of taking off now. In the end, his uneasiness over their tardiness won out. Once he made his decision, he acted swiftly. He snatched up his sword, and dropped a couple of throwing crosses into a shoulder bag, then hesitated again for a moment. After a split second, he dropped his bag, pulled his shirt above his head, and picked up the leather jerkin delivered by an armorer barely an hour before. He fiddled with the straps for a bit, familiarizing himself with the new armor, then put his shirt back on and picked up the bag again, ready to leave. He vacillated about the gauntlet, but in the end decided against wearing it; it would draw more undue attention than he felt comfortable with, so he sank it in his bag with the crosses. If there was need for it, he could still don it. As a final touch, he scooped a small amount of gold and silver into his own pouch and set out into the night.

It had been years since he last prowled Shusan after sunset, but the city remained mostly the same. Only a major fire could generate enough political will to alter the network of zigzagging, crisscrossing backalleys, and there hadn't been one in nearly a century. Unlike his friends, he knew the shortest route to Ohrmazd's temple, one that took him almost half an hour less than Agastya's. It led through some hairy neighborhoods, but he was armed, and more importantly, he looked armed. The determined confidence he exuded warned all but the stupidest predators not to mess with him. He wasn't a skittish merchant trying to cut a corner on his way home, or a drunken youngster with just enough coin in his pouch to make an easy mark; it was clear that whoever took on him, would be taking a risk, and smart robbers avoided risks like the plague.

Halfway though he realized his mistake in taking the shortest route instead of the one he supposed Agastya would take; so he corrected his course to wider, busier streets, keeping an eye out for the burly Aryan and the slender brunette. Temporarily out of the slums, he collided with the mass of people looking for a tasty dinner. Food stalls lined both sides of every major path, each vendor offering one, or maybe two signature dishes from large pots kept warm by a pan of coal embers under them. The cavalcade of smells was staggering: garlic, tamarind, cinnamon, galangal, cumin, cardamom and nutmeg assaulted his senses, sprinkled on lamb, goat, chicken and fish, served with a dozen different garnishes and flatbreads offered at separate stalls. It seemed like the entire city was out here, the crowd flowed like the muddy Euphrates between the banks of the houses lining the streets: brown, slow and smelly.

Five minutes of pushing and shoving later, the Prince simply gave up on trying to make his way through the crowd, and cut back to the side streets in increasingly foul spirits, feeling that he was wasting his time while his companions were being held up who knows where.

By the time he made it to the temple, his nerves were singing. He rapped on the door rather more forcefully than good manners called for. It opened to a slit and the guard groveled an irritated "What?" at him. The Prince didn't waste time on pleasantries either.

'Older man, young woman. Where are they?'

'They left ten minutes ago,' came the reply. The Prince stared through the tiny opening, trying to project a threatening glare.

'Which way?'

'Who is asking?'

'A friend.' Now it was the doorman's turn to give him the evil eye. In the end, he nodded towards the right.

'That way. They took the Cobbler's road towards the Uruk highway.'

'Thanks,' the Prince nodded briskly, and started in a trot in the indicated direction. He had a bad feeling that he just couldn't shake, that he was being late for something. If they had a ten minute headstart, he had a vague idea where they might be, so he ran down an alley, jumped a rickety fence, stared down a surprised dog and scampered up another fence before he had a new hole ripped in his pants. Two minutes of brisk jogging later, he turned a corner, and swiveled his head around trying to spot his companions on the road. To the right, barely two blocks away, lay the Uruk highway, as busy a thoroughfare as it gets. If they had made it there, they were safe. On the other hand, if they ran into any trouble, it was on the way here. So making another decision, purely running on instinct, he turned left on the Cobbler's road, and loosened his sword in its scabbard.

Naram stuffed a couple of scrolls in a knapsack while making small talk with Elika, mostly about what had happened to other exiles, as their other topic, the fate of those who were left in the Kingdom was not a happy choice. He offered refreshments before they left, which they accepted, though Agastya was glancing nervously at the rapidly darkening sky through the window.

When they finally stepped outside, the sun had already disappeared, and the streets looked as empty as the mountain passes in wintertime. Two stray dogs fought over a piece of rubbish, and somewhere in the distance, a child cried.

'Heartening,' said Elika sarcastically, as they started back to the Dawn's Wonder.

'The glamour of big city life,' agreed Agastya, keeping an eye out for trouble.

They turned onto the Cobbler's road, a slightly wider alley than the one where the warehouse hiding Orhmazd's sanctuary stood. There was little in the way of traffic, but at least it wasn't as depressingly deserted. A young woman hurried home, clutching an infant to her bosom, only sparing them a nervous glance.

'I don't like this,' said Naram. 'Too empty. Too quiet.' A window shutter above them was pulled close by an unseen hand; the dull thud of rotting wood sent a shiver down Elika's spine.

'You suspect trouble?' asked Agastya. Naram only raised a hand in warning, commanding silence.

The men stepped closer to Elika, and their hands drifted to the handles of their weapons almost in unison. Naram was right, they all felt whatever tension hung in the air. Elika and Agastya shared a look, his eyes asking if she was ready. She gave a quick nod in response, and reached to the center of power deep within her. The magic seethed, locked behind the barriers she imposed upon it, and now she consciously let a thread slip through to warm her veins.

It zigzagged around in her body as they cautiously walked down the road, scanning every side alley, entrance, rooftop for signs of trouble. Her heartbeat sped up and blood thundered in her ears, twice for every slow step they took. The night cleared for her, the shrouds of darkness parting before her sweeping gaze. She felt the trouble before she actually spotted it, but it was still too late.

Men stepped out of houses behind them, and more from the alleys ahead; one, two, three, five, nine; too many. A ragtag bunch of bandits they made, green blades barely out of their teens and steel-eyed cutthroats, dressed in more dirt than clothes, but the weapons they brandished were shining bright enough in the moonlight. The only thing separating their leader from the rest were the long golden hoops hanging from his ears; otherwise the scarred, unshaven brute would have fit in happily with the rank and file.

'What do we have here, boys?' There was more than a hint of cheap date-wine in the raspiness of his gloating. 'Two plump fruits ripe for the taking, and a tasty little morsel as a bonus.'

As a response Agastya tore his pouch off his belt and threw it at the bandit's feet.

'Take the money and go,' he said in a cold voice.

'I don't think so,' the bandit leader chuckled salaciously, 'I think we will just take everything. What do you make of that, old man?'

Agastya didn't waste his breath on a reply. Instead of quivering in fear as he was supposed to, he jumped towards the leader, pulling his sword mid-flight, and before the man could react, he slammed it hilt deep in his chest, killing him instantly.

A moment of stunned silence followed as Agastya yanked his sword free and bellowed 'Who is next?'

When the bandits finally started to move, Elika was already halfway towards her first target; she knew they had to be fast or they would be overpowered in heartbeats. Her dagger leading point, she parried the brigand's blade aside with all the strength she had, leaving him open, stepped in and struck him in the chest with her palm, the magic surging forth along her arm, pure force without a flash, throwing the man against the wall. He flew, and crashed, and his bones shattered with a sickening crunch.

Not losing her momentum, she turned and sidestepped, pulling her palm back, already gathering power for the next spell. They were surrounded, and outnumbered; their only hope was to take out as many as they could before the enemy could get their bearings.

She danced another quick step back, away from the two men advancing on her with wide, promising grins on their faces. They still hadn't realized she was the most dangerous of the trio, but she couldn't hold on to that advantage for too long. Naram was backing away from another two, and three more closed in on Agastya; it was only a question of moments before a blade found a way past his defenses.

'Eyes,' she cried out, lifting her hand above her head, closing her fingers, and hoping at least Agastya would get the warning. She couldn't waste more time, now only two steps separated her from the closer bandit, and he wasn't slowing down.

She brought down her fist, and the power gathered in her hand slammed her palm open. She barked one word from her not-quite-memory, two syllables of power, and the night lit up with the glare of a thousand suns. Screams of pain erupted around her, as she lunged blindly in the direction of the enemy, her dagger held out in front of her, hoping she wouldn't skewer herself on his sword. She connected with arm jarring strength, and a shout louder than the cacophony around was her reward.

As fast as it came, the light was gone, and her eyes snapped open, first from all on the field. Her blade entered the side of her attacker, leaving a deep gash under his ribs, a serious wound, but not fatal. Not giving him a chance to recover, she closed in, and slashed again, this time leaving a neat line across his throat; she barely noticed the resistance his flesh offered to her iron. Only one more faced her, and she turned quickly towards him, barely in time to parry his blade. The strength of the contact left her muscles numb and sparks flew where metal connected. Her dagger held, a memento to the skill of the blacksmith. She backed away, preparing for another parry-strike combo. Her best chance against someone who was not only larger and stronger than her, but wielding a longer blade, was to cheat and kill with magic instead of steel. She stepped back once, twice, parrying desperately, hoping she wouldn't trip on a dead rat, readying the spell, but she didn't get to use it.

The bandit's body jerked back, his face twisted into a mask of agony, and the tip of a curved blade pierced his shirtfront in the middle of a rapidly growing spot of red. He collapsed, falling free of the sword, and Elika was faced with the grinning Prince.

'Miss me?' was the only greeting she got, as he sprang towards the next enemy, hoping to take down as many from behind as he could before they got wise to his presence. And his help was needed badly indeed. Agastya used the moment of surprise Elika provided to his advantage and cut down one more assailant, now he was backing away from the two still after him, using space to buy time. Naram however wasn't prepared for the blinding flash; it disabled him just as much as his foes. He was moments away from collapsing, bleeding from several smaller cuts. He fought valiantly, but he was nowhere near good enough to hold his ground against two working together to take him down.

So it was him the Prince set off to free first; whoever he was, he was drawing blade on their side, so worthy of a bit of effort. It took only seven quick and silent steps to get behind one enemy, and his steel tasted blood again. The surviving bandit's eyes went wide with surprise that quickly turned to fear, seeing his comrade go down. He didn't get time to display a wide range of emotions either, the Prince stabbed him through the neck with his next move; his blood arced high in the night and gathered in an ever-widening pool around his lifeless body. It wasn't a fair fight; it was murder pure and simple.

He rushed towards Agastya, who - having seen that the odds turned all of a sudden - only played for survival. The Prince's sandaled feet thudded loudly in the dirt of the alley, stealth forgotten. But he was not the first one to relieve the Aryan; tendrils of pure power surged past him, snaked around the limbs of an enemy and dragged him to the ground. If his screams were anything to judge by, the touch of the white fire was anything but pleasant. Using the moment's lapse in his last foe's concentration, Agastya ran him through; one powerful thrust breaking through the ribcage: a clean death.

He lowered the point of his sword to the man writhing on the ground, straining against the ephemeral bonds. The Prince arrived second, panting from the exertion, but his blade was steady as it joined Agastya's in a mute threat. Elika walked towards them with slow, majestic steps, her eyes two pits of light, cords of power taut between her victim and her, their origin mercifully hidden in the sleeve of her loose shirt. Not even two minutes passed since the first blades connected; between unarmored foes death was dealt swiftly.

Behind them Naramholan, ignored by the others, slowly gathered himself and took stock of his wounds, and bruises. A deep gash ran down his left arm, and was bleeding heavily, but the blade had missed the main arteries. Something was wet and warm in his side, making his shirt heavy, but he chose to ignore it for the moment. He started towards the rest as well, every step making it clear that he didn't come through the fight unscathed. Still, as he looked around, it amazed him that there were only enemies lying at their feet. Four took on nine, and won, that was as unlikely as it got. Then as he looked at Elika closing in on their captive, shining like a vengeful angel, he thought that maybe their victory wasn't the most impossible event of the day.

He glanced at the inviting darkness behind him; if he chose to fade into it, they would never find him. He had called this city his home almost as long as the Prince had, but unlike him, he had spent the last years ducking patrols of priestesses, using back alleys and rooftop shortcuts to conduct his business. No, they wouldn't find him, but was that the wise course of action to take? Was that what his Lord would want of him?

While Naramholan struggled with his fears, the trio surrounded the bandit in radiant chains; the men panting heavily from exertion, Elika's face contorted into a mask of concentration. The bursts of power she let go previously were short and uncontrolled; just directing her anger at the nearest target, trying to do as much damage as she could with one strike. Now, this was different. The magic yearned to burn, whispered to her to squeeze just a bit harder, and the man's limbs would fall off amidst a sickening puff of charred flesh smell, or let another tendril join the mass, to enter the man's mouth, scorch its way down the windpipe and burn the filth out forever.

The force living inside her was not merciful to whom it perceived as foes. Only black and white existed in the eyes of the magic, light and shadow; no shades of gray. Elika reigned the power in while she still could, and said hollowly 'I'm letting him go.' The two sword points moved closer to the captive's throat in response.

The light faded but it didn't seem to register in the bandit for a few heartbeats. He was pinned to the ground, lying on his back, still spread eagled from the terrible pull of the otherworldly restraints. He was openly weeping, and a large wet patch on his pants betrayed that he had soiled himself. The Prince nodded at Agastya, letting him take the lead on this one. The Aryan knelt next to the terrified man, his sword twisting so now the blade was hovering just an inch above his throat.

'Who are you? Who sent you? Who told you to come here?' he shouted in his face up close. 'Tell me or the hounds of Cuthah(**)will tear your soul apart!'

The man whimpered in fear and tried to look away; Agastya reached out and shook him by the shoulder, hard. 'Answer me or perish in the fires of Bhaal! Who are you!'

'Marek,' the crook shivered, not daring to meet their eyes.

He broke quickly, and answered Agastya's questions amidst hiccups of fear as the four of them stood above him in the darkness. He told the story as if it was only a big, unhappy accident. Their leader, Burozzanar, had picked a new spot tonight to lie in wait, as an eye on the street had spotted the two entering the Ohrmazd's temple, obviously wealthy and out of place. And as the death of a follower of a foreign god could scarcely cause ripples in the pond, the boss had called a few men together, and positioned them along the most likely exit route, far enough from the temple that they couldn't call for help, and far enough from the main roads that there would be few bystanders.

A plan that had gone horribly wrong when they had sprung the trap. Agastya had a million more questions he wanted to ask, but the Prince tapped his shoulder, interrupting the interrogation.

'We are in the street in a ring of eight corpses, let's get the hell out of here, before someone runs off and calls the guards on us.'

'Claims of self-defense wouldn't hold?' Agastya asked sarcastically, and rose from the ground.

'Nothing to gain from risking it,' said the Prince, and the older man nodded in agreement.

'And what should we do with the-' Elika began, but she couldn't finish her sentence; Agastya drew the tip of his blade across their prisoner's throat, almost gently. The man started to cough and trash around, choking on his own blood; his hands flying to his throat in vain. Her eyes grew wide with horror at the casual murder; regardless the fact that she killed two earlier without any hesitation.

'Let's move. Can you keep us off the main streets?' he asked the Prince.

'Almost all the way through,' he replied, already stepping away from the carnage.

They turned one corner, two, three; and only then did the Prince pause, and turn towards the rest.

'Now that we are a stone's throw away from the bloodbath, I think it's time for some introductions,' he said.

'Oh my, where did I put my manners?' apologized Agastya, falling back into the role of overflowingly polite merchant. 'Shabhaz, allow me to introduce Naramholan, refugee of the City of Light. Naramholan, this is Shabhaz, our friend and protector.'

The Prince stepped forward, offering an arm to clasp for Naram. The other man gave him a long look, and then spoke up,

'I believe we have already met.'

(*) Ancient weight, little more than a pound, or 566 grams.  
(**) Babylonian underworld


	19. Chapter 17

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! It is always a very nice motivation to read them, whether a one liner that you liked the chapter or a longer commentary, they are all very welcome! Also welcome to Girl-with-Tea, I know exactly how you feel. I'm just glad you found my fic worth your time!  
So continuing from where we left off_..._

_ The Prince stepped forward, offering an arm to clasp for Naram. He gave him a long look, and then spoke up,_

_ 'I believe we already met.' _

The Prince stared at him mutely for a moment, his eyes searching the other man's face, finally locking onto his eyes.

'Indeed,' he affirmed. 'Small world.' His words sounded flat in the silence of the street. The dead lay at their feet, unmoving, and the locals hiding behind their shut windows trembled in mute terror. The four of them were the only souls in sight.

To say that Agastya and Elika were surprised, was an understatement. They glanced back and forth between the two men, trying to make sense of the situation, but in the end ratio triumphed over curiosity, and Agastya put his hands on their shoulders, interrupting the moment.

'Let's rejoice over this serendipitous reunion sometime later, away from the scene of a mass murder, shall we?' The look on their faces the Aryan's words, suggesting anything but joy.

The small group hustled down the empty backstreets in pretend-casual silence, throwing furtive glances at every curtained doorway and down each shadow-filled alley. While the others hid under the concealing overhang of a deserted potter's shop, the Prince, who was the least bloody of them, fetched a couple of loose cloaks, so they could cross the well lit tavern to their rooms without drawing undue attention. Upstairs, they changed quickly, Naramholan donning clothes offered by the Prince, accepting the simple white linen shirt and britches with a forced smile of politeness.

Having hidden the tell-tale signs of the carnage, they rang for the servants, and soon a small feast appeared, almost as if to celebrate their victory. Elika stared at the platters of food piled on the low table, her stomach still churning from the stink of spilled guts. How different this was from the elation she had felt in the desert! There was no burst of powerful emotion in her at the wonder of survival, just weariness. There was no glory in the aftermath, just another heavy load for her young shoulders to bear. She'd killed again, without hesitation, without mercy. She had taken the easy path; no dazzling light show to scare off the enemy, no clever ruse to bluff her way out of the situation, as the Prince would have. It didn't matter to her that Agastya took the choice out of her hand in the end, she knew that the only reaction she had in her was to squash the threat with iron and magic.

Not an easy thing to accept about herself, that taking a life had become the easy way out. What she'd learned, who she thought she was, all stood against this. She wanted to crawl away from the table and curl up in a corner, wrap herself in a tight blanket-cocoon, and mourn the loss of her innocence. She wasn't the same girl who sneaked out of her bedroom to explore the forgotten corners of her kingdom in the moonlight anymore. That girl was dead, and there was no resurrecting her. Her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the Prince, a look of longing mixed with apprehension; what she needed most was his strong arms around her, protecting her from the evil of the world, and from the evil within, but the morning's lesson still burned bright in her mind.

She shifted her gaze to Agastya; the Aryan's entire being was apparently concentrated on stuffing the perfect ratio of meats and vegetables in the hole he cut into his round bread. It would have been comical, if she had any energy left to laugh, but mirth was far out of her reach at the moment. Still, it showed that life went on as life always did, and there was wisdom in that thought. She needed her strength, because they needed her strength; the entire god-forsaken world needed her strength. It seemed these days that too often, too much depended on her alone. Even as she reached for a plate piled high with fruit, she wondered at that thought. Things had changed since the Valley, and she had changed as well. Doing her duty was no less a holy goal, but the term "noble sacrifice" had lost its romantic tinge. She had known the dread of closing her eyes, knowing she would never open them ever again; she had tasted the bitterness of the very last breath. There was sadness there, finality, even relief. But glory? Doing what had to be done was simply unavoidable, a fact of life, nothing else. She shrugged mentally, trying to shake of the gloom settling over her, blaming the Prince for infecting her with cynicism.

She pulled the platter over, and felt the small hairs on her neck rise. She looked up at the newest addition to their dinner table, and found him watching her. He didn't snatch his gaze away in embarrassment, but rather met her eyes, gave her a small, secret smile, and then returned to his food. She could no more figure him out than she could the Prince or Agastya. She felt secrets lurking in the past of "Naram", a strangely intimate nickname compared to the usual reservation he showed, reservation that went beyond what was a stranger's due. But whether he was afraid, or simply cautious, she couldn't fathom. It seemed that fate either played a cosmic joke on her by throwing such inscrutable men her way, or, more frighteningly, she simply didn't have life figured out just yet.

An uncomfortable silence settled around the table as they finished their food, and as usual, Agastya was the one to break it and start the conversation.

'So, how do you two know each other?'

The Prince took a deep breath, buying time to think his answer through before speaking. 'Just by sight really. Naramholan joined Berisath as his scribe a week or two before I left Susa,' he stated simply. The things he did not say spoke volumes: he spun no tall tale, embellished nothing, offered nothing.

While the Prince talked, Agastya leaned back on his pillows and watched Naram, to see how he reacted, to see if he confirmed the Prince's story. No matter how deep he had dug, he had never been able to uncover the full truth behind the Prince's undignified exit from the city. Details, yes; explanations, no. He knew the Prince had fallen in with a bad crowd, in the end he had terminated his apprenticeship with a respected wizard of the fallen Nineveh, and headed on to Babylon, but the whys were missing. That had been half a year before Agastya had first heard of him, and some trails just grew cold quickly. Whenever he had thought he finally found an opening, his agents had only run into walls of silence neither gold, nor threats could break, so he listened eagerly now, hoping to unravel the mystery. Secrets were his trade, whether they were big, important mysteries of city states, or small, annoyingly tightly wound knots around first-rate rogues.

'When I had first arrived in Susa, after wandering in the North, long separated from my master, I had sought work; any work that didn't involve manure,' Naram started telling his side of the story, and the face he made suggested he had lifted more pitchforks than he cared to. 'Berisath magnanimously gave me a chance, but I was just one of the many under his supervision. It was only years later that he took me in his confidence, and I him, sharing with him the story of our escape. I mostly knew Shabhaz from hearsay, though he went by Tera back then,' he answered, the sarcasm at the end barely detectable.

The Prince ears perked up at the phrase "took me in his confidence", then he cast down his eyes, not wanting to betray his interest. Whatever the wizard did after their falling out, it was none of his business, and he tried to tell himself that he did not care if this was the man that had filled his shoes.

'What happened to Master Sarushan? His wisdom would be very welcome in the coming struggle.' Elika asked.

'When we parted ways, he was headed west, to Hellas. I received a scroll from him only six months ago. He is in good health, and lives in Athenai as a respected teacher.'

'Out of reach for all reasons and purposes then,' said Agastya. Seeing Elika's expression, he added, 'Hellas is two months of travel away, even on good horses. I have the feeling we don't have the time to make it there and back.'

'How bad is it?' asked Naram of Elika. She turned to the Prince instead of answering.

'I was out of it in the last hours. Shabhaz carried me out of the Valley; he can probably give a better account.' Calling the Prince by his latest name felt less and less odd, but she still had to watch her tongue. The web of lies that these men constantly weaved around themselves had started to entangle her as well; now there were separate truths for Agastya, for Naram, for the servants in their tavern, and for everyone else. And there were words that she kept even from the Prince, for reasons that came from her heart, rather than her head. It took effort to keep track of all the stories, all the lies, but less and less effort as the days rolled by.

While she mused on her changing morals, the Prince told the story of the fall. He described how the sea of Corruption had surged forth and covered everything, from the city to the vale. He recounted how he saw the towers crumble into the seething mass of darkness below, how unholy shapes rose from it, woven of dark energy. He spoke of the constant, bone-jarring thuds that shook the very ground coming from where the Tree of Life once stood, as a fallen god broke free of the last of his shackles. He tried to describe the overpowering stench, the dark lightning, the perverted, living substance of Corruption as it crept over and swallowed everything, but he had no words to convey the terror he had felt, making his way out of the devastated kingdom with Elika in his arms.

It was a tale she knew well, having lived through every horrifying moment of it, save for the last few. His words unbarred the tightly sealed gate of her memories, and they came flooding back. The feeling of helpless desperation, as she struggled to hold everything together, the crazy glint in the eye of the thief that had turned up from nowhere, the certainty that one way or another, she wouldn't live to see the morrow; the Prince's soft, almost laconic monologue conjured up all these feelings, and more.

The tale he told was not complete of course, not by a long shot. He didn't recount his deal with Ahriman, nor her subsequent resurrection, and she was sure that more had happened in those hours she'd spent dead or barely conscious in his arms, than he explained just now.

'…and it just stayed there. It didn't flood and cover the desert, at least not immediately. We didn't stick around, obviously,' he finished, leaving the end of the tale hanging in the air. Elika expected him to stand up with a flourish, and send a hat around to collect tips, but the playfulness was gone, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if they would ever get it back.

Naram nodded and looked away, deep in thought. If he had any doubts about the Prince's sincerity, he chose not to show it. Elika realized that there were more than a few questions that she should have asked of the rogue a long time ago, an oversight she would have to remedy as soon as they could get some privacy.

'So it seems that we have more than one reason to seek contact with Berisath,' said Agastya, breaking the thoughtful silence, and proceeding to relay what they had learned from Naram to the Prince. He listened in thoughtful silence as the Aryan explained the plight of his former master, though little of the news was unknown to him. '… so we should look into the details of his imprisonment, and find out if we can get a message smuggled to him,' Agastya finished.

'I've already set some wheels in motion, I will know more tomorrow, or maybe the day after,' volunteered the Prince. 'But I think springing him is our best option. One surprise visit to his tower and grabbing everything we need in one go.'

'He is under heavy guard,' warned Naram, to which the Prince only shrugged, less cocky than Elika expected of him, more matter-of-factly.

'Elika and I have experience in unconventional approaches to heavily guarded towers. I'm sure we will be able to come up with a plan. However, any information on the layout of the tower would be very welcome, and I presume you possess that knowledge.' He looked questioningly at Naram, who nodded in answer, whatever unspoken animosity lay between them set aside for the moment. 'Do you think you could assist us in drawing a map?'

'That, and more; but first I have a few questions of my own, especially about what happened back in the alley,' he said, looking at Elika inquisitively. The Prince and Agastya both turned towards her as well, letting her know that this one was up to her.

'You saw what you saw. As Ahriman strained against his chains, Ohrmazd blessed me with the strength of the Ahura. It was enough to destroy the old Corrupted, but not enough to bind his brother once again.' The lie came easier than she expected it would, and she found, surprised, that her outrage over the Prince's treachery so long ago was completely absent. She had finally forgiven him for not letting her die. One more thing to ponder over in the darkness of the sleeping chamber.

'That is… fantastic…' said Naram, trying to find the right words. 'So Ohrmazd reappeared? Will he put his brother back in the ground?'

'I am afraid it's not that simple,' Elika shook her head. 'Vague visions are the only guidance we have, no direct divine intervention. I'm not even sure if the powers come from Ohrmazd himself or were granted to me by the Tree of Life as a last ditch effort before it failed to contain the evil.'

'Can you tell me about the visions? I am well versed in the lore, maybe I could offer an interpretation.'

'I am afraid I'm not at liberty to take you up on your offer.' Her polite but firm refusal took Naram aback, and surprised the other two as well. The Prince's mind immediately started spinning, going over what he remembered about the visions they'd shared during the battle for the city. He understood why she would not want to divulge those to a stranger, but suspicion reared its ugly head that perhaps there were more; prophecies or portents that Elika kept even from him. After all, he thought, it would not be the first time she decided she was the only one in the need-to-know.

'I see,' was Naram's only response, and his eyes narrowed, trying to read more from Elika's stance.

'There are more things that worry me,' interjected the Prince, to change the topic. 'There might be traitors in your temple, Naram. Agastya and Elika are targets, good targets, but not good enough to gather nine men to ambush them, especially so far away from the temple. If I had to take two marks like that, I would use four men tops, and set up way closer to their destination. Far enough so they can't call for help, but close enough so they surely fall in my clutches. Maybe at the end of the alley where the temple lies.'

'It would make sense that you know that,' there was no hiding the barb in Naram's voice this time. The Prince stared him down and asked threateningly,

'And what is that supposed to mean?'

'That you are a thief and a rogue, nothing else,' it was clear from his tone that he intended it as a grave insult, but the Prince just laughed.

'Much more, actually. A grave-robber, a conman, a swindler, a despoiler of virgins, and occasionally a spy,' he said, fattening the list of his less-than-honorable titles.

'And sadly, one of the few I dare to trust with my life,' said Elika, wrapping the warning in a wry comment. Naram looked between them, then came to a decision and bowed his head to her.

'Your Highness.'

The urge reflexively rose in her to tell him off, that she was no one's ruler, but she swallowed it back. She had wanted to gather her people, and lead them against Ahriman; so lead she must.

'Shabhaz is right. The number of opposing forces doesn't make any sense. Who would want to split the take nine ways, when all you want to rob is an old, fat man and a woman. If our captive didn't lie – and I believe that he did not – and it was indeed a random eye on the street who marked us, then something is amiss here,' said Agastya, working himself into the conversation.

'Maybe the band leader always worked with the same men and didn't want to cause strife by leaving people out of a juicy hit?' suggested the Prince.

'Or maybe our captive didn't lie but just didn't know the truth himself. Maybe it wasn't just a random robbery, but one aimed straight at me.' It was Elika who voiced the uncomfortable thought that hovered in the forefront of their minds.

'That's unlikely,' said both Agastya and the Prince, though with different tones. They looked at each other, and the younger man nodded at the elder to continue.

'No one could have traveled fast enough for that, even counting the day of rest we had yesterday. Besides, we had no one tailing us on the way there, I made sure of that.'

Elika turned to the Prince now, who just shrugged it off with a "What he said", but the princess had a feeling that it was very much not what he was thinking. There were definitely questions to be asked once she got him alone, she resolved.

'No one on horseback for sure, but who knows how fast thoughts fly. Naram complained of dark dreams and portents haunting the faithful. Who says Ahriman can't whisper into the ear of a brigand in the night, promising glory and riches if he takes down the first strange woman entering the Ohrmazd temple, possibly with every man available, to make sure the job gets done?' posed Elika the rhetorical question.

'Not a pleasant thought,' said Agastya. 'We operated under the assumption that the enemy is behind us; it severely limits our options if he can be lying in wait on every corner.'

'Ahriman doesn't play fair,' she replied. 'But don't despair just yet. We don't know anything for sure. Simple, pure bad luck might be behind it all,' she said, but there was little conviction behind her words.

'Speaking of luck,' began Naram, 'your arrival was extremely timely. How did you find us?' he asked of the Prince.

'Something was off. Neither Elika, nor Agastya are risk takers, and staying out after dark in an unknown city is definitely a risk. So when it was almost nightfall, I decided to go ahead and meet them halfway. I made my way to the temple, asked for directions from someone monosyllabic, and took a shortcut so I could catch up with you. You know the rest,' he answered him.

'Well, your hunch has saved our lives,' Naram admitted reluctantly.

'It wouldn't be the first time,' said Elika. 'As unlikely as it looks, Ohrmazd, or at least somebody up there guides his steps.' Something tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she almost smiled despite herself. It was good to remind herself that the man across from her _did_ stumble on their hidden kingdom by so-called chance, _did_ manage to defeat four demigods through hair-raising luck. As unlikely as it sounded, he had to be the pawn of the divine. An unwilling pawn, one protesting all the way, but on their side nevertheless. On her side. There was no more 'their side' anymore; not unless she resurrected it.

'It makes more sense then, that you would keep someone like him around,' said Naram. The protesting 'Hey' of the Prince was largely ignored by everybody; despite his claim at nobility through thievery, he was not fit as a companion to a royal princess by any standards.

'It is getting late, and we had a rough day. How about we adjourn this council for tonight? Naramholan, with your permission, I will make arrangements with the staff so you can sleep here for tonight; I think it would be unwise to brave the streets again, at least till daybreak,' said Agastya, before the Prince could think of a suitable reply.

'And I gratefully accept your offer,' Naram replied, bowing slightly.

The next half an hour was busy with getting a room for Naram, the Prince showing off the purchases that arrived through the day, sharing another cup of wine, and smiles and jokes all around with no heart behind them.

But no pretense could last forever. After their guest retreated to his own quarters, and the last of the fruit was gone, Agastya leaned back against the pillows, and with a sigh, waded into deeper waters again,

'Frankly, what will be the repercussions of our little stunt back there? You know the Shusan underworld better than me.'

'Nine dead, at the hands of strangers? That will cause quite a stir. I will put out feelers tomorrow, to find out how well this Burozzanar fellow was connected, check whose toes we stepped on. You think they will be able to track us down?' The Prince asked the Aryan. He might have a better handle on how this particular city worked by night, but Agastya had infinitely more experience when it came to shadow-wars; a knowledge even the Prince deferred to.

'Three strangers, as characteristic as us, especially considering your sword or Elika's magic, the tales will spread like wildfire, and it doesn't take that much legwork to check every tavern in this city for us. We will have to be prepared for a counterstrike. The spectacular way we handled ourselves could be our biggest advantage; tales of lightning and a sorcerous battle… Few will believe it, if any,' said Agastya, already forming plans on how to defuse the situation.

'The ones who would are the greatest threat,' cut in Elika, 'Whatever edge secrecy bought us, it's lost. Anyone who has an ear to the ground for the strange, will hear of me.' She didn't include the others in her calculations; from the three of them, it was her that their enemies were gunning for, not the Prince of Thieves, or the spy of Kasi. A disconcerting fact, but a fact nonetheless.

'I say we let tomorrow take care of tomorrow. Nothing to gain by worrying, not until we have more information. We will just have to be extra careful, and maybe disguise ourselves,' said the Prince, and then smirked at Elika. 'Time to break out the veils, wife!'

'You wish,' she returned the smile, despite herself. Agastya, taking a hint, stood up and yawned theatrically.

'I will retire; this old lion can't deal with death and wine as well as in his younger years. You kids behave yourselves, and don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

'That leaves us with a lot of room, you know?' quipped the Prince, gently poking fun at the weary Aryan.

Instead of picking up the gauntlet, Agastya just smiled, and wished them a good night, leaving them alone finally.

As he left, so did all the warmth escape from the room. Stifling quiet enveloped them, and the Prince grasped for the eloquent speech he concocted earlier in his mind, but it eluded him. He wanted to be the first to speak up, to disarm Elika, before she had a chance to rip into him for how he treated her in the morning. He wanted this to go right, to apologize right, and he wanted her to forgive him. He needed it, desperately.

But he stood there too long, trying to find the right words, and his chance was lost.

'You need to tell me everything about your deal with Ahriman.' Her words came out harsher than she intended them to. She couldn't help it; a day of pain and frustration, the sense of betrayal, all of it was hovering right underneath her composed facade, the wounds just as fresh as when she'd fled their room in tears. She had pushed it down all day, focusing on business, matters of life and death, but she hadn't dealt with it, and now the bile was back in her throat.

He looked at her hesitatingly. He had known all along the way that one day he would have to reveal his cards, and though he had wanted to keep them close to his chest for as long as possible, now was the time, maybe even the right time. He sat forward in his cushion, and his eyes stared at the low table in the center of the room, instead of Elika sitting across from him.

'After you…' he had difficulty bringing himself to say the word "died". 'Four saplings appeared. Akin to the Tree of Life, bright and luminous. For four swordstrikes, I demanded four boons.'

'What were those?' She might have forgiven him for saving her life, but striking a deal with Ahriman was even worse than "just" letting him out of his prison. The rage, not forgotten, just shackled, raised in her again at the memory of such profound treachery. He raised his fist, and extended one finger.

'Your life. Unharmed, whole and healthy, with all your wounds healed,' he said. She never wondered where all the bruises, cracked ribs and pulled muscles that were a natural side effect of even victorious battles had gone; there were simply more important things on her mind at that time. Knowing that it had been Ahriman's power that had rejuvenated her made her feel... filthy. Violated.

'Go on,' she said, pursing her lips.

'No pursuit,' he said, extending another finger, 'no creature of Ahriman is to attack us, as long as we don't attack them. However, once we do, all bets are off.' Elika pondered this for a while, and raised an eyebrow. The Prince immediately rose his other palm pacifyingly, before she could open her mouth. 'I know these are not the best of terms, but this was the best I could get!'

He shuddered as he remembered the towering presence in his mind, the quaking laugh when he demanded immunity from his beasts. "You want me to lay naked before your blades, man-thing? Then I would rather wait another thousand years." Those voices still came back to haunt him in his nightmares. Neither male nor female, but a mixture of both, with casual cruelty dripping from every syllable – it was not human in origin, just a warped projection of an ancient will making itself understandable to beings it considered its lesser.

'Does this protection extend to those travelling with us? If Agastya gets surrounded by Corrupted, can I protect him without breaking the agreement?' Elika asked, bringing him out of his reverie.

The Prince shook his head gravely. 'No army of ours is immune to his power. I told him I intended to flee with you to the farthest corner of the Earth, not that we would rush to imprison him again as fast as we could.'

'So we take down any of his creatures, the truce is broken.'

The Prince smirked. '_This_ truce. I caught Ahriman in a bind. He can never use his own power against us, in any way, until we attack him directly, and this is independent of the previous promise. We have one clear shot at him,' he said opening a third finger.

'Smart,' the princess grudgingly admitted. 'But why so specific?'

'I felt him in my mind while we haggled over his release, and to this day, bile still rises in my throat when I think about it. You seriously don't want him pestering you in your sleep.' She nodded at his confession, knowing that admitting weakness didn't come easy to him. The Prince repeated again, trying to convey the importance of something he rather felt, than understood. 'You really, really don't want him in your sleep. I'm serious. He is the monster under the bed, the dark shape rustling the leaves outside the window, the terror stalking you in your nightmare. He is strong, stronger than we can possible understand, smart, and has a patience that deals in eons. And once again, this protection does not extend to anyone else. It is beyond me what Ahriman could read from the minds of our allies, but only words heard only by the two of us will ever be truly safe.'

She nodded in understanding. Ahriman corrupted, whispered dark promises in ears, and haunted the dreams of the greatest of men. His way was not the flaring hatred of fire but that of slow, creeping rot, destroying from within. To be safe of that was to have a shred of hope of surprising him; and they badly needed surprise on their side; they couldn't hope to win through numbers alone. Deception had to be their weapon, and that was something the Prince had bought for them.

'And what was the last of your wishes?'

'Not wishes, demands. We haggled and bargained while you lay cold and lifeless in the bright afternoon sun. I never want to go through that again. Never. Ever. I cursed at him, shouted at him, started to walk away five times, as if I was trying to buy a carpet from a Phoenician merchant, trying to outthink and outsmart a god, while all I wanted to do was give in and get you back.' The raw sincerity of his voice got through to her; she'd never seen him so vulnerable, so out of control, not even in the throes of passion.

She reached for him above the scattered remains of their dinner, but her hand fell short and dropped back to her side. The gap between them was literally and figuratively larger than the distance one honest moment could bridge.

'I never realized…' she began, apologizing without knowing what for.

He watched in silence as her words died on her lips, and only then spoke up; emotion infusing every syllable.

'The fourth deal was simple. I wanted Farah back, with all the gold that was on her to begin with. This one he agreed to almost immediately.'

'So you sold the world for my life, gold, and safety that is temporary at best?' she asked, not accusing, just musing.

The Prince swallowed, and struggled to keep himself from snapping at her. They had been down this road before, and knew where the arguments led.

'I sold the world for a chance to protect it,' he said despite himself. 'And if we can get our hands on the scrolls Berisath has, it might not have been in vain.'

'Don't expect salvation,' Elika warned him, and plopped back on her pillow, the fight suddenly gone out of her. 'If there was anything useful in the library at all pertaining to finding Ohrmazd or shackling Ahriman, I would know about it. Those scrolls simply cannot be that important. The best we can hope for is a manual on using this,' she stared at her hand, and willed the Light to come forth. Bright specks pooled in her palm and merged into a luminescent ball, brighter than all the candles together in the room. The Prince watched, mesmerized. After all those battles, all those times when wind had rushed past his face as he clung to her, riding the wings of Ohrmazd, he still couldn't get used to it, that she could pull something out of nothing.

'Weapons in the war. Weapons that may win the war.'

She shook her head in response, once, curtly.

'No. Hundreds like me stood against Ahriman the last time. Not stumbling around in a dark cave at midnight, like me, but well taught and well trained.'

'Don't sell yourself short. Four of the Corrupted fell before us, four that could only be imprisoned in the past, not destroyed.' He said, eager to convince her, to convince himself, that his choice had been the right one. And once again, she was quick to cool him off.

'Four awakened from thousands of years of slumber, weak and fragile.'

'Weak? Fragile? Do you remember the Hunter, the Warrior?'

'I do,' she said, and the tremble in her voice made it clear that she did. 'You've never read stories of what the Corrupted of old were like. Ancient in their wickedness, and powerful beyond imagination. The Hunter slithered through ranks invisible, appearing in two, three places at the same time, his screech boiling the blood of men, till only corpses remained, burned from within. The Warrior summoned soldiers of darkness with every step he took, and each that fell to their blades rose again as a twisted parody of their former selves,' her words conjured the ancient days and nights, when the armies of men marched against the armies of darkness, breaking like a wave on a cliff, tens, if not hundreds of thousands perishing against forces greater than them, to gain just an inch. He couldn't picture the magnitude of such a war, a war that made the sacking of Nineveh seem a children's squabble over toys in comparison; his mind simply refused to go there, but he had a feeling that soon, the world would experience it once again.

'And yet you led me, a complete stranger, on a hunt for them,' he said softly. It wasn't a reprimand; his voice rang with amazement at her bravery, and her foolishness.

'What choice did I have?' Her question was laced with emotion: reliving those desperate hours and the hard decisions she had had to make gripped her throat in a chokehold, and wouldn't let go. She swallowed the tears back, tears, forming on their own accord.

The Prince rose from his seat and closed the distance between them. His arms came around her, and she put hers up to push him away. She struggled in his wordless embrace, unwilling to be comforted, but he didn't relent. He held her, certain that this was what she needed most, certain that this was what he needed most.

Slowly, Elika relaxed into his touch, and then suddenly collapsed against him. The spirit of defiance has left her, and without anger there was only the void and the pain. Her arms came up around him, yanking him close, and she buried her face in his neck. Sobs shook her as she broke down completely, for the second time in two days.

'I killed them. I killed them without a second thought,' she struggled to get the words out through her curtain of tears. The Prince froze for a moment, before he realized whom she meant.

'As they would have you. You did the right thing, Elika.' He tried to soothe her, caressing her hair, whispering softly. He had imagined a dozen things that could cause her to lose control, him hovering near the top of the list, only preceded by the loss of everyone she ever knew. This one, however, came as a surprise. Taking a life was wrong, but sometimes necessary, and that was the end of it. Wallowing in guilt after doing what had to be done was alien to him. This was as black and white as murder came: they had been the innocents defending themselves, and it was their assailants that had ended up on the ground.

'You don't understand…' she sobbed, 'there was no hesitation in me… nothing holding back.'

He drew her even closer in, his face a mask of empathy, while inside he only felt bewildered. He knew everything about comforting women, and let his reflexes take over. He asked the right questions and let her relieve her heavy heart.

He patted her back, breathing evenly, and just listened as she forced out the explanation; about how the changes in her frightened her, how she wasn't sure anymore who she was, about the fear that everything would become just an obstacle to climb, and killing would come all too easy. She was deathly afraid of becoming the very thing she stood to defeat, of abandoning the morals that defined who she was.

He remembered his similar thoughts from the desert, and his vow to keep her sane and keep her _herself_ against all odds. It was time to make good on the promise he had made to himself.

'The difference between you and them is that you are wrecked with guilt afterwards. Don't confuse evil born of depravity with the necessary acts of the righteous. They got what they had coming, nothing less, nothing more.' Elika looked up from the crook of his neck, and looked like she was about to speak, but he silenced her with a look; he was not done talking yet.

'But I am glad that you feel guilty, that means your sense of right and wrong isn't warped. Your instincts allowed you to save your life, and everyone else's. You have to be wary of the slippery slope, but I _know_ you Elika, and I know that you are, and will be, strong enough to hold on to who you are even in the chaos of war.'

'Thank you,' she said, trying to wipe her tears off with her hands and looking away, suddenly embarrassed that the Prince was seeing her as such a state. Her moods came and went, fickle as the morning breeze, and left her exhausted.

'I'm not finished yet,' he said. 'Elika, look at me,' it was a command, unlike the soft tones he used before. Her eyes flew to his, and the intensity in him made her shiver. 'You will have to deal with this, and you will have to find the balance between being afraid to do what must be done, and being swallowed alive by the necessities of our task.' His hands shifted from her back to her arms, clasping her, steadying her.

'Let me be your anchor, your lifeline, and I will help you keep yourself sane. I won't let you down.'

'Like you haven't let me down this morning?' the question slipped out, and Elika immediately wanted to suck it back, but it was too late. The Prince's expression shifted to one of pain, and he recoiled as if he had just been slapped. Suddenly the warmth disappeared, and the next moment he stood a step away. Guilt flooded Elika, and she hated herself for feeling guilty.

'I… I am sorry,' came the stumbled apology from the Prince. He didn't meet her eyes, not yet. 'I got stupid, and scared, and pushed you away. I hurt you, and for that, I am truly, terribly sorry.' He spoke softly, barely audible even in the quiet room.

'What scared you? What did I do wrong?' she asked, her insecurities seeping through the wall of anger she had drawn around herself. The curt, self-mocking laugh that burst forth from the Prince did nothing to improve matters.

'You? You didn't do anything wrong, pet. I told you that being with someone is not my strong suit. Waking up next to you, feeling how right it was… something inside me couldn't deal with that and I wanted to scamper back to a safe distance. It was cruel, idiotic, and I caused you pain instead of joy.'

'That's it? That's your explanation?' she asked incredulously.

'There are dark beasts haunting my soul, Elika. I have seen things and done things I never want to relive, and they left an indelible mark. I struggle against them, but…'

It was another breathless moment, where the strands of fate crisscrossed and jumbled into a tangled mess. He could not explain how he felt it, but he knew what happened during the next few heartbeats of time would reverberate through the history of mankind, and fleetingly wondered whether Elika felt the weight of moment too. His gaze locked with hers, blue with brown, and Elika could have sworn that a metallic shimmer ran across his eyes.

She smiled sadly, and the universe released the breath it had never held.

'Nothing is ever easy, is it?' she said to herself, her gaze sliding to his hands as she reached for them.

'Nothing worth having ever is. Can you forgive me?' Her fingers slid between his and she brought their hands up, palm against palm.

'I have forgiven you far worse, Prince of Thieves.' There was no sigh of relief from him, just tension flowing out of muscles, as he shifted their hands and drew her close.

'I will try harder. I will do better. I just need practice.'

'Practice of waking up next to me?'

His sly grin was not yet back to his full strength, but he couldn't resist pushing his luck.

'Lots of practice.'

'You play nice enough, and you will get it,' she said, coyly.

'My, my, aren't you a quick study. Woman for a day, and already using her feminine wiles to enslave men.'

'What can I say, it's in our blood.'

'You are amazing, you know that?' the genuine emotion in his voice spread alit a warm glow inside her.

'Keep that up, and flattery will get you _anywhere_.' She smiled up at him, tight lipped, playful, and she silently wondered where the rancor had disappeared to, as fast as morning dew from desert rocks. All she felt was the fluttering of _something_ in her stomach.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, the movement so tender and natural, it was hard to believe that barely a day passed since his lips had first grazed hers.

'But not tonight. Tomorrow will be a long day.'

'I wasn't offering,' she protested, taken aback.

'You weren't offering very loudly,' the salacious smirk returned to its full former glory, and everything was back to normal.

'Keep dreaming, big boy,' the teasing was gentle as a caress, and the Prince read from her eyes what she couldn't say out loud.

'I do. Every night, I do,' and he took a half-step back, pulling free of her arms. 'Sleep well, Princess.'

'Sleep well, thief,' she turned and almost fled through her bedroom door, before the urge to hold, to embrace, to pull him so close that she could bathe in his warmth became unbearable. Parts of her that were unmentionable in polite company still ached from the exertions of last night, and she didn't trust herself – or him, for that matter– not to touch, to reach, to taste. Words might have soothed their conflict, but something inside her demanded a more… physical resolution, pride or prudence however, she couldn't say which one for the life of her, wouldn't let her take that path.

Still, as she pulled the curtain of her doorway aside, she couldn't stop the shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Revelations, reunions, and battles all paled in comparison to the effect their reconciliation had on her. It frightened and elated her at the same time, how much influence one man held over her. She remembered herself standing on the plain at the foot of the great tree, brimming with the confidence of youth, sprouting self righteously: "Men do stupid things for women". And now, a lifetime later, she wondered as sleep enveloped her: what about women? What would she do for him? And what would she not?

In the other bedchamber, the smile melted off the Prince's face as the curtain fell behind him. He sank down on his bed, his palm cradling his chin. It was time to think, think hard. Because four trees sprouted around the great tree, and he extracted four vows from the god of darkness for destroying them, that much was true. But there was one more, one he had kept silent about, and there was no going back from this lie. It was not an omission, not a fib, nor a bending of truth. He looked in her eyes, and deceived her, a move that might ultimately endanger the fate of the world. In a long life of taking steel-tasting risks for a living, this was his greatest gamble yet, but one that he did not relish in with childish glee. For only two beings in the world knew what really went on under the Tree of Life, reborn through Elika's sacrifice and blindingly bright inside the ancient temple, , and only two knew the true price Ahriman had paid the Prince for destroying it.


	20. Interlude II

A/N Thank you very much for the reviews! Keep them coming!

Seven descended into the valley, leaving their horses behind; for no animal would follow where they were headed. The dark sludge lapping at the sands of the desert parted before them with the greatest reluctance. It cleared only a narrow path, leading down, and formed man-high walls on both sides, emanating mindless malice. If their hearts trembled as they walked on the ground stripped bare of vegetation, bare of life, bare of earth, they did not show it; they had shown no emotion since they were four and had been snatched from their homes in the dread of night.

As they walked deeper and deeper into the once-lush kingdom of the Ahura, the dark clouds above slowly swallowed the sun. They were unlike any living men had seen before; but these seven had known of them from tales of old. No drop of nourishing rain would fall when their master finally released them upon the world, but searing tears of corruption would batter the unfortunate under them; casting blighting marks on men, animals and plants alike; sores that would grow and infest and consume both flesh and soul.

Instead of dread, the sight filled their hearts with exultation; the day of their master had finally arrived. After untold generations of persecution, the priesthood of Ahriman would finally take its place at the right hand side of their god, and vengeance would be dealt a hundredfold for every slight. Long-nurtured desires and dark thoughts would be given free reign, and Ahriman would retake his throne of skulls, quaking with laughter at the suffering of the unworthy.

Filled with perverted daydreams of their own perfect world, they stepped carefully from stone to stone across the pools of Corruption, making their way to the central plain, knowing well the cost of touching the bubbling substance. It wasn't yet time to embrace the change their Lord would bring to them: that would not be the prize of the first to return. None of their brothers from distant lands could have reached the fallen city before them; they were sure of that; they _made_ sure of that, when they encountered another group in the desert.

The signs a hundred generations waited for eagerly shone bright on the night sky, impossible to misread for the trained mind; and they had set forth with utmost haste to offer their life and service for the glory of Ahriman. The prospect of the rewards set in store for the most faithful servants; the ones to prostrate themselves before His dark throne first, drew smiles on gaunt faces much unused to them. They all coveted the ultimate prize: being raised to a new level of existence, becoming one of Ahriman's Chosen.

As they made the last turn in the twisting maze of the Vale, and the plain unfurled in front of them, they sighed as one at the sight. Where once the Tree of Life had reached towards the heavens as a symbol of everlasting vigilance, now an ash-gray husk loomed, desiccated and malformed. Soldiers of Darkness, Corruption-covered skeletons of the fallen, moved across the plain, like ants scurrying on their unfathomable tasks. Some slid large slabs of stone on the slick surface of the black slime, some carried tools of trade so out of place in the out-of-proportion hands of these caricatures of men that it would have been funny, if not for the terrible conclusion that an observer would have drawn from the sight: Ahriman was redecorating.

The seven shared a wordless look, and the eldest among them, the high priest from Anshan, started down the path. Here the corruption would not give way, not till he lowered his staff and growled a few words of power. Strange, dissonant words were these, lacking vowels, and with far too many sharp consonants to make it a human language. But here, in the heart of terror, they flowed easily from his lips. Behind the throat-breaking sounds lay a seductive, deeper harmony, and the sludge picked up on it and carried it far, as wind carries the leaves. It rippled and gave way; no longer a reluctant slave, but an eager bloodhound recognizing its master, ready to be unleashed.

The high priest allowed himself a thin, smug smile; all those nights spent poring over ancient texts had not been wasted, and in this seat of dark power his will was no longer bound to the few moments when the blood of the sacrifice flowed free. He had risen to the highest position in their secret religion not only by being the most adept at the Dark Tongue, but through the same qualities that had enabled him to master the forbidden arts: determination, ruthlessness, and cunning; and now the reward for all that hard work was at hand.

His wicked staff thumped ominously against the bare stone as he took the first steps towards the throne hall of Ahriman, and his confidence grew with every step. The Soldiers of Darkness gave him and his troupe a wide berth, even the mindless slaves recognized one who wielded true power. By the time they reached the double stairs leading up, he was standing tall and proud, drunk with the never before felt abundance of magic, the weariness of the journey forgotten.

The wide doors in front of them opened by themselves, silent as the night, revealing the last corridor. Here, the Corruption was no longer restricted to the floor, but rather formed a perilous tunnel through which they marched.

The gates behind them closed slowly, moved by unseen forces. There was no turning back from this point, no option but to push forward. Reality felt heavy around them, like wet velvet, and every breath held the promise of being the last one. Instead of utter darkness, a faint, poison-green shimmer illuminated their way towards the heart of madness, towards the former prison of their master. Gone was the confident stride of their march across the desert, and gone were the cautious steps taken on the winding path into the valley. Now their feet dragged as if they were wearing boots of lead, all but two of them. Only their leader and the youngest, last member of their troupe had the will to rise above the distorted world around them, each on their own wings.

The last stretch of their journey seemed to last for decades, and only a hundred steps at the same time. Their approach to the divine changed them all; some souls shattered in the terror pulsating forth from the inner sanctum, some shred the last vestiges of their humanity and hardened into shells of steel-will, filled with true understanding of what it is to serve Ahriman.

The final doors opened, and before them stood a vast, empty space. They could not make out the walls or the ceiling, or for the floor for that matter; the room seemed to stretch away into infinity. It was like gazing into the sun: they could see nothing, but neither could they tear their gazes away.

With a force that shook their bones and sent the weakest to their knees, their God spoke. It was not words formed by throat and tongue and lungs and lips, but a primeval siren-song seducing the first of men. There was no male or female in it, but their minds cast them into those forms trying to deal with something far beyond human comprehension.

'Have the faithful come?'

The first to recover was the high priest, who sank to his knees slowly, deliberately, raising his staff above his head in his outstretched arms.

'We have come O Lord of the World, Master of Men, Conqueror of Stars, the First and the Last, Almighty Ahriman, to offer our pitiful lives to ser-' Ahriman's voice felt like a lash against their naked brains, and it shut the crescendo of the priest up.

'Why have the faithful come _now_?' The question had teeth in it, the sharp, wide smile of a shark. It confused the priest for only a moment, before he started again.

'We came when we beheld your signs, O Lord, we came without rest, without delay, without a thought for ourselves. We rushed through mountains and deserts to appear before you.'

A portentous, agonizing silence descended on the hall.

'It is admirable, this alacrity with which you hasten to attend me. But where were you, o priest, through TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF IMPRISONMENT!' The wrath of Ahriman ripped the thin tapestry of reality that hung around the chamber into shreds. Bulging forms of _something_ intruded from somewhere else, twisting the air into shapes that tormented the eye.

'We tried to find you milord but the Ahura were too strong, too wary ' the priest grasped for excuses desperately.

'This pathetic remnant of a kingdom was too much for you to bite into?' the sarcasm in Ahriman's voice was scathing. 'And you expect me to reward you for your lazy cowardice? Oh, I can see in your hearts, maggots, and there is not one of you who is worthy of my favor!'

The formless dark shape in the center of the dais, where once the Tree stood, seemed to expand and fill the endless chamber. Its wrath was palpable, and the priest felt that the walls were closing in on him rapidly.

'We killed and sacrificed in your name, O Lord, biding our time for the perfect moment to ' his words trailed off into a gurgle as a thin, red line appeared across his throat. The youngest priest thrust up his bloody knife in the air and cried,

'I give you this spineless traitor, O Lord of Freedom! There is no excuse for our idleness, but give me a chance and I will dedicate my life to atone for my ancestors' sins!'

The room shifted, and the incorporeal presence seemed to focus its attention on the dripping dagger. The other acolytes fell to their knees in prostration, offering similar oaths. The androgynous voice laughed with mirth in their minds.

'You amuse me. Very well, you can start atoning by killing the rest of these fools. If their screams entertain me, I might spare your life.'

The youth turned without a hint of hesitation, and his cowl fell back, revealing a slim, handsome face cropped by short, sun-blonde hair. The flameless light reflected in his dark eyes, and his sensuous, almost feminine lips formed a genuinely delighted smile, words of power already burning bright in his mind.


	21. Chapter 18

"Evening officers!"

The greeting sounded so surreally cheerful, that it stopped the sergeant dead in his tracks. No one in their right mind was so chirpy-bright at this time of the night. As he came to a jarring halt, so did the six-strong patrol behind him. It was not a fancy, practiced and coordinated maneuver; military formation was not a strong suit of the Shusan guard, especially not shortly before dawn. The best they could manage was frantic sidestepping to avoid piling into each other. The sergeant turned to narrow his eyes at the citizen that had hailed them, and was met with the smile of a second-hand camel dealer. It was full of teeth, but so was a shark's mouth, and neither inspired trust.

The man flaunted his wealth with his rich garbs and his immense girth; this was someone who didn't have to be stingy in the marketplace. Money equaled status, and the sergeant had learned early to tread lightly when silk-sandaled feet were around. So he nodded back at him, though without much enthusiasm.

"Greetings to you too," he said, and turned, ready to get back to the monotonous rounds around the walled compound.

"Just a moment, good guardsmen," the man called out again, raising a hesitant hand, as if he felt it was rude to impose.

"What is it?" This time there was no hiding the irritation in the sergeant's voice.

"As a vigilant citizen of this fine city, I feel it's my duty to report that a crime is about to be committed!" There was no panic or desperation radiating from the fat man, just innocent mirth. The sergeant, more than suspecting that a joke was being played on him, raised an eyebrow.

"Where, and what crime?"

"Right here, and right about _now_!" said the man, mildly annoyed that the guard didn't ask the question he had the answer worked out for, and took a step back.

Darker shadows detached themselves from the background of the narrow alley, bows twanged and clubs fell; violence happened. The hyenas of the Shusan underworld descended onto the guards, and in just moments the seven-strong patrol lay dead or dying. Once the brigands were done with their grisly task, Khatu stepped closed to examine the results.

"Well done, my friends," he raised his hand to pat the leader of the thugs on the back, but seeing the drops of blood glistening on his leather jerkin, he thought better of it.

"The fuckers got what they had coming for what they did to my brother," the man said, and spat on the still warm corpse of the sergeant.

"I'm sure Burozzanar's spirit is already pissing into their mouths in the underworld," said the cook, and stepped back, trying to avoid the pools of blood spreading on the ground, slowly merging into one puddle of death.

"I owe you Khatu. I owe you big time. Thanks for helping me avenge my lil' bro." There was genuine gratitude in the man's voice, an emotion that rarely presented itself in murderous lowlifes.

"If the pigs come after one of us like this, that just fucks up everyone's game, man. I did what I had to," Khatu replied, forcing a sincere tone, trying to estimate the number days before the cutthroat realized he had been tricked into murdering an entire contingent of guardsmen. But that was a problem for the future, and he had a busy night ahead of him. "Let's drag the bodies out of sight, and get the hell out of here before another herd of swine comes along."

There were no witnesses to the bloodshed, but from the roof above, a magpie watched with eerily human interest as the men grasped forearms before heading off in separate directions; Khatu back into the city; the thugs towards the river with their gruesome cargo stuffed into rough sacks. The bird turned its head left and right, so both eyes could get a good view, then kicked itself off the edge, and spread its wings. A few forceful beats later it was a dozen yards above the rooftops, where it banked sharply and set off towards the tower looming on the horizon.

It stood four stories high, and rose above the neighboring palace complex like an accusing finger. The structure was made of dark stone, hauled from the mountains at great cost, and put together by the master craftsman of a long-gone generation. The flat roof was littered with seats and benches, and a brazier stood in the middle, unlit. Countless wise men had gazed at the stars through polished crystals from the top, and their steps trod an indelible mark of melancholic introspection into the stones.

The tower was protected by a ten-foot high mudbrick wall, covered from the outside with glazed yellow tiles, built to keep the common men at bay, and the only entrance was guarded by another group of soldiers wearing the same insignia as the men that had just been murdered. With the moon well past its highest point, they looked about as vigilant as bears during the winter solstice, unaware of the fate that had befallen their comrades. A twisting path led past them, through a well-maintained garden, home to dozens of medicinal herbs from all over the Two Rivers and beyond. For some reason long lost to antiquity, the tower showed its back to the gate; as if it was a petulant child pouting in the corner, and so the path looped around it, before delivering visitors at the doorstep.

High above, the magpie banked again and circled the tower, once, twice, descending gradually, while surveying what lay below.

The men guarding the entrance were of a different stock than the guards that were bleeding and not-yet-bleeding around the compound. Shining chain mails, polished helmets, and sharp swords were the dominating features, and though two of the four were sitting on their haunches under the portico of the tower, the other two stood alert, their eyes scanning the darkness of the garden, searching for who-knows-what.

The bird turned again, and now it started to rise, almost vertically, until it reached the top of the tower. It landed on the low wall serving as a guard, and hopped around, peering into the shadows underneath. Movement caught its eye, and it flew off to investigate, maybe hoping for some midnight treats. Where men trod, there was always food to steal.

The guards at the entrance of the compound watched with detached curiosity as a cart slowly rolled by, drawn by two burly oxen. Any interruption was a welcome break from the boredom of the pre-dawn hours; though neither the merchant driving, nor his assistant sitting next to him offered more than a cursory greeting as they creaked past. Their vehicle was loaded with two great barrels, and just as they were about to round the corner and disappear from sight, a loud snap shattered the peace of the night; the rear axle broke in half, and the cart sat down on its ass. The oxen protested at the sudden jerk on their harnesses, and pulled against the weight, but there was little they could do anymore.

The excitement wasn't over just yet. First one, then the other great barrel started to slowly, inexorably slide off the back. The merchant let out a panicky cry, and started to scramble off his seat, but he was slow, too slow. By the time he could get to it, his precious cargo was happily rolling down the road, the stopper shaken loose by the crash, wine flowing freely over the street.

The commotion lured the guards away from their post, and this latest development brought them running to the scene, eager to offer assistance. They gladly provided their helmets to catch the flow, and when they were filled to the brim they drank, toasting the gods, thanking them for this unexpected gift. Around them the merchant and his assistant sputtered and made vain attempts to force the peg back into its hole. It had taken a heavy mallet to hammer it in originally, and hands slippery from wine could do little good here. They repetitiously begged the laughing guards for some actual help, but found little sympathy there.

Far behind them, opposite of the now-abandoned entrance, two shadows emerged from the alley, and crossed the road so swiftly and silently that one wondered if they were ever there at all.

Once inside, the Prince and Elika ducked right, into the bushes, and grew still under the cover of the leaves. They counted to two hundred silently, waiting to see if anyone turned up to investigate the disturbance outside, but the path remained conspicuously empty. Once the time was up, they slid out again, and hurried silently down the gravel path, keeping their heads low. Taking the clear road was a calculated risk; but making their way through the gardens would have created more noise than the Prince deemed acceptable. Even this way, every step made the pebbles creak under their feet, a sound that sent shivers down the Prince's spine. As they drew closer to the back of tower, they forced themselves into a slower, more restricted rhythm, wishing silence on themselves.

Four elites of the Shusan Kingdom waited just around the corner, not the buffoons Agastya and Naram were entertaining outside. Even with the element of surprise on their side, and unleashing the full force of Elika's magic, they couldn't hope to overpower all of them before one sounded the alarm; stealth was their only option. So they tiptoed up to the wall, cringing each time the gravel squeaked, readying their defenses for an enemy that never came running.

When they finally stood under the ancient stones, they began their climb hastily; once they were above eye-height, their chances of being discovered would drop radically. Time, wind and rain had eroded the mortar of the craftsmen of old, and the Prince and Elika could insert their fingers – or in the Prince's case, the tips of his gauntlet - into the horizontal gaps easily. After scaling the walls of the Queen's Tower, maneuvering between ravenous oozes of Corruption, swarms of blood-hungry insects, falling rocks and treacherous Corrupted, the Astronomers' Tower posed little more difficulty than a ladder to the seasoned adventurers.

However, one could fall and break his neck on the stairs of his own house, mused the Prince, reminding himself that cocky thieves got caught. Bravado and boasting were best reserved for the tavern and for the wenches. On the job cool heads prevailed, hotheads died. So he tested each handhold, only moved one limb at a time, and checked frequently on Elika, to make sure she was okay. The girl might have had grown up scaling the cliffs of the valley-kingdom, but there had been no one there to riddle her with arrows if she as much as made a peep. He knew from experience how awful it felt to have someone aim at your exposed back, trying desperately to clamber up to the top, each heartbeat aching with expectation; awaiting that fatal shot.

This time however, they reached the first floor window without drawing any undue attention, and he could breathe a bit easier. This window, like all others above it, was barred, and altogether too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. The only way in, apart from the conventional one, was through the top. He risked a peek over his shoulder, towards the road encircling the entire palace complex, but the wall was too high to give him a view of Agastya and the cart filled with poison-laced wine. That was good; it meant they couldn't see the two of them clinging to the walls like oversized geckos either. They had dressed in matte black for the job, but human eyes were drawn to movement, any movement, and all it would take was for one sentry to look up at the wrong time and they would be exposed.

Slipping into heavily guarded objects undetected was not an easy job, trivial a statement as that may be. But that was what made it worth the effort after all.

"You okay?" he asked the princess.

"Remind me to cut my hair, or at least get some decent pins. It keeps falling in my face."

They talked in whispers barely above the smooth breeze that twirled playfully around the tower.

"Rookie mistake," he said, and while the rough paintbrush of the night smoothed his features into obscurity, she could still feel his signature grin.

"Just keep climbing," she snapped, for lack of a scathing retort, and moved her hand one stone up, pulling and lifting, pushing and grasping, seeking handholds, and all the while hoping that she wouldn't fall, that she wouldn't be spotted, and that she wouldn't draw attention. Unlike most people scaling four story high buildings, the first of these things was surprisingly low on her list of worries. Worst case, she could always unfurl the Wings of Ohrmazd, land safely, and face the consequences. But this would mean more killing, more senseless death while the enemy was growing stronger every minute; this was why she insisted on executing this whole caper entirely without bloodshed. Khatu would lure one group of guards away, Agastya would get the others drunk, and they could slip in and out without having to draw their swords. Getting the old wizard down from his tower posed a challenge, but if he didn't seem up to being lowered from the battlements, there was always flying away, after the Prince made a safe getaway. The plan had sounded better next to the merrily crackling hearth of their room, than it did twenty feet above ground. Now, she wished that they had found some way to disable all the guards, so they could just leisurely stroll in through the main entrance.

She kept telling herself they were almost halfway, that now they'd passed two-thirds, it was soon three-quarters, parceling the teeth-clenching, muscle-torturing distance into manageable packages, playing the same trick humans always did to an impossible task into a series of difficult ones.

She nearly lost her grip just shy of the top, when a startled magpie that had apparently been sleeping peacefully on the top, panicked, and flew up right above her head. She cursed silently, her heart thundering in her ribcage, and pulled herself up the last few feet. She pushed herself over the battlements, and rolled over on the roof, panting, her fingers numb, her arms burning from the effort.

The Prince, not only relying on his gauntlet, but on the quiet confidence born of a decade of experience, had a less stressful way up. He actually had enough energy left to hop over the low wall, and ended up standing over the resting Elika. He turned and peered over the parapet to check if everything was alright behind them, but they had left no mark of their passing, no treacherous ropes hung from the walls, no daggers were left stuck between battered stones. Only when he was satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, did he turn to her.

"We don't have all night, you know. We got a world to save, keep moving." The cheerfulness in his voice rang horribly false even to him, but it still achieved the desired effect: it got a rise out of her.

For the last few days, he had been officially in charge, and he did not let any opportunity go to waste to pull her metaphorical pigtails. He was unquestionably the one with the most expertise in what he would call "professional matters", so the mantle of leadership fell on him. The fact that Elika would instead have called the same thing "common thievery" didn't bother him in the slightest. This authority not only gave him a prime spot in the limelight, but also provided him with ample chance to overrule Elika, simply by the virtue of his greater experience; an exercise he enjoyed tremendously.

There was something in her flashing eyes, in the sight of her flaring nostrils that he found irresistible, so he poked the sleeping dragon again and again with joy glinting in his eyes. They had danced this dance before, and he knew the more infuriated the princess became, the sooner her energies would find an outlet in a way he knew would shock her afterwards. Her buttons were his to push, and push them he did. To complete his victory on this twisted game of dominance, he made sure she knew that he was playing her, and made sure that she knew that he knew that she knew, relishing in thwarting her attempts at regaining control over this spiral of manipulation.

It was a dangerous game to play, sometimes childish, maybe even cruel, but he could no more stop himself setting the bait, than she could stop herself from rising to it, neither in the past, nor in that moment. She pushed herself up from her hard bedding, arms shaking only slightly, and rose to her feet.

"Now, you listen," she began, only to be hushed by the Prince.

"Keep a lid on it, until we make it inside at least," he whispered forcefully, and he turned his back to her, leaving her gaping, and headed to the center of the small landing. The trapdoor opened with a creak that sounded altogether too loud in the dead of night when he lifted it, but no cries of warning rose; after all, nocturnal observations were sort of the purpose of the whole place, not an anomaly warranting investigation. Light greeted them from below, and they cautiously tiptoed down the short flight of stairs, into the highest level of the tower.

"I wondered when, and if, you would come," was the raspy greeting the Prince received as he ducked his head under the low entry, into the wide room occupying the top floor.

"So you received my letter?" he asked nonchalantly, instead of saying any of the thousand things he longed to say. He had imagined being reunited with his mentor over and over, playing out a myriad scenarios in his mind's theatre, but he had to admit, this one hadn't been featured often.

The wizard of the old Nineveh had changed little since they last met; maybe the lines in his face got deeper, his dark eyes seemed even more penetrating, and his silver hair had grown a bit thinner, but he still bore the same close resemblance to an eagle as when the Prince had first met him. His strong, aquiline nose perched over a thin mouth, rare to smile, quick to purse; it betrayed no joy now either.

He was tall, taller than most the Prince had known, and his skin was fairer than anyone he had ever seen, save for a few exotic slaves on the largest markets. It had always been an enigma where Berisath originally hailed from, and those who could answer the question either kept silent, or were long dead.

His age was another mystery, the Prince could only guess that he was well into his sixth decade, maybe even his seventh, but his eyes were still clear and his hearing sharp. All in all, he looked well suited for the role of a court wizard; he cut a fine figure dressed in dark robes, seated royally in his elegant ebony armchair, his staff leaning against the wall next to him.

"I have, and I have to admit, I was taken aback when my dinner contained a scroll from you. I did not expect correspondence in such form."

"We had to make do," shrugged the Prince, and he stepped out of the way as Elika descended the stairs.

She ran her eyes over the circular room, giving it a cursory once-over. Only three slit-windows broke the wall, and furnishings were sparse at best. A massive, elegant writing desk stood on one side, with an inkwell and a few empty parchments arranged neatly on it; that, a chair, and two full scroll-racks represented the only furniture. This was a place for thinking cold, sharp thoughts, not for entertaining guests. There was a purpose hidden behind the starkness of the room that appealed to the intellectual in Elika.

The man seated in front of the desk fit well into the room. Her first thought was that she now understood why the wizard and the thief had had a falling out; this was a man who bore no contradictions, and the Prince was nothing but a walking paradox. He sized her up carefully, as she stepped onto the bare stone floor, and she felt that it wasn't the contours of her body he was searching for, but those of the soul. Whether it was the cold touch of granite under her feet, or the intense scrutiny that made her shiver, she didn't know, but she pulled her already closed vest closer still. She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze, and return the inspection, but it was like trying to see through a wall of bronze.

She was no meek kitten, but the proud princess of a once-mighty nation, still, this time, she was outmatched; Berisath could make a statue look away first. The slightly awkward feeling of having done something wrong that rose in her was only dispelled by the Prince speaking up; his words echoed in the small chamber with confusing overtones.

"Berisath, this is Princess Elika of the House of the Ahura."

Elika took a step closer, trying to regain control, and fought the reflex to bow. Royalty doesn't pay respects first; they only return it, if it so pleases them. Berisath didn't even spare a glance to the Prince, but rose from his seat, bowed deep from his waist, deeper than Elika would have thought a man of his age was capable of.

"Ahe raya hvarenanghaca," he said. His intonation was perfect, but carried just enough accent to tell Elika that it was far from his first language.

"Yatha Ahû vairyo", responded Elika to the greeting. "I was under the impression the knowledge of the Old Speech had been lost outside the kingdom." The wizard allowed himself a small smile, and said,

"Sadly so. But there are a few of us who still care for the ways of the past." The Prince felt a jab wrapped in the sentence, and he knew Berisath rarely said anything he did not mean, and meant a lot of things he didn't say. "Your accent however is even rarer in the outside world than masters of the Avesta are."

"And it will only grow rarer still, I'm afraid," said Elika.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Majesty, if I might inquire?" The politeness in his tone was polished smooth by decades past, hitting the perfect pitches of subservience and humility, while making it crystal clear that she was intruding on his time nonetheless. Her etiquette instructor would have melted at the intricacies hidden in the intonation.

"Dark events have transpired in the East, events that urged us to seek your counsel, esteemed elder," she answered. The ancient wizard sat back, and leaned against the back of his chair, ready to listen to the tale.

"We don't have all night. In short: Ahriman broke free, end of the world, yada yada. We need the scrolls you got from Naram, and we need to spring you so you can help her lock Ahriman back up," said the Prince, and the withering look the wizard gave him made him feel like he was a child interrupting the conversation of grown-ups. Elika simply looked back at the older man, and continued as if she didn't even hear him.

"Your wisdom would be a much-welcomed gift in this hour of need, sir, and so would be the written word you safeguard in this tower."

"Whatever humble services I can offer are at your disposal, Your Majesty. Command me."

"It pains me to ask you this, elder, but do you think it would be possible for you to join us in our search for ways to act against the Ancient Foe?" The Prince stared at them dumbfounded. He understood the need for diplomacy, subtlety, and even excessive politeness, but he felt this was neither the time nor the place. There were swords waiting outside, distractions running, friends risking their lives and the minutes they bought could run out any moment.

Nevertheless, he forced a calm on himself. The plan will hold out as long as it can, and then they will improvise. He took a deep breath and tried to conjure his usual devil-may-care attitude, something that wasn't so easy in the presence of his former master. For him Berisath was a given, always-stable corner of the world, and he had to remind himself that for the princess he was a stranger, and she looked at him with a stranger's eyes. Elika was nothing, if not brutally direct, sometimes to a fault; if she was running in circles like this, she must have had her reasons, and the wise thing would be for him to wait her out, no matter how much he itched to cut in to the conversation.

"You mean instead of waiting under house arrest until the priestesses convince the weak-willed buffoon they call a King to serve them my head on a platter?" asked Berisath with a bitter laugh. "If not for the threat of the world ending; I would still accompany you. I have lived long, but I have not lived nearly long enough. I do have a question though. How are you planning to get me out of here, if I might ask? I'm afraid scaling walls is an exercise that would prove too much for this frail body."

"We have come up with several alternate exit strategies that avoid blood being shed, but as time is somewhat of the essence, I humbly suggest you start gathering whatever you find you cannot do without, while we discuss them," said Elika. The Prince winced mentally at the mention of bloodshed; the decision to let Khatu handle the patrol in the most efficient manner rested solely on him. Protecting her was his job, whether from blades of the enemy or from self-doubt coming from within. While he watched in shamed silence, the others continued to talk.

"I have to confess your offer didn't find me entirely unprepared; I took the liberty of arranging a pack of medium-term necessities. However the scrolls you asked for are not among them, Your Majesty." He rose from his seat again, more unfolding than standing up. "If you would be so kind as to follow me."

The stairs down lead to another chamber of the same size; this one clearly served as a library. Scroll racks hugged the walls, and a large file-case with maybe a hundred slots for burned clay tablets stood in the middle. Berisath stepped to the right without hesitation, and took four identical elm-wood cases off the top shelf.

"These are the texts in question," he said, and slid them into a large knapsack just by the stairs. "So how do you propose we escape this tower? I hope I don't have to point it out that I'm under heavy guard."

The Prince cleared his throat, and stepped forward. This was his moment.

"Well, here is what we thought…"

The guards thanked the gods many times for their good fortune; Quingu, the Lord of the Night truly took pity on them. As they "helped" the merchant to plug the hole in his barrel, more and more helmets were filled with the freely flowing wine. Much more went to waste on the street as it seeped between the cobblestones, but they cared little for that; there was more than enough to go around.

The magpie now sat on the garden wall, his elegant, black and white tail bobbing up and down as he hopped around, peering comically at the proceedings below. The merchant's wailing gradually lessened as the guards' speech started to slur; and for as experienced drinkers as one would expect upstanding members of the armed forces to be, it started to slur too soon indeed. When the first one fell over and couldn't get up again, Agastya and Naram gave up all pretense. They just leaned against the wall and watched as the poison worked its magic.

"They are not too smart, are they?" asked Naram.

"This shall serve as an object lesson that man should not fall prey to base instincts," nodded Agastya, with his chest swelling with pride after a well-done caper.

There was no judgment in the magpie's eyes at their smug expression, and there was no other witness at this hour of the night: this was not a district for brothels or taverns, but for fine homes of affluent citizens who all slept behind heavily bolted doors. If they had been aware of what was going on in front of their gates, they did not make their attention known; all knew better than to seek trouble, especially when it involved affairs that did not concern them.

The effects of the poison were not subtle, not after it took hold in its victims. Soon all the gatekeepers were out cold, some laying in the pools of their own piss and vomit. Agastya and Naram didn't even bother to drag them away before they retreated into the shadows of the nearest alley; anyone passing the gatehouse would notice that things were amiss anyway. They could only hope their comrades would do their part before things turned sour. Above them the magpie kicked off the wall, flitted down to the wine-soaked mud and thoroughly scrutinized it with first one eye, then the left. It was startled by the feeble groan of a man lying under the broken cart, and it took off, veering back towards the safety of the tower.

It did not find safe landing there either. A creature too large to be an owl was perched on the parapet, right above the main entrance of the tower, and was peering down expectantly.

"Help! Help! Assassins!" came Berisath's shout from below. The Prince grinned, and stood up, his silhouette clear against the night sky. He watched as the four elites rushed in to investigate the clamor inside, and simply stepped off the low wall, turned in the air, and slammed the claws of his gauntlet into the stone. The work of the unknown genius didn't fail him; the gleaming metal tips sunk a fraction of an inch into the stone. It was not much, but it was more than enough.

He slammed against the wall, and his feet found purchase. He put his weight on his right leg, lifted his left slightly off the wall, and let gravity do the rest. The screech of steel against stone seemed deafeningly loud after half an hour of sneaking around inside, but the racket Elika and the wizard were making more than drowned it out.

Now he had only three floors to go, now only two… and the doorway still stood abandoned. His focus was entirely on the stonework gliding past him: a slight shift in the texture, an irregular gap in the mortar could send him plunging to his… well, not death, but a rather unpleasant landing at least.

The sounds from inside were convincing enough; male and female shouts, clanging of blades, sounds of furniture being toppled, all the necessary props of a failed assassination attempt. It was joined by the regular thuds of the guards trying to break down the door to the second level; the door that the three of them spent a quarter of an hour reinforcing with every possible measure they could come up with.

Now all he had to do was close the outside door behind them and slam the heavy bolt in place, the bolt that was installed only weeks before by the very same guards. The plan sounded solid back in the Dawn's Wonder, but no plan survives contact with the enemy. The first obstacle in this case presented itself as the helm of one of the elites appearing in the doorway, in a hurry to get help.

The Prince yelled a battle cry, and dropped the rest of the distance. The two feet that separated him from the guard gave him enough momentum to topple the man when he landed feet-first on his shoulders. The Prince rolled, ignoring the stunned soldier for the moment, and jumped at the door. He saw the three men inside turning, jerking their head back at the commotion, and their eyes grew wide as they understood the trap they had walked into.

Glee filled the Prince at the sight, as he slammed the door shut and slid the heavy cypress bolt in its place. He lived for moments like this; for the victory of the fox outwitting the dogs. His happiness didn't last long though.

He more felt than heard the approaching blade. He twisted out of the way, but too late. Metal bit into his left shoulder and his teeth sang from the pain of it coming to a halt in the bone. He jumped away from the wall, his blood pumping in thick bursts. He parried the next slash with the back of his gauntlet, narrowly escaping being eviscerated. He took another step back, to gain enough space to pull his sword, but he tripped over something and fell backwards, landing with a bone-jarring thud.

The soldier wasted no time in gloating; he just pushed on relentlessly. In the darkness of the night only his dark eyes shone, his face framed by a thick, dark beard and his helmet; a square of white, promising death. Now that freeing his sword in time had become hopeless, the Prince rather grabbed one of his throwing crosses and flung it at the man. The angle was all wrong and he couldn't put enough strength behind the throw to cause any lasting harm, but it still penetrated his leather jerkin and drew blood, and more importantly, it gained him a few precious heartbeats.

The Prince used the seconds this move bought him to roll over his shoulder, and the world flashed white from the pain. He rose with blade in hand, just in time to parry another powerful blow aimed for his head. He danced back, trying to put some distance between them. The Shusan circled him slowly, knowing that the blood loss would weaken him more with every passing minute. The Prince wasn't in a hurry either to test his blade against the guard's; but he couldn't allow him to figure that.

"Walk away and you will be a rich man," he said. He faked a lunge at him, and stepped back before the riposte could reach him.

"And betray my comrades? Never! But if you give yourself up, I will make sure you get a light sentence."

"We both know that's not how it works," said the Prince, shaking his head. "At least let me go. You can have the others. Just say I ran, and this pouch is yours," his voice was level, as he reached for the sack hanging on his belt. It was empty now of course, the tinkling of coins would have been too much of a giveaway in the dead of the night; but there was no way the guard could have known that.

"I think I will just wait until you bleed to death, while my friends make short work of yours. Your sword looks fancy enough, maybe I will keep it." The guard's tone was almost conversational. He knew the thief would make a final lunge before his strength ran out, and he was prepared for it. The deck was stacked in his favor. So when the Prince's eyes flickered up, and behind him, he ignored it as a feint; there was no way the other intruders could have descended the tower that fast.

He only took mortal means of descent into account, and that proved his undoing. Elika floated soundlessly to the ground, and hovered gently on the Wings of Ohrmazd just a couple of inches above the grass, the elderly wizard holding awkwardly onto the much smaller girl.

"I think you won't," she said, and pushed Berisath away at the same time. The guard was no fool, he took a half step back while turning, moving both of them into his field of view, instead of offering his back to the Prince in surprise, like he had expected him to.

"Hurry!" he called out, "They are all outside!" At the same time, he started to back away. The dice had turned; now he was at a distinct disadvantage.

"We don't have time for this," said the Prince, stepping up to Elika. "Take care of him, please."

Elika let out a heavy sigh; she pressed hard during the planning to avoid more senseless killing; every life lost was a victory for Ahriman, but in the end it still came down to this. It was one thing to strike at advancing foes in self-defense, but this man was retreating, not attacking, and as far as she could tell he did nothing wrong apart from serving his king and city.

"Come on, we don't have all night! That door is thick, but not that thick," the Prince urged her; and indeed the door of the tower behind them shook against the repeated strikes from the three furious guards inside. The bolt on it was meant to hold against a frail, old astronomer, not three soldiers at the peak of their strength.

She shot him a poisonous look and raised her left hand gracefully. The Shusan shifted the blade in his hand, not knowing what to expect. The last thing he saw was a flash of bright light, then everything went blind-white. He grasped for his eyes, the sword clattering from his hand; trying to claw the burning out. Only minutes later did his eyesight return, well after his comrades broke the bar the Prince slid home across the only entrance to the tower; the tower that served as home for four years to the wizard of fallen Nineveh.

By that time Elika, Berisath and the Prince were several blocks away, in the company of Naram and Agastya. They hurried with determined steps down the main highway heading west; while the alarm would soon go up behind them, it would take a while to spread, and they ran well ahead of it.

The stable that held a dozen horses and their gear was not far ahead; nor did the bribed guard at the gates raise any trouble. They left Susa in the dead of the night, riding out in tense silence. No bells rang, no shouts or pursuit came; it would take days till anyone would put the details of their escape together.

By that time, the famous cook and his family would be long gone to the north, seeking new employment. Maybe it was time for Khatu to open his own inn. A fancy place, for a refined clientele. But if his friend was to be believed, then it would be a good idea to travel far, far away before investing in any kind of real-estate…


	22. Chapter 19

_A/N Thank you guys for the reviews! Dont worry the story is neither dead, nor abandoned, but flowing slowly, slowly as ever (19 chapters in three and a half years. Not exactly what I would call fast paced by any measure). I am once again in a position in my life that I have enough energy and creativity to write an hour or two every evening, so at least for the foreseeable future there will be occasional updates :) _

_Anyway, it was really nice that even after half a year of silence there were still people reading the updates and leaving comments. Thank you all!_

Rare were the moments when the Sun shone above the fallen kingdom of the Ahura, and they grew rarer with each passing week. Day and night no longer held any meaning under the oppressive cover of nightmare-black clouds. Neither the creatures that sulked in the gloom, nor their master had much use for light, but the Acolyte found, much to his irritation, that he could not do his task without it. So pale-yellow witchlights followed him as he moved from room to room, plundering the treasures of the once-mighty city.

It was neither gold nor gems he was after, though he found enough of both in hidden vaults and underground chambers, long lost to the city's last inhabitants. What the Acolyte was looking for was something far more valuable – knowledge. His search led him under the ruins of the City, under the labyrinth of sewers once carrying the waste of tens of thousands, past hidden doors, long-defunct traps and still very much alive magics.

But these spells of protection had been erected by the likes of him, well after the turning point of the last Great War, when the armies of Light had marched on the city, eager to retake it. When Ahriman had disappeared, lured into a fatal trap by his, brother and the Corrupted were left to their own devices. The servants of Ohrmazd pursued them triumphantly across the great plains that now were a barren wasteland, and the champions of the dark god fell one-by-one to their swords and spells. The Hunter screamed futilely in his fortress, stealing out every night to cut a bloody trail through the camp of the approaching army, trying to douse the flame of a world rising in righteous anger with tiny drops of deathly rain. The Warrior struggled desperately to organize his brethren into a semblance of an army, cursing the discord amongst them; the Concubine laughed madly from atop her tower, crowing prophecies of doom; the Alchemist locked himself in his laboratory, working on weapons that would somehow turn the tide till the very moment the battering rams of the Ahura tore down the gates of his den. Without Ahriman, they lost their purpose; without Ahriman they were little more than squabbling children. Deadly, disfigured, dangerous children, but children nonetheless.

But not all of the Corrupted were blinded by the tremors of the approaching doom, and not all abandoned their master in his defeat. Some still stood strong and prepared for their lord's return instead of delaying their own inevitable demise.

Tomes bound in man-hide, passed down through hundreds of generations, held the names of the missing Corrupted, the loyal ones neither vanquished nor imprisoned by the victors. The Shadowsmith, the Earthshaper.

The Soothsayer.

Deep beneath the former capital of the Ahura, they hid their prophecies and surrounded them with the strongest spells of secrecy and protection they could erect, while their dark empire crumbled around them. They were the only ones true to Ahriman, and their own blood and life provided the last seal for their greatest work. As the last line of defensive spells sizzled futilely against his cloak of magic, the Acolyte stepped over their bones, careful not to crush the disfigured skull of what once had been the Earthshaper, or disturb the still maliciously shimmering pile of remains that must have been the Shadowsmith.

When he cast the final stone door open, the room revealed to him was disappointing. He expected great tomes, the symbols of magic tattooed on backs of virgins, flayed alive. He expected dragontooth talismans brimming with power, swords glinting with dark promise. Instead, he found five stone tablets laying on the barren floor, barely larger than two palms put together, each hastily inscribed in an alphabet he could not read, or even identify. He picked them up one by one, turning them in his fine, fine fingers. No matter how humble their appearance were, the legends handed down through hundreds of generations in the dark priesthood were clear. This was supposed to be something that could one day decide the fate of the world, and he had no reason to start doubting the stories of his forebears now.

The creature that once was the youngest priest of the Anshan chapter, chuckled at some joke only known to him, and after giving a final check to the tiny cell, he swept out, clutching the precious tablets to his chest.

* * *

The air grew less and less cold with every night as they ventured northwest. It was not the chill of the desert they had to worry about anymore, but the buzzing of mosquitoes. The constant siege they laid on men and beast alike was a new experience for Elika, but not at all pleasant. The herbs Agastya threw on the fire only meant temporary reprieve at best, and only if one sat in the way of the throat-scalding smoke. She considered letting a thread of magic escape and cleanse the area of this mundane scourge, but she felt it would be an undeserving waste of her gift.

So every evening, as the sun set and the swarms of blood-hungry flies rose from the marsh, she wrapped herself in thick cloth, despite the sweltering heat. In moments like these, she missed the cool days in her valley, and shook her head at the foolish girl who had longed for adventures.

There wasn't much talk around the campfire the first nights, more like several quiet conversations. There was nothing binding the five of them together apart from a distant purpose; certainly no friendship or camaraderie. Sometimes even common courtesy seemed too much to ask for, so it was no surprise that Naram and Berisath whispered together every evening, of their life in Susa, and their goal of Babylon. They talked of stars, constellations, ascendants. They talked of mathematics and geometry, on a level far beyond her understanding.

Opposite of them sat Agastya and the Prince, lost in their own little world of intrigue and espionage. They played a name dropping game, discussing contacts and favors owed. Elika understood somewhere that they did this for her, sharing secrets of their trade with one another, but she still felt terribly left out. She was welcome to listen in, but neither man was focused on her, and there was nothing she could contribute. She tried to pay attention anyway, but the sheer amount of information weighed her down. They each seemed to know more people than the number that had lived in her entire kingdom, and both seemed capable of keeping in mind the complex network of debts, feuds, oaths and vendettas that bound the sprawling underworld of Babylon together. She was soon lost among the alien-sounding names, and instead just stared into the fire, scratching occasionally at the bites on her leg.

Traveling seemed less and less glorious with each passing day, and the images a teenage mind had conjured from descriptions on brightly painted pages not so long ago seemed ludicrous. She longed for that simple time, yet understood with painful clarity that she would never get the innocence back.

She did not sleep easy whenever they turned in for the night.

* * *

Murderer, they called him. Fratricide. Stones flew, as they chased him out of the village, into the desert, to die. That was the harshest punishment they knew, to cast out the sinners into the unforgiving wasteland. They stood at the edge of the last mould-infested barley field at the border of their pathetic village, with clubs and slingshots in hand. If he tried to return, they would kill him, they shouted.

So he walked into the barrens without looking back. He could probably sneak back during the night, and if they posted sentries, he'd wet his knife with their blood. He had known them all since they were kids and played in the mud together. He was sharper, faster, and smarter than any of them. But even he couldn't take down the entire village. He could slit the throat of two, three, set fire to the barn, make them starve till harvest-time, but as he glanced behind him at the line of men gripping their scythes and spades in whitening fists, their faces masks of hate, he was suddenly inundated with uncaring cold. The past was the past, it was time to focus on survival.

He turned again, and shut the shouts out. He stared at the desert stretching ahead of him as far as the eye could see, and started to walk. He would not be able to name any reason why he picked that spot on the horizon, only that he felt something calling from the distance, a whisper promising a place for him in the greater scheme of things. Promising power. Promising revenge.

He knew not what lay beyond the lands that he knew from his childhood, knew nothing of the greater world at all, but the call grew stronger with every breath he took, filling his heart with purpose and bringing spring back into his step as he started the long walk.

* * *

As they approached the delta of the Tigris, the land became more and more populated. The scenery slowly changed and the days grew ever warmer. The marshes gave way to cultivated land, neat little canals parceling the earth into tracts, everywhere where men settled and called a piece of land their own. The villages they passed melted into each other in one blurry memory in Elika's mind, simple and senseless, like the lives of their inhabitants. Uniform clusters of mudbrick hovels dotted the old trade road at an hour's ride from each other.

And the same show played in every village they rode through. First the dogs began to bark to announce that strangers approached; then naked or half-naked kids ran out from between the houses. They were neither shy, nor afraid of strangers; anything but. They tugged at the hem of their clothes, grinning widely, asking their names and where they came from.

At first Elika smiled at their antics, but the questioning always inevitably turned to begging for gifts of money or food, turning the smiles sour. By this time those not working the fields were out on the road as well, offering baskets of fruit or flatbread baked that morning. For tiny slivers of silver, they could get as many oranges as they could carry or huge slices of cool, fresh watermelon to combat the heat of the noon sun. They never slowed down though; as Turva, the last of Agastya's guards rode east from Susa, there was now only five of them, and if the men had time to get back from the fields, the friendly exchange could easily turn into daylight robbery.

The nights around the campfire changed slowly as well. They whispered of magic in the night, poring over the crumbling scrolls Naram had stolen from the library over a decade before. It took three of them to make headway; only the scribe could read the ancient Avestan script, only the wizard could unravel the meaning carefully wrapped in flowery metaphors, and in the end, only Elika could call forth the power and give it shape. All along Agastya hovered above them, never interfering, but always listening, committing everything to memory.

Only the Prince set himself apart bundled in his quilt, watching night after night from the other end of whatever small clearing they sat camp at that night. He watched her frown, trying to wrap her mind around a new truth about the world, watched her gesticulate wildly, arguing interpretation, and watched her face light up with exuberant delight in the white-bright of a new spell mastered.

He watched her, and his eyes searched the darkness for tell-tale glints of the firelight reflecting off an eye, for a rustle of leaves not caused by the slight breeze, ever wondering who else was listening in on their conversation. He had not forgotten who they were up against in this fool's errand of a quest, and he alone knew the cold touch of Ahriman's will. Just the memory was enough to make him shiver in the sultry Babylonian night, and jolt him awake whenever he felt himself drifting off.

* * *

There were easier ways of getting around than walking these days. The Acolyte just stepped off the balcony and the wings of his cloak unfurled, arresting his fall. He floated silently across the sky, over the Valley, towards the palace Ahriman was building around the skeletal remains of the Tree of Life. Tiers and tiers of corruption-blackened stone formed the structure, and though it was far from finished, the Acolyte saw something in it that went far beyond the possibilities of human imagination. The lines flowed into each other, every pillar, every arch, each balcony just a small part of a bigger pattern. But if you looked closely enough at the places where the mindless slaves were done with their chisel-work, you could see the same pattern repeating in minute detail on every possible surface. And if you stared long enough, it seemed to come to life slowly, pulsing with malignant purpose.

Just stepping foot on one of its many balconies filled the Acolyte's heart to the brim with dark magic. He had no need for the words of power anymore, not as long as his Lord was near. What he had learned in the short weeks since he entered His servitude already surpassed the slivers of knowledge he had painstakingly gathered over a decade.

It had taken him longer than he thought it would, but now he felt he finally had something to offer to his master. It was always better to make sure, than to hasten to report; Ahriman had infinite patience but little tolerance for failure. However, the Acolyte felt that the news could not wait, even if his translation was incomplete.

So far he had toed the line well, and the transformations his body went through were his reward. He had left his frail human form far behind. His skin, wrapped in a dark cape day and night, sagged from the lack of flesh, but his sinews gained strength a hundredfold. He grew taller, and his once-handsome face was now distorted by an almost mantis-like jaw. He had hair no more; instead his bare, off-white scalp glistened with tattoos of power no mortal artist could draw.

He still had a terrible symmetry about him, a beauty surpassing human comprehension, alluring and deadly at the same time. Whoever stared into his iris-less eyes would be staring into the face of a calculating intelligence greater than their own.

Still, annoying parts of humanity lingered here and there. He couldn't help the quenching feeling in his throat as he marched towards the central chamber buried deep inside the structure; bringing bad news to a dark god was never a wise career move.

* * *

Another hard day's ride, another campfire strewn with the litter of a thousand travelers before them. They sat together, Agastya and Berisath. Sleeping on hard ground, spending weeks in the saddle didn't come as easy as it had used to in the days of their youth, and the Aryan was old enough to know how much worse the wizard had it. They talked little, and when they did it was in short, economic sentences. A grudging respect had developed between the two, as a courtesy between two professionals. They acknowledged each other's skill, if not the role they played in the Prince's life. The contradiction was glaring between the two; the wizard had taught the young man how to think, how to act, how to lead, while the spy gave him lessons in murder, treachery and survival.

Still, they both knew that one could not always choose one's allies, and it wasn't the first time they had to rise above personal differences for some greater goal in either man's life.

They talked little.

More was said with the pauses between the words, and even more was not said at all. But bit by bit the Aryan worked through the shadow of secrecy veiling the Prince's history from before he had come to Babylon, and the wizard learned some of what happened since.

They both watched the Prince through the dance of the flames, two halves of a vision merging into a greater whole. Thief and scholar became one in front of their eyes; not a child anymore, not a pupil, not an empty jar, theirs to fill with meaning and purpose, but a man walking a path of his own.

* * *

Vultures circled above him, descending lower and lower with each weakening step he took. Long gone were the contents of his waterskin, long gone the strips of dried meat from his pouch. He walked in the night, and he walked in the day, for if he stopped he would not be able to get up again. Desert wind bit gnashed into his skin, and sandflies crawled in the cracks and wounds, already marking their claim before he was even dead.

He walked on, through sheer willpower, fueled by hatred, lured by the siren-song of vengeance promised. The dark clouds on the horizon grew closer with each trembling step he took, but not fast enough. He knew he would perish before he reached the mystical goal he felt calling him, yet he walked on.

The ground was hard when he fell at last, but not as hard as he had expected. It was a relief really, no longer having to push through the burn of muscles tortured far beyond exhaustion. It was a relief to finally give in and wait for the vultures to descend.

The sound he heard was not at all like he expected. Instead of the scratching of evil claws, it was a soft thud on the ground just like the sound a pair of heavy boots would make. He cracked his swollen eyes open just to a sliver. Maybe if he could catch the bird, tear open its neck and drink from the salty, bitter blood, he could get one more boost of strength, but even as he thought it, he knew there wasn't enough left in him to push himself up one more time, much less to fight off the predators.

Instead of gnarled bird feet he saw sleek black pants, ending in calf-skin boots. _Something_ shivered in the air, and his back curved in pain beyond anything the desert had inflicted on him. Black lightning licked his thousand cuts; burning them closed, black lightning scorched his veins filling him with unholy energy.

He groaned heavily as he pushed himself to all fours, thick, gooish drool dripping from lips that hadn't known water for three days now. A hand appeared in his field of vision, sleek fingers clad in velvet-soft leather gloves.

"Come brother, He awaits you."

He arrived home.

* * *

They avoided each other day after day. In a company of five, it was no easy feat, but they managed. Furtive looks cast at the other's back when no one was looking, and accidental brushes of hand were all they permitted themselves.

They made no accord to hide the bonds between them; it was just the way things were. Virgin queens didn't take thieves as lovers, nor did the Prince wish to endure Berisath's judgment at his choice of paramour. It was easy to pretend she did not know the strength of his arms, easy to hide his longing for the taste of her lips.

Inappropriate quips and barbed retorts faded into polite smiles and proper conversation. Not to subservient tones of the vassal addressing his ruler, but rather to the forms of cordial friends of equal birth. Elika felt time and again the steel-gray eyes of Berisath watching their exchange, and felt a nagging thought at the back of her mind trying to let her know something important.

Seeing the wizard and the rogue ride side-by-side, she found a new side of the Prince, one eager for approval, but reluctant to admit it. She found him diminished by it, yet at the same time couldn't stop herself from seeking approval from Naramholan.

It was one thing to take the road with uncouth strangers from distant lands, and another altogether to ride with one who knew the faded glory of the City of Light. They shared a connection, him and her, having seen the best and worst mankind had to offer. His presence reminded her of the morals she once upheld, and made her weigh her past actions again. He spoke no judging words, made no comments, but she felt his dark eyes on her, the thoughts behind them inscrutable.

The Prince and her, they hid what they felt with perfect masks, good enough to confuse even one another. The vibrant connection between them, so apparent in the shard-sharp moments of danger sizzled out during the monotony of travel. He could look at her and have no inkling what she was thinking, propriety leaving him no ways to probe her thoughts.

Still, in a rare moment when Berisath and Naram played one of their complicated games with colored pebbles, with Agastya hovering over them as a particularly fat hawk, his hand found hers, and gave a soft squeeze. One guilty look was all they could allow themselves, one moment of gazes locking, trying to convey everything words could not.

The promise in his eyes left her blushing all night.

* * *

The children died first.

It started with dark spots on little bellies, appearing on every child of the village the same morning. It itched, they scratched, and the dark marks spread as the black rot on crops. Soon their entire front ached. They started to throw up, first their lunch, their previous dinner, then their blood. There is a surprising amount of blood in a five year old, if you squeezed them dry slowly enough.

No herbs were of any use, no ointments or tea. Neither did prayer or sacrifice at the tiny stone altars at the edge of the village, one by one they all died in excruciating pain.

The houses turned white with mourning, and a row of little graves appeared by the riverside. There was no explanation; some said it was the spirit of the marshes angered, some claimed it was the gods that had struck them, for their sacrifices had been found wanting, some blamed the Medean merchant passing through a week before for bringing malady from distant lands.

The women were next.

Eyes clouded, then turned milky. The men cried and desperately pleaded with the gods to have mercy on them, as their wives lay on their cots, blind. Slowly the eyes turned into cankerous sores, bursting with foul black liquid. The lucky ones perished from the trauma, the others clung to life as the same black rot spread over their body that had consumed their children. They could neither move nor suffer the touch of clothing or bedding, sobbing tearlessly and moaning in helpless pain. There was no doubt left anymore that this was the work of the vilest magic.

Priests were called in from Hybra, and they brought with them golden idols and silver sacrificial plates. They looked at the dying and horror filled their hearts. The weak ones fled back to the city, and the brave began to purify the land. They sacrificed wheat and chicken and bulls to the unseen, trying to placate the demon intent on destroying the small settlement.

They weren't spared either, when the third plague came. It was more insidious than the first two, but no less cruel. It did not attack the body, but the soul. The surviving men slowly descended into madness, their desperate anger turning them against each other. Even as they grew weaker and weaker with each passing day, they attacked one another on the street, snuck into once life-filled hovels at night, viciously stabbing their neighbors, as if more death would recall the living.

From the hundred that once lived in the small village where the red earth of the desert and the black earth of arable land met, only a dozen remained when he strode into town. A lot had changed in the month since he was cast out to die. There was no more laughter on the streets, no games of hide and seek played in the fields, no gossip over the laundry by the riverside. He had changed as well; he was taller now, his shoulder broader, his waist almost impossibly thin. His broken skin had never healed, rather the Acolyte's magic had filled the welts up with Corruption, and every step he took was accompanied by a stab of agony.

A cruel reminder that power always came at a price.

His long strides betrayed little of the pain inside; it was something he had learned to live with, just like his hatred. His face contorted into the parody of a smile as he stepped into the once-tidy hut he had lived in for the first two-score years of his life.

His father and brother, tortured by the plague, but still alive, drew back in delirious horror at the sight of him.

The sun set, and the sun rose, and he left the hut behind. The screams quieted to gurgles around midnight, and quieted completely as the dawn arrived. The creature that strode back into the desert, from whence it came, carried nothing with it from its childhood home, and left nothing behind, but the dead.

The Blightbringer rejoined his master, having severed his last links to humankind.

* * *

Jealousy was for fools. That was the mantra he kept repeating to himself as he rode by Berisath. There was lot he needed to tell the wizard, so much that he did not know where to begin. There were hard things to say, apologies to make for mistakes of the past, words of the student to his master. But there were other topics as well, ones he did not dare to bring up even in the privacy of the campfire. Secret words of war and vengeance in a tongue seldom spoken in the lands of the two rivers.

So he rode mutely and watched Elika and Naram talk animatedly about magic in the language they shared. Training even a devotee of Ohrmazd in the ways of sorcery was a tedious process at best, for one who bore neither the knowledge of Avestan or the prayers it was a hopeless endeavor. He understood the reasoning behind her choice of apprentice but it did not mean that he liked it.

Jealousy was for fools. They whispered no binding words, exchanged no promises. He had neither right, nor reason to feel this way. He knew the scribe had no designs on Elika, it was clear from every look he gave her that she was the sacred, untouchable queen, blessed with holy powers by beings beyond this world, and neither did he detect behind Elika's smiles anything but simple joy at finally sharing something fantastic with someone else. He knew the other smiles: the special ones were reserved only for him. He alone knew the taste of her skin, heard her gasp as the final barriers gave, held her as she shuddered in the grip of ecstasy.

The daydreams were shattered by her innocent laugh, when Naram finally brought the tiniest spark into the world. A feat that took three weeks of hard practice, countless explanations, demonstrations, and when all else failed, joint meditations, with her directing the flow of magic inside the scholar directly; an intimacy she would never share with him, thought the Prince bitterly.

He mused on what he would say to her if he could, and resolved for the hundredth time that when they reached Babylon, they would sit down and talk. Really talk. And until then…

Jealousy was for fools.

* * *

"Speak."

Ahriman wore a thousand faces. Today the Acolyte knelt in front of an eerily beautiful young man, painfully similar to the form he lost when he entered the servitude of his Lord. He did not know if it was a gentle mockery, a cruel reminder of prices paid for power, but Ahriman never did anything without intent.

"O Lord of Sky and Earth, I bring grave warnings passed down through the eons."

He lifted the stone tablets, never tearing his gaze from the ground. Ahriman seemed to demand little in devotion from his Corrupted, but this day it paid to be extra cautious. The Acolyte was no fool; he was riding the tiger and he knew it.

"Speak."

The words were soft as the dying breath of kitten, and loud as a tree-splitting thunder. Reality was thin in this inner sanctum, the walls too far even to fit inside the mighty palace the mindless drones built, the swirling mist too filled with inquisitive intent to fit into the lead-heavy world of the lands under the Sun. This was Ahriman's realm, formed to please its master.

"I unearthed the prophecies of the Soothsayer. Him, and two others, the Shadowsmith and the Earthshaper gave their lives to guard these secrets."

"Her."

The correction was abrupt, unexpected.

"My lord?"

"The Soothsayer was a woman before she entered my service. Kings from distant lands prostrated themselves before her, begging her to lift the veil from the future, and she bowed to none of them. None, but me."

The youth that was neither young, nor man, took a step back and ran a graceful finger down the first line of runes. The Acolyte raised his head cautiously, ready to look away, if his gaze seemed to offend, but the avatar seemed to ignore him. He looked like the epitome of perfection, one that even temple-statues of polished marble could not hope to achieve. Smooth skin, toned muscles, noble lines. It was the eyes that gave it all away; no irises, no pupils, just pools of almost benevolent blackness.

"She warned me, when we received rumors of Ohrmazd abandoning his people to meditate in the mountains. She warned me it was a trap. I still went; the allure of ending the war with one decisive strike was too great. And now the mighty empire of the Ahura is destroyed, the white fire is doused, I'm free, and I will be soon as powerful as before. This is the problem with mortals, even with likes of you," the god said, turning to the Acolyte. "You don't know how to think long-term."

The Acolyte listened with intense concentration. Never before had his master spoken like this. Could a god be nostalgic for mortal servants? That was impossible. This was a test, a lesson. Ahriman never did anything without purpose.

"What does the prophecy say?"

"Most of it foretells things that already happened, including your eventual freedom," began the Acolyte, picking his words with care. One did not remind a god of his ten thousand years long imprisonment.

"Parts spoke of your conquest of the world, and the glory that will be had by all who follow you."

"Yes," said the youth, flipping through the tablets. The Acolyte wondered fleetingly if Ahriman could read the runes. He was neither omnipotent, nor omniscient, just close to it, as his defeat in the previous war proved it.

"I can only give an approximate translation, as they are written in a language of riddles, and I think the Soothsayer left them intentionally open to interpretation, and some runes were damaged to the point of illegibility, but they warn that the war was not won, but abandoned. One more enemy remains. 'The Light cast by Shadow', she calls it."

He took no steps. One moment he stood five paces away, next moment he held the Acolyte's chin in his grave-cold hands, forcing him to look upward. Specks of blue danced in the onyx eyes, and the walls of the mighty chamber seemed to grow closer.

"Continue."

The air pulsed with intensity, and felt slimy in the Acolyte's mouth.

"She speaks of sparks rekindling flames long-doused, but there is more, she shows us a chink in the enemy's armor."

He struggled to get out of the words as fast as he could; the impatience of a god was a pressure no mortal will could hope to hold out against.

"Five she speaks of; five that bear Ohrmazd's standard. She gives no names just epithets. She calls them

Thief-that-returns

Wise-unsung

Wizard-that-dies

Prophet-of-lands-past

Traitor-of-old."

___A/N Everyone is allowed to make their guesses, but, and I say this with a certain amount of smugness, don't worry, you will be wrong :)_


	23. Chapter 20

_Thank you guys for reviewing! You are awesome!_

_Elibeejay, just out of curiosity, who lead you to me? _

_Azazel: don't worry, more chapters are coming :) Sometimes slower, and hopefully now a bit faster, that RL quieted down again!_

_Omegalus: my understanding is that Elika's father was permanently defeated along with the old Corrupted. I had no plans to bring him back (that part of the drama felt a bit forced even back in the game to me)_

_Grafferu: I am blatantly stealing from Glenn Cook when it comes to naming policies. And none of the three betas got more than one out of five right, so thankfully I had not spoiled any story turns with foreshadowing_

_Polly: we have been married for over half a year :) And our PoP fanfics have started it all :) _

Chapter 20:

Shamash already rode high in the sky when they passed through the mighty gates of Babylon, Queen of the World (according to her denizens. Others applied other, similarly colorful epitaphs like The Great Whore or Mother of Shit-filled Canals. But all critiques agreed on two things: that the city was female, and whether in smell or riches, but there was no other like her.)

Elika craned her neck trying to take in the sheer size of the guard-towers flanking the gate. Nine men tall they towered above her, the blue-glazed tiles twinkling merrily in the glare of the sun, preaching of the riches of the city that lay beyond. The Ishtar road stretched out as far as she could see ahead, a wide avenue, a faultless blue line cutting through the entirety of the city.

Six chariot wide, intersecting four times with other roads of the same size, it was just one of the many arteries that kept the commerce flowing. On its walls thousands of golden lion-reliefs stood guard, watching the passers-by. A quarter of a million people thronged the streets of Babylon every day and merchants from three continents haggled on its thousand markets for all that man could desire. Sons of Abraham bartered with servants of the Dragon Emperor, trading cedar from Lebanon for silk of the Jade Empire and fat, brown men, kin of Agastya, brought jewels and finely carved statues of ivory in exchange for the gold of the Pharaohs, extracted as tribute from the far-off kingdom of Nubia.

This was Babylon, where the rich lived in walled houses and sacrificed daily to the gods, where the poor warded off demons with burying pots at the crossroads, where ten thousand students from a dozen nations struggled with the long-dead language of ancient Sumer in a hundred schools. Priest-astronomers studied the sky every night, formulating complex systems to describe the motions of the heavens, predicting eclipses of the sun and moon for hundreds of years ahead, and warning kings and commoners alike of bad fortune heading their way.

This was Babylon, where steles bearing the harsh laws of Hammurabi stood at every major intersection to remind the citizens that no crime went unpunished. Eye for an eye, tooth for tooth the laws proclaimed, valuing a man's life at six oxen and a slave's at two. Where the reward of theft was death, but the owner of a goring ox went unpunished. Maybe they were not fair laws, maybe they were not just laws, but they were the laws of the rich and poor alike, and they made exception for no one.

This was Babylon, home to a civilization only rivaled by the never-changing kingdom of the Nile. She saw conquerors from the north, south, east and west, breaking like a tide on her walls, and sometimes overrunning them; but in the end she always came out victorious, for no conqueror could resist the lure of the godhood that awaited any who could claim the throne on top of the Marduk-ziggurat.

She was Babylon, past her prime, but shining so bright that none could see the festering rot inside. She was the City of Cities, the Great Whore, the Jewel of the Two Rivers. There was no city like her before, and there would be none like her again, not until the legions of Octavianus, calling himself Augustus, the Magnificent in his impudent pride, would march over the world.

Elika could feel the centuries pressing in on her as they rode down the tiled highway. As always when danger threatened, the men encircled her without a word. Agastya rode point, with the Prince bringing up the rear, Naram and Berisath on her left and right. They said little on the way in, they could not hope to outshout the cacophony of trade and travel. The crowd did the best it could to part for the five horses and dozen pack animals in their tow, but their progress was torturously slow.

When the Aryan finally led them down a side-street the sound was immediately cut off, and Elika felt like she could take a deep breath again. She tasted the air, sniffed, and found the experience so strange that she just had to ask.

"It doesn't smell here. How come?"

"Sewers, milady," replied Berisath. "A network of tunnels leads the waste away, into one of the main canals, which all lead to the Tigris. Whenever it rains, the rainwater washes the waste out to the river."

"Unless, you know, you are too poor to live in one of the few areas that have canals. Or simply it rains too much, then the shit comes right back at you," the Prince added his two shekels. "Unfortunately you can expect it to rain too much in one week out of every five on average."

"Still, it's better than Elam, where you have to duck when people are emptying their chamberpots from second story windows onto the street," shrugged Naram.

"Plus this is a fancy neighborhood, and they actually clean the streets here, instead of just letting the dogs and rats eat the trash like in the riverside districts," said the Prince.

"It would tear you apart if you couldn't paint a cloud into the way of every tiny ray of sunshine, wouldn't it?" she asked.

"You know me, every time a child laughs, I die a little inside," came the retort immediately.

"Zoran, show some respect," Berisath warned the Prince. Another name for the same man. Sometimes it was hard to keep track. Shabhaz. Terashaz. Zoran. The Prince. A facet for every occasion, but none of them rang true. Still, the wizard knew the thief the longest of them all, and seemed to have the most contention with him.

Elika half-turned in the saddle, so she could keep an eye on both of them. During the long weeks of the journey, no confrontation had taken place between the former master and apprentice, and she was eager to see the sparks fly.

Unfortunately the clash of wills was postponed by Agastya, when he called out loud,

"We are here!"

The estate they stopped in front of differed very little from the previous twenty they passed. Maybe fifty yards of eight-foot tall mud-brick wall marked the edge of the property, broken only by a single entrance wide enough to admit an ox, but not a cart.

It was this gateway Agastya rode up to. He took the knocker made out in the shape of a lion's head, and banged it heavily, three times. Scurry of feet sounded from inside, and a spying-latch opened. Brown eyes grew wide inside, and the door was thrown open.

"Apuu'rvya Agastya purutama'ny" There was no mistaking the excitement in the voice, and the prostrate form of the white-clad, dark-skinned servant left no doubt that they reached the home of the Aryan. Agastya beckoned them, and they all dismounted and led their horses inside while he wasted no time in giving a long stream of orders in his native tongue. The servant nodded fervently, all the while kissing the hem of Agastya's travel-stained robes. Eventually Agastya shooed him off, and he ran off towards the house, where already a sizeable contingent of similarly dressed men and women had gathered to watch the commotion, more appearing every second. From the sea of brown skins and white tunics only one stood apart, a paler woman dressed in rich, deep blues.

The grounds within the walled-off enclosure were mostly taken up by a single-storied building, made of the same-mud brick as most of the city, but covered in red and yellow glazed tiles, forming fierce, but attractive patterns around the house, suggesting fire without actually showing it.

"This is my house, and this is your house as well. The slaves and servants all speak Babylonian, just name your wish, and they will do their best to fulfill it. Don't hesitate; the fullness of my wealth is at your disposal. Let it not be said that Agastya, the Aryan is not a gracious host," he said, his arms thrown wide open with a theatrical motion to indicate the entirety of the estate.

"Please, follow me," he continued, "let the servants take care of our horses and gear."

"Jagathi, prepare refreshments!" He barked at one of the older men, who bowed in response and disappeared inside the house without a word. "The rest of you, what are you waiting for? Get to work, or I will have you all whipped!" There was no humor in his tone, and everyone immediately dispersed, save for the woman in blue. She was taller than Elika, but not as tall as the Prince, and one did not need to see the thick gold earrings and heavy silver bracelets to know she was the mistress of this house. Everything in her stature screamed that she was used to command. Elika thought she stood like a queen should; solid, unmoving, and cold.

"Welcome home, husband of mine. Your home was empty without you." She said the words like she was reading a script, in a monotone, lifeless voice.

"Returning to the hearth fills my soul with joy," he replied off-handedly, without even making eye-contact with his wife.

"We shall prepare a grand sacrifice to Vinayaka, to thank Him for guiding you safely back to us."

"It shall be so," nodded Agastya.

"Do you have anything you require of me?"

"I will send for you when I do."

"Then with your permission, I shall retire to my rooms," she said, but nothing in her tone suggested humility.

"I grant you leave, wife," said Agastya, and the woman was gone before he even finished the sentence. The others watched the exchange in silence; it did not do to interfere with how a man handled his woman. Only Elika seemed to find the exchange strange, but catching the Prince's eye, she thought better of asking questions.

They stepped through the first door of the house and Elika marveled at the thickness of the walls. It soon became apparent that somehow they served to soak up the heat; it was refreshingly cool inside. Agastya led them confidently through a maze of corridors, hallways and covered atria until they finally ended up in a wider room somewhere in the heart of the complex. Four holes cut into the roof brought shafts of sunlight in, and polished bronze mirrors scattered them all over the room bathing it in a comfortable warm glow.

There they were seated on low sofas, while a swarm of servants and slaves buzzed around them, serving wine and fresh fruit as refreshments. They dug in and for a while the only conversation was requests for passing the figs. When Elika finally laid back, contended, she found Agastya talking in a quiet, authoritative tone to an elderly man, who then headed back into the gloom of the household.

When the Aryan was sure that everyone was sated, he stood up, and waited till he had their attention.

"Fellow travelers," he began, puffing out his chest in what he intended to be a majestic gesture. "Our journey to Babylon might be over, but our quest has just begun. We have faced the hardships and dangers of the road, and tonight we sleep in real beds and feast on the best food that the plentiful lands of the Two Rivers can offer. Until then, with deep regrets, I shall take my leave of you, to see to the gruesome business of managing my affairs. I have instructed the servants to prepare guestrooms for you."

He went through the dance of assuring them that they only need to ask, and it would be provided, and left the four. Conversation meandered, until one by one they retreated to their respective rooms. The Prince gave only a cursory once-over to his, checked on his bags to see if the saddlebags from Farah arrived safely and un-tampered, then set out down the dark corridors of the house.

He didn't have to go far; Agastya was thoughtful enough to provide a place for her right next to his. The Prince mulled over this for a second and decided to take it as encouragement and implied approval of whatever he would need to be in her room for. So he opened the simple wooden door, completely setting aside the outdated custom of knocking, and poked his head in.

"How is your room, your Majesty?"

Just like his, it was somewhere along the east wall of the compound, if his sense of direction hadn't failed him in the maze so typical of upper-echelon Babylonian residences. The rooms were identical, spacious, eight by ten feet affairs. Though they lacked windows, they still got fresh air through carefully covered rain-proof skylights, so they could even be called luxurious compared to the three by four feet holes the servants shared. This one was furnished with a simple bed, little more than a plank with a piece of cloth over it, a chest and a chamber pot. Next to them stood the heap of bags that contained Elika's worldly possessions.

"Sadly lacking in light," said the Princess, making a vague motion towards the single oil lamp and the small flame that flickered at the end of the wick.

"Your beauty would shine bright even in the darkest cavern," the Prince. It was said in reflex, but even reflexes could speak truth. The single, warm light cast soft shadows in the small room. It got lost in Elika's hair, turning the mess of ever-longer tresses into a living, waving entity, only letting a fraction of the glow reach her face. The simple traveling robe she wore took on a different hue, and the dark valleys between the folds of the cloth called out to him to smooth them out.

"So that's how you want to play it, huh?" There was playfulness in her voice, but it sounded just a bit too throaty to convince the Prince. "Close the door," she said, her voice suddenly conversational.

"From inside or outside?" He asked, and he almost wagged his eyebrows at her suggestively. Flirtation came to him naturally, and the weeks separating Elam from Babylon were long with many a lonely night. Right then and there it seemed like a good idea to skip all the conversation, revelation, heartfelt moments he had planned, and jump right to the part where naked bodies shared sweat in a wordless exchange.

"Inside, silly," she replied casually, and the Prince wondered if she purposefully ignored his hidden question, or was just too new to the game to know what he was asking.

The door closed with a gentle thud that felt final to him. The situation suddenly felt filled with promise and intensity. Too many lonely nights, indeed.

Without warning, the Princess raised her palms to waist level, facing up. Two bright balls of light twirled into existence. In the peace of near darkness he could see that they were not homogenous, but like the shell of a nutmeg, woven of thick strands of energy with a hollow inside. He leaned closer and raised an exploratory finger to the one hovering over her right palm.

"It doesn't feel warm." It was a statement, not a question.

"It's just light, with as little power behind it as I can manage. There is no heat in it, you can touch it."

He prodded the ball hesitantly; he had seen too many times what magic could do to the flesh of men. It offered no resistance; his fingertip went straight through it.

"You would sort of expect it to tingle or something," he remarked. "You say having little power like it is a good thing."

"Not having little power, but putting only a small amount into a spell," she corrected him. "Power comes easy, as long as you are willing to pay the cost. Learning to whisper when the magic is urging you to shout is the hard thing. What I did back in the valley was the magical equivalent of bludgeoning your opponent to death with a tree trunk. Effective, but tiring in the long run." Seeing his incredulous expression she tried a different explanation. "Who is the better swordsman, the one who can cleave a tree in half or the one who can cut through a shirt without drawing blood from the skin underneath?"

"You are sacrificing strength for control?" He asked her, his mind already spinning with the possibilities.

"No. It's not either-or. I have power; based on the sources I'm as strong as a bull elephant in _musth_. But I skipped a lot of steps most disciples inevitably go through. It might surprise you but the Light is not primarily a weapon."

"You sure about that? It certainly seemed like a damn fine tool for dealing with Ahriman's lackeys!"

She smiled and shook her head.

"That may be so in our case; but in ancient times it was always used for healing, for guiding, and only as a last resort in war. There are actually grave warnings against unleashing magic in the wars of men."

"Knowledge pilfered from the scrolls Naram 'liberated'." Once again, statement, not question, and it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

"No need to sound so glum just because it wasn't you that stole something valuable this time." She looked up from the balls of light they were observing and smiled at him. "Though professional jealousy is a new side of you. I thought you were above such things."

The Prince could hardly explain that the jealousy was anything but professional. Instead, he shrugged apologetically.

"Thieving is the only thing I bring to the table. You have Berisath for old languages, Agastya for his vast network of spies, Naram as your pet apprentice, and I'm sure we will soon run into a professional monster-slayer or something, that's the only thing missing to make this a good legend." And we will see how long you will need me at all, thought the Prince, but that sounded pathetic even in his own head.

Elika's eyes clouded over with annoyance then grew wide again with surprise.

"Thieving is the only thing? Are you serious? You are serious! By Ohrmazd, you are sulking!" Her laughter didn't make the Prince feel any better.

"I'm not sulking," he said almost pouting, and knew he sounded childish as he said it.

"You really want me to fan your ego?" At the look on his face, she sighed theatrically and continued. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but you must be out of your mind. Did you forget that you are the one who fought the Corrupted with me? That you were the one to save me, again and again, from the magic of the Concubine, from the traps of the Hunter, from death itself? That just weeks ago you rushed to my aid in that alley in Susa when I was sure I would die at the hands of simple thugs? You forgot that you are the only man in the entire world I can talk to and be sure Ahriman is not listening in on your thoughts?"

"We went through some stuff together, huh?" said the Prince sheepishly, already angry at himself for showing weakness to her.

"You are the only one I can actually trust, fully, really trust. Not Agastya, not Berisath, and certainly not Naram. So snap out of this childish nonsense and tell me what this is really about!"

"It should be me studying magic, not him," he blurted out. Realization finally dawned on Elika.

"You are not jealous because he stole something and not you, you are simply jealous! You know you are being completely ridiculous, right?"

"Look…" he started to explain, "I know there is nothing going on. Heck, I wouldn't even have any right to complain, if there was. But after the shitstorm we weathered together, I would have expected it to be me who learns the cool things, me who you huddle with every night by the campfire."

"You don't even speak Avestan, let alone read it! Berisath is too old to study, Naram was the logical choice. Even you agreed!"

The Prince shook his head, trying to collect the right words.

"I know. It's irrational. Jealousy usually is. There, I'm jealous, I said it. Are you happy?"

Elika hesitated for a moment, and the Prince waited in trepidation for her decision.

"Actually I am. It's nice to know you care." There was just enough teasing in her voice to take the edge off.

"I care. Enough to fight demigods by your side, enough to cross half the world for you, enough to go back and fight Ahriman if we have to. I care enough to kill for you. I care enough to die for you." The intensity in his voice was now familiar to Elika, but still frightening.

Stunned silence followed.

"I didn't ask for those words," she said cautiously.

"I needed to say them, and I have even more, some of it you won't like. I had a lot of time to think recently."

"Never a good thing," said Elika, shaking her head, but her heart wasn't in the sarcasm. Looking at the Prince, she felt an unseen fist close around her stomach, and grab it tight.

….

"Much as it pains me, I should leave while I still can," said the Prince, pulling back ever-so slightly.

"Should you?" The obvious disappointment in Elika's voice tickled his ego in all the right places, and made him smile in the unearthly light of the witch-ball hovering just below the ceiling.

"The walls might not have eyes, but they certainly have ears, and I don't want to share the sounds I plan to draw from your lips with anyone else."

"I could try to be quiet…" said Elika, letting her words trail off suggestively.

"Damnation," laughed the Prince, "here I am, trying to convince the most beautiful woman I've ever met to postpone a night of passion. The world is indeed coming to an end."

"Postpone only, but not cancel!" said Elika, raising a finger in warning.

"Definitely. I will find a few quiet hours for us somewhere, I promise."

"Go then, before I change my mind and make you stay," she growled at him, which made him grin even more.

"Sweet dreams, Princess," he said, and did not stop to listen to her reply. No matter how much he ached to work off all the pent up frustration, he had more important things to take care of before the night fell.

He cut across two courtyards, took a few seemingly random turns, scared a cat prowling for mice, and finally reached another door. He took a moment to compose himself, then knocked, and entered when prompted to.

The quarters Agastya gave Berisath differed little from his, or Elika's, but still felt decidedly colder. The wizard was seated on his bed, his back resting on a pile of pillows arranged against the wall. A stack of clay tablets lay by his side, covered with the cuneiform writing of the Sumerians. The two candles flickering in the tall candle-stick provided barely enough light to read by, the Prince saw that the old man had to turn to his fingertips to help him interpret the series of depressions in the sun-baked tablets.

He finished reading the line, making the Prince wait for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, it didn't seem so long ago, when he had stood in silence similarly waiting for his master to gather his thoughts. He was barely seventeen then, staring at his naked feet, standing on the soft carpet in the well-respected wizard's office.

He had been sent to Susa to keep him out of trouble, to get him away from the spies of the enemy slowly closing in; and mostly because he had grown too troublesome for his uncle to handle. The icy stare of Berisath could achieve what avuncular scolding no longer could, at least for a while. He'd tried to learn languages, tactics, the lore of ages and the ways of the stars, and the arts of good governance; the gods knew he'd tried. But the lure of taverns, wenches and adventures soon became too much to resist.

Three years later he returned to Babylon not as a sheltered child, groomed to become something that was impossible, but a rogue ready to deal with everything life could throw at him, or so he thought. He had been foolishly arrogant of course, and Fate had relished in driving that point home, and now, here he was again, trying to cross a long-burned bridge.

Only when he reached the end of the tablet, did the wizard put it aside, and looked up.

"To what do I owe this visit?" he asked, the pale blue eyes betraying neither interest nor irritation.

"I am sorry"… "I have been wrong to…" The words were hovering on the tip of his tongue, but he could not bear to say them.

"We need to coordinate what we say and what we do," he blurted out, and the words died with an awkward echo in the small room.

"There are no concerns that should override our quest. The rise of Ahriman renders all matters of mortal politics irrelevant," said the wizard.

"That is not an overly complicated position," observed the Prince.

"A valid one, regardless. The conflict that looms before us makes everything else pale into insignificance," said the old man. "Whether they be affairs of the state or the heart."

There it was, three sentences into the conversation and Berisath was already setting what he should do or feel. Not suggesting, asking, but simply stating the right course of action with a self-assured arrogance bearing no contradiction.

Years before, he would have stamped his feet, rebelled, raged; now he simply set it aside.

"In that, I will keep my own counsel."

"Then why do you seek mine?" The total control the wizard exerted over his emotions had always been one of the things that could infuriate the Prince to no end.

"I wished to know if there was any advice you can offer, any knowledge that could be of use, but is still of sensitive nature."

"You would be wise to ask for the help of your uncle, he might reach sources that I know nothing of," said the wizard, sending the wheels in the Prince's head spinning.

"I shall, promptly. But I ask you to keep your thoughts to yourself on this matter, and allow me to deal with it according to my own wisdom."

Whatever semblance of warmth had ever existed between them, it was long gone, he realized as he said the words. The man seated comfortably on his pillow was neither a friend, nor family, but a stranger. Wise and maybe respected, but distant. He felt neither anger, nor resentment towards Berisath, simply indifference, and that eliminated the need to reconcile their differences. He cared not what the wizard thought, and he felt that thought should fill him with sadness, but there was no echo rising from his heart.

"As long as I don't feel you are risking the world for selfish indulgences, I will not interfere in your domains," replied the wizard, wording carefully for the ears of unseen listeners.

Without even acknowledging what Berisath said, the Prince moved onto the next topic.

"And what of our course? Any private advice on staring down a god?"

Berisath contemplated this for a moment or two.

"None that I would not share with any of us. The task ahead of us is so monumental, that we shall need every bit of knowledge we can gather. Ahriman had been defeated once before, and he shall fall again."

"Let it be so," nodded the Prince. The necessities had been discussed, and he could not bring himself to add any pleasantries. The short silence before the Berisath lifted a pale hand in apology was deliciously awkward.

"If you have no further need of me, I would like to rest for a while. The journey has been long, and I fear that the evening entertainment shall be tiring."

"Of course," said the Prince, seizing the exit gratefully.

After closing the door to Berisath's chamber behind him, he briefly entertained the idea of returning to Elika to finish what they didn't start, but in the end opted for simply trying to figure out the location for their next tryst, going over the map of Babylon in his head, placing them (sans clothes) in more and more explicit scenarios.

It was good to have a private room.


	24. Chapter 21

_Agentrook: It has been close to a year indeed. I sortof have been writing this for over 4 years now. But I have every intention of seeing it through, even though longer breaks might occur :) _

Ch 21

It was good to be home.

There was no feeling like the easy confidence of walking one's childhood streets. He stepped past a fig seller who had stood in the same spot every morning for the Prince's entire adult life and turned right at a tavern where he first got drunk (and subsequently had his first throw-up-in-a-gutter experience as well). Even basking in the warm glow of nostalgia, he could not help, but look at things the eyes of a grown man.

To a child of twelve Babylon had been a wonder to explore; bright, loud and tumultuous, where a boy could forget the death of his parents for a while. That innocence was long lost and gone too was the callousness of youth. Now, finally, he could really look at the people living here and see them for who they were.

He saw the baker's boy, whose father, father's father and father's father's father had been bakers, as would his son and his son's son, grinding grain on coarse stones every morning and baking flatbreads through the day, to the end of time, whether they wanted to or not. There was something profoundly unfair in the chains of tradition binding generations, but it was calming at the same time. No matter what, bread would always be made in Babylon.

Unless of course Ahriman took it and slaughtered everyone within, the Prince added to his thoughts darkly. The idea made him reach for Elika's hand, and she slipped it into his, neither of them conscious of the act.

He led her farther and farther away from the south-east highway, down roads that turned into streets which in turn morphed into alleys. Instead of the push of people, now the walls were crowding them.

Naked children shouting hunting calls chased stray dogs on the street, throwing stones; a basket-weaver and her apprentice sat in the shade of their house, gossiping over work in such strong accents, that it could be barely called Babylonian. And well-hidden sentries stood on rooftops, because old habits die hard.

"Just because you are paranoid, it doesn't mean everyone isn't out to get you," the Prince mumbled.

"Sorry?" asked Elika.

"How many have you spotted?" he sprung the question on her, without giving any context.

"Two over the dyers shop a block back, one playing a flute sitting on the edge of the roof, and I'm not sure about the girls doing the laundry on your right," she listed them, without pausing for thought. The corners of the Prince's mouth curled into a proud smile; she _had _learned something after all.

"And what gave them away?" he asked nonchalantly as they passed through another narrow alley. He'd dropped her hand somewhere along the way; it would be hard enough to return home after more than a year incommunicado without dragging a blushing bride in tow.

"We are off the main roads, in a quieter zone, where people actually live. Strangers, especially you, draw attention," she said and he nodded, prompting her to continue as they navigated the maze of little streets that covered miles and miles. The houses were all unique and all alike at the same time. Even the poorest piled sun-baked bricks at least two floors high, until the building threatened to collapse on itself, then whitewashed them so bright that they glowed painfully in direct sunlight – color had been a prerogative of the rich after all.

This was the real Babylon, far from the world of palaces, ziqqurats, and blue tiled roads. Not slums, not by a long shot. Homes for people who lived, loved and died in Babylon, the greatest city that ever was.

"…so everyone gives us a look, checks us out. Except some who are fastidiously not looking, who are going for a world record in nonchalant chatting. They try too hard at blending in and not noticing the strangers."

"I could so kiss you now," whispered the Prince, his grin so wide that his ears were threatening to fall off.

"Well, that would give them something to watch…" said Elika, letting her words trail off suggestively.

"Later," he promised her. "First work, then fun."

"That is something I never thought I would hear from you," she reacted, slipping on the old, comfortable cloak of banter.

"Now there is work, and there is _work_. We are here to make alliances, write history, change the course of the world. That is almost more interesting than _other_ activities," he stressed the word and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, more for theatric effect than anything else; Elika hardly needed an introduction to his one-track mind.

However, making eye-contact had always been an unwise move on the streets of Babylon. The Prince only avoided stepping into a steaming pile of donkey excrement with a series of acrobatic half steps accompanied by copious waving of arms.

The giggle that burst forth from Elika was so uncharacteristic and so honest, that it brought the Prince to a full stop.

"Maybe I'm not the one who is acting strange, Princess. Are you maybe still drunk from last night's wine?" he asked, and the honorific floated in the air as little more than a whisper. There were eyes watching, and while there was no harm in playing the carefree boy returning home, compromising her security was another question.

"I don't know what you are talking about. I only partook with utmost moderation," she replied, biting her cheeks to keep from laughing.

"I'm sure you don't." he said, relishing in the sarcasm. When he saw that she wasn't going to offer any openings to him, he turned and started off again.

Soon, they entered another little street just as unremarkable as the dozen they had already come down on, except maybe that the baker's assistant had a knife on his belt fit for a butcher; the two sewing women idly chatting while doing fine needlework had bows carefully placed out of sight between their baskets of half-done work, the stamp-carver's tools included blades not meant for minute details. The eyes that watched them were hard, harder than the Prince remembered.

Times had not been gentle while he had been away.

Recognition came slow to the guards, and he did not have to wonder why. When he had left eighteen months before, he wore a goatee and a tiny mustache that was in style that summer. He had been paler too; a consequence of far too many days slumbered away in the pleasant cool of the house, and far too many nights spent dancing from rooftop to rooftop.

There were no greetings called, no relatives rushing out with arms stretched wide; the only welcome he got was a widening of pupils before discipline took hold and rearranged faces into a mask of indifference. His people had been a wary bunch, and he was in the heart of their unofficial home, Little Nineveh, with a stranger. They were letting him play whatever game he needed to play, not interfering. Being ignored didn't mean being unnoticed though. A girl playing with her dolls in the dust of the street took off with sandals slapping against bare earth, prompted by a subtle gesture of her mother. Sent running for his uncle, no doubt. All he needed to do now, was wait.

They stood in the warm, still air of the backstreets of Babylon. Elika instinctively understood that this was no time for banter. Shouts of vendors, clanging of tools and curses of tradesmen came from afar, but there and then, the only sound breaking the ominous silence was the clack of a loom from a first storey window.

Ten minutes passed, maybe fifteen, before the girl returned, the same way she came; running at full speed the way skinny kids do; all knees and elbows, her long dark hair flowing free behind her, her coarse wool dress billowing.

A man followed her, more somber in walk, but matching in speed. He was shorter in stature than the average Babylonian, but more than made up for it in brawn. His skin was just as dark colored as everyone's between the Tigris and the Euphrates, but his eyes were less almond-shaped, more cut like the Prince's. The family resemblance was more present in mannerism than in anything else; the agile rogue and his burly uncle shared very few physical traits. With a bit of imagination the line of their chins, or the similarity in the arch of their eyebrows could be attributed to shared blood, but more telling was the way his eyes gave Elika a calculating once-over, or the sweep of his hand as he invited them into a house just like the hundreds of thousand others making up the bulk of Babylon. The same bright intellect and the same wariness reflected in his eyes, as in the Princes', and the nod he gave the Prince was one Elika had seen one time too many from his nephew. This was a man who trained and shaped the rogue, just like the wizard and the spy did after him.

The Prince stepped in wordlessly, and Elika followed without hesitation, though she had little clue of what was going to happen. All the Prince had offered in the morning was a chance to meet some old friends "who would be useful" and a self-satisfied smile. She knew him well enough to recognize the telling twinkle in his eye, a sure sign that meant he was up to no good. Even then, she just shrugged mentally. There was nothing left to do but get it over with and to follow his lead; after all he had not led her astray yet.

The whole scene eerily reminded her of the time they had first came to Khatu's house in Susa; entering an unknown stranger's home at the Prince's behest. The interiors didn't differ much either; a case of similar climates calling for similar solutions. Susa was closer to the cool of the sea, while Babylon was smack in the middle of the floodplains of the Euphrates, but both cities lacked reliable access to good building stone or stout timber. So the people made do with what was available: mud and reed.

The biggest noticeable difference was in the walls; in Susa they were what felt like the "right" thickness to Elika, but here, even a simple dwelling had at least two feet thick walls, trying to shelter the inhabitants from the heat of the day.

This practice obviously did not lead to particularly bright or airy rooms, but it worked: the curtain of cold air inside felt like stepping into a refreshing, cool shower smelling of, well, sweat, and kitchen scraps with a whiff of urine added as an afterthought. The Prince, still taking the lead, crossed the hallway, pulled aside a curtain, and stepped out into the small inner courtyard of the house, which offered a pleasant and better smelling refuge.

Elika followed, smiled at the two boys playing with clay soldiers in the corner, and got two gap-toothed grins in return. Their host entered behind them, and sent the kids running with a wave of his hand. Only when there was no one in sight did he turn to the Prince.

"Welcome home," he said simply, and the Prince felt the weight of the unspoken questions.

"We are among friends, Uncle," he replied, and after running his gaze over the windows once more, to make sure that they were indeed among friends he continued in a low tone. "Let me introduce Princess Elika, of the royal house of the Ahura."

He took hold of her hand and placed it in his uncle's, his heart beating rapidly in anticipation of what was to come.

"And this is my uncle, Lord Bardeen Sharo, of the royal house of Nineveh."

And with that, the Prince stepped back to observe the effects, as in the middle of a dusty, sun-burned courtyard of a pathetic Babylonian house the former High Judge of the fallen city-state sunk to his knees in front of the de-facto queen of a lost kingdom.

It had taken him weeks to make up his mind about this moment, to decide what to give away and when, and in the end, he just decided to go for it all. Putting Elika in a tight spot while he was at it was just the date on the cake.

Watching the glints of emotions flash in her eyes was worth all the punishment that was undoubtedly going to come later; after all he _had_ repeatedly and specifically promised that he would _not _spring nasty surprises like this on her.

But for the moment, he could observe the effect of the ice-cold bolt of adrenaline striking her, as she realized how much the game had changed from one moment to the next; then delight in the glance promising slow and painful death thrown his way.

She was fast, this Princess, his god-touched lover. The second look she shot him, even before the Bardeen's knees hit the ground was one full of questions and exclamation marks. This half sentence of introduction was more he had ever betrayed of himself to anyone, even to Agastya. Few had known, only ones whose loyalty was beyond reproach, and while maybe some had suspected, to call this man his uncle even away from prying ears meant invoking the fury of all the assassins of Assyria.

No heirs to torn down thrones should wander about, as far as the victors were concerned.


End file.
