Барб Хенди - First and Last Sorcerer

Durrah’s arrogance was demurely curtained in concern, along with her confidence in her charms, her wealth, and ... all else she had to offer a man. How could anyone resist her after all? Few would.

Ounyal’am turned his eyes from her.

Pretending to survey the great chamber and everyone within it, he was careful not to let his gaze pause on anyone in particular. Yet it still passed over one small young woman standing alone near the chamber’s front doors and its guards. She pretended to sip something from a silver cup and clearly hoped to remain unnoticed as her father, Mansoor, connived and chatted with others nearby.

Ounyal’am’s gaze kept moving as he spoke.

“Thank you for your concern, but, under the circumstances, I will dine alone this evening.”

He waited a breath to see whether Durrah faltered into further entreaty; she did not.

“Considering the imperial counselor’s death,” he went on, “I cannot unduly worry my bodyguards. The perpetrators have not been found, and likely they did not act alone but had help from someone inside the imperial court. I am certain you understand.”

Ounyal’am did not need to look at Durrah. Some would foolishly take this as suspicion cast their way. Others would try to assure him of their innocence in desperation for favor. What could—would—Durrah say?

Nothing, of course.

In the side of his view, she bowed her head low.

“I wish you only blessings and safety, my great prince,” she breathed, hushed like the whisper that charms a reluctant suitor. “More tonight than ever before, on your honored father’s birthday.”

Durrah gracefully backed off the dais without looking to see her father’s angry disappointment.

Offering no reply, Ounyal’am stepped off the dais as well. Suddenly, he could not stand the hypocrisy around him a moment longer. Though he kept his expression coldly impassive, he was bursting inside to do something to quell his panic. He headed straight across the vast chamber toward the main doors, veering at the last moment.

At his approach, A’ish’ah raised only her eyes and not her head. She paled and then lowered her head even more. Her silken dark hair nearly curtained her face, and he was forced to look down at the top of her head as he stepped within arm’s reach.

“A’ish’ah,” he said softly, and then corrected himself for anyone nearby who might hear. “Lady A’ish’ah ... it would be my honor to have you dine with me.”

Did she shudder? His stomach tightened at having made her so uncomfortable ... and the object of too much attention. But he could not stop himself.

For an instant, he feared she might find some polite way to decline, and he was unprepared for that.

“Of course ... my prince,” she whispered before regaining her voice. “It would be my honor ... and my family’s.”

“Then let us begin the feast,” he said, turning slowly enough to let her step in beside him.

He wanted to take her hand, but that would have shown too much favor in the eyes of all present. The chamber grew quiet as they walked back toward the dais and the head table.

Nazhif stood behind that table watching, and perhaps a little concerned.

Ounyal’am nodded once to the captain of his bodyguards, and Nazhif quickly stepped around to offer a hand as A’ish’ah stepped up on the dais. One—or rather two—of his other men helped the emperor’s aged sister to be settled on the cushion to the left of the empty center one.

Once A’ish’ah was seated, Ounyal’am surveyed the chamber, waiting for all to find their place. And then they were the ones to wait, not sitting until he did. Upon settling on his own cushion, he took another quick glance across the vast room, slowing his visual sweep slightly at Durrah’s table.

She was as serene as ever with the wisp of a smile on her full, dark lips. Her eyes held something else, cold as a winter’s night in the desert.

Before, he would not have exposed A’ish’ah to such attention, and he was well aware that he shouldn’t do so now. But without a’Yamin, things at court had altered, and tonight he felt bold.

For once, he felt like doing as he wished.

With a solemn nod from him, the feast began as he raised a cup.

“Let us drink to the emperor’s health,” he said with a clear voice. “Tonight we celebrate the day of his birth, and we pray for many more to follow.”

Nods, murmurs, and some echoes of his words rose around the chamber. A moment later, an army of servants filed through the main doors carrying trays overburdened with the first course. As always, the emperor’s table was served first.

A’ish’ah kept her hands clasped in her lap and did not look up at the golden platter set before her on the table. It contained three roasted pheasants surrounded by herbed oysters in their glistening half shells.

“A’ish’ah,” Ounyal’am whispered, hoping to ease her mind with a joke. “Please eat something or everyone will think you are afraid of me.”

She raised her head and met his eyes. “Perhaps it would do a few of them good to be afraid of you ... my prince.”

Her words took him aback. So much of what she said took him aback. He never knew what to expect.

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But not you ... not ever.”

After another moment of silence, she carefully picked out an oyster for her own plate. Dinner was not such a painful affair. There was little said between them, and he did not care, so long as she would look at him—right at him—time and again.

Halfway through the expected courses, with so many watching, his thoughts returned to the impending intrigues concerning a new imperial counselor. Without a’Yamin, there were a few who had the power to gain access to the emperor’s chambers. They could pretend having spoken with him and gained his consent as temporarily appointed. Others would likewise dispute this with their own claims.

Ounyal’am could not stop this without exposing that his father was no longer fit to rule, and the repercussions of him doing that could be even worse. While the emperor lived, Ounyal’am would still be only regent, and any panic he created—over what might be a short window of opportunity—could make some of the vipers even more dangerous.

“Are you well, my prince?” A’ish’ah asked so quietly.

He started and looked over. Her face was awash with genuine concern. Again, he wanted to grasp her small hand.

“I was only thinking on ... on a little nothing.”

At that moment, something—he never knew what—pulled his attention to the main doors. Jib’rail, the new commander of the imperial guard, came toward him. Something in the man’s face caused time to slow; his stride was steady, but his eyes were manic.

Nazhif stood only a few paces behind Ounyal’am. He would be watching the commander’s approach as well. A few others in the chamber noticed and cast curious glances.

Commander Jib’rail bowed upon reaching the table and spoke in a low tone that would not be overheard.

“My prince ...” He stopped as if stumbling over the title. “I beg forgiveness for this interruption. Could you please step outside with me for a private ... word?”

Something in the world shifted. Ounyal’am did not yet know what, only that it had. The moment stretched out.

“My ... my ...” Commander Jib’rail trailed off again, as if he had forgotten how to address an imperial prince.

With a quick glance at A’ish’ah, Ounyal’am dared to touch her hand once under the table to stop the worried furrow of her brow. He rose, and though he should have assured all present that there was only some minor matter to attend, his throat was too dry.

Gesturing toward the rear doors, he directed the commander out of the chamber. He followed, as Nazhif did so with two others of his private guard, but only after placing the fourth on watch over A’ish’ah. Once out in the rear passage, Ounyal’am faced the new commander of the imperial guard.