In the days following the ransacking of my rooms, I searched for my tall blond brother throughout the Cage. I looked everywhere and asked everyone—short of questioning my other brothers, that is—without success. My blond brother was good at hiding.
On the third day, I abandoned my search and returned to my routine, which consisted of studying the stars, reading poetry tomes and experimenting with alchemy. I even tried my hand at potion making. But instead of the fortifying elixir I wanted to make, I produced the foulest smelling liquids there were—each stinking more than the next. A lot of my time was also invested in the study of diverse poisons and their effects. My library held an impressive amount of books on the subject. Again I failed to find anything that matched the effect seen on Hamed. Perhaps it was a mixture of several poisons? Or a new and exotic one, imported from a strange and faraway land.
Purposely ignoring the many volumes of black magic stacked on the highest shelves of my library, I went on searching through my botany books. There must be a logical reason for the cold wall surrounding Hamed's body—a scientific one.
After days spent bent over books, I grew tired of these blind guesses. Promising that I'd return to it later with fresh eyes, I put these volumes aside and returned to my normal schedule.
Between my regular study and failed potion experiments, I kept myself in good physical form by shadow fencing. Every day I spent two hours practicing fencing with all types of swords. Using a broad wooden post as a target, I struck at it from all angles while keeping my body in constant motion. Like every prince of the Ban Dynasty, I had been taught the art of fencing by the best tutors available. Master Sergio Olivese, who came from the faraway kingdom of Iberse, thought me particularly gifted at handling a rapier: The long narrow and flexible sword favored in duels. At fourteen, I was deemed the best fencer of my class, beating brothers several years older than I was, even Darius, who had been the best before I beat him. Thinking of it now, this could be the root of Darius's dislike of me. Perhaps beating him had been a mistake. But at fourteen, one rarely weighed the consequence of one's actions. I was so proud then. I remember walking about with my chest puffed up like a young rooster. This was before I learned that being the best was . . . well, bad. I sometimes longed for those carefree years. I certainly miss Master Olivese's fatherly attention and wise advice.
Following Telfarian tradition, my fencing lessons ended when I reached sixteen years of age. On its last day Master Olivese said to me: "Prince Amir, now begins your longest and most difficult lesson. Learning every movement of the great art of fencing was the easiest part. For you and your brothers keeping your skill sharp will be the hardest test. Remember this, my prince, all talent that isn't used dulls and eventually fades away. Don't let it happen to yours."
I did follow his advice. Others did too: Mustafa, Darius, Teric and a few more of my brothers practiced on a semiregular basis in one of the Cage's courtyards. However, as I knew about their practicing and could study their moves, they didn't know about mine and certainly didn't know my moves.
Time passed in the Cage as it did everywhere else. Days, then a week passed. I forgot about my tall blond brother. My search for the cause of Hamed's death slowly drifted to other subjects, and soon I forgot about it too. My life was back as it was before, except that I was now fetching my food at night. Not since my meeting with Darius had I dared going to the kitchen during the day—this even though I was sure he had forgotten about our unfinished business.
The only new things in my life were my dreams. Every night the mysterious beauty of the locket found me in my room. In these dreams only I spoke. She listened while I sang or recited poems like some enamored idiot. In other dreams, we'd walk side by side in the palace's celebrated White Tulip Garden. These dreams came every night without fault. I believed that if I didn't spend so much time gazing upon her lovely face before going to bed it might not have been so. But the few nights that I did not open the locket—which proved quite hard, taking most of my willpower—I found myself unable to sleep. I was bewitched. Part of this obsession was due to my self-imposed celibacy. Bringing a woman to my tower, although allowed—the Cage had its own harem—was certain to attract attention. I grimaced. This was an excuse. What really stopped me was that my last visit to the harem had ended in humiliation. No matter how long I lived, I would never forget that day—it was branded in my memory. Just thinking of it twisted my stomach in knots and made me want to break something.
That infamous day when I arrived at the Cage's harem, Darius was already there surrounded by the most beautiful of our women. Which didn't surprise me one bit—women loved Darius. I suppose his good looks and growing status had a lot to do with it. After a quick survey of the women still available, I found a few that didn't pass his standards of beauty but did pass mine. Petite women with slender bodies and lean, gracious limbs are to my taste. But every time I'd approach one, Darius—may his penis rot off—would snap his fingers and the woman immediately left my side for his, proving that they'd rather sleep on the rug at the foot of his bed than in the comfort of mine. Everyone present laughed. Well, I didn't find it amusing. My ability to play submissive had its limits, and that evening it came near to its breaking point. For a moment, I wanted to bash Darius's handsome face to a pulp, to pierce his belly with my sword; I wanted to kill the bastard. Then I came to my senses and stormed out of the harem. I hadn't returned since. I thought it safer that way. More than one argument began over a woman, and I certainly was not going to risk my life just because I felt lonely.
A long sigh escaped my lips; I hadn't had any female companionship for nearly three months. For a healthy young man, that felt like an eternity. This state of frustration was made worse by my nightly excursions. If I refrained myself from female comfort, my brothers didn't. The sound of their lovemaking could be heard from every corner of the Cage. With every passing day, my frustration grew, my loneliness deepened. I came to look forward to my dreams, and soon found myself going to bed earlier every night.
Tonight my dream began in the usual way, by taking me in to the White Tulip Garden, where again the locket beauty awaited me. Foggy air surrounded us like a thick moist veil. I stretched my hand toward her, as always trying to touch her, and as always she was a step too far.
"Come closer," I whispered. No answer. She produced only a head tilt and a coy smile. "What's your name? Please, tell me?"
For a brief moment I thought she was finally going to speak to me. Instead she did something even more surprising. She extended a pink rose to me. I had no idea from where the flower came, yet was overjoyed by the gift. But the moment I plucked the rose from her delicate fingers, dark stormy clouds rolled overhead. Thunder roared. Lightning struck the ground, blinding me. When my vision returned, I saw that she was gone. I was all alone. Then I saw that the tulips were gone too. I looked around in panic. I wasn't in the garden anymore, I was . . . right in front of the mausoleum. The air around me was thick, dark and cold. Thunder rumbled; lightning stabbed the sky, bathing everything in a silver-blue light. It was then that I saw dark shadows streaming out of the mausoleum, like the waves of an angry sea. Long blood-curling howls echoed. Shivers ran down my back. This is wrong, I thought in my dream state. It shouldn't be like this. It's wrong, wrong, wrong! The thunder drummed louder. My heartbeat sped up. The mausoleum steps were now a mass of boiling shadows. The thundering reached a crescendo, BANG, BANG, BANG.
I gasped, suddenly awakening.
BANG, BANG, BANG. Someone was pounding at my door, and the howling of my dream were my brothers' screams.
In my rush to exit my bed, I banged my toe on the side table. Lances of pain shot along my toe, foot and shin. I nonetheless hopped to the door, slid its grid open, and without any care for formality shouted: "What's the matter with you?"
The servant on the other side of the door paled. A pudgy-faced boy of thirteen, he wore the blue satin outfit of the palace's messengers. Determined to deliver his message, he raised his chin high. His pale cheeks turned bright red. The boy swallowed hard. "Prince Amir, I'm sent by Master Hassan. He requests your presence in the flower room as soon as Your Highness sees fit." The messenger boy let out a long breath.
I noted that Mir and Jafer had stopped screaming. Both were listening attentively, I was sure of that. Then I heard Jafer whisper in a quivering raspy voice: "Evil, dark, dark evil."
I looked at the boy; to question him would be as useless as questioning a courier pigeon: messengers' heads were nearly as empty as birds'. In a sense, their ignorance was the reason why they were often used in the most delicate of situations. The fact that Hassan had used one to carry this message was not a good omen.
I dressed in a hurry, choosing forest-green clothes, then followed the messenger boy to the Great Hall. We parted ways under its gilded dome. The boy returned to the messengers' quarter, while I traveled the many-arched alleys leading to the flower room. Upon reaching my destination, I faced a second bad omen. Two guards were posted on either side of the flower room's majestic, carved doors. This room had never been guarded before. Bowing, the guards opened the doors for me without my saying a word.
The exuberance of the flower room was always shocking at first. Covered with depictions of blooms that were either carved, painted or applied, from its ceiling to its floor, the room resembled some unruly bouquet put together by the hands of a gifted child. Once my eyes got used to all this decadent busyness, I was able to focus on the five men waiting at the back of the room. My gaze was immediately drawn to the stretch of white cotton on the floor, as an exhausted traveler was drawn to an oasis. Clearly someone lay under this draping. Yet something was amiss. The form bumping the sheet seemed oddly thin and misshapen. I took a step toward it. My foot struck something. A silver platter, broken glass and food were scattered on the floor. Sidestepping an apple, I moved on.
"Prince Amir," Hassan said, bowing. I noticed that the four guards framing Hassan were growing increasingly nervous with each one of my steps. And when I reached them, they backed away from me with their eyes cast down. "Leave us," Hassan ordered. The guards obeyed wholeheartedly, exiting the room in a matter of seconds.
This cannot be good, I thought as the doors slammed shut. My attention returned to the white sheet. "I assume this is the reason you called me here."
Hassan nodded. "Prepare yourself, Prince Amir. This is gruesome."
He lifted the sheet. I flinched and stepped back. Taking hold of myself, I stopped moving before my impulse to run away grew too strong. No amount of warning could prepare one for this sight; gruesome was too weak a word. The brother lying on the floor resembled a dried-up piece of meat. His skin was shriveled and black, making him impossible to recognize. Only his clothes indicated his rank. Kaftan of rich turquoise silk embroidered with gold leafs and lined with sable fur. His belt was made of silver and on his shrunken neck rested a thick gold necklace—I nearly choked when I saw those. Belt and jewelry were a clear indication of one's status, especially belts. Linen and cotton belts were for the lowest-ranked princes; silk, like mine and Darius's, for midranked ones; bronze for high-ranked princes, favorites' sons usually; and silver for the highest of all, the Sultanas' sons.
"He's Prince Mured, ninth in the line for the throne," Hassan said.
"How can you tell? I can't recognize his face anymore."
"The belt," Hassan said. "Only the ten highest-ranking princes wore solid silver belts. We did a quick survey, and he's the only one missing."
"Who found him?"
Hassan grimaced. "Kitchen servants. He asked that cheese and fruits be brought here."
My gaze flew to the food spread on the floor then back to Hassan. I must have looked confused because Hassan immediately explained how things had happened.
"The servants said that Prince Mured fell ill as soon as they entered the room. They panicked and called the guards for help. The group of four that stood here moments ago said they tried to help but hit an icy wall. They watched helplessly while Prince Mured was being transformed into this . . . this thing."
I stared at what was left of my brother. Mured belonged to Ibrahim's court, Darius's rival, so this could be Darius's doing. It wasn't the ruffian's style though. "Who then, who did this?" I whispered. "And how? How can someone do such a horrid thing?"
"With the Grand Vizier still at the Summer Palace with the Sultan, I'm at a loss. I was hoping you would know, Prince Amir."
I shook my head. "I don't know any poison able to do this."
I studied the room for clues and found none. The only thing this death had in common with the previous one, besides the icy wall, was the window, placed high on the west wall. Hamed died near a window too, but does it matter. The palace counts thousands of windows, and this one is blocked by decorative metalwork that no one can squeeze past. I walked to it and peered through its gilded wrought-iron work. "It's the full moon again, just like when Hamed died. Huh, but this shouldn't be of any importance."
"Perhaps . . . " Hassan hesitated, obviously embarrassed. "Perhaps Your Highness should seek answers outside the realms of nature and science."
Before I could ask Hassan to explain himself further, someone knocked at the door. A guard stepped in, shot me a look of fear and bowed. "Master Hassan, the imperial physicians are here."
"Let them wait, we're not finished yet."
The guard left but not before having given me one last terror-filled glance.
"Hassan, why are the guards afraid of me?"
"They believe you're a sorcerer, Your Highness. A yatus, tamer of demons and spirits, to be precise."
"What!" I was shocked. "Why? You know my opinion of magic. What have I done to deserve this title?"
Hassan became silent and his attention turned ton his hands, which he kept opening and closing. Then he let out a long sigh and said: "Rumors have been circulating in the Cage those last weeks. Mostly amongst servants—at first." Hassan finally looked up at me. "They say that strange and foul smells come out of your tower. That loud noises, banging noises, can be heard daily in your room." Hassan shook his head. "They say you're taming demons to do your biddings that you now fear daylight and only come out at night when it's dark."
I was aware that my mouth hung open, yet it took me a moment longer to close it. The smells were my failed experiments, the banging my fencing practices. And as for my night excursions, I was hardly the only one to do so—how could they make up such a story! "I can explain everything," I said between clenched teeth. "It has nothing to do with magic."
"I believe you, Prince Amir. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it will get worse. One of the guards who witnessed Prince Mured's death also witnessed Prince Hamed's. With the rumors already floating around, your name was the first to pop into his head and then out of his mouth. By the time I was called upon the murder scene, the story of your brothers' demise, added to your suspicious behaviors, had spread through the guards, the kitchen servants, the maids. By now it probably has reached the harem." A sad expression crossed Hassan's face. "I believe that by the morning the entire palace will be aware of it."
"There's more to this, isn't it? There's something you're not telling me?" I stared into Hassan's eyes. He held my gaze for a short moment. I didn't care one bit for the apologetic look I could see in his eyes.
"Prince Amir, they already think you're guilty of these crimes."
Although I knew he was going to say that, the words twisted my stomach in knots nonetheless. I looked at what used to be my brother. Perhaps Hassan was right. Perhaps I should search outside the realm of science. I grimaced; perhaps I should look into magic.
* * *
This morning I was out to the kitchen at an early hour. After what Hassan had told me last night, I thought it best to stop my nightly excursion, at least for a while. I climbed down the stair two steps at a time and turned left toward the Great Hall, where most princes took their meals. When I entered the spacious room, all conversation stopped and the dozens of brothers assembled there with their personal entourage stared at me with a terrifying intensity. Stuck at the back, some young messenger boys where stretching and twisting to get a glimpse of me. This display of curiosity was truly humiliating and enraging—and I had to admit it was also quite frightening. (When people stop talking whenever you appear, you know you're in trouble.) With this in mind, I crossed the room as quickly as I could.
This must be how lepers feel: shunned and feared at the same time. How could they believe me guilty of such abominable crimes? I wanted to shout my innocence, but my reasonable side ordered me to hold my tongue and move fast. The conversation restarted as soon as I was out of the Great Hall. I encountered the same, if not worse, attitude in the kitchen. Here however fear dominated, and the word yatus could be heard whispered all around the room.
Stoically, I watched a doe-eyed kitchen servant stack my platter with trembling hands. The trip back to my tower went without incident. The fact that I didn't offend any of my brothers on the way there was the only positive thing about this morning. Still, I knew I would have to come out again today. I had no choice. I had to seek my brothers' killer. More so, I had to prove my innocence.
Later that day I decided to revisit both murder scenes. I did the flower room first as it was the freshest. I jotted down a few notes, then moved to the old alley where Hamed had died. Slowly, I walked along the narrow white corridor, running my hand along its rough plastered walls, studying every crack of its tiled floor. I found nothing.
With a sigh, I leaned against one of the windows and stared at the desert's gold dunes for a brief instant, then looked straight down. Linking two towers together, this covered alley was suspended three stories high in the air. No one could climb through these windows. Well, that option is gone.
A familiar tingling at the base of my neck warned me of a presence at my back.
"What do you want?" I said without turning. I didn't need to. The mildew smell now saturating the air undeniably belonged to my blond brother.
"To talk with you," he replied. His voice was soft, yet its tone was extremely masculine, every word crisp and clear. A voice meant to carry over crowded halls.
I slowly turned. I had guessed right. My tall, blond brother stood a short distance away from me. His head was bare, leaving cascades of blond curls free to dance in the cool breeze blowing through the alley. Again he wore hideous foreign clothes: tight knee-high pantaloons, white frilly shirt and a form-fitting vest. A wide-sleeved, open coat finished the ensemble. Except for the shirt, the entire suit was the most disgusting canary yellow—just looking at it made me nauseous. As if this wasn't enough of an affront to good taste, the suit was made of satin. I also noted that his hideous garments were wrinkled, as though he had slept in them . . . in the closet. His face was gaunt, I thought, as if food had been sparse, and rest sparser still. It wasn't so when I had seen him last, about a month ago. While I studied him one thing became very clear for me, the girl in the locket was more than likely his mother. The resemblance was evident.
"Can we talk?" he asked again.
I then realized that my hand was in my pocket, my fist closed possessively over the locket. It's his, not mine. Give it back, I ordered myself. Give him the locket, now. No use, I couldn't bring myself to part with it. I just couldn't. So I decided that as long as he didn't ask for the locket I would keep it, and chose not to mention his ransacking my room for fear of losing this lovely treasure.
"Why should I listen to anything you have to say?" I finally replied.
"Because you're seeking the one responsible for our brothers' deaths."
I frowned. "For all I know you might be involved in these deaths."
He chuckled, as if I had jested. "But I am involved—we all are . . . in a way."
I didn't like his attitude one bit. "Explain yourself more clearly or I'll leave," I said, crossing my arms on my chest.
His face became very serious. "I believe we're all marked for death."
All right, now he had all my attention. "Go on."
"You know of two deaths, but there have been three of these cold, choking attacks. Two months ago I witnessed the first one. That attempt failed. But last month it succeeded in killing Hamed. Now Mured has been killed, and in the most horrible manner. Do you see the progression? Whoever is behind this is getting better at killing us . . . much better."