"Before going any further, tell me your name," I asked, while gripping the hilt of the short sword hidden in my belt at the small of my back.
My blond brother blinked in surprise, then smiled as though the fact that I couldn't put a name to his face pleased him. "Call me Erik."
"Erik?" I frowned. "Erik is not a Ban name—not a Telfarian name either for that matter."
"Amir," he said in his soft masculine voice. "You have more than one name yourself, don't you? So do I, and Erik is the one I wish you to use for me."
I shrugged, he was right: We all had at least five names, each linked to some meaningless title. One of mine was Omar, Lord of the Seventh Gate of Irabel. As we were over a hundred princes, introducing us this way took hours . . . and was extremely boring. Fortunately for us, our full names were only used in very special occasions, like when a foreign king visited our kingdom.
I studied Erik's face, his robust body; he clearly was of Nordic descent. In a way it made sense that one of his names was also Nordic. Yet one thing didn't make sense—his behavior, his lack of fear toward me. "Everyone in the palace thinks I killed our brothers. Some even believe I'm a yatus and fear me. Why aren't you afraid?"
Noises down the corridor made him look around nervously. "This spot isn't safe. Come with me and I'll tell you why I don't fear you."
Squeezing the hilt of my sword tighter, I didn't move from the window. I just stared at him unsure of what to do.
"Oh, come on," he said. "This isn't the time to be so suspicious. Look, I'm unarmed."
Lifting his coat up, Erik turned around, showing me that he concealed no weapons at his back. "See! I didn't lie. You can let go of that sword now. Come, follow me."
Gesturing to me, he started walking.
All right, I thought. If he was willing to turn his back on me, knowing that I was armed, perhaps I could allow myself to follow him. After a brief hesitation, I fell into Erik's tracks. I was not surprised when he entered the servants' alley, and although his subsequent descent in the dark, humid wine cellar was somewhat intriguing, it was what followed that truly shocked me.
Turning sideways, Erik squeezed between two giant oak barrels until he reached the brick wall behind them and waited there for me to join him. I thrust myself along, unable to decide what was more suffocating, the overwhelming smell of wine or the incredible tightness of the place. I had trouble breathing. My malaises increased when I realized that in this confined spot I couldn't pull my sword. I cursed my stupidity. Why had I followed him here? I knew better. Meanwhile Erik was probing the brick wall with his fingertips.
"Found it!" he exclaimed. "I don't often use this road. So when I do I never remember which brick to press." With these words, he leaned against the wall. The sound of stone grinding stone filled the air, then, right in front of us, a door suddenly opened into darkness. A strong mildew smell rushed out.
I stared at this somber opening, amazed. Should I go in? I hesitated for an instant—just long enough for my eyes to adjust to the surrounding darkness—then stepped into the narrow room now visible through the doorway. "How did you find out about this passage?"
Erik made a face. "Hiding from our dear brothers, how else." He lit a lamp. Soft gold lights climbed the walls on either side of us, exposing pigeonholes overflowing with scrolls of all sizes. There were some stacked in baskets on the floor and more piled in precarious pyramids on the massive oak desk on our right. Omitting a couple wooden stools, this desk was the only true piece of furniture in this corridor-shaped room.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"The palace's architect's storing room. Most of these scrolls are plans of the palace's many expansions, rooms, towers and even its catacombs."
I unrolled one of the scrolls. It contained drawings of a portico. Detailed to perfection, the drawing even listed the color to be used for its decoration in the margins of the scroll.
Erik leaned over my shoulder and looked at the drawing. "Ahh, the east portico of the Divan Hall. They used a lotus design instead of the green palms drawn here."
I opened my mouth to ask how he knew about this change of detail, then shut it right back. Obviously the modified plan was somewhere in one of these pigeonholes. Erik probably studied them all, I certainly would have. Oh, yes, I would've happily lost myself in their studies for months, if not years, I thought with a smile. I wanted to stay here longer, but Erik was already moving ahead. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, I placed the scroll back in its hole and trailed him into an adjacent room. A broad square place, it had served as a drawing room, as the slanted-top table pushed against the left wall indicated. Now occupying the center of the room was a low round table with a brilliant blue mosaic top. Layers of rugs blanketed the stone floor and cushions were thrown in piles around the table. A daybed filled the right corner with still more cushions spread on top of it. Nearby stood a tall ebony armoire, through its half-opened doors I could see stacks of clothes, of questionable hues, piled up in a disorderly manner. I glanced at Erik's wrinkled canary-yellow suit and tried not to gag.
"What's in there?" I pointed to a second room opening on my right; the smell of mildew and rotten paper coming out of it was particularly strong.
"More storage."
"Ah! So you live here?" It was a rhetorical question, really. What I was seeing now explained Erik's rotten paper smell and wrinkly appearance.
He nodded. "It's safer than my official apartments." Tugging one of his blond curls, he added, "I make a too-visible target."
I snickered. "Your choice of clothes is more the cause than your hair, little brother."
Looking surprised, he ran a hand on his suit. "You think so?"
It took me everything I had not to roll my eyes at him. And for a second, I questioned his judgment, or lack there of. "Forget that! I'm not here to give you advice on how to dress, although you're in great need of some, but to hear what you know about our brothers' murders."
"Let us sit and I will tell you everything I know."
Once we were both settled amidst his many cushions, Erik began: "Two months ago, I was having a conversation with our brother Rashid in the blue fountain room, when suddenly he began gasping for air. I tried to help him and immediately struck a wall of ice. I managed to push through it and Rashid started breathing again. I thought of this as an oddity and forgot all about it until Hamed skipped one of our meetings. Fearing that he might've fallen in one of our brothers' traps, I went in search of him. When I found Hamed, he was already dead, and you and Hassan were at his side. Not knowing what to do, I hid in the alcove and watched."
"You saw me break the spell that was over Hamed's body, like you did with Rashid."
Erik nodded. "I think that without our intervention, Rashid and Hamed would've both ended up like Mured—a lump of dried meat."
I stared into Erik's eyes. "The others think I'm guilty of these crimes, why don't you?"
He shrugged. "You're no murderer! I watched you often; I know what you're about. You keep to yourself, as I do. We have that in common—besides our father. I've wanted to talk to you for the longest time. But I didn't know how to approach you."
I nodded in agreement. Prudence was something else we had in common, I thought. Approaching a brother was indeed a delicate and risky operation. He'd done well to wait. My suspicion toward this brother lessened. I felt myself relax, but only for a few seconds—good things never seem to last.
A shadow scouring across the doorway on my right sent me to my feet. My sword was out and ready without my having to think about it.
"NO!" Erik shouted. Rolling to his side, he gripped something under the rug and swung it forth just as I thrust my sword toward the shadow. Sparks flew, as my blade was blocked by the very tip of Erik's long Nordic sword, called a claymore.
With a whimper of fear, the shadow moved into the light. It was a slim, young servant boy. Had Erik used a Telfarian saber, which was a good deal shorter than the Nordic sword, I would have pierced this frail youth through and through. The boy stayed frozen in the light with both hands clamped under his nose. His green eyes, the only feature of his face visible, were wide with terror. Breaking out of his frozen state, the boy turned heels and ran out of sight, leaving Erik and I facing each other sword in hand.
I held my ground, eyes fixed on his claymore. I was the vulnerable one here; his weapon was superior to mine. If I had my rapier in hand instead of this short sword, I would have thought differently. And although I believed myself quicker, he had proven himself fast too. To my utter astonishment, Erik lowered his sword to the ground then let it fall upon a cushion. That was the stupidest move I had ever seen in my life. One should never unarm oneself, not under any pretext. But to do it when facing an armed brother, tsk-tsk-tsk, I shook my head at his mental ineptitude.
"Amir, please, lower your sword," Erik pleaded. "Rami is my loyal servant. I couldn't let you hurt him. The boy poses no danger—a breath can easily topple him over."
"The boy isn't the one I'm worrying about, little brother."
Erik grinned. "Twice you called me little brother, this although I'm a head taller than you."
"I believe you're younger than I am."
"Right! Two years separate us. I really am your little brother and perhaps with time you'll come to trust me as such."
This time I rolled my eyes—rolled them twice. Wasn't he told that you couldn't trust anyone in the palace—especially your brothers? I supposed not. I decided that I had spent enough time with that idiot. Without saying another word, I returned to my tower.
* * *
The following day began pleasantly enough: The weather was fine; I had plenty of food left and didn't need to go to the kitchen. I was looking forward to doing quite a bit of research. I had already pulled some of the magic books I own from my library and brought them to my reading room for that purpose. The afternoon was barely beginning when my luck abandoned me.
Piercing howls and screams from Jafer followed by a trolley of Mir's filthiest insults, announced that someone was at my door. My heart skipped a beat. I had the terrible certainty that another of my brothers was dead. Erik's face popped into my mind. Visions of his dried, shrunken body followed. Someone that naïve—not to say stupid—was bound to perish sooner rather than later. He was dead, I was sure of it. So when I looked through my grid I was stunned to see him standing there, dressed like a desert Bedouin gone mad. Layers upon layers of cotton and billowing muslin wrapped his body from head to toe—and that lime green color. Where does he find these ugly things?
For a brief instant I wondered if I hadn't discovered another mentally unstable sibling—for some reason, they seemed to be attracted to me like flies to honey.
"Good afternoon, Amir," Erik said above the screams and insults of my guarding brothers. "Can I come in?" Grimacing, he glanced over his shoulder. "Are they always like this? This is awful."
I was too shaken by his presence at my door to answer right away. One didn't seek out his brothers. That was seeking out trouble. He had some nerve, I thought, or no brain at all. I settled on the second. "Why are you here?" I asked in a sharp tone.
"To help you solve the mystery of our brothers' deaths," Erik declared, his face split by a broad silly grin.
"No!" I snapped. "Absolutely not! Go away now."
"Why not? I can be helpful—certainly more than Mir and Jafer."
I snorted. "They do a good job guarding my door. As for you, I don't see how you can help me. You can't even dress appropriately. Learn that first." My remarks failed to bring any change in Erik. He didn't even move. "Are you deaf?" I said.
He shook his head, his silly grin still pasted on his face. "We can help each other. Exchange ideas. Rami can do your errands. This way you'll have more time for your studies. We can practice fencing. I'll even let you win."
"WHAT!" I shot through clenched teeth. I couldn't believe the audacity of this idiot. I swung the door open and stepped in his face. "Little brother, leave now before I become offended to the point of demanding reparation."
He blinked, and his silly grin vanished. "I had no intention of insulting you. I apologize to you, my brother." With a solemn look on his face, Erik bowed to me, a mark of high respect. Which was unusual, princes generally only nodded at each other. When he straightened I saw that he was smiling again. "I'll leave as you wish. But I'll be back tomorrow, and the day after and the day after that. I'll continue knocking on your door until you accept my help."
Turning to leave, Erik took a couple of steps back, stopped in front of Jafer's door and tilted his head. "He's making odd sounds, is it normal?"
I was there in seconds. I stuck my ear to Jafer's door. Gargling sounds were coming from inside his room. "He's swallowing his tongue again."
In a rush of panic, I removed the metal bar locking the door and opened it wide. "Oh, no!" I let out upon seeing my brother.
Jafer was slumped against the doorframe, his body looked as limp as wet clothes, and his face had already turned blue. Without losing time, I shoved my fingers into his mouth and cleared his airway. Jafer gasped loudly and, to my utter relief, began gulping air. His face quickly retuned to a near normal shade, yet his eyes remained rolled back in his head.
I noted that Erik was still here. He stood in the doorway, staring at me with wide eyes. "He's going to be fine now," I said, cradling Jafer's upper body against mine. "You should go, Erik. Your presence is not helping."
Erik nodded and left without arguing.
I carried Jafer inside the room, which wasn't easy, Jafer being of Darius's stature. A part of me, the practical one, regretted having sent Erik away so soon. He could have helped me handle Jafer's limp, awkward body—oh well. When, after much struggling, I finally laid him on his couch, the air surrounding him became thick with the smell of sweets.
Jafer suddenly sat straight up. Gazing into empty air, he began speaking. "The line will be broken. Clouds . . . forming around the new line." He gasped, and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.
Using the corner of my sleeve, I dried his chin. There wasn't much else I could do. I knew better than to try stopping him when he was in this state. Nothing could halt these . . . episodes. By no means would I call the obscure, senseless things coming out of his mouth prophesies. There was a logical explanation for his present condition. I believed the many visitors that had knocked at my door recently had strained Jafer's already fragile nerves causing this bout of delirium.
Jafer shivered violently. "The rose and the tulip will unite . . . unite . . . the rose...se—" Just as suddenly as he had risen, Jafer slumped back on the couch totally exhausted. It was as though these senseless ramblings were robbing him of all his strength, so much so that it usually took him a few days to recover after each episode.
As usual, I stayed with Jafer until he succumbed to a peaceful sleep and wasn't in danger of choking anymore. Once back in my rooms, I fell into a slumber of my own.
True to his promise, the next day Erik was at my door early in the morning. I rushed to open the door before his knocking awoke Jafer.
"What now?" I grumbled, while rubbing my eyes. I felt in no mood to deal with his stupidity.
With a serious face, Erik extended a small box to me. "I was rude to you, my brother. I can only hope this small gift will help me redeem myself in your eyes."
"Huh?" I said, staring at the box. I was taken off-balance by this gift. That was new to me. As prince the palace supplied everything for me. I just needed to ask and it was produced, as long as it was within my rank. (One couldn't order oneself a silver belt; otherwise we'd all wear one—things of this sort.) But gifts, gifts were different. I had never received one—not ever. Only the princes whose mothers had remained in the palace received gifts.
I took the box with hesitant hands. Superb work of cloisonné enamel in green, yellow and white covered its entirety in an intricate floral motif. The box's weight surprised me; it was as heavy as a brick. Obviously it contained something. I lifted the lid. Inside were a matching inkwell, a sand shaker, and a quill knife, all done in the same cloisonné enamel pattern as the box. This is too much; the box alone is a royal gift.
"Do you like it?" Erik asked, beaming.
"It's gorgeous. But . . . you can't buy my trust with gifts." Reluctantly, I extended the box to him.
Erik shook his head. "Tsk-tsk-tsk, such a suspicious mind." He pushed my hand back. "It's a gift, not a bribe. I know I have to earn your trust—and your friendship."
"Friendship! I don't need friends."
"You can't fool me with rudeness, brother. There's good in you. The way you care for Mir and Jafer proves it. And don't say it's because they guard your door. I'm not that stupid. You do a lot more for them than you say. You keep too much to yourself, Amir, that's your problem. Not all your brothers have murder in mind. Many of us just want to survive the succession and leave the Cage . . . is that so hard to believe?"
No, it wasn't, but old habits died hard. Years of fear and distrust can't evaporate in an instant.
Sensing my uncertainty, Erik stepped back and made a graceful spin. "See, I even dressed boringly for you. Rami chose these clothes for me. I'm making an effort . . . I think you should reciprocate."
For once Erik wore something normal, so much so, I had failed to notice. I looked at the ensemble. Copper silk baggy pants and vest, cream-colored linen shirt, and a black sash circling his waist that matched his boots, it was . . . tasteful.
I nodded approvingly. Then, perhaps because I was lonely or just plain curious, or both, I said: "All right, I suppose you can come in. Oh, and from now on let the boy dress you."