15 Ishalem

It was a bloody and difficult fight, but once the ra'vir assassins struck the Tierran commanders, ripples of shock destroyed the Aidenist formations from within. Omra's cavalry and swordsmen had rushed through the gap in the wall and into the confusion, slashing with their curved scimitars. Thousands strong, disciplined and in well-trained formations, the soldan-shah's army caused disproportionate slaughter on the enemy.

After the Tierran forces retreated in disarray, the Uraban wounded were brought back into the city where their injuries could be tended by healers; the Tierran dead and injured were left where they lay on the bloody battlefield outside the wall. Fading moans continued throughout the night, while great cheers rang in the streets of Ishalem as the followers of Urec celebrated their victory.

The next dawn, Omra stood atop the wall again to stare at the churned battleground. He had not slept, not even cleaned himself. He did not feel his numerous cuts and bruises, did not care about the drying red stains on his skin and clothes; his olba had come unwound and hung in loose scraps down his neck. He would leave the myriad enemy corpses to rot on the blood-soaked Pilgrims' Road. Hungry seabirds had already begun wheeling in from the Oceansea, contemplating their feast.

When the shrouded Teacher joined him, Omra spoke to the blank silver mask. “You have done Uraba a great service. Name your reward.”

The Teacher bowed slightly. “The blessings of Urec are my reward. The spilled blood of evil Aidenists is my reward. Their cries of pain and screams of fear throughout the night… yes, those are my reward.”

“And nothing else?” Omra wasn't surprised. The Teacher had always needed little, asked for little, yet performed a great service.

The stranger's identity was secret even from Omra. Years ago, Kel Unwar had delivered mysterious letters written in a firm, unstylized hand, proposing a new method to infiltrate and destroy the 'Hooks from within. “Soldan-shah, I believe you should read these,” he had said. “The letters were brought to me by an unknown man. I don't know why he chose me as his conduit… but perhaps you should hear his ideas. This could be our path to victory.” Omra—only the zarif at the time—had read the suggestions with interest, then amazement.

With Unwar acting as intermediary, Omra had arranged a meeting in a darkened section of Olabar on a moonless night, and the masked figure told him the story of the ra'vir bird, which laid its eggs in another bird's nest, and later the hatchlings would kill their rivals. “We can do that with children, my Lord. Tierran children… malleable minds that we make our own. We need only the material to work with.”

And the Teacher had been absolutely right. The turmoil and fear wrought by the secret infiltrators caused as much damage as an outright military assault.

Now, on the wall in the brightening morning sunlight, the face behind the silver mask remained silent for a long moment. He contemplated the proffered reward, then said, “Yes, Soldan-Shah, there is something I would like. Allow me to create a new, larger training camp for ra'virs here, not far from Ishalem.”

Omra did not hesitate. “I'll have Kel Unwar divert work teams immediately. I leave for Olabar tomorrow, but you shall have whatever you desire.”

“Even before the workers finish the wall?”

“We'll whip the Tierran slaves hard enough to do both jobs.”

The Teacher nodded slowly. “That is their purpose in the world.”

Reaffirming Kel Unwar as the provisional governor of Ishalem in his absence, Omra took the swiftest dromond across the Middlesea, eager to return to his palace, his wives, and his children. Home.

When he arrived in the capital, priestesses set braziers upon the stone steps of the main church, adding chemical dusts to the coals so that bright smoke rose up with tempting scents and unusual colors. Ur-Sikara Erima herself emerged to deliver the triumphal sermon, expressing great passion as she spoke with the lilting twang of her Lahjar accent. “For truly we are blessed, for truly Ondun sees our great soldan-shah as another son following in the footsteps of His favorite, Urec.”

As he made a slow procession back to the minarets of the palace, Omra let his people applaud him, but when he entered his own chambers, he focused his attention on his family. Sweet Naori came to him first, leading their two young sons, overjoyed to have him home. She embraced him but expressed no interest in the politics or the battle.

Omra called his three daughters—Adreala, Cithara, and Istala—who greeted him formally, though he could see by the sparkle in their eyes how glad they were to have him home and safe. Next, Saan bounded in, his straw-colored hair and blue eyes giving him an entirely non-Uraban appearance. “I never had any doubts you would hold Ishalem, Father. The city belongs to us, not the Aidenists.”

Omra swept him into a hug. It always amazed him that Saan was a man now. “You will hear plenty of stories about what happened on the battlefield. The soldiers are already spinning tales up and down the docks, looking for someone to buy them cups of wine.”

“I'll buy you a cup of wine, Father, if you tell me your stories.”

“Later.” He took a seat on his cushions, relaxing. “I want to know what's happened here in my absence.”

“Not much, certainly nothing so exciting as an invading Aidenist army.” But the young man's bright gaze flicked away for a moment. “Well… there was one incident, an attack on me and Omirr. Thugs in the souks. But we fended it off. Considering what the men said, I suspect the sikaras put them up to it, though I have no proof.”

After Saan described the attackers, the conversation, and the knife fight in the alley, Omra could barely contain his fury. He lurched up from the cushions again. “Someone raised a hand against my son!” He caught himself and added, “Two of my sons.”

Saan shrugged. “There were only four of them, and Omirr did his share of fighting too. Remember, Father, enemies have tried to kill me many times. I'm ready for them.”

Omra paced, clenching his jaw. “At least the Aidenists attack us openly. If this is some sikara plot…” He let out a long sigh. “I cannot challenge the church without proof.”

“Three of the men are dead, and the one who escaped was never found. If he is involved with the sikaras, I doubt we'll see him again. They've probably sent him away to Kiesh by now… or we'll find his body floating in the harbor. Kel Rovic is investigating. Maybe he'll find something.”

Troubled, Omra sent him away and called for Istar, the person he most wanted to see. Always attuned to his thoughts, Istar detected his mood as soon as she entered the room. She settled in, crossing her legs on a broad cushion, and reported on her meetings with Finance Minister Samfair, Protocol Minister Faan, and Trade Minister Usthra, all of whom tolerated her well enough. Then, with a tone of amusement, she recounted how the stuffy Inner Wahilir emissary had refused to present her with his document from Soldan Huttan, even though she was Omra's court surrogate while he was in Ishalem.

Saan's news had stripped away his feelings of peace and anticipation, and at this further affront, the soldan-shah felt his face grow hot. Going to his writing desk, he snatched a cut piece of rough paper. “By treating you with disrespect, they insult me.” His words were hard and sharp, like the jagged edge of a spear head. “That, at least, I can stop—I have the power. I will show them what it means to ignore you.”

Istar leaned closer as he wrote furiously. “There's no need to overreact.”

“I am reacting properly, not excessively.” He finished his decree with a flourish, set aside the quill, and sealed the inkpot. “This is my summons, to be delivered to all five soldanates. Each soldan is hereby commanded to send his First Wife here to the Olabar court, where all will see the consequences of insulting me—and you.”

Istar was troubled. “What is it you plan to do? I want no blood shed over this, Omra.”

He merely dusted the fresh ink with powder, tipped a candle over the document to spill drops of wax, then pressed his signet ring into the hot wax to make his mark. “Do not question me, Istar. This is my command. My people have no choice but to obey.”