Author's Note: Welcome! I'm pretty excited about this story - I've had parts of it bouncing around in my head for a while now. I particularly like the OC in this one (you'll get to know her better in the next chapter). For those of you not familiar with Susan Kay's Phantom, this story takes place during the time in Gaston Leroux's novel the Persian calls "The Rosy Hours of Mazanderan", which are implied to be rosy from bloodshed and not from the beautiful palaces of Persia. If you're familiar with my stories, you'll recall I have a tale out there from this time period already. This is a completely separate story with a completely separate heroine that do not in any way cross. At all. Period. This is going to be one of my longer, more complex and complicated stories with LOTS of twists and turns in store!
"You'll be staying here for now. If you please the Shah and his wife enough you'll be given apartment of your own."
The Magician stepped into the house behind his host, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders squared as though he were a prince rather than a servant of the palace. With mask darker than a moonless night covering the majority of his face, it was impossible judge the stranger's thoughts. How odd it was that Nadir Khan, true prince and Daroga of Mazandaran was so anxious to know if the newcomer was pleased! He should care no more about this opinion of this man than of the Russian Acrobats or Siamese cats brought to the palace in the past.
Granted, it had never before been his duty to bring the cats or acrobats to the palace personally, nor had he ever been told they would stay with him and his family. It was not the first time Nadir found himself wondering what the Shah and his wicket little bride wanted with this bizarre man from the west.
For three days the Daroga and his men had traveled up the banks of the Caspian Sea into Azerbaijan in search of this man whose reputation had far preceded him. The Magician, Erik of Azerbaijan, The Living Corpse… the man had many names, each with a more peculiar story behind it. Some said he could raise the dead, others claimed he could make the very walls and rocks sing like angels. Still others had been so shaken by their encounter with the man that they had considered forming a new sect of Islam to worship him as a prophet so great were his powers.
The trip had not been disappointing.
Nadir and his men found The Magician just west of the coastal capital of Baku. The tent looked rather like it belonged to a Gypsy, make-shift but sturdy and large enough to accommodate the throng of people who had gathered outside.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and people were beginning to wonder if The Magician they had heard stories of existed at all. All doubts were quelled when the inside corners to the entrance of the tent appeared to levitate on their own, withdrawing and clasping up and out of the way to reveal the smoke-filled cavern within.
Along with the crowd Nadir stepped inside, lingering towards the outside of the room to allow the spectators their show. At the front of the room stood an upright, narrow casket, closed but not yet nailed. Truly the whole room looked to be in the beginning stages of a funeral; tall candles provided the only lighting, incense and lilies were places all about as though to cover the smell of the body.
Suddenly the tent flaps dropped shut, and before the room could dissolve into panic a stunning voice filled the room, followed by another, and still another. The voices had no gender, and while at first they appeared to have no source the alarmed voice of a man towards the front of the room rang out. "Allah! The lilies! The lilies are singing!"
Edging his way towards the nearest vase, the Daroga, police chief and prince of Mazandaran found himself astonished beyond words. The lilies were still, but they certainly were not without life; the angelic voice seemed to come from within the very flower itself!
While everyone's attention was focused on the marvelous singing flowers, a movement towards the front of the room drew the Daroga's attention. The casket was opening. Inside was a monster so grotesque it could only likened to Death Himself. The body (for it was certainly a corpse long diseased) was dressed in a fine European suit, his arms folded neatly across his chest. Skeletal fingers adorned with a single ring on the smallest finger lay draped across his chest serenely. The look on his deadened face was serene as well; or as serene as possible with skin so taught and hollow. Every vein in the man's flesh could be seen…
But that made no sense at all, Nadir realized. A dead man's veins would have dried up long ago – and was that a flutter of a pulse?
The corpse's arms unfolded stiffly at first, as though prying itself from the paralysis of death. After a few moments the movement of the body became more fluid, graceful even. Eyes now open and studying his surroundings as though moderately surprised to find himself in company, the corpse spoke. "Who among you dares to wake the dead?"
When no one answered, the corpse began to stalk about the room, inspecting the men and women with cold, tawny eyes. He stopped in front of a man who was all but trembling.
"I-I-it wasn't me, Sir. The flowers started singing and –"
The corpse turned on his heel, suddenly as harmless as a man in love. "Ah, the flowers! I should have known it was their call. Lillies are a very special flower, did you know? Their scent can bring life where there is none. I can see you don't believe me – let me show you."
Over the course of the afternoon The Magician displayed his talents with a showmanship the likes of which Nadir had never seen. He brought to life butterflies, birds, and small animals, created dazzling illusions so close to the audience it was impossible for even the Daroga not to become entranced by the performance.
The Daroga lingered in the tent after the crowd had left. The Magician slipped gracefully into a black leather mask before reaching for a bottle of dark red wine and uncorking it to pour a glass. If he noticed the Persian remained, he said nothing.
"That was a truly remarkable performance," he praised, offering a hand to shake. "Nadir Khan, Daroga of Mazandaran."
The Magician sat languidly in a large chair next to the casket, taking a long drink from his glass and rejecting the man's hand before speaking. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested."
Nadir withdrew his hand and stood taller in defiance. "I am not selling anything. I am here to offer you a position in the Palace of Mazandaran, entertaining the Shah and his court. You will be very well compensated for your time, of course."
Carefully the Magician looked over the darker-skinned man, and suddenly Nadir felt as vulnerable as a cattle at auction. With a casual air the Magician put down his glass and stood, towering over the Persian and walking about him to continue his inspection. "Daroga. That's some sort of royal title, I take it?"
"No. It's the title for the head of police."
"Yet your eyes are clear, your teeth are good, your posture is straight. A warrior would be diseased, so you must come from money."
"…Well, yes. By birthright I am a prince, but I am far removed from the throne."
"Why choose a career that takes you so far from home fetching lowly magicians?"
"Why choose a career as a lowly magician when you are clearly remarkably gifted and well off yourself? Your posture is better than mine, your voice and mannerisms would suggest years of expensive tutelage, even a formal education in the arts -"
"Ah, but my face would suggest decades of poverty and disease, would it not?" The Magician pointed out, stopping in front of the Daroga again to peer down on him from behind the mask that now hid his horrendous features.
"A well-made mask," The Persian suggested defiantly.
Suddenly the man reached up and peeled the black mask off his face, revealing the monstrous rotting corpse the Daroga had seen during his performance. With his thin, rotted lips curled back in a snarl it was nearly impossible not to flinch so close to the face of Death incarnate. "This? You think THIS is the mask? Perhaps you're not as well off as I thought if you're so thick, or is Persian royalty as disgustingly overbred as the rest of the world?"
Nadir quickly composed himself, keeping his shoulders square. "A terrible accident then. Acid, perhaps, or fire-"
"Birth. A terrible accident, true, but not so tragic as acid or fire," the man explained, his voice dropping as his temper cooled. He was silent until the mask was neatly placed back over his scars. "You never answered my question."
"I wanted to work and travel. I wanted to help people rather than live off them as my ancestors have. Is that so wrong?"
The Magician returned to his seat, leaving Nadir standing in silence. Frustrated at his suddenly dismissive attitude, the Daroga spoke again. "If you don't come with me today, I will return every day for as long as it takes. I cannot go back to Mazandaran empty handed, Magician."
"You mean you will notgo back empty handed," the Magician corrected, but the Daroga shook his head.
"I cannot. Frankly, the only reason I agreed to come this far was lack of choice. I am the chief of police, not an errand boy. When I refused out of pride, the Shah strongly suggested my son would not live through his illness should I refuse."
This seemed to intrigue the man immensely, and he put his wine aside. "What is wrong with the boy?"
"He has been ill since birth. Doctors have no name for it."
This had been the lynchpin. The Magician seemed to care nothing for the thought of wealth entertaining royalty would bring. Rather, the character of his host and escort into Persia along with the intrigue of a childhood illness had enticed the man to pack his things and leave Azerbaijan.
"How many others live here?"
"Only two; my son Reza and my sister Sara who cares for him," Nadir explained, dusting off his boots.
For the first time since arriving, the Magician faced his host. "And your wife?"
Nadir ignored the question. "The Sultana is expecting you. If you please her, you are all but guaranteed to please the Shah."
The entire room fell silent when the Magician was escorted in. He held himself alluringly, making it impossible for the women in the room to take their eyes off him. Even covered in black from head to foot, the man stood out strikingly; he was easily a head taller than the eunuchs standing behind him, masked and gloved like a common thief. The shadow of the mask caused his eyes to stand out alarmingly, reflecting the light like jewels… or the eyes of a panther on the hunt.
"Well… what have we here?" Purred the woman at the center of the room where she lay draped across several pillows. As she sat upright, her taught little body reminded the Magician of a snake in the grass. Whether she was venomous or not was still to be determined.
The masked man dipped his head in introduction. "You sent for me, Your Highness."
"I sent for a magician from the West so renowned they simply call him The Magician. You," the woman half sneered, though there was delight in her eyes. "You look to me like a con artist. Tell me now why I shouldn't feed you to the dogs."
"How many reasons would you like?" Came the man's thick, sultry voice from just behind the Sultana's right ear, causing her to jump visibly before grinning widely. He had not moved an inch!
"Very interesting. I could almost feel your breath on my neck," the woman purred. "Show me something with one of my girls," she insisted, gesturing to the harem of women whose tension had not eased since the moment the Magician entered.
Obligingly, the masked man began to walk around the room, hands neatly clasped behind his back as those frightening cat-like eyes surveyed the harem. He passed by them with more ease than most; typically men who entered the Sultana's sanctum found themselves immensely distracted by the scantily clad beauties within. It was a fine way for the beautiful Queen assess her visitors.
Suddenly the Magician stopped, just more than half way through the room. His eyes were locked on one young woman's so intently, the Sultana herself was mesmerized by the trance that seemed to come over the girl. When the Magician offered his gloved hand, the girl rose without word and rested her hand on the air just above his, never once touching the glove. Without breaking her gaze, the man walked back through the harem to the center of the room before the Sultana, the young woman following his hand.
He addressed the woman without moving his lips. "You are Sara Khan, are you not?"
The young woman nodded without removing her gaze or saying a word. "Sara, I know something about you no one here knows. May I tell them?"
Again the woman nodded blankly. The Magician turned to address the Sultana. "Your Highness, I have seen into this woman's heart and I have learned that she has a most beautiful singing voice, one that would surpass any in Persia. She does not even know it herself, but if I tell her to she will sing for you. Would you like to hear?"
The Sultana scoffed, but waved her hand or the man to continue.
Erik guided the woman in front of him as though she were a puppet on a string, straightening her posture without a single touch before coming to her side. When he breathed in deep, the woman did the same, and when the man drew out his hand from his chest the woman's mouth opened and out came a clear, perfect tone. The sound was as perfect as the ring of crystal, and the timbre as pleasing as any angel's would be. The note seemed to last for hours, yet not long enough before cascading into a river over other notes and tones almost too perfect to be sung by the human throat. There were no words to the melody, only a single vowel that changed as though by the Magician's own hand as his fingers fluttered through the notes coming from the woman's mouth.
Down and up again the sound soared, ending finally in another long, clear note higher and more perfect than the first before suddenly the young woman collapsed, something the Magician did not anticipate.
None but the most trained eyes could have sensed the panic that filled the man for a brief moment as the lithe little beauty slipped like a rag doll into his arms, but how trained the Sultana's eyes were in detecting even trace weaknesses.
The woman smiled venomously. "Very well done, Magician. You are dismissed."