The night came. A period of darkness, ordained by whatever higher power existed as the time for rest. The dark held no rest for Mozenrath.
For whatever reason, he required less sleep than the average human. Instead of eight hours, he only needed around four. Which wouldn't have been a problem if not for the stirrings.
During the day, Mozenrath's intellect was formidable. At night, it truly came alive. When most minds were winding down, his kicked into high gear. He was filled with a rampant energy that drove him to stalk the well-worn carpets of his hallways until all hours of the morning. Lately, it had gotten worse, and he was lucky to get two hours out of every twenty-four asleep.
His thoughts whirled and fought for attention. Many of them took the form of voices, whispering advice and observations incessantly. Sometimes, when the voices were especially loud, he could feel the slowly creeping madness, threatening him with its looming terror. He dreaded nothing more than to suffer the ignominy of a slow fall into insanity.
His feet moved of their own accord, steering him without conscious thought towards her door. More and more, he'd found himself stopped here in his nightly wanderings. He would open the door ever so slightly, moving it until he could see in just a hair- until he could see her. Something about the sight of her quieted the voices, if only for a little while. It mystified him as to why.
He stood outside the door, debating internally. Finally, he reached out to open the door. He'd scarcely touched the old wood when it swung open to reveal Sadira, clad only in a long, loose sandy-colored robe. Part of him was paralyzed that she'd discovered him. The other part was secretly pleased she'd been waiting for him.
"Can't sleep?" She inquired, an eyebrow raised curiously. She must have seen the answer in his eyes, since she stood aside and gestured for him to enter. He hesitated for a moment and walked inside.
Sadira came in behind him and tossed a small log in the fire. It slowly caught and burned, producing a tiny bit of light to beat at the night's darkness. Its soft glow was comforting, as was the fraction of heat it gave off. She sat in front of the fire and patted the floor next to her. He sat.
There was a silence that stretched on for a long time. Both were comfortable in it, being accustomed to long periods of abject loneliness. It was Sadira who finally broke the silence.
"Moze," She said softly, using a shortened form of his name (he wasn't quite sure how he felt about this), "Why do you wear that Gauntlet all the time? I mean, I can tell its a really powerful artifact, but you never seem to take it off…" His gaze cut her off. He had the most wonderful eyes, golden and shining softly in the firelight. They seemed to glow of their own accord and his pupil seemed ringed in silver. She saw a deep, old wisdom in those eyes now.
"The Gauntlet," He said almost in a sigh. "My blessing and my curse. Nearly unlimited power- but, as with all things-" He pulled off the Gauntlet- "It comes at a price." She gasped despite herself. She didn't know what she'd expected- a horribly mangled arm or something- but it wasn't this.
The arm was there all right, and seemed to be fully intact, except for the fact that it was missing all its flesh. The bone was clean and slightly yellowish, and looked surprisingly small without its metal covering. All the way to the elbow, he had an entirely bone arm. His finger bones clicked as he clenched them in a fist.
After a moment he pulled the Gauntlet back on and sat facing the fire. He seemed troubled. She changed the subject.
"Why are your eyes gold?" Those eyes turned to face her, seemed to lose a little bit of the seriousness that all too often occupied them.
"That, I inherited from my mother." He gestured at the room around them. "I originally had this room built for her, in case she ever came to visit." He paused for a moment. "She didn't."
"How is she, your mother?" The words found their way out before she could stop them. Damn her incessant curiosity, anyways.
"She's nice enough for a minor goddess, I suppose."
"A minor goddess?"
"She's a Bastite, the feline people. I inherited a few of their traits, like the eyes, and a couple other-" His eyes narrowed as she reached out and started rubbing his head.
What. No. She. Is. Petting. Me. His thoughts became jumbled after that because it felt amazing. Despite himself, a purring sound emerged from somewhere in his chest. She laughed softly, a wonderful sound, and withdrew her hand. His eyes glinted wickedly.
"My turn." Sadira's breath caught as his hand touched her face. Electricity sparked when he touched her skin, taking her breath away. He slowly felt down the length of her scar, tracing it with his thumb. She blushed and averted her eyes. She knew full well how the scar looked, how it ruined her face. So his next words came as a surprise.
"You're beautiful." They were so blunt, so direct, that for a minute she didn't recognize them as a compliment. When she did, her face flushed even further and she opened her eyes to see his golden ones peering intently into hers. She was paralyzed, unable and unwilling to look away.
"Who gave this to you?" This time his voice contained a hint of anger. Instantly, she was transported back to that awful moment. Yelling, anger, a flash of light on the blade… She didn't realize she was crying until she felt Mozenrath's slender, strong arms around her.
This was Mozenrath, evil sultan of the land of Black Sands, assured psychopath and quite possible sociopath, murderer of dozens if not hundreds- but that didn't matter. He was holding her and that was the only thing that mattered.
She must have fallen asleep in his arms, but when she woke up he was gone. She wondered if it had all been a dream. Then her gaze fell on the neatly folded pile of clothes at the foot of her bedroll. She smiled.
She never folded her clothes.
It hadn't been a dream.
The morning dawned and Sadira sat down to breakfast with Mozenrath. He greeted her politely and gave no sign that he remembered the previous night. His gold eyes met hers steadily and betrayed nothing of his emotions. They ate in companionable silence for a while, Mozenrath perusing his notes as they did so. Sadira finally broke the silence.
"So, what's the next step, Moze?" She nonchalantly leaned back in her chair, throwing her feet up on the table. Distaste flitted across Mozenrath's expression.
"I eat on this table, you know." She grinned wickedly but removed her feet. "We'll wait a while, give some time for paranoria and fear to set in among the rest of the targets. With luck, they'll leave the country and we won't have to kill them." Sadira raised an eyebrow.
"Afraid of shedding more blood?" Mozenrath scoffed.
"Hardly. The less effort we expend the better. It's much more efficient that way." Efficiency was big with Mozenrath.
"So what do we do in the meantime?"
"Prepare, train, come up with strategies. I have a couple of lowlifes to interrogate as well. Mal has earned himself a slow death."
"What about me? Torture isn't my thing." Mozenrath paused. He'd never really stopped to consider what Sadira might do in her spare time. He shrugged.
"What do you do?" Sadira stood up.
"A little of this, a little of that. I'd like a lab space to work in." Mozenrath gave her a sharp glance.
"You want to work in my lab?" She smiled sweetly.
"If it isn't too much trouble." He sighed irritably.
"Fine. You may have one table."
"One table-" She exploded into muttered swearing and oaths. He rather enjoyed her reaction. He stood.
"In the meantime, I'm going to see Mechanikles. I have some questions about articulated joints for him." He swept out of the room without another glance.
Mechanikles was famous for his automaton designs. Sadira forgot her anger and jumped to her feet, hurrying after Mozenrath. This was a rare opportunity- meeting the mad genius of Greece! The dungeons were down a corridor and seven flights of stairs, with guards posted on each one. Their blank eyes stared at Sadira as she walked past, sending a chill down her spine. Finally they reached a wide, open chamber. A flat table stood in the middle of the room. Another table lay off to the side, holding all sorts of implements. Some still had blood on them.
"Bring me Mechanikles," Mozenrath ordered a guard, and began carefully cleaning his tools. The guard returned a moment later. He was silent. "Well?" Mozenrath demanded.
"Prisoner Zero-Two-Two is not in his cell."
"What!?"
The automaton, faithful to its orders, responded accordingly.
"Prisoner Zero-Two-Two is not-"
"I know what you said!" A human might have been confused or hurt. The automaton was no longer anything close to human and felt neither. It merely fell silent and stood there, awaiting further orders. Mozenrath fumed silently for a minute, then addressed Sadira. "Fetch your weapons and cloak, then tell Ragül to get his ass down here now."
Sadira just looked at him challengingly. "Is that how you're going to address me? Like one of your servants?"
Mozenrath was taken aback by this frank disobedience. "I- We-" He stuttered under Sadira's pointed gaze, finally giving up. "Please."
She nodded. "That's better." She left and returned in due course, the demon in tow. Ragül handed Mozenrath a large staff with two solid orbs of metal on each end. He spun it once, nodded, and stalked off into the gloom.
Mechanikles's cell was nothing special. A few square feet of dirt and solid iron bars. A bedroll lay in one corner and a desk in the other. There were a few scattered pages of notes, a single gear, and naught else. The cell was empty.
Sadira had to hand it to Mozenrath- the man knew how to investigate. Within ninety seconds of entering the cell, he'd inspected the bars, door and walls and concluded he'd escaped through the floor. Another thirty seconds revealed a cleverly covered-up tunnel dug under the cell. He smashed through the layer of sand covering the hole and dropped in, swiftly moving down its length. Sadira scrambled to follow and Ragül brought up the rear- a fact that made her strangely nervous.
"So," Sadira began, more to break the silence than anything, "What are you going to do to Mechanikles when we find him?" Mozenrath responded with a scowl.
"I'm going to cut off his feet." His expression was murderous. Sadira shut up. Now was not a good time to press him.
There was a splash as Mozenrath's foot landed in water. He summoned a light. It revealed the tunnel descending underwater.
"He tapped into an underground river and followed it out to the ocean," Ragül observed tonelessly. Mozenrath snapped and pointed. The demon dived in and disappeared into the gloom.
"He's going to confirm that. We're going to hit the docks." He concentrated and teleported them back to his compound.
Sadira looked him up and down. "You're going to go like that?" She referred to his opulent clothes.
"I am the Sultan of the Black Sands. They will answer my questions."
"Like hell they will. They won't tell you anything."
"I can't interrogate all of them."
"Nor should you. Go change into common clothes. I'll show you how it's done." It took a half hour, much cajoling, and one threat to cut off his manhood while he was sleeping to get Mozenrath to comply, but he did. He stood clad in simple clothes and a dark scowl. Sadira nodded. "That's better." She herself threw on a niqab that covered her completely but left little eye-holes she could see out of. She hated them, but going without would invite trouble.
She took the lead as they took to the streets. Agrabah's slums were a maze of tightly knit buildings, ramshackle huts and a constant flood of the lower echelons of humanity. Sadira paused for a moment to breathe deeply. She remembered all the smells with fondness- bread baking, the sharp tint of the air, the acrid odor of cat urine… She made a face. Okay, maybe not all the smells. Still, this was where she'd grown up, and she remembered every detail.
The slums had merchants for every commodity, including food, magic talismans, and slaves. She'd waged her own private war against the slavers for many years. She noted where the slavers had set up and made a note to come after them later. She turned her head and was surprised to see Mozenrath looking at a slaver with disgust. She could see the Gauntleted hand clenched tightly.
"Vile filth," he practically spat. "When I'm in control here I will personally make sure each and every one of these scum dies." Her respect for him went up a notch.
A nearby urchin overheard him and slipped away. Neither of them noticed.
The rarest commodity of all was information, and Skov was privy to all of it. He was a foreigner, but no one knew where from. All he would ever say was that where he came from, snow fell nearly all year- a statement that inevitably brought a round of laughter. Snow? Snow was a silly myth.
Mysterious origins aside, Skov had landed in Agrabah and quickly bullied his way to the top of the criminal world by selling opium. Once he'd amassed a small fortune, he'd dropped the opium and turned his attention to a considerably more rare item: information. His network of informants stretched into all levels of society, including the Palace. Nothing went on in the city that he didn't know about. And for a price, you could know too.
Sadira noticed movement in the crowd and leaned towards Mozenrath. "Don't panic. Follow my lead." No sooner had she said it than two knives were pressed into their backs and hard voices ordered them to cooperate.
They were led down back alleys until they were hopelessly lost and then shepherded into a building. The door was shut and locked behind them. Inside was a table and three chairs. One of them was occupied.
Skov was skinny as a twig and about six foot six. He was built in that lean way that was deceptively strong. He had his feet thrown up on the table. He had an easy way of speaking and his strange accent invited curiosity.
"Friends! Come, come, sit down." He gestured to the chairs. Mozenrath chose instead to stand, cross his arms, and stare daggers at the man. Sadira sighed and sat down. Why did all males feel the need to assert their dominance?
"I demand to know why I've been treated like this," He began. "Do you know who I am?"
"I know who you are, where you live and how many torches there are in your bedroom hallway." Sadira had to suppress a snort at the way he'd disarmed Moze. He turned livid but sat down without a word.
"Now, with that out of the way, we can get down to business." He casually inspected his nails. "What does Mozenrath the half-Bastite Sultan of the Black Sands want with me? Moreover, what's he doing with Sadira, the stalker in the night?" Sadira was surprised but not very much. She threw off her niqab.
"Alright, Skov, here's how it is," She said. "Moze here is looking for a Greek, by name of Mechanikles. We think he's been down this way. What do you have on him?" He closed his eyes to consult his formidable intelligence.
"Little insane Greek man?" A nod of confirmation. "Never heard of him." Mozenrath started to rise angrily.
"What do you mean-" Sadira interrupted him by throwing a coin on the table. Skov scooped it up and examined it critically.
"Oh, that Greek. Yes, he's been down this way. He boarded a ship a few hours ago." Another coin.
"Headed where?"
"Greece." Sadira nodded.
"Thank you, Skov." He waved a big hand.
"No problem, Sadira." They both stood up and shook hands. "Pleasure doing business with you. Take care of your man there." She looked puzzled.
"He's not my man."
The corner of Skov's mouth twitched up. "Right." Sadira bowed and left the house. Mozenrath lingered behind. "Something on your mind?" Skov asked.
"How did you know I'm half-Bastite?"
"I recognize one of your mother's people."
"You know my mother? Is she in town? What's she doing?" Skov laughed, deep and long.
"No price could get that out of me. I'm more scared of her than I'll ever be of you. Now get out." He waited until they were both long gone, then addressed a bookshelf that was off to the side. "I never saw a stranger pair."
The bookshelf swung open and an old man hobbled out. His hair was white with age, but his eyes remained sharp.
"Nor a more perfect one."
About a year ago
The old man lived in a ramshackle hut very similar to the one he'd taught her in. Spartan in its accommodations, barely able to keep out the weather, and absolutely covered in books. Tomes of magic, studies, page upon page of notes all scribbled on in his illegible hand- these covered the floor, his bed, and the one chair there was. The old man hobbled over to his small cook stove to brew something she didn't recognize. The smell was exotic and delectable.
She hovered uncertainly near the door until he pushed a cup of the brew in her hands. It was warm to the touch. A small wisp of steam curled off of it. He sat down and she made do by sitting cross-legged on the ground. She carefully sipped the drink. It was delicious.
"Thank you, Master," she said, subconsciously reverting to how she'd addressed him when she'd been his student. "This is very good. What is it?" He took a long pull from his cup before answering.
"I know not what the locals call it, but to me it is Flame. In excessive quantities it is deadly, but when brewed properly it acts as a catalyst to your energy production and tastes quite good." Sadira gingerly sipped the drink again, now aware she might be drinking death in a cup. After a moment, she was surprised as she felt her aura swell with sudden energy.
"I'd like the recipe for this if I may," Sadira cautiously put forward. The old man snorted.
"Still impudent and impatient. Hush, child. I brought you here to tell you something far more important than tea recipes." Sadira was paying attention now.
"What is it?"
"You know the Sand Witch ways were already dying out by the time you became one." It was true. Sadira had discovered an amulet that had unlocked her potential and led her to the ruined Palace of the Sand Witch Empire when she was about sixteen. The only instruction she'd received had been from scrolls left behind and one very old witch who'd eventually handed her off to the old man. "The Seer has died. You are the last one left now."
The news hit Sadira like a hammer blow. By all accounts, the Seer had been around for countless millennia. It was impossible!
"But how?" The old man sighed. Usually he sighed out of exasperation, but this time it contained… emotion. Buried and suppressed, but there nonetheless.
"I was there. Here." He handed her a piece of sandstone, intricately layered and shiny-smooth. It was beautiful.
"What is-" she was cut off as her vision cut out to be replaced by completely different surroundings. She couldn't turn her head or, indeed, move any part of her body. She was seeing through the old man's eyes- his memory? Was that even possible?
It seemed the case as the scene progressed into what she recognized as the Seer's chambers. The Seer herself was facing out a window, looking into the sunset. She felt herself stabilize as her perspective stopped.
"You sent for me?" His voice echoed in her head and produced the very curious sensation of someone else talking with her mouth. The Seer turned.
The most venerated of the sand witches, the Seer was so named because she was gifted with the power to see into the future. She'd lived a very, very long life that couldn't be measured in years. She had seen the beginnings of the order and she'd lived to see the end.
"It is time." Her voice was cracked with age but strong.
"What will become of the order?"
"It will be Sadira's choice. To carry it on or let it fade away."
"So she is the new Seer?"
"No. There will be another Seer, but it will not be her. This I have foreseen."
"So what is she?" The old woman's gaze was solemn.
"She is the Empress of the Sand Witches." There was a silence as her words sank in.
"She is young and full of anger. Surely there's someone else." Sadira could just picture the old man's concerns raging through his mind. They mirrored the ones in hers. The Seer shook her head.
"There is no one else. It is up to her now." Her vision moved. The old man had bowed.
"As you wish." His voice was still full of criticism.
"Do not be so quick to judge Sadira," The Seer cautioned. "I foresee that she will change. She will meet someone that can help her." She stopped suddenly, a look of perfect clarity coming over her wrinkled face. "It is time. Take care of her. Goodbye, old friend." She stiffened and began to dissolve into sand. The sand hung in the air, thousands of shining particles gleaming in the sun- and then they were gone.
"Goodbye," The old man said softly. The memory faded to be replaced by the interior of the old man's hut.
"You are the Empress now," The old man said quietly. Sadira looked at him.
"Am I ready?"
His voice was like the crack of a whip.
"Of course you're not ready, you impudent child!" She smiled.
"Thank you, Master." Something that could have been a smile flitted across his face. It was gone too quickly to be sure.
"Now get out and leave me to my work." She stood and bowed and departed. A cat in the corner of the room stood and stretched.
"I don't know why you called me here just to see this," it complained, its golden eyes full of irritation. "I was having quite a lovely dinner."
"Someday, you'll see," replied the old man. His eyes were focused on something far away. "You'll see."
Present Day
Sadira jolted awake and threw the blankets off of herself, swinging her legs out of the small bunk in her cabin. The ship was a modest one that Mozenrath had commandeered to get to Greece. The plentiful gold coins had helped to grease the wheels. She went out and stood on the deck, feeling the chill night air whip around her and enjoying the smell of the sea.
The meeting with the old man and her rise to power (if a defunct office in an extinct organization counted as power) had been near the end of her voyage. It had been about a year since and in that time she'd accomplished nothing. No recruits, no training, nothing.
"What on earth do you call this? It certainly isn't a knot. I know what a knot looks like and this mess is not a knot." Mozenrath's voice drifted across the ship. Sadira smiled.
Maybe not nothing, she mused silently. Maybe something.
A seagull called, a wave broke across the bow and the ship continued to sail.
