A/N: I am so sorry that it took me so long to write this chapter. It's a short one, but at least it's up. My dad has been nagging me to work on scholarship papers, I've been working a lot on Together Forever, and my other stories have kind of gone on the back burner for a while. But now I'm back to this one! My co-author and I are having a bit of a brain freeze on the other one. : ( Anyway, hope you guys like my new chapter even though it's brief. I will try my best to be better at updating quickly from now on.

Part II: Nadir

Chapter Seven

Requiem

I arose early the following morning, fighting my way out of a troubled sleep. Concern for my boy's health way heavily upon my mind. I told myself a thousand times that there was no cause for such anxiety. It was only a nightmare. Diya would be fine. Erik would see to that. For all of his peculiarities, I was certain that the dark stranger would be the answer to my prayers. Still, sleeping would be futile now. My thoughts were much too befuddled to attempt going back to bed. I would take a walk in the garden and wait for Erik to awake. Once the magician had examined my boy, my fears would be put at rest.

I had great confidence in this young foreigner. From what little I knew of him, his wisdom far exceeded his twenty years of age. Granted, at times he frightened me. There was a strange, coldness about the stare of those abnormally colored eyes, yet at other times they glowed warmly, calmingly… almost hypnotically. Nonetheless, he was certainly good with Diya. Although his experience with children had to be limited to say the least, the cloaked man could coax the boy to do anything that he wished for him to do. The child was willing, pliable clay in the potter's expert hands. That fact alarmed me as well. One whispered word in that velvety voice, one glance from those burning yellow eyes could compel or forbid any action on earth. The graceful majesty of his powerful voice, which Erik exercised liberally, was not limited to the manipulation of my son; he had used it on me as well, he had used it on that girl in the inn, and I was certain that he would not stop until all of Persia was under the influence of its sweet intoxication. He could rule us all, and I think he knew it. That thought was the most unnerving of all.

Hours passed as I wandered alone among the lush vegetation, thinking of numerous topics. I thought of the unbelievable bond that seemed to be growing between Erik and my son. The mask did not even seem to bother him, and I had never heard him speak of asking Erik to remove it. Two days and the boy practically accepted him as an elder brother. Erik seemed more than glad to soak up the child's attention. At times, I wanted to march between them and tell him to stay away from my poor boy. Diya would be heart broken when it was time for Erik to go to court, and I loathed the thought of his near worship of a man who seemed so innately malevolent. However, the elated light in Erik's eyes always halted my endeavor to separate him from his new friend. He seemed genuinely happy whenever he was with my boy, as if he were truly contented for the first time in his life. His face had surely denied him friendship in the past, and I could not take that from him now.

From there my thoughts trailed from what little I knew of Erik's past to what I hoped would be his future. I would help him to learn the ways of our people and the rules of the court. He would make a fine entertainer for the little Sultana, and if he pleased the child—as I was certain he would—perhaps he could even have some influence with the Shah. This was the beginning of a new life for him, a life that I hoped would be far superior to the past. However, as usual concerning Erik, I was mistaken.

My mind wandered on to the meeting that Erik and I would have with the Shah upon our arrival at the Mazenderan court. In a short time, I came to the far edge of the garden. Slowly, I entered the small forest that stood before me. Horrifying images flashed through my mind, forcing me onward with increasingly rapid steps. I had to go to that spot, to see that it was nothing but a dream. Although I attempted to keep my mind on matters of business of the court, I could not seem to push away the terrible dreams that had clouded my mind as I slept that night.

I dreamt of my child. He was sitting on the floor with his monkey music box, watching keenly as the little creature played his song and then clapping for him to play again and again. But the boy in my dreams was not the Diya whom I knew. He was much smaller, thinner, and weaker. His feeble little arms seemed barely able to go to the exertion of applause. The illness was eating at his bones and at his eyes. The two orbs, once a healthy brown, were now glazed over, pallid and seemingly sightless. Every part of him seemed changed. It was difficult to recognize him as the same happy, laughing young boy that I knew as my own son.

My heart broke and bled painfully at the sight. I stepped toward him, but I could not seem to enter the warmly lit room. Instead, my feet touched upon the slick surface of a kind of trap door, and I was sent spiraling downward. I was falling helplessly, my arms and legs flaying, my fingers grasping out for anything to take hold upon. At last I landed with a thud on solid ground. Brushing the dust from my garments, I stood to my feet. I glanced to my right and then to my left for any sign of where I was. Then recognition came to me I stood in the small grove of trees behind our garden. My eyes came to rest upon the familiar building, a small one containing a table and a golden urn. And then my gaze was drawn to some motion a few feet away.

There before me stood a black clad figure. A long hood covered his entire face, and only his skeletal hands could be seen moving from the depths of his spectral apparel. One of those hands moved to cross himself in the manner of a Roman Catholic infidel. Then the wraith laid both of his hands upon the body that lay before him in an open casket. The lifeless body of Diya.

Instantly, I thrust myself forward, screaming out in rage. "There is no God but Allah!" I cried. "And Muhammad is his Prophet!" The ghostly figure appeared not to hear my cries. He continued with his task of burial. And then I heard it. Erik was singing. I could hear his voice drifting through the air, blending with the soft playing of a violin in a mournful wail of song, a strange setting of the familiar Latin text which those of his faith call the Requiem. Their mass of death. Gradually the whole scene faded away in to blackness, impermeable darkness, void of shape or color or sound except for the cyclical playing of that soft, haunting melody.