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A CRESCENT MOON HUNG IN the balmy night sky, waxing into its first quarter. The air in the hanging temple gardens was fragrant with blossoming iris, jasmine, and spicy-sweet red roses. Grape vines climbed over pergolas and marble pillars. Blue lotuses floated in luminous ponds, stirred by little fish with iridescent scales and gently flowing waterfalls. Palm trees brimmed with clusters of brown dates, and blood-red pomegranates hung so heavily on their branches that they nearly reached the ground.
Three balaĝs played soft music on golden harps and two-barrelled reed pipes, their chitinous tails coiled round the legs of their chairs, long, barbed fingers moving over the strings with expert fluidity. Their music, though its own tune, managed to harmonize with a pair of star-touched nightjars roosting in the trees.
The goddess Istarte lounged on a couch by the edge of the pearl-tiled fountain in the center of the gardens, one beaded sandal hanging off her manicured toe. She toyed with a bowl of purple figs, rolling them between her fingers. She stared with blank eyes into the fountain, where a marble statue stood three metres tall in the middle of the shallow water, a tipped vase cradled in the figure’s hands.
The cascading water mirrored the night sky so it looked like the heavens themselves were flowing from the fair matron’s vessel. Her loose stone hair hung to her waist, blending in with a gossamer gown that foamed like the sea waves about her bare feet. Fanning from her hips were long, trailing fins of parchment thinness. A crown of pearls circled her brow, conch shells and scallops and whelks her waist.
Her serene, slightly smiling face was one that Istarte knew well, for it was her mother’s face, the face of Ammzu, Queen of the Heavens, who — with her husband Balail — created both the mortal world and the celestial realm of the gods with a blend of earth, sea, and sky.
Istarte rose from her couch, pacing the terrace with escalating impatience. Her heart leapt each time a handmaiden approached, but fell the instant she realized that the girl was alone, come to tend the flowers or refill her wine.
A table was spread with an arrangement of the finest foods: bitter olives, bowls of thick fermented leben topped with fresh mint, baked flatbread and shanks of spiced lamb on beds of bright, golden rice, braised turnips, and crispy fried fish. Hummus swam in oil, topped with chickpeas, paprika, and parsley, and for something sweet, there were apricots, dates, maamoul and halawet el jibn, filled with ashta cream and drizzled in syrup.
A feast fit for a king. And for a king it was — only that king still had not come.
He is making me wait on purpose, Istarte thought, her nails piercing pink crescents into her palms. Her sandals’ leather soles thwacked against the ground with each step, beads jingling.
After what felt like eternity, her newest handmaiden appeared, bowing timidly. “His Royal Grace, the King of Kings, Malyk Suhail ibn Qasim, the Lion of Razah, and his most trusted companion, Mushir Idris ibn Sayyid,” announced Aru.
As she excused herself, silently slipping through a fine blue curtain into the shadows, two men of noble stature entered the gardens. They were both of them built like bulls, hard-muscled and tall, their skin the brown of boiled leather. Malyk Suhail was a king like few others — content not to idle in the shade while eunuchs fanned him with giant palms, but to train in the sun with his imperial soldiers, oversee the construction of buildings, temples, and irrigation systems, and even sometimes work in the fields himself.
Only what he wore betrayed him his royal status. Tonight, he was wrapped in layers of silk, cloth-of-gold trimming a blue qaftan and the cuffs of his white cotton sirwal. His long black curls were bound inside his matching turban, the white bands of silk threaded through with chains of fine gold filigree, secured with an amber brooch as large as a heron’s egg. His neatly-trimmed beard was well-oiled with sandalwood and rose, his mustachios twisted and curled upwards.
At his side, a hand resting on the hilt of a jewel-set shamshir, stood Idris ibn Sayyid, the commander of Suhail’s imperial troops. Beneath his scalemail brigandine, his tunic was blue like Suhail’s, but of far simpler style and fabric. A gold, lion’s head brooch clasped over his left breast marked him the King’s man.
Although younger by several years, Idris was as imposing a figure as the Malyk, with his set shoulders and bright green eyes, narrowed beneath bushy brows. His sharp, square face was clean-shaven, bordered by loose, black waves, woven through with carved, gold-leaf-plated beads. He reminded Istarte of a jungle tiger, beautiful but fearsome, forever prepared to spring to action.
Suhail bowed. “Forgive me my tardiness, Gracious Lady. I make no extenuation, for there is none that could excuse making the Goddess of Love, War and Beauty wait.”
Istarte perked her silver brow. She held out a hand and Suhail brushed his lips over the blooming rose painted on the back. “I hope that the journey was not too arduous. I know that the Black Desert is home to many monsters and ne’er-do-wells.”
“It was nothing that we could not handle.”
Istarte poured two cups of beer from an ewer. “Regardless, I sincerely appreciate your taking the time to come this way.”
“But of course; how could I refuse you?” asked Suhail with an impish grin. He took a long quaff as Istarte poured a second beer for Idris.
She replaced the ewer on the table, turning with a flourish and circling the table with an exaggerated sway of her hips. She had intentionally selected a fitted silk gown that deepened from ivory to saffron to hibiscus red.
When the two men were finished their cups, she indicated the set table. “I’m sure you are famished from your long travels, great king. Please, sit and eat.”
“I would never refuse the hospitality of a goddess,” he replied, “but will you not tell me why you have summoned me? This is the Immortal Realm — a place where few may enter without fear of reprisal — not the grounds of your earthly temple.”
“Nevermind that. There will be time enough for questions once you have . . .” Istarte played with a garnet pendant pillowed in the cleft of her peaked breasts. “. . . satisfied your appetite.”
Two hayyani started to wait on Suhail, one refilling his rhyton with beer, the other serving him spoonfuls of tabbouleh and leben, the choicest cuts of lamb on rice, and fluffy flatbread. Then they slithered to Idris, offering him the leavings. The mushir took for himself some braised turnips, two of the crispy fish, half a flatbread, and a spoonful of olives.
Istarte limited herself to a cup of watered honey wine and traced a nail along its rim. “So, tell me of the mortal world. How fares Razah? I’ve not heard news in months.”
There was but the briefest of twitches on Suhail’s face, the verbal biff subtle, but noted. Istarte’s priestesses would have relayed to her the current state of world affairs, but she was clearly embittered by his recent silence and insisted he knew how much.
“The border conflicts have mostly abated,” he said with a tight smile. “The ghouls in the eastern hills have once again been pushed back into their warrens — although for how long remains to be seen. And in the north, the Ifriti king, Muzaffar al-Djinn, has wedded Munira, the royal sorceress, and eldest sister of the emir Fouzan. He has offered the Ifriti the contested lands below the River Sarie for one third of the land’s profits.”
“A sound compromise,” Istarte agreed. “As I understand, already Munira has two healthy sons from when she was concubine to Your Highness’ own cousin, Jabir. Whatever children she bears for Muzaffar may well be married to Fouzan’s offspring, and therefore, his lands shall remain within his power — if not within his life, than in the continued legacy of his name.”
Suhail tore a piece of flatbread, popping it into his mouth. “That is the only thing a mortal can hope for. For our time in this realm will eventually expire, or bodies returned to whatever clay or flames from which we were formed. It is only our legacy — our names — that can endure forever, if we give it reason with action and words.”
“Very well put,” said Idris, pitting an olive and discreetly divesting it into a bowl. He rarely spoke and the deep, gravelly nature of the man’s voice coming from such a fair face never ceased to catch Istarte by surprise.
She sipped her wine, letting the flavours linger on her tongue. “T’is true. Although . . . if one is so blessed, it is possible for the mortal to become immortal. And live forever in truth.”
“Anything is possible for the Anuu-i,” Suhail said with a nod. “Though few would be so remarkable to receive such a blessing, I should think.”
Istarte’s lips pulled into a feline smile. “Few indeed.”
As they continued to eat, Suhail told her of the new temple that was being constructed in honour of Balail, King of the Gods, in the capital, of the plague that was rumoured to be spreading in some of the smaller villages — Istarte promised to investigate the claims — of the expected harvest, and of a new performance he’d seen and quite enjoyed.
The goddess then excused herself, encouraging the men to finish their meals with in leisure, and to relax their travel-weary muscles with a bath, requesting only that Suhail come see her once he was finished.
In her private rooms, Suhail found her tending amber incense, filling the air with fragrant smoke. Glowing lamps bathed the circular space in soft, golden light, made tenuous by the billowing curtains.
“I remember the first time I laid eyes upon you,” Istarte said, blowing out the flame of a firestick.
She had traded her sunset dress for one of sheer white, so thin it revealed every inch of the bronze skin beneath. Her nipples were hard, purple peaks, rimmed in mendhi petals, the fine hairs between her thighs a moonlit silver. A belt of fine gold links wrapped her hips, purely ornamental.
“The Empire of Razah trembled beneath the heel of Malyk Othman back then, the king they called the Beast. Cruel he was. He raised taxes and tributes, and cut trade with allied nations. He started wars and conscripted so many men that there were few left to protect the towns and villages from marauders. He hosted lavish parties while his people starved, outlawed performance and sport, and built monuments not to Balail or the honour of the Anuu-i, but for his own perceived glory.
“His moods were like the wind, ever shifting. What won favour one morning would be offense enough to cost men their heads that evening. He slew his wives once they grew too old or he tired of their presence, stole women from their husbands to be his concubines, and sold the children of those who displeased him into slavery.
“The people prayed for someone to liberate them. And so the gods listened, and sent them a message — a prophecy. A saviour, born from great sacrifice.”
She circled the bed slowly, her naked feet silent on the floor. She brushed her fingers over the bed curtains, making them hush. “Someday, soon in the life of mortals, there would come one that the people would love, not fear. One whose name they would cry like he were a god, not a man, and stand behind with fire in their hearts.
“So the fearful Othman sent out strict orders — that every little boy now born in his realm be slain, so that this messiah might never rise.
“Hundreds of babes were slaughtered, their fathers killed if they fought the Malyk’s men, their mothers pushed to suicide, the grief so great.”
Suhail cast his eyes low, as if Istarte’s recount embarrassed him. Of course, shame flickered in his breast for the lives that were lost. Why had he survived when countless innocents had not?
The Goddess’ heart tightened with affection. His humility was one reason that Istarte loved him so.
“But Othman failed in his plan to change his fate, for one babe survived.
“Born of a priestess, who honoured the Great Mother, Ammzu, and so earned her favour, you avoided death when your father set you adrift in a basket in the river. The current then carried you into the gardens of the Golden Palace, where a handmaiden of the wife of the Grand Vizier sat with her mistress by the water. The Vizier’s wife had recently lost the child she was carrying, so the handmaiden, taking your arrival as a good omen, presented you as the Grand Vizier’s newborn son.”
“He was a loyal man, my father,” Suhail said, thinking of the Grand Vizier and not the faceless man from whose fated seed he’d sprung. “Despite his conscience, my father obeyed every order given, so there was no reason for Othman to ever suspect him. I was permitted to live only because Othman believed my father would likewise raise me to be equally loyal.
“And for many years, I was. I was taught to change my face, to wear whichever one was required. There was one that I wore for Othman, one that I wore for my family, friends, and lovers, one for the men that were in my command, yet another for strangers, and one that I kept secret for none but myself.”
“And the gods,” Istarte said.
“And the gods,” he agreed with a nod.
She stood before him, so close he could feel her sweet breath on his skin. The Anuu-i could change their forms whenever they wished, and Istarte knew how sensitive human men were whenever women stood taller than them. And so she shortened herself so that her silver head reached only to the tip of Suhail’s aquiline nose.
“I’d long heard of the brave Suhail ibn Qasim, Lion of Razah,” she continued, her voice a whisper. “But what is one mortal to a goddess? I’ve known many heroes in my time. And many villains. All rise and fall as the wheat. All eventually pass from this world into the land of shadows.
“Then I saw you in my temple and I understood . . . You are the one that will change the world.”
Although it was more than ten years ago, it seemed only yesterday a young and dejected Suhail came to Istarte’s temple in Irkshah, praying for the strength to stop the horned sand serpent, Bashmus.
But Istarte could hear what a mortal priest could not, could see into the warrior’s wounded heart. She had known that there was a more personal reason for his supplication: his lover, Marjan, betrayed him with another.
From that night on, Istarte strengthened Suhail’s will and, as Goddess of War, assisted him in battle. With her help, he slew the villainous Bashmus, then went on to fell the ogre, Shebulah, stop an invasion in the borderlands, and raise a secret army to seize the throne and crown himself King of Razah.
Istarte slid a hand around Suhail’s head, pulling him into a gentle kiss. Her mouth tasted of sweet honeyed wine and apricots. Her other hand slipped inside the folds of his shirt, trailing over the hard, oiled plains of his stomach. His sweat-stained traveling clothes had been replaced with a fresh pair of sirwal and a light, loose silk shirt edged in gold thread and matching tassels. Istarte removed each garment slowly, then combed her fingers through his still-wet curls, easing out the knots.
Suhail made no move to undress her in return, but watched with eager eyes her gown pool on the floor round her mehndi-painted feet.
Taking the King’s hand, she guided him into bed, sinking into the cool sheets and cloud-soft pillows. She continued to kiss Suhail with growing intensity as his hands roamed her skin, following the curve of her hip, caressing her leg, and squeezing her soft backside — enough to enkindle her passion.
Their bodies came together in silent fervor. Istarte raked her nails over his shoulders and flank, for she was consumed with both pleasure from their love-making and resentment for his lengthy absence. No man, not even the King of Kings, was busy enough that he could spare no time for his beloved.
But tonight, Istarte would ensure that no one and nothing in the world would keep Suhail from her side. From the Immortal Realm, they would forever reign as King and Queen of Razah.
When they were finished, Suhail climbed off her, his hair clinging to his perspiry forehead. He rolled back, tucking an arm beneath his head, while Istarte rose and crossed the room to wrap herself in a robe, and retrieve an ewer of ice water.
Returning to bed with a cup, she wet her throat and said, “You asked me earlier why I summoned you here, rather than to any of the many temples built in my name.”
He readily received the cup from her, too thirsty to reply with more than a nod of acknowledgement.
“As you know well, I’ve loved you ever since the first time we met. That is no small feat — to capture the heart of a goddess, much less the heart of the Goddess of Love, who has, in her immortal life, only ever loved one other.
“Yet, for reasons even I cannot comprehend, it happened. Though I swore when Atam was killed that I would close my heart off forever, I fell in love. And not with a fellow god, but with a man of earthly flesh.”
“Istarte . . . ” He opened his mouth but no other words came out.
“Let me finish, or I’ll never find the courage.” She shook her head, her heart a dragonfly’s wings. “You are growing older. You must needs marry soon and sire sons to succeed you.
“I know that this is the path that every mortal must walk, but the thought of someday losing you as I lost Atam frightens me more than all else. I would not survive. These few months of separation have proven that.
“And so, though it may not be proper, I propose we marry — that you become my beloved husband and I your beloved wife.”
Digesting her proposition, Suhail eased himself from her embrace, rose, and paced the room. With every second that went by, Istarte’s heart slowed, beating hard and heavy like a rock. She was expecting him to be thrilled by her offer. A little embarrassed perhaps, for it was customary for a man to propose. Though she was a goddess; it only made sense he might not consider it prudent.
He stopped his pacing. “No.”
She startled. What? “No?”
Refusing to face her, he repeated, “No. We cannot marry.”
Her voice sharpened as her heart plummeted. “Whyever not? Balail can grant you immortality, make it so that you may never grow old.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Then what is it?”
“You are Istarte,” he said, “child of Ammzu and Balail, Goddess of Love and War. And I’m only Malyk Suhail ibn Qasim. King of Kings, the Lion of Razah, true, but only a man. If we wed, I would become Suhail ibn Qasim, Consort of the Goddess Istarte. A fragment of your legend, not my own.”
Istarte opened her mouth to argue, but could find no explanation that might placate him. There was a hierarchy among the Anuu-i, and by no choice of her own, Istarte stood amongst the most revered. It was likely that, renowned though he was, he would become better known to those who came later as her husband, rather than the hero of Razah.
“But even now, I stand above you and that has never troubled you,” she stated.
“And it still troubles me not, for I know that I shall never stand your equal,” he said.
“Then why should that be reason not to marry?” She closed her eyes; he made no sense. She clenched the bedsheets tightly between her fingers. “What is it that you are not telling me? Speak Suhail!”
At last, he regarded her, his mouth set stern. “It troubled you, did it not? That I’d not visited? That your altars went without a prayer?”
She took a long, slow breath through her nose. She’d been right. He’d ignored her, kept her waiting earlier on purpose. What was worse, he seemed now to find it amusing! For what reason was he suddenly treating her so cruelly?
“Our separation wounded you. But it healed me, gave me clarity of mind. This — ” He indicated the two of them. “ — It must end. Our relationship. I thought to tell you a long time ago, but had not the words.”
“You certainly have them now,” she hissed, seething. “And conveniently after you had your way with me.”
“You invited me here,” Suhail recalled. “Seduced me with your sweet words.”
“I suppose there is nothing I might say to change your mind, then?”
“There is not. I’ve made my choice. I will live what life remains to me mortal. My new wife will give me sons and daughters, and my name shall live on well after I’ve passed on into the land of shadows and my bones have become dust.”
“Wife? You have married someone else? Which wise and noble woman have you deemed more worthy of the title?”
“I suppose there is no reason to hide it: I’ve made Marjan my queen.”
“Marjan!” she spat. “You consider that — that whore more suitable a bride than me — one of the Anuu-i?” It was so terribly ridiculous, so horrendously offensive, she could have laughed if she were not so enraged.
Her beautiful features twisted and darkened into a fiendish mask. “Leave me. Now.”
“Istarte — ”
“No! I will hear no more. You ate of my table, and are my guest, here by my own invitation; therefore, you are owed my protection. But my patience has its limits. Get out before I choose vengeance over wisdom.”
Dressing in silence, Suhail’s tone finally softened. He retrieved his shirt and his sirwal, and, as he collected his sandals, said to her, “Istarte . . . I loved you a time. Truly.”
A blast of icy wind exploded from where Istarte sat on the bed, making the room shudder. “I said get out!”
Aru, Inbaya, and Idris, blade drawn, all rushed into the room. Suhail kept them back with a raised hand. “There is no cause for concern. Idris, let us be gone from here. Immediately.”
The mushir sheathed his sword and followed his king from the bedchamber.
The instant the men were gone, Istarte wept as she had not wept since the loss of Atam. Inbaya and Aru wrapped her in their arms, holding her like she was a child. They did not need to ask what had happened; they knew their mistress well enough to conclude that only Suhail’s betrayal could cause her such sorrow.
When her tears had slowed, she told them what had transpired.
“Bring me Lamashtu,” she ordered, wiping her last remaining tears. “Tell her it is urgent.”
Istarted welcomed the winged enforcer in the gardens in the early hours of the following morning, as sunlight broke the horizon, painting the sky violet and gold. Her initial shock of Suhail’s betrayal had turned into a bitter flame. No man — mortal or not — would insult her so and get away with it.
They sat together around a squat table by the edge of the pond, sipping qahwa served with dried figs, and watching as fish moved between the floating lotus blossoms.
Lamashtu perched rather than sat, squatting on rough-skinned legs that ended in fearsome talons. Though she was a monster, she was a comely creature with giant golden eyes framed by light brown feathers. Her nose was a long, hard hook, like the top half of a raptor’s beak. Below it, her small, thin-lipped mouth was filled with little pointed teeth.
She tucked her wings behind her somewhat awkwardly. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Somehow, I suspect that this is more than a social call.”
Istarte cast her a sly grin over the gilded rim of her coffee cup. “I had hoped to ease into it, but there was a reason that I invited you here.”
“Your handmaiden said that the matter was of strictest urgency, and mušen are not time wasters,” Lamashtu stated, feathers ruffling.
“Exactly what I like to hear,” the goddess replied and rose from her seat, laying out her situation while Aru brought her an enamelled box. Inside was a knife made from the fang of the great serpent, Bashmus. Suhail gifted it to her in thanks for her help in slaying the beast.
“This blade contains Bashmus’ venom,” Istarte said. “Even the shallowest wound is lethal.”
Carefully, Lamashtu received the knife. She looked it over, admiring the delicate, detailed carvings etched into the hilt. “I’m to kill the Malyk, then?”
“That was my original thought.”
The mušen raised a feathered brow. “Is it not now?”
Istarte played with a strand, twisting her loose hair round her thumb. “Death — even a slow, agonising death as brought on by Bashmus’ venom — would be too easy. I want Suhail to suffer.
“Take this dagger and kill Marjan, the Queen. Suhail would have never left me if not for her honeyed words, I know it.”
“Killing her may not bring him back into your arms,” Lamashtu cautioned. “If he learns that it was you behind her murder . . . ”
“It matters not,” she countered, her voice growing loud and sharp. The gardens trembled beneath her simmering rage. “Suhail has severed whatever bond we had when he left me for that bitch. I want him not. Even if he now came crawling, begging for forgiveness and kissing my feet, I shall not have him. But I will have him suffer for his betrayal. What better way than to punish she that took him too?”
“Very well, Gracious Lady,” Lamashtu said with a sweeping bow, her wings spread wide. “I shan’t fail you.”
And with a great gust of air, she shot into the lightening sky and was gone.
Now, Istarte had only to wait.
