Arabesque

Nasir

They all thought he was dead.

The air was blisteringly hot, and a sandstorm was about to move in with a furnace blast of wind from the east and a blizzard of white sand. Shielding his eyes, Nasir stared across waves of blinding white dunes that rose hundreds of feet in a glistening sea of gypsum sand.

There was no shelter.

No time.

He dismounted, dragging his horse behind him, laboring toward thesummit of the dune. The suns dimmed as the deafening roar swelled at his back. He reached the top and raced down the other side just as the full force of the storm hit. His horse snorted in alarm and reared as an avalanche of sand nearly swept them both off their feet.

Hot wind and blinding sand flung Nasir down the slope. He struck an exposed block of limestone, and his legs buckled. He plunged forward. His hand slipped from the reins and he fell over the edge.

He crashed hard in front of a shadowy opening.

His horse was gone. He struggled to his feet and moved toward the looming blackness. Even with his vision obscured he could see that this was not a cave. He knew the legends of the desert, which told of whole cities and civilizations lost—swallowed by the sand. He struggled into the darkness, while the wind tore at him in one last attempt to consume him.

A wave of sand swept over the opening and cascaded down. He wavered, overcome by a sudden feeling of dread and the weight of unnatural sleep. Haunted images drifted through his mind.

This will be my tomb, he thought—and remembered no more.

That was eight years ago.

§

Nasir stood at the rail, gazing out at the seas—lost in memories of the past. The years he'd spent in exile had not only healed him physically, they had cleared his mind, giving him a different perspective on the royal family.

He was a changed man. After years in the oasis of Waha al-Ribat, Nasir was compelled to leave for Riyyal.

The journey was imperative.

Rumor had it that his brother, Malek, was likely to be the next successor to the throne. Their father, Raqqas Siwal, was old and weakening. As the firstborn, Nasir was to have become Sultan upon their father's passing. But when he went missing, the succession had been thrown into disarray. Malek was seen as cruel and corrupt. But there were few others of royal blood who held favor with the Sultan in Qatana.

He knew that he was presumed dead. Hewad Sareef, his savior in Waha al-Ribat, had been feeding him the information. Sareef had also been keeping Nasir's true identity concealed from the others in the oasis. They knew him only as an unlucky merchant who'd been rescued in the desert by the nomadic badawh during the height of the vicious sandstorm. He'd used time to his advantage and said little about his past, merely nodding in vague agreement—or sometimes apathy—whenever the topic turned to the sandstorm or his rescue from it.

There was an old tale of a man who had wandered for years in the desert. Mad with thirst, he had succumbed to illusions of immense struggles among the heavens. Nasir had suffered no such hallucionations, but he had seen the path he must choose.

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a parchment. He unfolded it.

Sareef had drawn the map years before. "If you take this western route," he had said, tracing the line on the map with a gnarled finger, "it will lead you to the northern coast. From there, you can set sail to Cievv."

Cievv was his destination. It was there he would meet with Hiril Altaïr.

He'd come across the literary relics in a forgotten city that had been unearthed during the sandstorm. He'd found shelter in its ruins, where the ancient walls had provided some relief from the storm. While he waited, he'd wandered through the abandoned chambers. There he discovered four manuscripts, leather-bound and set on a small niche chiseled in the stone wall. He'd opened them, but they were written in a language he couldn't decipher.

Although he couldn't have said why, he took them—he felt compelled.

He dug himself out of the ruins in the days that followed and made for the al-Ribat oasis. After a day in the blinding desert heat, he collapsed. His last thought as he lay baking in the suns was, I am truly and hopelessly lost.

When next he remembered, he woke in a white-walled room. Curtains fluttered in the windows. He lay on a large bed with sheets of fine cotton. He tried to sit up, but a woman dressed in a hajib urged him back down and gave him a sip of water. Nasir accepted the water gratefully, and in the days that followed, he learned what had transpired.

White Palm, a badawh people, had rescued him. They'd found him and brought him back to Waha al-Ribat where they'd nursed him back to health.

The White Palm took solace in elaborate rituals, praying to Ala'i for recognition and comfort. Their words flowed like poetry, weaving an intricate pattern as they spoke.

They'd found the books. In the weeks of his recuperation, Nasir learned that they not only understood the language of the text, they were descendants of the people who had written the words.

They told him a little of Waed an-Citab, the Books of Promise. This is the blood of Ala'i, called Azza, used in lamps, among other things, across the lands of Mir'aj for over nine hundred years.

As the son of the Sultan of Qatana, Nasir was well versed in the kingdom's stance on the burning of Azza—it kept the Jnoun, the evil spirits that dwelt in the unseen realm, from breaching the veil that divided them from Mir'aj.

These books were a contract between the tribes of Jnoun and the Sultans of Siwal.

After much discussion with the badawh, Nasir had suggested that if the Books of Promise were turned over to a trusted sufi, perhaps the truth would be revealed. Nasir was in no condition to make the journey to Havar, and asked therefore that the manuscripts be sent to Tariq Alyalah.

His wish was granted. Meanwhile Nasir remained in Waha al-Ribat, learning the beliefs and customs of his badawh guardians and regaining his strength. His goal was to meet with his trusted sufi friend, learn more about the ancient texts, and find the missing fifth book.

Nasir sighed. The twin suns shone bright in the western sky. Footsteps sounded behind him, and a moment later a weathered hand gripped his shoulder. Nasir smiled. It was Pavanan Munif.

"We are close?" Munif asked.

"Yes. Tomorrow, I think, if the wind and weather hold," Nasir replied.

"When will we go after Fajeer?"

Nasir turned to Munif.

"Be patient my friend. There is much work to be done first."