Of Magic and Sand

Chapter 2

"Real terror is a crippling experience. However hard you wash, it won't come off. It smothers you, as your muscles become frozen with acid and your mind paralyzed by despair."

― Tahir Shah

 His majesty Saleel al-Salim, Grand Sultan of Arguba but informally known as Sal to his immediate friends and family paced back and forth in front of the garden's door and wished for the thousandth time that his son and daughter in law were still with him. They had passed twelve years ago when a deadly flu had struck Agrubah, leaving behind their orphaned son to be raised by his surly, old grandfather. If his mother were still alive, then maybe she could talk some sense into her son.

Prince Jenssin was almost of age—21—the age in which he was to marry and take the throne. It was time for him to rule, as Sal was nearing seventy years old. He had trained the boy well and strongly believed that Jen would one day become a very strong ruler. Things had been going to plan, Jen had found a bride and they were truly in love with each other but then, on a cold windy night when they were traveling back home their caravan had been attacked by a gang of thieves. Jen had survived but his fiancé had been killed by the men desperate to steal the royal jewels. This had happened almost a year ago, and since then Jen had closed himself off to the world. It seemed that when she had died, some part of Jen had been taken with her. It seemed that everyday Jen was losing himself a little more to his grief and Sal had no idea how to pull his grandson back. And now, they were on the cusp of Jen's 21st birthday and there was still no princess and no engagement.

He heard footsteps and he turned around to see the head of the guards, Razoul walking by and tried very hard not to laugh out loud because Razoul appeared to be covered head to toe in thick molasses syrup and dirt. Razoul saw him and attempted to straighten up and bow but his feathered headdress fell in front of his face and he slipped slightly on the molasses that was gathering on the floor.

"Your majesty," he said, and then managed an awkward bow.

"Should I even ask?" Sal said, raising his eyebrows at the guard's appearance.

Razoal rolled his eyes, "One of these days I will actually catch that filthy rat!"

"Well, best of luck with that. Go get yourself cleaned up before Alma sees and has your head,"

Alma was the very strict groundskeeper of the palace, and it was thanks to her that everything was always spotless. Unfortunately, she was also the scariest woman Sal had ever met in his entire seventy years of living at the palace. He could still vividly remember the time he had spilled tea in the library and she had lectured him for almost an hour about how liquid and books shouldn't mix. He had been thirty-three at the time.

Razoal bowed again, and then—on his tiptoes so he would drip any more molasses on the tiles— stalked off to get clean.

Sal turned back around and put his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath in, preparing himself for yet another conversation with his grandson about another princess that he had dismissed from court. This visiting princess had been their last chance, as there were no other offers from any other kingdoms and it seemed for the first time in history there would be a coronation ceremony with no wedding afterward.

Taking a final deep breath, Sal opened up the door to the courtyard and walked through into the courtyard that was filled with trees, and fountains. The large palm trees provided shade from the sweltering summer sun. He followed the path towards the arboretum and saw Jen, still dressed in the traditional black garments of mourning sitting at the fountain. In the midday heat, the prince had removed his jacket, revealing his black short-sleeved tunic that was embroidered in gold and turquoise. The sun reflected against his tan skin, and astonishingly golden blonde hair that he kept cut short shone brightly. He had inherited his mother's blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes, looking almost out of place in a palace full of onyx colored hair and brown eyes. The sun illuminated a deep red circular scar on his collarbone, and three dark triangles stacked on top of each other on both forearms from where one of the thieves had branded him with a hot iron. They hadn't fully faded yet, creating yet another pang of guilt in Sal's chest (if he had summoned the guards faster that night, then maybe things would be different).