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  He sighed and let his thoughts drift as Ishria glided along in the general direction of the Great Fair. The land was sandy and rocky as they made their way closer to the mountain range. After the greater part of the day had passed, they stopped and made camp. Atar worked on the hide for the remainder of the afternoon, scraping flesh off the skin until the deepening dusk forced him to stop.

  The stars sparkled mysteriously above him that night and just before he dropped off to sleep, he saw a comet streak across the sky. He blinked. Something disturbed him about the sight. It flirted with the edges of his conscious mind, but refused to solidify.

  That night he dreamed again of moonlight and shadows.

  Chapter Five

  “Can you believe that? I just could not believe it,” Sugreeva the Fair said.

  Dahaka the Sly grit his teeth and closed his eyes, biting back a scream. He knew politics well. It consisted of kissing ass until you reached the top, then taking revenge on the helpless underlings beneath you. Unfortunately, the ass-kissing took a long time and it had to be done delicately. One misstep could set you back years. That knowledge was the only thing that kept him from telling the dithering, ineffectual young man before him just what he thought of his petty problems and imagined insults.

  It grated upon his nerves to think that in all his dark glory, he, Dahaka, had to stoop to such methods to secure power. He would rule through this weakling, who would have succumbed to sickness many times in his childhood, had Dahaka not lent his medical expertise. Actually, it had been medical magic. That and other seemingly magnanimous acts had given Dahaka a good name in the public eye, but not one so good that they would accept him if he supplanted their king and his weakling son.

  Dahaka was in shadow in his tent. There were things that needed to be meditated upon. They kept trying to surface, but the Prince kept requesting his responses.

  “So, yeah, then he said, ‘I don’t think that’s proper for any citizen, what to speak of a member of the revered royal line.’ And I gave him this ‘How dare you’ look and he knew he had gone too far. What do you think, should I have him killed? Dahaka, are you listening to me?”

  “Of course my dear young prince, I was merely giving your suggestion the deliberation it deserves. One must tread lightly when one wields power such as yours. You will be the greatest of kings some day and you must not jeopardize your future glory by any rash actions as a young man. Of course, if you feel the need to exterminate the gentleman, your wish is my command, as always. I live to serve you, Your Magnificence.”

  “Oh, good,” Sugreeva said with sickening self-satisfaction, “I must confess that your slave-like devotion to me assures me of my future success. Well then, I shall spare his life this once.”

  Dahaka sighed. “Indeed, it is due to my superior intellect that I was able to perceive the excellent factors in you, which will make you the king of kings. Did you not hear the prophecies? I cleave to you because I know your destiny is great.”

  They were going over the same old hash as usual, but Dahaka’s clever tongue made the topic glow with new brilliance. Sugreeva had come to gloat over something. Dahaka wished he would just get to the point, but knew the wisdom of puffing up the boy. He was a weakling as far as his character was concerned, but he had feelings that needed to be soothed and manipulated. It was sort of like training a parrot. If you consistently fed their little brains with positive feelings and their beaks with dainty fruit, they would be more manageable. Soon, Dahaka would become such a vital part of Sugreeva’s existence that the Prince would quail to do anything that would bring a harsh word from his mentor. He would become a slave to Dahaka’s silver tongue and sly insinuations.

  “Well, anyway,” Sugreeva paused. His voice had changed, as had his manner. He looked like a sultan who had just ravaged a weaker country. With studied casualness he said, “Just for fun, I had my way with one of the barbarian women today. You should have heard her squeal with utter delight at my love making! Dahaka, she could not get enough of me. She stared at my body in fascination. Those barbarian women—oh my, they are wild for sex. But there was something important I needed to say. You see, she went nearly mad with the multiple orgasms she spiraled into, but once she could regain her wits, she said something unusual.”

  “Oh really, do tell me.”

  “Well…she said that her husband wears a necklace like the one you gave me. Ridiculous of course, but isn’t it curious how these barbarians will say anything to get into a rich man’s good graces?” He tossed his hair back from his eyes with a flip of his head.

  Dahaka had grown tense and his breathing became shallow. He had scarcely dared hope, but no. That was too unlikely. Then again, if his son were ever to be restored to him, this would be the most likely time. Magic was in the air and his son would be inexorably drawn to the ceremony like a bee to honey.

  He could then kill this sniveling brat and make his son the king, but he was getting ahead of himself.

  “Ah, well, I must get my beauty sleep for the festivities tomorrow,” Sugreeva said with a yawn.

  “Good night Your Majesty, pleasant dreams,” Dahaka murmured, staring off into space. What did this mean, what had destiny planned for them?

  Chapter Six

  Upon waking, Atar was seized with an inexplicable sense of urgency and excitement. Within minutes he was mounted and off. Delicate pinks and yellows washed the landscape in color as Atar rode along. Within minutes, the first subtle signs of a large gathering made themselves known to Atar’s keen senses. The air took on a different flavor and he could barely make out distant, indefinable sounds of revelry. Cresting a low hill, the magnificent Great Fair lay spread out in all its enormous glory at his feet. Atar could not even see the end of it. He gasped, awe struck.

  It looked like a hastily constructed metropolis. Atar had not known that so many people even existed. It was all that he could have hoped for, he thought, as he gazed down at the tiny, brightly garbed figures, flitting beneath equally bright canopies and tents.

  No one will even know that I’m an outcast! With a light heart, Atar urged Ishria forward, eager to explore the new, fascinating place ahead.

  He made quite a picture, although he was too amazed at the sensory overload he was experiencing to notice the gasps of the people and the numerous murmured comments. He wore his new tiger skin like a cape, the fangs framing his face, accentuating his aura of untamed, aggressive masculine strength. His broad shoulders and muscular chest glistened in the delicate sunlight and his long mane of wild, curly barbarian hair peeked out around the tiger skin in strands of glossy black. In his hands, he carried the wickedly pointed mace he had won from King Colaxais himself.

  His stallion, Ishria the Stormy, strode proudly forth beneath him, as only a Paralatae horse could, tall, magnificent, and spirited. The monstrous wolf loped easily by his side, his movement marked by the careless grace of a large carnivore. His silver- blue eyes gleamed with lupine mystery and his silver fur was tinged with the pink of dawn. His eyes regarded the assembled people with visible contempt.

  Atar’s whole aura screamed that he could belong to no other tribe than the infamous Paralatae barbarians of Scythia, but of course, he was too amazed with the weirdness of the people around him to imagine that he looked at all strange to them.

  A woman carrying a basket of laundry nearly dropped it at the sight of him. Atar was gazing straight ahead. The aisles seemed to meander endlessly and he needed to be aware of his surroundings, to take note of landmarks. The only problem was that everything was so confusing. As the sun rose, more people began to flood the streets. Everything was so strange, but at least the aisles were big enough so that he did not feel closed in.

  Some weavers, lounging by their stall, stared in open-mouthed awe as Atar rode past their bright stall.

  “My God! Look, Dad, he’s got a tiger skin! Do you think…”

  “How could it be anything else? Go get your mother, quick. Unbelievable! Hey Parlo,” the weaver
called across the street, “is that Scythian wearing what I think he’s wearing?”

  “Damn right!” the coppersmith across the street said. “What a vicious lookin’ fella, lock your pretty daughter up!”

  The weaver laughed, “I’m afraid the barbarian is the one who will be needing protection. What a handsome devil.”

  As the weaver laughed, an old woman was in the process of gaping at Atar. She hurried off to spread the news, grinning at what a fine tale she would spin. And indeed, as Atar cantered smoothly along, he looked like a legend waiting to be acknowledged.

  It wasn’t just his fine body, but also his unusual wolf and the tiger skin that caught the eye. There was an indefinable something in the way he turned his head this way and that, the way he casually gripped the handle of his mace, scanning the crowd. There was innocence there, an incorruptible purity of heart that seemed to make him shine. It was like the innocence of a wild animal, a fierce, untainted strength that knew no deceit and acknowledged no restrictions. When he smiled at an odd object on display in one of the booths, it nearly took the seller’s breath away.

  Sanatruk, Queen Cunaxa’s maid whom the latter saved, was at the Great Fair on her honeymoon. Her husband was buying her some brightly colored birds from a far-off land. She was fairly floating on her love and excitement. She opened up her mouth to thank her love again when she saw Atar. He rode past, without looking at her, but she could not take her eyes off him.

  “Sanatruk,” her husband said, touching her hand, sounding jealous. “Do you know that man?”

  She turned to her husband, her voice now hushed. “It could be my imagination, but yes, maybe.”

  His first item of business would be to find a stable for Ishria. Once he did that, he could blend in more easily. Then he would find salt for his new tiger hide and hopefully he would not get lost or seen by Zohak. With any luck, he’d find decent work in a few days and could begin thinking about the rest of his life. He sighed, one thing at a time.

  Ishria displayed his usual grace as he glided down the festive aisles. The scent of exotic bread wafted to the barbarian. Meats basted in strange spices and foreign perfumes mingled in early morning air. Already, merchants were shouting out the virtues of their wares in a number of different languages, similar only in the strident tones they employed. As he rode past, their cries became less vociferous. A few trailed off as if they had forgotten the monotonous chant that they voiced.

  He was quite a sight, made even more remarkable because of his lack of pretense. He carried his hard won dignity with the casual, eye-catching grace of a born king. Atar rode for a while more, slowing down whenever a sight of particular interest caught his eye. A plump woman in a purple and yellow dress sat behind a brilliant red blanket on which hundreds of little silver figurines of every description sat. A tall, pale man a little further along was selling bushy gray furs, stacked high in his small stall. Gleaming glass trinkets of every color hung suspended from another man’s stall. As Atar watched, the man formed a tiny unicorn with a blue body and a pink mane and tail. Clustered around the glass man’s stall was a group of admiring girls in an agony of indecision. Two women, both of them rather buxom, were engaged in raucous, heated haggling in front of a stand displaying magnificent woven rugs. The atmosphere all swirled around Atar. Scent, sound, and colors, were all tinted with his awe and underlying uncertainty.

  It was his future that scared him, he realized. The many crisscrossing paths of possibilities lay before him and he found himself thinking morbidly about the shadowy ones that would lead him ultimately to misery. So much could go wrong, there was so much uncertainty. He knew he must shift his focus. It was an act of weakness to succumb to his vivid, macabre imagination. Furthermore, he could miss golden opportunities in his preoccupied state.

  He set his jaw in determination. He could conquer this.

  That is, if he didn’t get hopelessly lost. He tried to see ahead into the crowd. He saw a gentleman clad in bright green finery, mounted on a sorrel mare with poor conformation, or so Atar thought. She was at least a hand and a half shorter than Ishria.

  The man had entered the main stream of traffic from a side street and his back was turned to Atar. Maybe he could follow this man to where he stabled his horse Atar thought, staring absently at the ass of the horse. Staying a prudent distance behind the man, he followed him to a quieter section of the fair, where the earthy smells of animals dominated the air. The man stopped at an upscale row of stables with fresh straw lining the bottom of the wide stalls. Two other young men greeted the green gentleman, but cut their raucous greetings short when they caught sight of Atar. He turned his head hastily, not wishing to intrude. The men fell into an animated, whispered conversation.

  Atar rode past them, eyes forward, reasoning correctly that the accommodations of that establishment were far too pricey for the few coppers jingling in the flat money pouch at his side. He rode on and before long, he came to a more modest stable. The walls were roughhewn, but sturdy. Bulliwuf did not venture close to the stall, since he knew his scent would frighten the other horses.

  Atar dismounted with a fluid grace that bespoke his barbarian upbringing and turned the few heads that were not already turned his way. The owner of the stables, a portly middle-aged man, came hurrying over and Atar noticed the crumbs clinging to his glorious mustache. The man smiled at Atar and asked a question in a strange language, inclining his head politely. Atar liked him instantly. There was no artifice in his eyes or demeanor. The man’s eyes grew round and his smile stretched wider as he got a look at Ishria and at his barbarian master. Atar shook his head to indicate that he hadn’t caught the question and was rewarded with a response that sounded like understanding.

  Atar gestured toward the stalls and then at Ishria. He reached for his money pouch and gave it a slight shake. The man held up four fingers and Atar let out a silent sigh of relief as he fished out four coppers and handed them to the stall owner. The man pointed at the sun and then to the west and held up one finger. Atar nodded, thinking how nice it was that the man did not think it strange that Atar had not yet uttered a syllable. The language barrier was a perfect excuse. It meant that blending in would be even easier than he thought.

  His first item of business completed, Atar turned and started down the path in search of a tanner. Bulliwuf got up and followed him slowly, his head turned to regard a beautiful bitch sitting nearby.

  Bulliwuf, where do you think the tanner is? Can you smell anything? I asked if—oh hell, never mind. Atar thought in exasperation as he noticed what had caught his friend’s attention. He was a bit jealous. The well-groomed bitch with a pink ribbon in her silky white topknot was coquettishly sashaying past, tail held high. According to Bulliwuf, he had always been a favorite with the ladies, although Atar had doubted the veracity of the wolf’s outlandish claims. A moment later, when Atar glanced down, he saw that Bulliwuf was no longer there. He smiled, well, whatever.

  Atar was glad when he finally wandered into a tanner’s workshop, quite by accident. He was meandering along, attracting too many curious glances for his comfort. The streets were becoming more crowded, so Atar did not see the tanners shop until he was upon it. Like most of the booths in the sprawling festival, this one had the air of hasty construction. Glancing inside, Atar saw several cattle and sheepskins hanging in the rather deep interior of the structure. The roof of the rectangular building was set up in a halfhearted manner and Atar could see large pieces of sky, which allowed great blotches of sunlight into the dark interior. Atar removed his grizzly tiger skin and looked up to see a slight man emerging from behind one of the skins.

  Atar motioned to his skin, shaking his head with a rueful smile at the little man’s harried question. He threw up his hands in exasperation and barked out something that sounded much a curse. Atar waited patiently while the man got over his conniption and motioned to the tiger skin again, holding out the amount that Bulliwuf had told him to offer for the service. The man froze when
he saw the fresh tiger skin. He was unable to hide the shock on his face, but he recovered momentarily. The man looked contemptuously down at the amount offered and shook his head decisively, sneering. The lines around his mouth and nose deepened, making him look hawkish. Atar withdrew his hand, confused and insulted at the man’s inexplicable rudeness. He turned away, wondering how he was to find another tanner. Surely there would be another in a gathering of this size.

  The little man shouted at Atar’s retreating form and he turned back. The odious little man was coming after him! The tanner took the skin and the coppers in Atar’s hand, chattering like an angry squirrel.

  Atar stood in the street confused. The manners of these people would be hard to get used to.

  Despite his rather ripe odor and fierce aspect, the crowd had suddenly become thick, in that odd way festival crowds can suddenly become. A slight form bumped into him forcefully, surprising Atar. The crowd was starting to annoy him. Extracting himself finally, he knelt by a horse trough and washed most of the muck away. As he rose, his hand brushed past his waist and froze. A mixture of rage and fear overcame him when he realized that his moneybag was gone.

  He retraced his steps, remembering the ordeal with Devayani that he had narrowly escaped. How could he have dropped it! He looked again at the place where his bag should have been and noticed what, in the heat of his distress, he had missed on his first hurried glance. The nimble fingers of a thief had cut the strap.

  What was he going to tell Bulliwuf?

  He would not panic. The situation required cunning, not hysterics he told himself, as he tried to steady the erratic beat of his heart. He would think of something. The sights and oddities that courted Atar’s senses as he strode along were endless, causing Atar to succumb to a common barbarian failing. He stared and gaped, despite his distressing lack of money. It was all so amazing. He was made furious by the deviousness of the unknown thief when he beheld a blue-handled dagger of fine workmanship. He would have liked to taste the exotic foods as well, but he knew such extravagance was impossible. More than once he glanced up idly, feeling eyes on him, to see women staring. It was more disconcerting than he would have liked to admit to see someone giving him an appreciative look after so many looks of scorn. He did not know what to make of it.