Chapter 1

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Angry shouts filled the air and chased away all pretense of thought, though there was little call for it regardless. Mahala was dragged by the arms into the midst of the crowd, dark half-curling hair falling curtain-like around her face and concealing it, though it did little to protect against the curses, the insults, and the shower of spit that was cast upon her by her peers. Proud, defiant, she lifted that beautiful face and looked directly into their eyes, spitting back upon all those she could; every insult that was discernable was responded to.

There was still blood upon her golden skin; some had soaked through onto her clothing, when she had been so roughly dressed and extricated from the sultan’s chambers. A spare few droplets were her own, for the guards had not been delicate with their lord’s assassin, but she had drawn more blood than she had shed. Now, hours later, dirt had caked onto that blood and made utter mess of her previously flawless skin.

Within the mob, her keen eyes picked out four still, silent figures. They stood out not only because of their dark, almost completely concealing robes, but also because of their utter stillness. While those around them surged and pressed and screamed, they seemed content to stand with complete lack of motion and follow her progression with glittering eyes. As she came directly before them, the figure in the forefront of their little group lifted his hand and pointed at her.

An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. Though she craned her neck in an attempt to keep them within sight, her view of them was soon swept away by the mass of people, striving ever the more to reach her now that she had neared the prison compound.

By the time her captors had thrust her into a tiny, dirty cell, she had received several good blows to the head and shoulders, by rioters whose advances had not been soon enough caught by the guards. Forcing the pain from mind, hands braced on the dirt floor, she forced her mind to consider her options. Suicide seemed the best of them; it would provide a dignified manner of death, and the final thwarting of the wishes of the people—nothing displeased them more than being robbed of the chance of putting murderers to death, especially the murderess of their sultan.

Blood swirled around on her tongue; grimacing, she spit into the dust. Twisting her feet around in front of her, she lowered her hands to the toenail of the first toe of her right foot. Nimble fingers plucked a tiny needle from beneath that nail, and then moved it to the throbbing vein within her neck. Barely had it begun to threaten to prick skin, delayed only by whispered prayers to a god she hoped would understand, when a loud bang within the guardroom distracted her. Quickly capping the needle and shoving it back beneath her toenail, she stood, and moved across the tiny space between her spot and the door.

Inquisitive eyes peered out from between the bars, trying in vain to see something through the tiny window. A glimpse of dark cloth was all that served to sate her curiosity, though sounds abounded, leading her imagination down many a twisted path. So concentrated was she upon seeing the scene between the dark cloth and the guards, that she did not even note the approach of a shadowy figure until its glittering eyes had appeared directly in front of her own.

Instinct forced her to leap backwards, though trained lips held back the startled cry that her tongue so desired to make. The eyes vanished from sight, with the breath of a cold wind, though she could feel the figure lurking just on the other side of the door. The lock jiggled, the door rattled, and then with an ominous creak it swung open. Crouched upon the floor as far from the door as she could be, Mahala watched with silent anticipation of the attack.

Slowly, the form filled the doorway, cloak billowing despite the lack of air current. It stepped forward, coming far too close to her, and then extended a single deathly hand. “Come,” that voice whispered, and she found herself unable to resist.

Standing, she placed her hand within his own, and he turned and led her away. In the guard room, her captors lay dead; the strange man’s three companions stood by silently, watching their leader, and falling into place behind he and his new prize.

“You are very lucky,” the master whispered. “Had you not been caught, it would perhaps have been a much longer time before I discovered you.”

Listening to his words, another shiver moved down her spine. She began to wish that she had used the poison; certainly, death would have been a far better end than whatever waited for her within this man’s arms. Nothing short of awe possessed her, as she looked at him; he, and his companions, moved as if floating, rather than walking; they each felt cold, and dead, and left her with the same sick feeling in her stomach. Mahala was not afraid of death, or being within close proximity of it, but this unnatural half-life disturbed her.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked numbly.

Those glittering eyes found her own, and though she could not see the man’s face, she was nearly certain that she felt him smile. “Home,” he whispered. “We are taking you home.”

The hand upon her own whirled her body around, tucked it up tight against his own chilling one. Revulsion swept through her, but she forced herself to ignore it; as those thin arms closed tightly around her, one hand pressing into her stomach and the other her chest, she felt her head roll backwards to rest against his shoulder. The hand on her chest raised upwards, to the hollow at the base of her neck. Words were whispered into her ear, in a language she did not know—and yet, somehow, the meaning was clear to her.

Give me the power... Show me the Rose...

Light, and heat, flooded through her body, leaving not an inch untouched by its cleansing presence. It blinded her; she could see nothing but that light, feel nothing but that heat, and when finally it faded, her body could find only cold and darkness.

Disoriented, frightened, nauseous—she collapsed to the ground, barely aware of the cool sand beneath her, and allowed unconsciousness to sweep her away.

---

When dark eyelids fluttered open, they for a moment believed themselves to again be within the light. Bright, blinding heat had engulfed her, drowning out her senses; quickly, however, her body detected the lack of ultimate purity, and decided instead that she was within the middle of the desert, being burned to a crisp beneath the hot sun.

Weakly, she rose to her hands and knees, and crawled towards a breath of shade beneath a tree. Its branches were bare, its life obviously long gone, but the stump and its brittle boughs offered minimal shade—shade she was thankful to have.

As her back pressed against the hot, dry wood, she felt exhaustion flood her. Her throat was dry, her lips chapped and cracked, and she felt as if the thirst would take her if the weariness did not. Had those men abandoned her here? Why? Perhaps they thought death in the desert a worse fate than at the chopping block, but why would they give such a chance for escape—for survival? Did they think her so helpless?

Give me the power...

Cold flooded her limbs, despite the brutal heat. Those words... That language...

She tucked her arms tightly around her body, and tried to ignore memories of the death-like man’s arms around her.

Show me the Rose...

Her eyelids were pressed shut, and she leaned her head back against the tree trunk. After a long moment, she opened her eyes again, to find green leaves sprouting from the twigs upon the tree’s limbs. The heat had already made her mad, it seemed. Deciding to at least indulge in this mirage, and not to let it go to waste, she continued to watch. The shade around her increased as the number of leaves multiplied, casting a cool, damp feel to the air around her. A vine began to crawl around the base of the tree, winding up and up, into the branches, and disappearing.

Feeling it imperative that she know what was at the end of that vine, though she knew not why, she clambered into the tree’s branches and chased after the vine. What had appeared a small tree was becoming a mammoth one; it seemed hours that she scrambled upwards through leaves and branches, always just barely keeping up with that mischievous vine.

When she broke through the tree top, to find the sun bearing down upon her head once again, she saw the vine still climbing upwards. It paused, several feet in the air, and waved back and forth for a moment in the hot desert wind.

And then, it exploded.

Perhaps “exploded” was not the best of words, but Mahala could think of few other ways to describe the act of bursting that the tip of that vine did, after it had been so long suspended in air. From the carnage of vine bits came a crimson swell, quickly taking shape and becoming the most beautiful, most perfect of roses.

As her hand closed around the vine, to bring it down—for suddenly she was possessed with the desire to have that rose within her grasp—the mirage vanished, and she found herself poised several hundred feet above the sand, held up by nothing but air, and holding onto naught but a grain of sand.

Screaming, she plummeted to the earth—but no impact came. Invisible forces had caught her, moments before she hit the ground; invisible forces that, when her eyes finally found the nerve to open, were discovered originating from the four robed men standing nearby, each with their hands outstretched.