But failure to bear an heir for Uraba wasn’t Cliaparia’s fault.
The soldan-shah simply did not make love to her often enough—and
that
problem wouldn’t be corrected by introducing a third wife into the palace. He needed to cease being preoccupied by other
things.
Nevertheless, after constant pressure, Omra had recently agreed—with obvious reluctance—to marry a young girl named Naori,
the daughter of a wealthy and influential family from Missinia, who had been put forward by Omra’s mother. That had quieted
the voices for the time being.
But not for Cliaparia. Upon learning of the new betrothal, she had felt her dreams slip from her grasp. A son of her own should
be the next soldan-shah! Maybe if Omra paid more attention to
her
and less to Istar, he would already have a real Uraban heir. He wouldn’t need a third wife now, but she did not know how
to make Omra love her so madly and passionately that he would think of no other woman.
Such thoughts weighed on her day and night, and each special evening like this gave her a new opportunity. She refused to
give up hope. While she waited for Omra to come to her, Cliaparia directed her handmaidens to arrange the table just so, then
she chased them away.
She was sitting with a perfectly composed smile as her husband entered and took a seat cross-legged on the cushions she had
prepared for him. She offered him a porcelain bowl of apricots, a comb of honey, cubes of marinated lamb roasted with almonds,
strong coffee spiced with shaved cinnamon. Polite and cordial, Omra complimented her on the food, but little else. Preoccupied
with other things, he did not look her in the eyes.
Finally, she released her exasperation. “Omra, you’re right here in front of me, yet I feel your mind is far away.”
“My mind
is
far away. A soldan-shah has many concerns.”
“Shouldn’t your wife be one of your concerns? I have always been faithful to you. I have always loved you.” She leaned toward
him and took his hands in hers. He twitched, but did not draw away. “Omra, I am your first wife, and I deserve prominence.”
“You will never be my
first wife,
” he said with a razor-edged voice, and she turned pale. After a moment, he drew a long, slow breath and continued in a reasonable,
measured tone. “First Wife is merely a title you hold, not your place in my heart. That title gives you sufficient prominence.
What is it you lack?”
“A son!” She tugged at her colorful sleeves and dangling bracelets. “I have many possessions, but I would like more of your
time, more of your attention, and more of your heart. You give Istar more than her share.”
“Because I enjoy being with Istar.” He no longer looked at his food, no longer ate at all.
“And you do not enjoy being with me?”
He spoke in a calm voice. “Tell me, Cliaparia—you’ve been married to me for twice as many years as Istar has. Can you answer
a few simple questions about me? What, for instance, is my favorite food?”
Cliaparia gestured down at the banquet spread before them. “I have made your favorite dishes.”
“No, you made the most extravagant ones. You serve them to me over and over, but you never ask which ones I particularly enjoy.
What is my favorite color?”
The question surprised her; they had never discussed such things before. “Gold, I assume. A royal color.”
“No. The green of emeralds is my favorite. What is my favorite ballad?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but continued his
quiz. “Tell me about my childhood, my friends,
anything
.” Cliaparia did not know a single answer. Omra gazed at her with patient sadness. “You see? You don’t really know me. You
don’t love me. You just love the
idea
of me.”
“Is that not enough?” Her voice was so quiet she couldn’t even be sure he heard her. He did not answer. She ate the rest of
her meal in sullen silence, and the soldan-shah departed early, without staying the night.
Her mind made up, Cliaparia sought the only remaining path. The other alternatives had been cut off to her.
Entering the main Urecari church, as she often did to write her prayers on scraps of paper that the priestesses would scatter
to the winds or burn in a fire, she met with Fyiri. The young sikara had risen in prominence since the disgraceful death of
Ur-Sikara Lukai. Fyiri had also garnered political leverage by the fact that she ministered directly to the first wife of
Soldan-Shah Omra. Cliaparia would help Fyiri rise even higher, so long as they helped each other.
“I have concluded that the boy Saan must die,” she said bluntly.
To her credit, Sikara Fyiri did not look surprised. “That is one solution to the problem. Should you not kill Istar instead?”
She stood by a brazier, smelling the aromatic smoke, lifting a basket that held numerous ribbonlike strips on which the faithful
had scribbled their pleas.
“I would rather see that woman shattered and devastated when her child dies. The foreign boy is nothing special, but we can
use him.”
Still cautious, Fyiri lifted one of the strips of paper, scanned the brief request some supplicant had written, then tossed
it into the brazier’s glowing coals. “The soldan-shah dotes on the boy as though he were his own son.”
“That is why he needs his own son. A blond-haired Tierran is simply not acceptable. Omra’s love for the boy is… unseemly.”
“It is offensive,” Fyiri agreed. “And the boy’s attitude toward his soldan-shah is even worse.” She tossed several more prayer
strips into the fire without bothering to read them.
They had made halfhearted attempts on Saan’s life twice before, setting up accidents, engineering perils, but Saan was clever
and deft… or perhaps just lucky. Now Cliaparia knew it was time to begin in earnest.
“When the slave girl reported the poisoning plot of Villiki and Lukai, Omra rewarded her very well.” Fyiri arched her eyebrows.
“Aren’t you afraid I will reveal your new scheme to the soldan-shah? Maybe he would make me his next wife instead of Naori.”
Cliaparia felt more annoyed than worried. “If I believed that was what you really wanted, then I might be concerned. You and
I have too much to gain from each other. This alliance benefits us both.”
The ambitious priestess chuckled. “Yes, better to rule a church than to share the soldan-shah’s bed.”
Cliaparia scowled. “Omra doesn’t share a bed often, or very enthusiastically.”
“Not with you, at least.” The barb stung, and Cliaparia barely stopped herself from slapping the other woman. Fyiri pressed,
“Have you thought this through? If the boy dies, won’t Omra and his beloved Istar simply fall into each other’s arms?” She
frowned at another prayer strip, crumpled it in her palm, and tossed it to the floor instead of the brazier.
“Let me worry about that,” Cliaparia said. “It would be best if
she
were implicated somehow.”
“That might be difficult. Nevertheless, we should plan.”
Cliaparia’s lips were stained with a deep pomegranate dye, which made her smile look like a curve of blood. “Soon the children
will go into the forest to hunt for the Golden Fern. I know Saan: He will range farther than the others, and he’ll be unwatched
and unprotected. That will be our best chance.”
The weather always seemed perfect during the hunt for the Golden Fern. The sikaras took credit for that, half jokingly, half
seriously. As part of the celebration, the children wore brightly colored costume tunics, sashes, and hats reminiscent of
the sailors of long ago, pretending to be members of Urec’s crew. Saan blended in with the other Uraban boys by covering his
hair with a scarlet sailor’s scarf and tying a yellow bandanna around his throat.
For three years, he had been old enough to participate in the festival, but his two half-sisters were still too young to join
him. With every child in costume, Saan had a chance to play among them just like any other boy, but he could never forget
that he was different. He looked different, and even the handmaidens and palace slaves treated him differently from the other
noble children.
He concluded he had a better chance of finding the Golden Fern
because
he didn’t think like all those others. When he and countless children fanned into the wooded hills on the outskirts of Olabar,
most would follow well-worn paths or animal trails, more interested in the festive nature of the game than in the possibility
of success. But Saan intended to go where the hunters hadn’t already searched. He was not afraid to leave the laughing, clumsy
crowds…
His mother kissed him on the cheek, adjusted his costume sash, and turned him loose. When his companions hurried down a trampled
path into the forest, Saan ducked into the underbrush, wading through weeds and brambles, alert for any sign of the magical
fern. Laughing to himself with delight at the feeling of freedom, he ran among tall cedars and dodged fig trees dusted with
thick moss. He did not shy from steep hillsides, trudging up slopes and sliding into hollows.
To find something no one else could find, he needed to look where no one else was looking. It only made sense.
Sweeping the toe of his soft leather boot from side to side, Saan stirred thick leaves and needles on the ground, looking
for the fern’s tightly wound spiral. He pushed his way through tall cane that towered over his head.
He had never heard of anyone actually finding the Golden Fern, though confectioners made looping candies in the shape of fern
spirals, covered with sticky honey. Many mothers made imitation ferns out of feathers and fuzz, so their children could pretend
to be special. Every boy or girl was able to come home having “found” the prize.
But it wasn’t real. Saan wanted to find the real Golden Fern. His mother and the soldan-shah would be so proud if he were
to find the special object, thereby proving that he had an uncommon destiny and the true favor of Ondun. He would be a lucky
one, a special child, and all of Olabar would celebrate. They would throw feasts in his honor, and everyone would applaud
him.
However, he knew that, as an unusual child, born of a Tierran father and mother, others looked on him with suspicion, as if
he were some kind of changeling. Even the soldan-shah had enemies who always looked for weaknesses, ways to harm him. Maybe
it would not be a good thing for Saan to draw too much special attention.
Still, if he could find the fern…
Continuing his search, he came upon a fairy ring of mushrooms poking up from the sodden ground, then a coral-colored toadstool
that looked as tempting as it was poisonous. He squished into a moist marshy area where fanlike ferns spread their fronds.
But these were ordinary ferns, not magical ones. Biting gnats flurried around Saan’s face.
Then with a buzz like an overly loud insect, an iron-tipped quarrel smacked with a hollow
pop
into the trunk of a rusty cedar only inches from his head.
Immediately, falling back on his training and instincts, Saan dropped to the ground as two more crossbow bolts whizzed through
the tall ferns. He didn’t panic, didn’t freeze.
Someone had shot those deadly arrows directly at him.
As he peered through the drooping green shield of a wide fern frond, he saw shadowy figures in the trees: two men, dressed
in greens and browns… a flash of one man’s eyes, the hard expression on his face, the quick clockwork movement as he set another
quarrel into the short crossbow and wound the tight string.
Keeping low, Saan bolted in the other direction, slapping ferns aside, then dove into the brushy-tipped cane forest. His flight
made loud rustling noises, but he needed to be quick, not silent. If he could get enough distance, he would be able to hide.
He could not waste time or thought wondering who these men might be, or who had hired them. He knew it had to be one of the
soldan-shah’s enemies. They were trying to hurt his father by hurting him.
Saan couldn’t allow that.
He had experienced strange accidents before—too many near misses to be explained by clumsiness or coincidence. But these men
were well-practiced killers who did not hesitate. Saan either had to outsmart or outrun them.
He realized that his colorful clothes made him painfully visible. Thinking fast, he dodged through near-impenetrable thickets,
yanking off his scarlet scarf and yellow bandanna. Then he tore away his shirt, frantic to get rid of anything with bright
colors. Though his skin was pale, it was better camouflage than brilliantly dyed fabrics. Soon, his bare shoulders, back,
and chest were scratched and scraped, but he kept running.
The mercenaries searched noisily for him, underestimating the boy, their voices low and angry. He heard mutters of surprise,
then curses when they found his discarded clothing. They had expected him to be an easy target. He flashed a hard grin.
Saan pressed his back against a tree surrounded by tall tufts of pampas grass and concentrated on the sounds of his pursuers.
Suddenly he heard laughter close by, children talking, twigs breaking, an older woman—a mother or teacher—telling the children
to stay together. They kept coming closer. Behind him, the hunters continued their approach.
From his shelter, Saan spotted three boys younger than himself, led by a middle-aged woman with large hips. Together, they
sang a song about the Golden Fern, as though the fronds would unfurl at the very sound of the music. Saan was sure that if
he asked the woman for help, the hunters would kill her, the boys, and then him. He wouldn’t put these other children at risk
just because of who
he
was.
Without calling attention to himself, Saan darted away, leading the hunters in a different direction. The three boys continued
their search, kicking up fallen leaves, pulling down branches, not knowing how close they had come to death.
Saan came upon a large hollow log with bark sloughing off in thick curved sheets. Beetles, termites, and moss had chewed through
the decaying wood. Saan pushed the bark aside to reveal a dark cavity that had been used as a shelter by some animal. He was
just small enough that if he folded his shoulders together and worked his way backward, he could hide inside the tree, pull
the bark up to cover his tracks, and strew the dry leaves around.