Aladdin Fan Fiction ❯ Antiphony ❯ Chapter 12 ( Chapter 12 )

Chapter 12

 

She could breathe. That was her first thought after her entire body passed through the Mirror. It was like swimming through the ocean under Saleen's breath-enabling spell, though there was not a drop of water in the surrounding sand. It sifted through her fingers easily, caressing her skin as she was pulled along by some invisible force.

 

What is it that you seek?

 

The voice issued forth from an unseen place in front of her, but she kept moving forward without reaching a pocket of air. She wondered if this desert stretched on forever.

 

“I seek the past of Mozenrath, Lord of the Black Sand,” she said, and the sand parted cleanly before her lips when she spoke. “Beginning with his birth.”

 

Her heartbeat quickened in rising excitement as the sand grew thinner. A glowing light appeared ahead, and the sand suddenly fell away from her limbs. She dropped alarmingly fast and landed on her knees on solid ground, but she swiftly scrambled to her feet and glanced upward at the vortex that had dumped her here. It was already gone. She made as if to brush sand off her clothing, but found not one grain on her body.

 

She was in an extravagant palace, the floor and ceiling and walls all embroidered with gold. The air smelled of rich incense, and the vaulted ceiling towered above her, inlaid with jewels. Lining the walls were potted plants of all sorts. She could identify some of them as herbs with healing properties. At the center of the room was an ornately carved throne, a giant emblem of a sun blazing above it. The entire throne room was empty except for a few guards standing by the main doors. She quickly darted behind a column, but as she looked at the floor she realized she cast no shadow.

 

Hearing shouts to her right, she cautiously approached the doorway. She pushed aside the long curtain and went in. There was a crowd milling about in one corner, their attention focused on something she could not see. She identified the sultan by his regal clothing and jewel-encrusted turban as he backed away from the others and let out a deep, merry laugh. With strong hands he lifted up a small, wailing baby and kissed its forehead. Jasmine's hand flew to her mouth at the import of what she was seeing.

 

Beginning with his birth, she had said to the voice in the Mirror.

 

Mozenrath had been born into a royal family. He was not Destane's son or a boy picked off the street. He was a prince.

 

She watched the joyful scene in wordless awe. The various courtiers and doctors who had crowded around the sultana's bed soon left the room at the sultan's command. The baby had been delivered without complications, and he wanted to be alone with his wife and newborn child.

 

She drew closer slowly, still wary of being seen though none of the people who had left the room had taken notice of her. Accompanying her unease was a prickle of guilt that she was a voyeur here, witnessing things not even Mozenrath himself remembered. He had invaded her dreams, but she was now able to invade his most personal moments. A light rush of something she had never felt before followed that thought. Was this what it felt like to have true power over someone? It was a heady, dangerous feeling.

 

“The naming ceremony will be in a week's time,” the sultan said to his wife, who smiled tiredly up at him. He removed his turban, revealing a head of dark curls as he leaned down to kiss her.

 

“This child is not ours to name,” she said, her voice rich and mellifluous even in her weary state. Her eyes seemed half-closed, but Jasmine realized they were naturally heavy-lidded, her beautiful long eyelashes brushing her cheeks when she blinked. Her lips were full and smooth, her smile seeming to warm the air around them. Something in Jasmine's heart shifted painfully as she realized how much Mozenrath resembled his mother. But she had never seen warmth in his smile.

 

“Why?” the sultan asked, puzzled. Jasmine moved to the side to get a better look at Mozenrath's father. He was a tall, stately man with sharply defined features. His face was long, his cheekbones high and prominent, giving him an aristocratic, commanding air. Unbound by his turban, his hair fell across his forehead in a haphazard manner, reminding her fleetingly of Aladdin.

 

“Because,” the sultana said, stretching her arms out to take the child from her husband, “I had a dream yesterday.”

 

His expression immediately grew serious. “What did you see?”

 

“I saw the Light of the temple,” she said in a serene voice as she stroked her baby's face. The boy was no longer crying and started to fidget restlessly in her arms. “It passed over our other children and remained on him.”

 

The sultan stood stiff and unmoving by the bedside. Conflicting emotions flitted across his face as his gaze moved from his wife to their child.

 

“The others are all daughters,” he stated, his voice soft and flat.

 

“And this one would be your heir,” she finished for him. Her long-lashed eyes watched him levelly, unbowed by his tone. “I have longed for a son as well. But he is not ours. He belongs to the Light.”

 

The sultan's jaw clenched in wordless protest; the anguish in his proud features was clear. The sultana said nothing in response, continuing to regard her husband calmly, waiting for him to speak again.

 

He sounded pained when he did. “Are you sure about the meaning of this dream, Andraya?”

 

“Helios could give no clearer sign, love. This child has a destiny beyond the throne. He will serve a higher calling than our mortal hands can grant him. It is a privilege to have borne one of the chosen,” she said gently.

 

The sultan bowed his head, submitting his own will to his wife's. Jasmine wondered how a man could submit so easily to a woman; what land was this? Or was the sultana of some special status?

 

If Mozenrath had been born to such noble parents, how had he ever become a sorcerer of dark magic?

 

The air blurred around her, a soft current of sand passing across her vision, and she was in a different place. She was standing on the polished steps of a giant temple, every inch of it pure white. The great dome was encircled by a single ring of gold at its base. Its wide embellished gates stood open, and people in white robes were filing past her to enter, heads bowed in reverence.

 

She followed the lines of people flowing into the temple, wondering where the sultan and sultana were. She entered the rotunda, a vast circular room ringed with rows of people in immaculate robes. At the center there was a raised dais where a high priest stood, recognizable by the embroidered gold on his clothing. He was flanked by two others also clad in plain white. From the curly black hair of the taller figure, Jasmine knew the two were the sultan and sultana. The priest held up a tiny infant for the crowd to see.

 

“Benevolent Helios smiles upon his people today as always,” the man proclaimed, his voice clear and full of quiet joy. “He has cast His Light on the ruling house of Helinth, setting apart a new servant of His holy will. Let us give Helios the glory of the life this child will live.”

 

A chorus of murmurs arose. Jasmine realized they were praying, many looking heavenward with peaceful smiles. She moved around the dais to see the faces of Mozenrath's parents. His mother's eyes were closed serenely, her arms folded in her robe. She was smiling, but a single tear ran unobtrusively down her cheek. The sultan stood still as a statue, his expression unreadable as he watched every movement of the priest. The latter's right hand began to glow a soft yellow, and he placed his palm gently on the baby's forehead. Chanting words Jasmine could not understand, he closed his eyes and seemed to perform some kind of magic on the child, bathing his body in a light glow.

 

“May Helios protect you and guide you in His Light,” he said, speaking directly to the boy. He continued to squirm in the priest's hands, looking around with curious eyes that were now lit an unnatural gold under the priest's magic. “Your name will be Morathai, keeper of His power.”

 

There were too many questions in her head. Mozenrath was not only a prince; he was a servant in a temple of Light. How had his life taken such a drastic turn?

 

The ensuing chorus of cheers and singing faded quickly as the sand swirled around her, and she found herself still in the temple. Briefly she wondered how the Mirror was directing her steps, why it was only letting her see certain scenes and not the continuous path of Mozenrath's life.

 

There was a group of young priests standing beside her. They were in a small atrium lined with tables and cushions. It resembled a classroom.

 

She moved closer to hear what they were talking about. There were five of them, and none of them looked older than thirty.

 

“Elder Irodan is going to take over from here,” a fair-haired man said, smiling wryly. “I can't help the boy channel his power. Apparently he's some kind of special case.”

 

“As you might know, Elin, the sultana visited yesterday, and some say she might begin teaching him herself. I'd say she knows more about his unique power than the high priest,” the tallest man sniffed. His face reminded Jasmine distinctly of an eagle, with a thin nose that jutted forth sharply and eyes that were narrow and sharp.

 

“Don't underestimate the Eldest,” another warned him. A pause, and a knowing look. “He'll notice you yet, Sider. Have patience.”

 

The man named Sider did not respond, only raising his chin in a regal manner. Jasmine had caught the gist of the conversation so far. Even temples had politics brewing within them.

 

“The boy should be here any minute,” a fourth man said, looking around with bespectacled eyes. “Perhaps we should take our seats.”

 

“We should cast the spells first, Taral.”

 

One by one, the men chanted a brief incantation, and swept their right hands diagonally across their chests. In a shimmer of light they faded from sight. Jasmine stepped back uneasily, wondering if they were still there or if they had teleported somewhere else. She realized it was just an invisibility spell as she heard the sound of their hurried footsteps around the room.

 

She heard more footsteps coming down the hall, but they were clearly that of a young child, too quick and irregular to be an adult's.

 

A black-haired boy no older than three burst through the curtain and right toward Jasmine. She stepped aside quickly as he passed and began climbing the steps with clumsy determination, one small foot after another. There was a chuckle from the doorway and she looked to see an elder priest leaning against the wall, watching the child's eager antics.

 

“Hope you men hid yourselves better this time,” the old man called to the seemingly empty room. There was no response from the five young priests. “Morathai learns fast.”

 

She followed the boy cautiously as he scurried across rows of neatly arranged cushions, kicking them aside in his haste to find the invisible men. A happy smile was plastered on his chubby face as he paused to brush his long curls out of his eyes. Jasmine smiled sadly, wondering how long he would be able to live so innocently, and how long it would be before he received a new name.

 

“Morathai,” the priest called from the doorway. “Slow down. Concentrate like I taught you.”

 

The boy nodded briefly and plopped down on one of the cushions, his little feet hardly able to touch the ground. Jasmine watched in fascination as he closed his eyes and his face became blank. After several seconds of silence he opened them again and climbed onto the table in front of him. Jasmine's arm jerked forward instinctively as he jumped, but she was too far away.

 

“Found you!”

 

He landed on thin air, his arms wrapped around an invisible form that quickly shimmered into view. It was the priest with the glasses. He turned around and snatched the boy off his shoulder, setting him down on the floor with a laugh. “That was quick, young master. Excellent job!”

 

Taral ruffled the child's hair and gave him a light push to continue with the lesson.

 

Jasmine sat down heavily on one of the tables. This was much harder to watch than she had thought. Each minute she saw of Mozenrath's childhood gave rise to more questions. But above all she felt a motherly sadness as she watched the innocent boy, knowing what he would eventually become. She wondered how much of this the sorcerer remembered.

 

Then she gasped at the sudden connection. The high priest had said this was the city of Helinth. Its temple harbored the potent healing magic Destane had coveted.

 

She looked down at the boy now scrambling across another row of cushions.

 

Destane would put an end to everything he had known thus far. The magnificent temple where he lived, the kind priests who took care of him and taught him magic, his gracious and loving parents, all the people of this magical city…

 

It took the boy less than two minutes to find the remaining four priests. Congratulating the child, they convened at the front of the atrium to speak with the elder.

 

But she could no longer hear their voices. Sand had begun to swirl around her, brushing against her legs and encircling her waist. She shielded her eyes as it began to spin in a whirlwind around her face and obscured her field of vision.

 

The price, the voice of the Mirror said.

 

Bewildered, she noticed her surroundings had changed as the sand receded from her. She was standing in her own palace gardens, beside the fountain where she had so often watched her reflection growing up.

 

She turned around briskly as she heard her father's voice.

 

“Dearest, I have a gift for you.”

 

He was walking toward her, gently tugging a younger version of herself along. Jasmine stared at the young girl who shared her features. She must have been five at the time, her wide eyes full of admiration of her father. It was strange to see herself at a time when her father was taller than her.

 

“What is it?” she chirped. She broke free of his grasp and skipped ahead. Jasmine moved aside as her younger self clambered onto the rim of the fountain and stood up brazenly, both arms spread out to balance herself. Her father immediately rushed to her side and scooped her into his arms, scolding her.

 

“You will receive no gifts deserving of a princess if you do not act like a princess,” he said sternly. “Do you want the gift or not?”

 

“Okay, okay, Father!” she said, wriggling out of his arms.

 

Jasmine remembered this.

 

Her father gestured to the guards nearby, and they brought forth a cloth-covered cage.

 

Jasmine backed away as her father removed the cloth and revealed what was inside. It was a tiger cub.

 

No. No, not this memory!

 

The young girl squealed in delight as she held Rajah for the first time. Her father beamed, happy because his daughter was happy. Jasmine stood there unmoving, watching her own memory and dreading what would soon happen.

 

Sand began to swirl around her again. But this time it was everywhere, sweeping across the grounds of the palace gardens, covering all that was green with its earthy tone, filling the air with dust too thick to see through. She shielded her eyes once more, but the sand was curling around her entire body, constricting her as if she were once again trapped in a giant hourglass. She struggled to breathe and choked as it seeped into her mouth and nostrils, and soon she could no longer hear because it had filled her ears.

 

It was dragging her down like quicksand. She held her breath and tried not to panic, but she was sinking fast and could not even move to fight against its pull. Images flashed in her mind, the vivid color and sound of this precious childhood memory as she remembered how it felt to hold her beloved friend for the first time, how special that day had been.

 

She tilted her head back as it was the last part of her to sink into the ground. The sand seemed to condense around her skull, and some unseen force tugged her scalp as the rest of her body was dragged downward. The memory was being filtered out of her like gold through a sieve.

 

A terrible pain speared through her as something in her head seemed to tear, and the images vanished from her mind. She sank fully into the ground and was suddenly falling through open air.

 

She landed on a hard marble floor and rolled onto her side. Her head throbbed so much that it took her several seconds to regain her senses.

 

What had she just forgotten?

 

She knew she had forgotten something, and she dreaded that it was something important. What had it been?

 

At the sound of a distant explosion, she turned her thoughts away from that troubling matter for now. She stood up shakily and braced herself against a large ornate column. With a quick glance around, she saw that she was once again in the temple of Helinth.

 

“He's heading here! We cannot let him enter the sanctuary!”

 

She hardly had time to step out of the way as several men in priests' robes ran by her, shouting to each other in clear panic. She looked around in confusion, seeing that the temple steps leading down to the city square were filling quickly with armed guards. There was another explosion that threw several of the men off their feet. Black smoke was advancing over the rooftops and pouring down into the streets, into doorways and windows. The screams she heard all around her chilled the blood in her veins.

 

Vague forms of bodies stumbled out from their houses swathed in smoke, emitting hoarse cries of impending death. They struggled in vain to break free of whatever the black substance was, but all eventually fell to the ground and went still. The guards on the temple steps were visibly trembling but stood their ground as the smoke advanced.

 

As it came closer, she realized it was not smoke, but sand.

 

This must have been the day Destane invaded Helinth.

 

Jasmine turned and ran back into the temple, not wanting to see any more people die by the sorcerer's magic. Her heart was pounding as she ran down hallways and through rooms she did not recognize, looking for Mozenrath. She skidded to a stop as she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in one room. She turned back just as the woman she had seen began speaking to the young priest named Taral.

 

“Take him out of the city. Go as far as you can from here, as long as your shield holds,” the sultana said in a calm, steady voice.

 

“Your Highness,” the bespectacled priest said nervously, his face pale. “What will you do?”

 

“I will do my duty to my kingdom and protect the sanctuary,” she answered. “And you will do yours as I have commanded you: protect my son. Leave now.”

 

He nodded quickly as the sultana knelt down and spoke in a gentler tone to the child Jasmine had just noticed was there.

 

“Be brave,” the woman said to the curly-haired boy, and hugged him tightly. “Remember what you've learned here. Be brave.”

 

The boy nodded solemnly, seeming to have a solid understanding of the situation despite his young age.

 

Taral bowed his head in deference and grasped the boy's hand as his mother took her leave. “It has been an honor to serve you, Your Highness.”

 

The sultana turned back, her dark eyes clear as polished onyx. “Serve the Light, Taral. As long as His servants live on, there is hope.”

 

A chorus of screams echoed within the temple as the sultana hurried from the room. Whatever magic or demonic forces Destane had let loose was already inside. Taral looked down at the solemn-eyed boy and smiled tightly. “Let's go.”

 

He drew his robe in a sweeping arc around them both, and they disappeared in a flash of light.

 

Her vision turned blinding white for a split-second before she could see again. She must have been transported by Taral's spell as well.

 

She was now surrounded by desert under a fiery midday sun. The temple was nowhere to be seen.

 

But to her side was a long trail of people stumbling through the sand, parents tugging their children behind them or carrying them on their backs, old women who looked like they would soon faint from the heat, and strong young men helping some of the others along. She looked in the direction they were coming from and saw a burning city in the distance. These must have been the survivors of Helinth, now mere refugees.

 

She could not see Taral or Mozenrath anywhere, but they couldn't have run far from here if she had been transported with them.

 

Then she saw two pairs of footprints in the sand near her, one belonging to a grown man and the other a young child. Her eyes quickly followed their tracks to where they joined the line of refugees. Taral must have cast an invisibility spell, hoping to blend in with the crowd when it wore off.

 

She walked alongside the seemingly endless trail of survivors for an indeterminate amount of time. It was hard to gauge the passing of time within the Mirror, and she did not feel weary from walking or hot from the sun. All the while she scanned the crowd around her, looking for a familiar white robe and a boy with curly black hair. She had to give Taral credit for holding his spell this long.

 

Day bled slowly into dusk as the sun sank to the edge of the horizon. Several people had already stopped to make camp in the middle of the desert, having little else but their own clothing and some scanty supplies to last them through the night. No one had wood for making a fire. They likely hadn't had any time to prepare before they had had to flee the city.

 

The trail ahead was thinning as more and more people stopped to settle down for the night. She tried to find footprints that didn't seem to belong to anyone in front of her. It was growing harder to see in the dimming light.

 

Another unknown span of time passed before she spied a man clad in a soiled white robe who hadn't been there a second earlier. He stumbled and fell, and did not make any effort to rise again. Those walking nearby hardly spared him a glance and proceeded on their way. A boy knelt by the priest, tugging at his shoulder. Jasmine raced toward them.

 

“…think I just twisted something. Give me a minute,” Taral said with a grimace. He pulled himself painfully into a sitting position and touched his right ankle gingerly with one hand. The tips of his fingers began to glow, and he touched them to the area that was starting to swell. Sweat trickled down his face as he concentrated, but the glow quickly faded from his fingers.

 

He broke off and collapsed backward into the sand, breathing hard. At the boy's shout of alarm, he tilted his head toward him and spoke again. “I'm sorry, young master. Foolish old Taral used up all his strength, just like you've been taught not to do. I only wanted to make sure you were safe…follow what Her Majesty said…”

 

“We can keep going!” the boy said adamantly. His own clothing was dirty from the long trip they had taken. “I'll heal you.”

 

The priest smiled in spite of his pain. “Don't worry, just wait another few hours and I'll be strong enough to heal myself.”

 

“No!” Mozenrath insisted with a frown. His expressions as a six or seven year-old were already starting to mirror what he looked like in adulthood. “You think I can't do it. But I can!”

 

He placed two small hands over Taral's swollen ankle despite the priest's protests. Jasmine watched in fascination as a steady glow surrounded the limb and Taral fell silent in equal astonishment. Mozenrath's face scrunched up in concentration as healing magic poured forth from his hands.

 

Taral sat up when the boy finished. He tentatively rotated his foot, testing to see if the child really had done it. A wide smile spread across his face, and he looked at Mozenrath in awe as he got to his feet. “You are very special, young master. Elder Irodan always said so, and I fully believe it now.”

 

He looked up at the darkening sky and then at the endless dunes of sand in front of them. “Let's keep walking until we find a good place to settle down for the night.”

 

She followed them and listened to the steady stream of questions Mozenrath had for Taral. She guessed that they had had to keep silent so as not to attract attention before. Any young child would have found such a stretch of silence unbearable.

 

“What did that sorcerer want with the temple's magic?”

 

“I don't know. Sometimes people are greedy and want things all to themselves even if they're supposed to be for everyone to share.”

 

“But he isn't even from Helinth, is he?”

 

“No, he's not.”

 

“Will we be going back soon?”

 

Taral kept his expression neutral. “We'll see. I don't know.”

 

“Will my mother join us down the road then?”

 

“I hope so.”

 

“What about my father? Where was he when we left?”

 

Taral paused a moment too long before answering, and his eyes were pained, confirming Jasmine's worst suspicions. “Your father was leading the fight as the strongest of Helinth's defenders.”

 

Mozenrath fell silent for several minutes. Jasmine wondered if he understood the unspoken implications of Taral's answer.

 

“How long will we be running away?” The boy's tone had changed.

 

“Until we find somewhere safe to stay,” Taral answered, trying to hide the sorrow in his voice. “We'll find a place soon. Most of the others on the trail have already stopped to rest.”

 

“But I want to go back,” Mozenrath said firmly. “My parents and Elder Irodan didn't run away. Why are we?”

 

“Didn't you hear your mother? She told me to keep you safe.”

 

“But she also said to remember what I learned. Elder Irodan taught me that running away is what cowards do.”

 

Jasmine was surprised at the twist in the conversation. The boy's reasoning skills were amazingly acute for his age.

 

“Your mother is the sultana, and I have to obey her direct orders,” Taral said, falling back on the standard argument of authority Jasmine was well acquainted with.

 

Mozenrath frowned but did not respond to that, choosing to change the topic instead. “How did the sorcerer get into the city? Father said the walls don't let anyone with evil magic in.”

 

“That's another thing I don't know,” Taral said grimly. “He shouldn't have been able to enter.”

 

Jasmine jumped as a third voice spoke right next to her ear. “Let me clue you in then, Taral. Your ignorance is too much for me to bear.”

 

She took several steps away from the man who had just appeared out of thin air beside her. She recognized him instantly by his aquiline features. His white robes were splattered with blood.

 

Taral's initial expression of shock turned to a wary look of distrust. “Sider, did you just escape? What's happening back there?”

 

“You mean what happened there,” Sider said coolly, his haughty gaze sweeping over his disheveled fellow priest and the young boy beside him. “Destane has already taken the city and the power of the temple.”

 

“What about my parents?” Mozenrath cut in anxiously.

 

Taral put a protective arm around the boy's shoulders as Sider began to laugh. The aura of suspicion about the man immediately soured into utter wrongness.

 

“What's gotten into you?” Taral snapped.

 

Sider ignored him. “I only know about your mother, little Morathai,” he said in a terribly empty voice. “She put up a good fight, might have put a scratch on Destane if I hadn't seen to—”

 

He was thrown to the ground by a sudden blast of power from Taral.

 

“You let him into the city,” Taral gritted out in mounting anger. “You gave us all over to a monster!”

 

Sider stood slowly and brushed the sand off his crimson-streaked robes. His eyes flashed dangerously as he returned Taral's glare. “I learned that there is more to life than serving the whims of a deity, especially one that supposedly speaks through the elders of a temple. A pity none of you realized it sooner. Why live your life always subjecting yourselves to the will of others and not your own?”

 

“No one ever forced you to stay, you ungrateful snake! Elder Irodan would have let you leave if you wanted to,” Taral spoke with tightly coiled fury. “But you didn't want to leave. You wanted recognition, was that it? You wanted to be promoted, all of us knew that. But none of us imagined you would have gone so far as to betray the entire kingdom!”

 

“Say what you wish; I care nothing for your petty judgment. Let's just get down to what I came for,” Sider said coldly. His eyes fell on Mozenrath. “The boy will come with me.”

 

“I'm not going anywhere with you!” the boy shouted.

 

“So you're obeying a new master now,” Taral said, drawing the boy closer to his side. “What did Destane offer you in exchange for entry into Helinth? A share of his dark magic? A seat at his right hand when he starts carving out an empire for himself?”

 

“It's of no relevance to you. Just hand over the boy.”

 

“What does Destane want with him?” Taral asked, seemingly trying to buy more time. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face; one hand had curled into a fist, half-hidden in his robes. It was beginning to glow.

 

“He'll find out once he meets Destane, won't he?”

 

Sider made his move then, throwing his right hand forward with a quick incantation. The air around them exploded in light, and for several seconds Jasmine could only hear the beginning of the battle.

 

“Morathai, get out of here!”

 

Taral's desperate command was followed by a scream of pain. Jasmine's vision cleared and she saw that he had fallen to one knee, holding his left side with bloodied hands. Mozenrath dashed toward him with a concerned cry.

 

“No!” Taral pushed the boy forcefully away from him with one hand and raised the other to guard against Sider's next spell. “Morathai!” he yelled without looking back. “Teleport now!”

 

“But I've never done it before!” Mozenrath was clearly terrified now, no longer trying to prove his precocious abilities to anyone.

 

“You can! You have to!” Taral used both hands to weave some kind of repelling spell, throwing Sider back temporarily and binding him in place.

 

“Give it up, Taral! My patience is wearing thin!” he sneered.

 

“So is your energy. Your new master didn't give you enough power to finish me off,” the priest taunted even as he coughed blood. “Morathai, give me your hand.”

 

“I want you to come with me!”

 

Taral shook his head adamantly. “I'll come find you later! Give me your hand now!”

 

Mozenrath approached him again, and Taral grasped his hand firmly. To Jasmine's horror, he dug his other hand into the wound in his side, soaking the sand around them with crimson. With that same hand he gathered the bloodied sand in his palm and spread it across Mozenrath's feet while chanting a spell. The boy disappeared before he could protest.

 

The binding spell broke then, and Sider promptly fired a piercing blast of light point-blank at Taral's heart.

 

“Obstinate fool. A rudimentary spell like that isn't going to hide him for long,” he said scornfully as Taral fell onto his back, clutching his chest.

 

And then Jasmine could no longer see them because the sands were swirling around her and she heard the voice of the Mirror once again. It was demanding its price for her knowledge of that pivotal scene in Mozenrath's life.

 

The sands receded gradually and she saw that she was in her own room in the palace, and her younger self was being tucked into bed by her father.

 

“She was a beautiful lady,” the sultan was saying. “She passed her beauty onto you, my dear. In you I see her eyes and her smile.”

 

Jasmine wrinkled her nose at him. “You already told me that, Father. What else was she like?”

 

“Well,” the sultan said thoughtfully. “She was kind and full of compassion. It is because of her that I loosened our laws concerning child criminals.”

 

“Child criminals? Why would children do bad things?” she asked.

 

“Many children in Agrabah do not live like you do, Jasmine,” he said gently. “In the palace you have everything you need and want. But other boys and girls are not so lucky. Their families are poor and cannot afford food or water. Sometimes they cannot even afford a place to live, so they must live on the streets. Some of the children do not have parents, and they must fend for themselves. So they must steal and do other bad things to survive.”

 

Jasmine's younger self digested her father's words soberly. “Why would we have laws against them if they can't help but steal?”

 

The sultan looked uncomfortable and seemed to struggle for an appropriate answer. “Because the merchants they steal from must also make a living somehow, and if too many things are stolen from them, then they and their families will become poor as well.”

 

“Why don't we just let them live in the palace? Or we could give them the food left over from supper.”

 

“There are many, many poor children, my dear. More than we can fit in this palace. The best thing we can do is to be grateful for what we have and to set an example for our people so they will be kinder to each other and help children in need.”

 

“But I want to help them, Father! Why leave it to other people?”

 

Jasmine shook her head sadly as she sat down on the edge of her bed beside her younger self. Even at that age she had gone against her father's attitude of inaction. She thought of where Aladdin must have been at that time—a poor boy with no parents and no home, who had to learn to lie and steal to scrape by. What different lives they had been born into.

 

She felt resentful against her father for keeping her from seeing the truth of what the city was like. Before she had run away on her own, she had never gotten a real glimpse of how the poor lived. She had inherited some degree of her mother's sense of compassion, but she hadn't had a chance to carry it out for most of her young life.

 

She listened to the rest of their conversation detachedly, wanting to get back to Mozenrath's past. She had indeed been a very spoiled and sheltered child. Her father soon kissed her goodnight and left the room.

 

He had sheltered her out of love, she reminded herself. She shouldn't feel so resentful and critical of him all the time. He was a loving father and had raised her as best he could without her mother, who had died when she was too young to remember. From the way he spoke about her mother, Jasmine knew the sultana had been an amazing woman who had inspired him to be a better ruler. Loosening the juvenile crime laws was only one of the things he had done because of her influence.

 

She wondered if her death had led to his complacency. Without her to advise and encourage him, had he become the way he was now? Or had he always been this way? She thought suddenly of Aladdin. What would happen if she herself died young and Aladdin was left to rule Agrabah on his own? Would he become like her father?

 

She didn't go further down that path as her younger self climbed out of bed and walked outside onto the balcony. She could hardly see over the balustrade, so she ducked down to look through the bars instead. Rajah sat silently beside her, having grown to about a third of his adult size at that point.

 

“I wish I could see more of the city,” she told the tiger. “If the walls were closer, I'd throw some of my dolls over them for the poor kids to find. How many do you think are out there right now?”

 

The tiger merely purred in response and nuzzled her shoulder. She stroked his fur absently. “I wonder if any of them have a tiger too.”

 

Jasmine walked back inside instead of continuing to watch, made uncomfortable by her childhood ignorance. Sand began to sweep the room as soon as she reached her bed. Just as it had been the last time, the quicksand seemed to physically draw the memory from her brain with a spear of pain.

 

She stood up slowly from where the sand had deposited her, now having lost two memories. She was in the middle of a crowded marketplace, and she looked around anxiously, trying to find a boy with curly black hair. She was pressed in on all sides, hardly able to see the ground. It was nearly impossible to spot a small child.

 

But somehow her eye caught something strange. A single pear was hovering in the air above a massive pile of fruit on a cart, and quickly floated out of the vendor's range of sight and around the nearest corner. She followed it cautiously into a narrow alley littered with garbage.

 

The sight that greeted her made her pause at length. Mozenrath sat leaning against the wall, his body much thinner than before, clad no longer in clean white robes but in a dirty brown smock. He had already devoured half of the fruit as the other occupants of the alley watched him with hungry eyes. Presumably, none of them could use magic.

 

Taral must have died, she thought sadly. If he were still alive, he surely would have found Mozenrath by now. But at least Sider hadn't found him yet.

 

Sider had said that Taral's spell wouldn't hide him for long, but it seemed a considerable amount of time had passed since he had escaped capture. She imagined he had been teleported to a foreign city where he knew no one and, as a seven year-old, could do nothing but beg or steal to survive. She stared quietly at his skinny frame, realizing that for all the scorn he showed Aladdin later in his life, he himself had at one point been a street rat.

 

A prince reduced to a street rat was very different from a boy born into poverty, however. She tried to imagine herself at age seven being cast into the streets and forced to fend for herself. She would probably have starved to death or been kidnapped into a lifetime of brothel service.

 

“Can you get one for me?” an emaciated man rasped, dragging himself over to Mozenrath on his elbows. To her horror, she saw that both of his hands were missing. “Please, kid, I haven't eaten in days.”

 

Mozenrath appeared unperturbed by the man. He seemed to consider for a moment and reluctantly agreed. He rose to his feet and peered around the corner, his gaze settling on the same cart he had stolen from before. He closed his eyes, his lips moving silently in a spell, then retreated back into the alley and waited. Several seconds later another pear floated into the alley and was quickly snatched out of the air by the crippled man. He brought it to his mouth with the tips of his arm stubs and took a ravenous bite.

 

“Thanks, kid, I owe you one.”

 

“What do we have here?”

 

The man promptly dropped the fruit at the sound of the stern voice. Jasmine turned and saw three guards with swords drawn standing several meters away. The leader adjusted his turban fastidiously and looked down his nose at the pitiful-looking beggars before him. Mozenrath returned the guard's disdainful glance with a blank, guiltless expression.

 

“How did you get that fruit, thief?” the head guard said to the handless man.

 

A weary-looking teenager further back in the alley spoke up in a bitter voice. “If he's a thief, then he stole it, obviously.”

 

The guard bristled and pointed his sword in the insolent youth's direction. “Shut your mouth, street trash. When I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you.”

 

He looked down at the beggar once more. “I saw that pear float in thin air. Are you a magician?”

 

“Yeah, he loves performing for kids. You should come by every first day of the week for a spectacular show,” the teenager spoke again, his voice thick with sarcasm.

 

The head guard gestured to one of his subordinates, who nodded with a grunt and walked toward the youth with his sword raised. Jasmine covered her mouth as the guard began lashing the young man with the flat of his blade. Were the guards on Agrabah's streets as cold-blooded like this?

 

“I'll ask you again, and you will give me an answer. You didn't get your ears removed along with your hands,” the guard said testily. “Are you a magician?”

 

“N…no!” the man said, his eyes full of fear at the sight of the blade in front of his face. “I can't do magic without hands! It's him! It's this boy here!”

 

The guard turned his attention to the curly haired boy the man was frantically pointing at. Mozenrath's expression twitched in surprise at the betrayal.

 

“So you know magic,” the guard stated.

 

Mozenrath nodded hesitantly. The head guard smiled easily—too easily—and ordered his other subordinate to bind the boy's hands.

 

“No!” Jasmine shouted. She was too angry to feel foolish as her words fell on ears that could not hear her. “He's just a boy. He's just a hungry boy.”

 

“I won't cut off your hands, kid. You'll fetch a better price on the auction block fully intact.”

 

Mozenrath rose to his feet immediately at the guard's statement but was struck down by a heavy fist.

 

“Don't bother trying to run,” the guard nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just hurt a defenseless child.

 

The other guard had returned from beating the young man. He wiped his blade on the crippled beggar's clothes before leaving the alley with the other guards and their new prisoner.

 

They were going to sell him. The guards were as corrupt as they were cruel in this city. Jasmine followed them down several crowded streets until they stopped at a certain house with barred windows. The head guard knocked on the door and waited impatiently for someone to answer. A stern-looking woman opened it, her sharp eyes falling on the boy the guards had brought with them.

 

“Clean this kid up. He's of magic blood,” the guard said curtly, shoving Mozenrath forward. “Ten thousand denarii at the least. Don't let him sell for any less.”

 

He grabbed a handful of black curls and forcibly turned the boy's face around. “You give anyone trouble, boy, and I'll give up the sale so I can have the pleasure of chopping off your thieving little hands.”

 

Jasmine glared in open hatred at the guard. She longed to know the name of this city, where men who were supposed to be the kingdom's defenders sold their fellow citizens into slavery and enjoyed tormenting the poor. At least she knew this place wasn't Agrabah, since slavery had been outlawed long ago by her grandfather.

 

She went inside and gasped at the sight of the first room they passed. It was packed with people of all ages with their hands and feet bound in chains, some of their bare backs crisscrossed with whip scars. She had never seen such hopelessness on human faces. They sat in silence, staring at nothing. It seemed they were all resigned to their fate as slaves.

 

The woman took Mozenrath to an enclosed courtyard where buckets of sand lined the rear wall. Her angular face was blank as she moved with merciless efficiency, starting to untie the rope around his wrists. “Once these are off, just remember what the guard said.”

 

She pointed at the buckets of sand. “Clean yourself with those. You're going on the block in an hour.”

 

He did not respond. She left him in the courtyard without a backward glance. Jasmine wondered how many children the woman had trafficked without feeling a drop of remorse.

 

Mozenrath looked into the buckets, and after a quick glance around him, he reached a hand inside. He withdrew a fistful of sand and let the granules run through his fingers as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

 

He opened his eyes with a frown and sat down heavily on the ground. Her face fell as he apparently gave up on whatever plan he had been considering.

 

After another minute of motionless silence, he stood up and stripped off his clothing. He methodically scoured his too-thin body with the sand and put the smock back on. Then he sat back against the wall, arms curled around his knees.

 

Jasmine sat down beside him, watching his expression slowly change from frustration to despair. He buried his face in his arms, one hand clutching his hair in a viselike grip.

 

“I wish I could help you,” she said softly. It helped her to talk to him even though he could not sense her at all, and she simply could not keep silent through these memories without giving herself the semblance of involvement. “I'm sorry for what you've been through.”

 

He raised his face slowly, propping his chin on his knees, and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. Jasmine tried to pat his arm but could not feel anything as her hand made contact. Still, she moved closer and draped an arm around him, imagining that she could feel the shape of his thin shoulders.

 

“You can make it. I know you made it through somehow,” she said, then paused. “And somewhere along the line you became the Lord of the Black Sand.”

 

But at this age he was young and alone, a far cry from the dark sorcerer he would eventually become. He hadn't done anything wrong; he had only been the victim of forces greater than himself. Could she blame him for his current state of evil and all the horrible things he had done for the sake of power? She expected that Destane would determine his future for him, enslave him and force him through countless torturous lessons and exercises as his apprentice. But she was still unsure why such a powerful sorcerer had needed an apprentice in the first place.

 

In any case, it was too early to tell. She could not yet judge his future self based on the first eight years of his life. She could only sit beside him and feel utterly helpless.

 

In another few minutes the stern-looking woman returned and shackled his hands. Mozenrath continued to be silent. Jasmine wondered if the span of time he had spent living on the streets had effectively killed his talkative nature. He seemed a mere ghost of his earlier self in more ways than one.

 

The woman led him into the house again where he was chained together with a line of prisoners, most of them young adults. Several muscled men were standing guard, one brandishing a whip. Jasmine bristled as one of them carelessly fondled one of the girls being led out the front door, making a lewd comment to his fellows. The men laughed raucously and followed the despondent procession into the street.

 

The auction was held in a public square. Jasmine stayed close to Mozenrath on the raised platform as the slaves were lined up next to each other like criminals about to be hanged.

 

An overweight, balding man stood at the front of the platform and raised his hands to the gathering crowd, asking for quiet. He smiled broadly, revealing several gold teeth.

 

“Today is a good day for buying, my dear friends. We have several fine specimens freshly brought in from neighboring lands. Some exotic beauties born to fulfill your wildest fantasies; some strapping young males perfectly built for heavy labor; and even a bearer of magic blood for all you connoisseurs out there,” he said in the most disgustingly theatrical voice Jasmine had ever heard. “Now let's get down to it, shall we? First—this lovely female from the hills of Lerba…”

 

The crowd grew larger as more passersby joined the auction to place bids or simply to watch. In his dramatic voice, the auctioneer played up all the physical features of every prisoner on the platform, presenting them to his audience as if he were selling cows and horses instead of people. Jasmine placed her hand gently on Mozenrath's arm, wanting nothing more than to set all of the prisoners free and throw the slavers in prison.

 

At last the boy's turn came, and the guard with the whip tugged him forward. The tall, scar-faced man smiled viciously as if challenging him to act up. Mozenrath's face remained impassive. Jasmine wondered how it was possible for such a young child to look so calm.

 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, here is a particularly fine specimen. Ah, he may not look like much at first glance, but appearances are indeed deceiving.” The auctioneer paused for exaggerated effect. “We have a boy with magic blood running through his veins! A precocious magic user, as he will demonstrate for us right now.”

 

The auctioneer drew an apple from his pocket and made a show of polishing it on his tunic. Then he held it out for the crowd to see, moving his arm in a slow arc until his hand pointed toward Mozenrath. “Before your very eyes, he will levitate this apple with his powers!”

 

Jasmine looked at Mozenrath again. His blank expression had turned into an open look of contempt, that trademark scowl of disdain that she and Aladdin had received so many times. He did not move.

 

The auctioneer's fake, appeasing grin twitched slightly as Mozenrath did not respond to his command. “Look at him focusing his power, ladies and gentlemen! The spell is a complicated one for a boy so young.”

 

The man with the whip tensed, stretching the weapon out between his thick hands. He spoke in a dangerous whisper that only Mozenrath and Jasmine were close enough to hear. “Keep up the obstinacy, boy, and you'll go to your new master with a couple of beauty marks across your back.”

 

The crowd was starting to mutter in discontent at the auctioneer, and Jasmine heard several accusations of fraud. The auctioneer's grin grew wider and more nervous as he tried to assure them that the spell just required more time.

 

“You might think this is funny, you little bastard,” the tall man rasped in Mozenrath's ear. “But I don't think you'll enjoy my sense of humor.”

 

He drew back his whip then, and Jasmine despaired that she could not shield him from the oncoming blow.

 

“Five thousand denarii!” a man's voice shouted from the crowd. The guard paused a split-second before he could bring the whip down on the boy's back. The auctioneer immediately began asking for higher bids, relieved that he could cover up his embarrassment over his botched command.

 

Jasmine scanned the crowd for the man who had spoken. She was certain she knew that voice…

 

“Five thousand, five thousand, is there anyone for six? Six thousand or higher?” the auctioneer spouted quickly.

 

“Six.” A man in a gray cloak near the back raised his hand.

 

“We have a six! Going for six thousand, six thousand denarii now, anyone for more? Do I hear seven thousand?”

 

“Seven thousand,” the first voice said again. Jasmine spotted him this time and froze in disbelief.

 

It was Thanon, Agrabah's historian. He stood in the middle of the crowd, his hair streaked with more gray than white. He was at least a decade younger.

 

She was unaware that during his tenure as historian, he still journeyed to other cities to buy slaves; she had always assumed his trips out of the kingdom were for research purposes. Now she felt a new sense of respect for the old man. He had never stopped enacting his father's will that he spend his own money on freeing the enslaved.

 

There had been no demonstration of magic, and most of the crowd was completely unconvinced that the boy was as special as the auctioneer so boldly claimed. But the auction was keeping them entertained as they watched the tight bidding contest. Most must have found it absurd that these two men were willing to waste money on a scrawny, disobedient child.

 

“Ten thousand, any higher than ten? Do I hear an eleven?”

 

Thanon's jaw was set firmly as he raised his hand. “Fifteen.”

 

Her heart warmed at the historian's determination to win the bid and save the boy from a bleak future. Jasmine was praying fervently that he would succeed, though she knew that whatever good could come of this would ultimately be outweighed by Destane.

 

“Twenty,” the cloaked stranger said easily.

 

“No,” Jasmine whispered as Thanon's mouth tightened into a thin line. He did not raise his hand again.

 

The auctioneer's greasy smile had morphed into a crazed grin; the unscrupulous man was probably wondering how he had gotten so lucky.

 

“Twenty thousand denarii! Anyone for higher? Twenty one? Do I hear twenty one anywhere?” His voice cracked in nervous excitement. “Ten thousand denarii, going once, going twice…and sold to the man in the back!”

 

The man with the whip gave Mozenrath's chains a forceful tug as he led him off the platform. Jasmine followed hurriedly through the closely packed crowd and glanced at the side of Thanon's face. The historian's attention was already on the next slave on the auction block. She suddenly had to fight the urge to cry. He had been so close! So close to freeing Mozenrath and giving him a chance at a better life. Perhaps he could have even grown up in Agrabah. The historian would have made sure that such a uniquely gifted child would receive the best tutelage and preparation for a bright future.

 

The payment was made, and Mozenrath was handed over to his new master still shackled at the wrists. Jasmine tried to get a closer look at the stranger's face beneath his hood, but he turned briskly and beckoned the boy to follow. Mozenrath stood his ground for a moment before stumbling forward abruptly.

 

The boy's steps sped up until he caught up with the man. Jasmine was puzzled at his sudden obedience.

 

“I apologize for the use of force,” the man said calmly, not sparing a backward glance at his young slave. “But you will learn that I hate inefficiency, especially in dealing with stubborn children.”

 

Jasmine longed to see the man's face though her dread had grown tenfold at his offhand statement. `Use of force' could mean nothing other than magic.

 

“I paid quite a hefty sum for you, child, in spite of the lack of a demonstration. The crowd back there no doubt thinks I am either an extravagantly rich pedophile or a complete madman for purchasing you,” the man said as they walked down another crowded street. “But just as well; had you actually put on the magic, so to speak, the price on your head would have risen even higher.”

 

“You can…sense my magic?” Mozenrath said warily. It was the first time she had heard him speak in this scene.

 

“Of course,” the man said airily. “Even in your weak state, your aura is still quite prominent. I decided you had trudged through enough gutters in this useless city and proven enough of your worth for me to come find you.”

 

Mozenrath jerked back instinctively, already knowing who his master was, but he was propelled forward once again by the spell the man had cast on him.

 

“Let me go,” he said in a surprisingly calm voice.

 

“Now that's no way to talk to your master,” the man replied in an equally level tone. “But I understand your sentiments. I will give you a choice for your future…after I have given you a sufficient understanding of who I am and what I may offer you. Until then, I'm afraid the stuffy old master-slave relationship holds.”

 

He turned a corner onto a dark street and stopped at the first wooden door they came across. It creaked open with a light touch of his hand.

 

“Welcome, young prince, to my home.”

 

The man held his arm out as if politely allowing the boy to enter first. Mozenrath stumbled through, his movements still controlled by the spell. Jasmine followed closely behind the two of them.

 

The door did not lead to the interior of a house, but to an open desert. They were standing in the midst of endless dunes of black sand.