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“Sooner or later, a man will appear before whom the High Priestess’s heart will crumble to ash in the blaze of true love and passion. She will desire him, and from their union a child will be born—the greatest ruler, destined to unite the lands chosen by the Faceless One for Arnar’s people.
“Whether that brings ruin or blessing will be for the Chosen One to decide. If the priestess is seduced by a heart warmed by the Song of Love, a golden age will begin. The Faceless One will become Tabigati once more and regain the power of Mother Nature.
“But if the man’s heart burns with thirst for revenge, nurtured by the Song of Iblis… Wait. I must remember the words. Ah, I am old, and Yorik has been stingy with sacrifices lately. This is the result. Just a moment…”
After several minutes of thought, the woman straightened and recited:
In the distant days of youth,
I was ensnared and taken captive.
The gaze of a lovely maiden
clouded my reason
and chained me to her forever.
But life is cruel.
We were torn apart;
that torment is better left unspoken.
Only pain remained inside my pierced heart,
and thirst for vengeance—the worst of evils.
The transformation did not take long.
The young boy vanished without a trace,
and a Monster was born within his flesh,
a spawn of love trampled underfoot.
I am worse than any messenger of Hell.
Debauchery and lust are my two wings.
I am the sword of vice,
the spear of temptation,
the stiletto of sin that cuts the flesh of virtue.
The armor of love will not protect you;
all will collapse before the assault of burning passion.
For only upon the shards of a maiden’s heart
will a corrupted soul find peace again…
The old woman whispered the final lines, yet the words still struck the cave’s stone walls and returned as a booming echo.
“If black evil settles inside the Chosen One’s soul, Tabigati will remain Faceless forever. That is why the High Priestess must be chaste and innocent before assuming her rank. Her service is expectation. She is an empty vessel longing to be filled.
“But filling that vessel is not simple. Both sides will do everything possible to prevent the prophecy’s fulfillment. The descendants of the first sultan have ruled Maverranahr for nearly four hundred years, and still the priestesses wait to learn how the contest between the Mother and the Devil will end.
“A girl assumes the rank at eighteen and waits for the Chosen One until twenty-eight. Then another takes her place. The former High Priestess chooses where she will go and departs in search of candidates, intending to prepare him.
“Some priestesses resented the Faceless One and entrusted men only with the Song of Iblis. Others believed blindly in goodness and carried only Tabigati’s song. Still others spread their legs for anyone willing, hoping to fulfill what had been foretold.
“The Chosen One’s path is hard. Trials and deprivation await him. Even gold is purified by fire. Imagine the heat of the furnace that purifies true love. The songs are the result that—”
The hearth erupted with a roar, flames rising almost to the cave’s vault and cutting the witch off mid-sentence.
She waved one hand, and the fire shrank to its ordinary size.
“The accursed creature is watching. Very well. In this, he is right,” the old woman muttered. She swallowed some infusion and continued.
“Only the Chosen One can decide how to build his bond with the High Priestess and how their descendant will be raised. Candidates who know only one song usually die halfway along the path. Men now find the Lord of Flame’s song more familiar, which is why you surprised me by speaking other words.
“You haven’t eaten breakfast, have you? That seal surely didn’t feed you. Why feed a dead man? I know his habits. That is why I look so decrepit, though I am only seventy-five.” The old woman smiled with her nearly toothless mouth. “Do you like eggs? How shall I cook them—sunny-side up, folded, or scrambled?”
“Folded,” Alisher blurted, without entirely understanding his choice. For a gardener’s son, eggs were an expensive luxury.
The wise woman pulled a frying pan from beneath a heap of bowls and set it upon stones above the hearth.
“Grandmother, why do you need sacrifices?” the youth asked, having developed warm feelings toward the old woman.
“Ah, you don’t need to know. It is dark business, unkind magic, but necessary. Tanati’s laws are harsh, yet we cannot do without them. Balance and equilibrium. To receive something, one must always give something.
“But let us not become distracted. I have accomplished the most important task. Now we may bring some joy to the soul.”
A small piece of butter hissed and melted across the metal. Muttering to herself, the witch poured four beaten eggs into the pan.
The cave filled with a marvelous aroma. Thrasing’s stomach growled, and his heart lurched. The old woman no longer looked frightening. She reminded him of his gray-haired mother, who likewise spent hours beside the hearth.
“There.” A bowl of eggs appeared before the youth. “Eat, son. Eat. You’ll feel better at once.”
“And you?” Alisher had seen that nothing remained in the pan.
The old woman smiled and patted the Asian youth’s shoulder.
“The important thing is not to lose it.”
“Lose what?” Thrasing asked through a full mouth.
“The way you regard other people.” The witch sat opposite and studied the Chosen One. “Remain yourself. Even when you change names, do not betray who you are.
And the mighty of the world
will come to the crossroads
to behold the stranger
with their own eyes,
not knowing
who stands before them.
He will reveal a power
forgotten long ago,
and the rock that stood for ages
will fall.
The verse made Alisher push aside the last of the eggs.
“What about Windale? They are suffering from plague. Will you need another life? You did not take mine.”
“They must harvest thistle at dawn. Feed it raw to the animals and brew it for the people. Everything will pass in a few days. A volcano recently awakened and poisoned the air with ash and sulfur. I would have warned them, but Yorik and Asard sailed away, and no one else dares come here. I am too old. Windale is half a day away downhill. With this staff, climbing back takes three times as long.”
The old woman sighed heavily.
“But that is the only reason you came to me. As for who awakened the volcano—Mother Nature or the Lord of Flame—who can say? Memorize both songs. Only then will you reach your destination and regain the woman you love.
“Better still, if you have enough courage, save your beloved from becoming High Priestess. Believe me, it is a wretched occupation. Then you may live an ordinary human life and have ordinary children. I am clairvoyant, after all.” The old woman winked conspiratorially. “Take this healing blend, and send that blockhead Yorik inside. I’ll knock some sense into him.”
The youth accepted the bundle and bowed.
“One last thing. Remember: anyone can swing an ax. Right now, you are a grain of sand, a leaf borne toward an unknown destination by the will of the waves—merely a piece in someone else’s game, a game played by the mighty. To be Chosen is to become legend.
“Ah, I nearly forgot. Rukh birds have built their nest in the hair of the sleeping maiden in the Krintau Mountains. Two eggs to a clutch, usually. The egg must never cool below the warmth of your body. It should always feel hot to the touch.”
“Ah… Thank you, Grandmother.” Ali sincerely thanked the wise woman, decided not to ask about birds unknown to him, and bowed.
“Take care of yourself, Alisher ibn Maruf,” the old woman whispered as she watched him leave the cave.
Chapter Seven
Yorik remained with the sorceress long enough for Alisher to grow thoroughly chilled. Though the trembling that shook the youth was more emotional than physical.
He felt reborn. The old woman had not taken his life. She had given him hope.
He was prepared to do anything to protect his lake peri from the fate awaiting her.
The youth had never dared dream of a shared future with Zamira, much less happiness and family. But if the northern witch said it was possible, he would find a way.
Plans began forming in the former porter’s mind. He must persuade Yorik to take him on the next voyage to the shores of Ostos. And if that required becoming the finest warrior among them, Alisher resolved to do exactly that.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chieftain speaking to his brother.
“The young fellow is no fool. Take him into your household as my sworn brother. Teach him our customs, our language, and the warrior’s craft. Perhaps you’ll improve your own speech at the same time. How long do you intend to walk in my shadow? It is time you bought a longship of your own.”
“Buy one with what? Especially after that last plunder—and now this plague. We’ll be fortunate if we don’t starve,” the younger brother replied in the northern tongue.
“Look what the witch gave me for the boy.”
The chieftain opened his fist. A gemstone of incomparable beauty shone upon his palm.
Asard froze with his mouth open.
“What did he do to her in there? How did he please her? Did he fuck her?” the man babbled once he recovered, unable to imagine what service could have earned such an immense payment.
“I have no idea. But even if he did, that is a kingly gift. Well done, brave youth.”
“No. I didn’t even—” Alisher broke in, trying to defend himself, but the chieftain would not let him finish.
“Enough. Your business. As my father used to say, never refuse a woman who has set her eye upon you.”
“There is someone I love, and I intend to ask for her hand,” the porter blurted, deeply offended by the chieftain’s words.
“Then everything rests in your hands, Thrasing. I promised the old woman I would take you with me, but no one will protect you in battle. Depend upon yourself and train properly.
“But time will not wait. You are right, Asard. Winter is near. We must go to Holsting immediately and learn how much Konung Bjorn will pay for the stone. Then back to Windale. The villagers must harvest thistle.
“And the boy is probably frozen. We must protect him now. The witch said he would bring glory to Windale. You will teach him the warrior’s craft as you teach your own sons. Understand?”
“She truly said that?” Asard switched to the Norse tongue.
“Yes. She also said he was her treasure and that she would reward us for bringing him. Then she tossed a pinch of salt into the hearth. Smoke rose so thick I thought I would choke. When it cleared, the gemstone lay upon the bench where she had been sitting.”
“But that is…”
“A Witch’s Soul. To defy her final will would be to seal the gates of Valhalla not only against ourselves but against our descendants.”
Asard nodded in agreement.
Alisher was no longer listening. He had retreated into his own thoughts.
Now he knew he would have a chance to ask for Zamira’s hand. Nothing else mattered.
The konung valued the gemstone highly. The men drove a large herd of goats, two bulls, and seven cows back to Windale, along with a considerable sum for the treasury.
By then, the thistle infusion had already driven the sickness from the settlement.
Thrasing was welcomed as family into the home of the chieftain’s younger brother. But scarcely had the man from sunny Ostos grown accustomed to mud and endless rain when the long northern winter covered Windale.
Alisher had once believed heat was dangerous. Now he learned that savage cold was worse.
The short days passed one after another. Training became still harsher. By midwinter, Asard dressed the former captive in immensely heavy mail and forced him to fight with real weapons.
At first, Alisher was terrified. Yet after only a few weeks, Thrasing wielded a razor-edged sword without fear. He met attacks, slipped from their path, and spun through the deadly dance called combat.
Again and again, he lost to Windale’s finest axman. But each time, victory came harder to Asard.
Youth and agility, extraordinary strength and endurance hardened by labor in Ostos’s bazaar, made Thrasing a fearsome opponent.
Alisher learned to speak the northern tongue with growing confidence. The household trusted him to travel into the settlement alone. Asard took him fishing several times. There, Alisher saw real ice for the first time—and felt its treacherous slipperiness beneath his backside.
He joined hunts as well. The first was a drive against wolves that had settled in the hills near Windale. Later, Yorik invited Asard and Thrasing to drive an elk. But the man from Ostos could not run in snowshoes and nearly fell through the river ice while pursuing the beast.
The northerners did not use bows. In such cold, holding a string at full draw was nearly impossible, and even then an arrow could scarcely pierce a wild animal’s heavy hide and fur. The Norsemen preferred spears.
When the blizzards ceased howling for such long stretches and something magical entered the air, Asard brought Thrasing to the smithy.
For days on end, the youth hammered red-hot iron while listening to the smith’s stories.
At last, when the bay’s waters broke free of ice and the first flowers bloomed in clearings among the hills, Alisher received his own battle-ax and scale armor lined with wolf fur.
In a conical helmet, with the ax upon his shoulder, he already looked like a true northerner.
The name Alisher faded into forgetfulness. Only his dreams still connected him to the past—dreams in which Zamira continued to come to him and sing her song.
Chapter Eight
Despite the promise she had made her nursemaid, Zamira could not forget the gardener’s son—his sacrifice, or the way he had looked at her. It was like the tales of great love found in books.
She was forbidden to read such stories, but youthful curiosity prevailed. Until late each night, Zamira read by uneven candlelight of brave knights and overwhelming devotion. In the mornings, sleepy and unrested, she prepared for the trials.
At the end of September, escorted by Yusuf Bey’s nukers, the nursemaid brought her charge to Ostos’s temple of Tabigati.
The temple priestess ordered the ruler’s daughter to bare the upper half of her body. She examined Zamira’s breast for a long time, rubbing at the mark, wetting a cloth with an aromatic dark-green liquid, and rubbing again. Once satisfied that the sign was genuine, she knelt before Zamira and led her into the holy of holies—the temple’s inner chamber and Tabigati’s altar.
There, for the first time, the girl mentioned Alisher in prayer to the Mother. She begged the Faceless One to watch over the courageous porter who had become a slave through a cruel turn of fate.
Afterward, warmth and peace filled Zamira’s heart. Surely this meant the Great Mother had heard her. Alisher would be safe, and Zamira must return to her destiny.
The priestess spoke with her deep inside the temple for many hours. By evening, exhausted and tormented, the girl emerged to meet Yusuf Bey.
“Your daughter has been recognized as one marked by Tabigati. She demonstrated excellent knowledge and preparation. I will send letters to the High Priestess and the sultan immediately. But you will receive the bride-price only after the girl has spoken with the High Priestess in person.
“From this moment, your daughter stands beneath the Faceless One’s protection. At the New Year festival, I will conduct the initiation and verify her virginity. Until then, the temple doors remain open to her.”
The priestess gave a restrained smile and turned toward the girl.
“The house of the Faceless One is your house, Marked One.” She bowed deeply to Zamira.
Thus the girl’s world expanded beyond the walls of her father’s residence. The priestess convinced Yusuf Bey that daily prayer was essential, and Ostos’s bey had no choice but to accept it.
Traveling across the city to the temple required guards. Yusuf Bey would not entrust the life of his treasure—for whom the sultan had promised immeasurable wealth—to elderly warriors. Stern, courageous, and gallant nukers from Ostos’s noble families entered the young woman’s life.
The painful memory of the brave youth gradually faded beneath skillful compliments and the attention of experienced men.
The nursemaid protested. Fearing for her charge’s chastity, she even complained to Yusuf Bey. The girl’s father merely waved her away. Eunuchs were useless in battle, he said, and there was no difference between chastity and virginity. He saw no reason to shield his daughter from the admiration and courtship of sons from Ostos’s finest families.
Akhneya understood that greed had taken possession of Yusuf Bey. He was preparing a second possibility for himself: a less impressive bride-price, but a bride-price nonetheless.
Soon, word of the future High Priestess’s beauty spread across the country. Sons of the Sultanate’s greatest families traveled to Ostos, hoping to win the young beauty’s favor.
Yusuf Bey remained true to his ambitions. He ordered the nursemaid to guard only his daughter’s virginity. After the temple initiation, he reasoned, even that would no longer matter; the High Priestess herself would take it from Zamira.
His calculations proved sound. By the New Year, an enormous flock of gallant suitors from throughout the Sultanate circled Zamira.
He treated his daughter’s initiation as a profitable enterprise and spared no expense in spreading praise of her beauty or bribing the necessary people.
Coins and promises were joined by threats and calculated temptations. Yusuf Bey understood that false hope alone was often enough to control a person. The greed of possession makes people blind—and, more importantly, obedient.
By the time of the trials, the exotic creatures meant to carry out Mother Nature’s judgment and expose the unworthy had been made well-fed and indolent.
The piranhas from the western seas were fed an entire ram in exchange for several gold coins. Maruf the gardener, threatened with his wife’s death, threw the meat into their pool.
The snakes cost more. In exchange for permission to double the size of his stall in Ostos’s bazaar, the local apothecary mixed wormwood tincture into Zamira’s perfume. Her nursemaid sprinkled it over the girl’s shift.
The lion keeper was intimidated by the nukers and bribed with the opportunity to spy upon the maiden’s bathing. The lion was fed and allowed among the lionesses. Sated and exhausted, the king of beasts scarcely twitched a whisker when the terrified future High Priestess passed him.
Zamira knew none of this. To her, every danger was real.
The Path of Trials had been laid through the garden of Ostos’s ruler. Beside the old weeping willow that leaned over the lake, carpenters erected a large barrel-shaped pool.
Standing before it, Zamira remembered her secret misconduct and her growing attachment to Ibrahim, captain of the guard. His quiet, confident voice and practiced compliments had overcome her caution. What began with a stolen kiss had developed into an intimacy that stopped short of taking her virginity but plainly violated the spirit of the vows expected of Tabigati’s chosen servant.
Forgive me, Faceless One.
Zamira submerged herself completely in the pool of bloodthirsty fish. They ignored her.
She climbed from the water, dressed in a dry shift, and stepped onto the Path of Serpents. Enclosed by mesh on every side, it wound between thorny rosebushes that formed an unbroken wall.
As she took her first step, memory returned to a night when a nightmare had sent her fleeing toward her nursemaid’s room. She had encountered Ibrahim instead. He listened without mocking her fear and comforted her. His touch became increasingly intimate, and Zamira—frightened, curious, and powerfully drawn to him—allowed boundaries to fall that she had once believed unshakable.
Forgive me, Faceless One. I care for him deeply.
Zamira stepped firmly onto the paving stones. Tabigati appeared to forgive her: the snakes withdrew and opened a path.
A lion waited ahead, fearsome guardian of forest and desert. The immense beast lay in one corner of the pavilion. Zamira froze.
She remembered allowing Ibrahim into her private rooms and surrendering further to his caresses. He had awakened desires she scarcely understood, though their intimacy still preserved the physical proof demanded by the ritual.
Her heart thundered. The memories filled her with shame and longing in equal measure.
The lion caught her scent, moved one ear, and turned away without granting the Chosen One so much as a glance.
When Zamira reached the temple dressed only in her shift, the people greeted her with an ovation.
The local priestess and the High Priestess led her to the place of sacrifice and bound her hands to the altar. Then attendants brought forth the ritual instrument fashioned from pure gold.
Zamira stared at the gleaming relic in terror. The rite that followed was clinical, public, and humiliating. The priestesses anointed both the sacred object and the initiate with fragrant oil before using it to take the virginity required as proof of her passage.
Zamira cried out more from humiliation than pain. Blood stained her shift.
The High Priestess raised the bloodied relic toward the altar and began the prayer.
Yusuf Bey smiled. It was done—and for less than he had been prepared to pay. All that remained was to wait until Zamira turned eighteen and send her to the capital.
The greedy man was already spending his expected profit in his imagination.
The people inside the temple rejoiced. The Sultanate had gained a new Chosen One at the New Year itself.
It was considered a very fortunate sign.
Chapter Nine
The feast celebrating the Sultanate’s new Chosen One flowed seamlessly into the New Year festivities. Wine ran like water. Salutes and fireworks repeatedly climbed into the sky, and tables sagged beneath food.
The celebration was at its height, but Yusuf Bey had no heart for it. A strange premonition of disaster gnawed at him.
He was an experienced man. A promised reward could not guarantee that a secret would remain buried. The death of everyone who knew it could.
And so he made his decision.
On the evening of the third day after the initiation, the bey went to the chambers of his daughter’s guard captain. Ibrahim hungered visibly for Zamira, which meant he would carry out the task Yusuf Bey intended to give him.
Without knocking, Yusuf Bey threw open the captain’s bedchamber door—and roared in fury.
He had found Ibrahim in bed with his daughter.
The guards rushed in at their master’s cry. They dragged the captain away from Zamira and wrapped the girl in a blanket.
Ostos’s ruler was incandescent with rage. Ibrahim curled into himself with terror. Nothing remained of the warrior he had once appeared to be.
“M-my lord, it was all her doing. I refused her, but she threatened me with death if I disobeyed,” he stammered, pressing his forehead against the toes of the ruler’s boots.
Zamira stared at the man she had believed she loved and could trust neither her eyes nor her ears. Her heart stopped with horror. The same mouth that had praised her now spewed filth without mercy.
“Ibrahim, how can you say such things?” she whispered hoarsely.
The guard seemed not to hear. He continued his agile lies, recasting every encounter as coercion by a willful young mistress and every one of his own advances as reluctant obedience.
“What?” Zamira cried. She looked toward her father, whose face was frighteningly grave. “I was afraid, and he… You cannot believe him.”
She turned desperately back toward Ibrahim.
“Why are you doing this? None of it is true.”
“You will have your chance to speak,” Yusuf Bey cut her off. “Continue, Ibrahim.”
The man flinched at his master’s command and resumed his account, becoming more elaborate and obscene as he placed every act and demand upon Zamira.