Unveiling the Sorceress

Good fortune had been theirs and one danger, at least, had been averted. The dust would soon be mud on the ground. The people would be brushing it from the streets by the time she reached Suzin.

"If only my enemies were wished away so easily,” she reflected, with a wry laugh.

* * * *

Mehmet, the dowager Empress of Karseedia, glanced around the palace corridor to check she was not being observed, then stepped closer to the ornately carved wooden panels gracing the wall at this spot. The panel hiding the secret passageway she sought bore the image of a learned man with a book in one hand, holding a torch aloft in the other. She flattened her palm against the carved torch. The panel opened and she quickly stepped inside, pulling her heavy silken robes after her.

When the panel shut behind her, she blinked until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the concealed passageway, scowling as she did do. Something was going on in the palace, something involving her son, Hanrah, something that was not of her bidding. It turned her mood sour at the very time they should be celebrating Aleem's forthcoming surrender to their greater power. She wanted this intrusive problem stopped and obliterated, even if she had to see to it herself.

She settled her small lamp into a wall-mounted sconce and then traced her hand along the rough stone wall as she hurried along the passageway, barely pausing to lift her expensive robes to protect them from being torn or stained—such was her rush. The faint sound of water dripping and her soft leather slippers scuffing over the cobblestones were the only audible sound in the dark, narrow space. The lamp behind her shed only the smallest speck of light to guide her. She knew this passage well, though, for it was one of many well-hidden secret observation points that networked the royal palace in Lhastari. As always, the place smelled musty from a leak where the secret passageways intersected with the palace water supply, but she left it unfixed rather than reveal the hidden network to the servants.

Her hand brushed up against a jutting outcrop of rock, dank and slime-covered. It indicated she had reached the place. Her fingers sought the loose stone, and removed it. Standing on tiptoe, she stepped forward and leaned into the viewing niche. Her chin rested on the damp stone as she moved close to the small peephole.

She refocused her vision, for the brighter light within the chamber below was at odds with the gloomy passageway. Focusing on the drapery of the heavily embroidered wall hangings that bedecked her son's bedchamber, her gaze followed them down, leading her to the sight of a cluster of limbs on the bed itself.

Even though she had half expected this when she'd observed her son, Hanrah, and his longing glances at the youth, she ground her teeth in annoyance. Hanrah was there, in his luxurious private chambers, cavorting with the nubile, a mere slave.

"Blind fool,” she whispered to herself, between gritted teeth. “What possesses you to be so unwise, my son?"

The two lithe bodies were entirely naked, and rolled together in an urgent rhythm against the fine, imported cotton bed coverings. No place for a slave. The slave boy's face contorted in ecstasy, his arms stretched back, his fingers clutching at the curtain that hung behind him while he watched his Emperor pleasuring him.

Mehmet seethed.

Hanrah was bent over the slave, devouring the youth's manhood with a hungry mouth, his head bobbing, and his hands working on his own stiff organ all the while.

Mehmet's blood began to boil, undiluted rage pumping through her veins. Her hand clutched at the loose rock as if to crush it, her mouth twitching in anger and frustration at the sight of her son, the ruler of Karseedia—and the future ruler of much more, if she had her way—on his knees in front of a mere slave, pleasuring him like a courtesan. She had to keep her lips tightly closed in order to contain the urge to scream down at him from her current viewing point, that wretched boy. He had no clue how to act like a ruler, even though she had instructed him often enough. Worse of all, this behavior seemed to be a recurrent pattern. His desire lay with scrawny males, while his half-brothers rutted their courtesans and created offspring as a daily event. Meanwhile, her security and power was threatened by her son's unwillingness to plant his seed in a fertile bed.

She heard the slave boy's loud, frantic moans as he reached climax—closely followed by her son's gleeful laughter—as she moved away, slotting the stone back into place. This had to be over, and now.

Charging back along the corridor, and through the palace, she marched in upon the two of them shortly afterwards. The slave boy was strewn across the bed, still naked, his eyes shut in reverie. Her son lolled against him, idly stroking and toying with him a while longer, his expression sickly with adoration. Her hands fisted at her sides at the very sight of it.

At the sound of the door crashing closed behind her, Hanrah turned his head in response. Caught in the act by his mother empress, his expression altered immediately to one of complete fright. He leapt off the bed, staggering down the marble steps that led up to it, his thick hair awry.

Mehmet took pleasure at his fearful reaction, assured by it of the strength of her hold on her son. This was no time to lose her grip on him, and she had no intention of doing so. The slave's death would prove that to Hanrah.

The slave sat upright, and seeing that it was Mehmet herself standing there, his eyes opened so wide they were in danger of falling out of their sockets. He leapt from the bed and darted down the steps to the ground, prostrating himself on the stone-flagged floor before her, arms outstretched, legs folded under him, his limbs shaking with fear. A mumbled torrent of allegiances and apologies spilled from his mouth.

"Guards!” Mehmet screamed.

"Mother, no.” Hanrah shook his head vehemently.

The slave's glance shot to Hanrah, concern spilling from him. Hanrah lifted a hand in his direction; frightened for the life of the slave he had polluted himself with so readily.

Rightly so. Mehmet gave an accusing cackle. “Oh, yes. It is too late to protect your dirty little secret. We must have the guards deal with him.” She walked toward Hanrah, collecting a robe on the way over to him. She threw it at his feet. “Cover yourself."

Hanrah ignored the robe, quickly stepping between his mother and the slave.

Mehmet noticed the gleam of defiance in his eyes. Her son, usually meek and pathetic, was reacting. He truly was willing to protect this one. Interesting. Had his spirit finally been stirred?

Guards entered the room behind them. Mehmet smiled at her son.

Hanrah's eyes flickered as he glanced at the guards and then back to her. He opened his arms, obscuring the youth on the floor from her sight. “They will have to kill me first,” he declared.

Mehmet widened her eyes, her tone sardonic. “Such bravery, my boy. If only it were aroused for the sake of something worth winning ... such as the treasures of Aleem."

Hanrah's gaze dropped and he looked sheepish, but still he didn't drop his arms.

"Empress?” queried a guard behind her.