Sands and Starlight: A Bejewelled Fairytale

Sands and Starlight

by

Charlotte E. English

Copyright © 2019 by Charlotte E. English

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold.

Part One: Baradir

1

Twilight, and a hush cloaked the darkening sands. To a stranger, the silence might be oppressive, born as it was of the vast emptiness of the steppe. To Baradir, the silence was expectant.

He paused in the lee of a rocky promontory, sheltered from the dry winds that swept past in a haze of dust and sand. One precious skin of water went to refresh the three camels of his caravan; they drank greedily, thick lips slurping noisily. Baradir, dreaming of mint-laced tea in a clear glass, satisfied himself with a swallow or two. Soon, he promised himself. He need only wait while the sun sank beyond the horizon, taking the vestiges of the burning day away with it.

Thirst and hunger lengthened the minutes; twilight glimmered on in a haze of low light. Baradir found a large rock, still glowing with the day’s heat, and seated himself cross-legged atop its storm-smoothed surface. Five days’ travel overland from Zahele had brought him to this remote spot; a familiar enough journey, though one he had not made in some years. For the first few days, he had met other traders along the road; once, he had successfully bartered two of the gold-threaded silks he’d procured in Parsas for a quantity of frankincense, and a ceramic jar filled to the brim with cinnamon. The trade pleased him, particularly since he had also gained a third article: a glass bottle, too plain to fetch a high price. Its former owner had been eager to be rid of it.

To Baradir, the thing was no mere trinket. Blue glass, ethereally translucent beneath its coating of grime; a simple shape, almost unornamented, but its neck tightly stoppered, and sealed with copper. Its scant heft might herald the bottle’s lack of contents, but it lied. Baradir withdrew the bottle from a pocket in his cloak. For a moment he simply sat and held it, silently appreciative of his good fortune. Gently, he smoothed dirt away with his thumb.

An eerie glimmer of light sparked to life somewhere within.

The sweet, haunting notes of harp-song drifted along the breeze, a chang in full flow, and he looked up sharply. Heat shimmered fiercely before him, the horizon rippling like clear water. The scents of oranges and rosewater and cardamom teased at his nose, and — yes — fresh mint.

Dust whirled up, swift and hot, making Baradir cough. When it cleared, the Starlight Bazaar was open, a burst of bright colour blossoming in the midst of the parched sands.

Baradir rose to his feet, tucking his precious acquisition back into his pocket, and descended towards the night market, stumbling in his haste to reach it. Hanee, Fasee and Talee broke into an eager lope behind him, kicking up dust and sand with their leathery toes. Beyond the gilded gates, orange groves were in full flourish; thence came the heady aromas of citrus and orange-blossom. White petals carpeted the ground.

The souk formed the centre of the Bazaar: three rings of bright tents, sprawling in brazen offer of plenty over the pallid sand. Traders’ voices split the cooling night air, offering enchanted silks and heady rose wine; ethereal moon-pearls and night-lustre gems; eternal frangipani and phoenix feathers; and, of more immediate interest to Baradir, hot, fresh bread, crisp and thin; orange-blossom cream custards; and, best of all, syrup of mint stirred through water cold as snow. He paused at each of these vendors, turning his eyes away from their neighbours proffering trinkets, enchantments and treasures. Later. Soon.

Baradir sat beneath an orange tree as he ate, and watched the lights dancing in its branches. Talee fastened her thick lips into the fabric of his cloak and tugged, receiving for her reward a handful of dates from his pocket. A young woman approached, put a cup of rose wine into his hands, and retreated, her eyes laughing above the gauzy mist of her veil. Baradir took a breath, and a sip, and sat back, his heart eased.

He watched the bustle of the Bazaar whirl past for almost an hour before the jewels trader found him.

‘How slow you are,’ he said as Iskandar approached. The trader, resplendent in wine-red embroidered sirwal, wore a silken turban wound around his head. ‘Is two years avoidance not long enough?’ Baradir added.

‘Avoidance?’ answered Iskandar, and looked down upon Baradir with raised brows. Red jewels glinted in his thick black beard. Seen with Baradir’s left eye, the jewels roiled with sorcerous potency. ‘I could not have caught up with you before now; not if I had tried,’ said Iskandar. ‘And, for your interest, I did.’

‘I have travelled far,’ admitted Baradir.

Iskandar snorted. ‘I hear of you in Zahele, I hear of you in Parsas. I hear of you up and down the Horns of Jubarut. You are spotted somewhere along the Ahvadannar, washed away, imagined dead; but then! Next, you are sighted at Al-Kabes, at Sulanah.’ An engraved copper samavar floated in Iskandar’s wake upon a tray of wrought brass, attended by a pair of gilded cups. Iskandar set about pouring tea as he spoke, and from somewhere produced a cake thick with pistachios and almonds, which he put into Baradir’s hands. ‘The only places I hear nothing of you are the Bazaars, and I wonder: why should Baradir bin Samar cease to attend the starlit streets? If one of us has been avoiding the other, old friend, it was not I.’

Weeks of living off little but dates and water made Baradir more than happy to accept these comforts, despite the quantity of bread he had but lately consumed. He sipped tea, tasting honey and rose, and considered his reply.

‘Have you found it?’ was not what he had planned to say.

‘Tsk. You think I would be wasting your time and mine with comestibles, had I such news for you? This news I would already have given you.’

It was the response Baradir had expected, but still his heart sank. Pistachios crunched between his teeth as he thought.

‘Your wanderings have brought no word either, I am to take it?’ said Iskandar.

Baradir shook his head. ‘Twice I imagined myself close, but… no. There are tales, of course, of glimpses caught here or there, but.’ He sighed. ‘I cannot discover that there is any more to these stories than a fleeting mirage, or a fevered imagination.’

Iskandar sat back, hands wrapped around his own fragrant cup, and looked long at Baradir. ‘How bad is it now?’

The words would not come. Instead, Baradir passed a hand over his face. Coloured glass glinted in the soft-lit darkness.

Iskandar stared, though he was not so appalled as Baradir had feared. ‘That eye,’ he said, pointing a thick finger at the left side of Baradir’s face. ‘Can you see out of it?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ He let his true visage show for a moment longer, giving Iskandar a clear view of the enchanted glass that had, so insidiously, crept from his heart to claim a finger and a thumb; some part of his throat; his left cheek; and, at last, one eye. It was not wholly true that he could see nothing out of that eye. He could see nothing ordinary, that was the truth, and that was all Iskandar need know.

‘What happens when it has taken all of you?’ said Iskandar — refusing, as ever, to shy from harsh thoughts, brutal truths.

‘I do not know,’ said Baradir, and passed his glass-touched hand back over his face. His mottled visage faded, replaced once more by the uninterrupted dark brown skin, the black beard and black eyes that had once been his own. ‘I shall become an arcane thing, of a kind never before seen.’ A whisper of sound caught his attention, coming somewhere from his right. He did not turn his head, nor give any outward sign that he had heard, but every sense strained, alert. Was someone there?

No. A bird, or a sand cat only. He relaxed.

Iskandar ate a few cakes, until syrup gleamed stickily in his beard. ‘Well, then,’ he said, licking his fingers clean. ‘If it is not the looked-for news which brings you to the Bazaar tonight, what has prompted the visit?’

Baradir drew forth the simple glass bottle, but pulled it back when Iskandar tried to touch it. ‘Do not get it any dirtier, I pray you.’

‘It has some hidden property, I suppose.’ Iskandar wiped his fingers on an ivory silk handkerchief.

Baradir touched his two glass fingers to the bottle, and light shone once more at its core. ‘I believe it to contain an enchantment of some sort—’

‘A jinn?’ laughed Iskandar. ‘And you found this, where, in some junk room? They are not so easily contained, my friend, for all that the stories say otherwise.’

‘Not a jinn.’

‘Have you opened it?’

‘Of course not.’

Iskandar shrugged, and sat back. ‘You will fetch a fine price for it here, no doubt.’

‘I don’t seek to sell. Not yet. I want information.’

‘Is it my counsel you seek?’

‘Among others.’

‘And why mine? Little spirits, they are not my area of expertise.’

‘Because of this.’ Baradir turned the bottle, until its stopper pointed Iskandar’s way. When he traced his glass-etched thumb over the copper seal, a jewel lit up, flaring with sudden fire.

Iskandar’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. That’s quite another thing.’ He took the bottle, and this time Baradir let him. In the jewel-sorcerer’s hands, the gem shone almost as brightly. It was a deep blue moon-pearl, deeply inset, inert until brought blazing to life. ‘Well,’ he said, turning the bottle about in his hands. ‘I will buy it for that alone, and I’ll give you a good price.’

‘I’ll remember the offer.’ Baradir held out his hand for his treasure.

Iskandar’s grin flashed white. ‘Fortune favours you, you dog.’ He returned the bottle, with a show of nonchalance which did not for an instant fool Baradir.

His words left Baradir unmoved, for he knew, so much to his cost, that they were untrue. And why should Lady Fortune favour him, anyway? What had he ever done to deserve the distinction? Fate and Fortune: they did not work at random. Late they may be, slow they may be, but in time, a man got what he had earned.

Watching a duskwing moth settle upon a nearby desert rose bush, its delicate legs clinging to the blushing pink blossom, Baradir thought he saw something else: the flash of bright eyes, there and then gone again.

He straightened. ‘Night is ever short,’ he said. ‘I had better make my enquiries while there’s some of it left.’

Iskandar laughed up at him as Baradir rose to his feet. ‘Short? You have hours and hours, my friend.’

‘And it’s a big bazaar.’ Baradir bowed formally. ‘I shall find you again before dawn. We’ll drink a glass of something.’

‘Wine,’ said Iskandar, getting to his feet also. ‘What else is there?’

Baradir walked the Bazaar alone after that, pausing occasionally to exchange a bow and a few words with some acquaintance or another, but declining all further invitations to draw up a cushion and accept a cup of wine. He began at the outer edges of the market and worked his way in, passing by (with some regret) those vendors selling tea and fragrant stew and fried dough, and those offering ethereal silks or pungent incense or charms; his attention was all for the jewel traders, like Iskandar, or those selling what had once been his own specialty: ensorcelled glass.

He did not meet with much success. Everywhere he showed the bottle, eyes lit up with interest, and avarice; fingers stroked the bottle’s smooth surface with covetous delight, and offers were made. But information proved harder to come by than currency, for no one could or would explain the nature of the trinket. Perhaps they could not. They saw a fine, rare jewel and traces of sorcery; at this market, that was enough.

More than one pressed him to name the bottle’s source, but that he would not do.

Arrived at last at the heart of the Bazaar, and with little to show for his labours, Baradir stood alone and in thought, uncertain of his next course of action. Of all places, the Starlight Bazaar had seemed the one place guaranteed to furnish him with the answers he sought; if it could not, where else could he go? He must travel on to the next night market, and the next, and the next. His heart sank at the prospect, for his feet were weary of walking, his mouth weary of sand upon his tongue and dust coating his throat. He wanted, needed, rest.

Rest, he thought, in searing self-mockery. When did you begin to believe that you deserved peace, sorcerer?

Hanee and Talee had wandered off; they would be found later, wandering the outskirts of the Bazaar, chewing with dreamy contentment upon some hapless, succulent plant. Fasee, though, trailed behind Baradir like a faithful dog, too young yet for the self-possession and independence of her sisters in service. Though she frequently bumped him with her nose, lumbered sideways into his path, and on one memorable occasion trod heavily upon his foot, he was secretly grateful for the company. The simplicity of animals had ever been a comfort. Surreptitiously, he palmed another handful of dates and fed them to her, stroking her bristly nose.

The crowd whirled around them both, adapting with remarkable serenity to the presence of a fully-grown camel with her unlovely feet planted squarely upon the mosaic tableau that marked the centre. Only one person caught his eye: a young woman, gauzily veiled, her figure draped in loose silks the colour of desert roses. A smile lingered in those eyes, and he remembered her. The laughing generosity with which she had presented him with wine — and not stayed to claim a reward.

Half-unknowing, he followed in her wake.

She saw him, and knew herself pursued, for several times she glanced back. Every flash of those velvet-black eyes drew him farther onward, though he hardly knew what he was about. Even the pressure of Fasee’s teeth upon his elbow had little power to slow his advance.

Nothing could; not until he had retraced his steps back to the outskirts of the Bazaar, weaving his way through traders in turbans and kaftans, through buyers in veils and jewels. A thousand scents assaulted his nostrils, colours dazzled his eyes, and still he went on, and on—

—until brought to an abrupt halt, his face in the dirt, the wind knocked out of him. He had fallen over something he had not, in his haste, observed to be in his path.

Dazed and confused, he looked up — and straight into the eyes of the woman blocking the way between him and his fair tormentor. Not so finely dressed, this lady, though hints of a rich perfume rolled off her. She wore a midnight-blue scarf over her hair, but no veil; her sirwal and curled shoes were of a cloth to match, lightly embroidered in silver. A cloak of deep green hid her figure. Lines around her eyes, and the corners of her mouth, spoke of years lived and laughter, though there was no trace of mirth about her now. Hands on hips, she surveyed Baradir as he lay there in the dirt, and her black eyes were hard as onyx.

‘Baradir,’ she said, and it was a velvet voice, roughened with sand. ‘Is that whom I have the honour of addressing?’

‘That is my name,’ he allowed, and cautiously sat up. Something about the woman’s iron demeanour left him unsure of his safety, if he attempted to stand.

‘Baradir bin Samar,’ she said.

He inclined his head.

‘But