The city of Rasharwi came alive at night to the sound of bells from the four sanctuaries of Rashar. It began at sunset with the silver bell at the temple of Sabha to the west of the city, followed by the southern sanctuary of Suma, then the northern bell tower at Suri, before the golden, most elaborately ornate bell of Sangi Sanctuary to the east joined the procession, rising above the lesser three to finish announcing the departure of the sun god for the day. The four bells would be rung simultaneously until the last light disappeared, during which time the residents of Rasharwi would begin illuminating their streets and homes in preparation for the end of day prayer. In the morning, the ritual would begin again, starting at Sangi, to announce the return of Rashar at sunrise.

At the heart of the city, protected by the four strongholds of Sangi, Suma, Suri, and Sabha stood the Black Tower of Rasharwi. The iconic royal residence of the salar owed its name to the obsidian-filled, black mountain out of which the rooms and halls had been carved amongst its jagged, rocky surface. Standing twice as high above all other towers of the city, the intimidating beauty of the Black Tower had been one of the most notorious and distinguished landmarks of the continent for centuries. There was a common saying, that life in the Salasar was not complete until one witnessed the majesty of the Black Tower and prayed to the sound of the four great bells of Rasharwi. It was the strength of the continent, the power around which all things rotated, the place where histories were made and the fates of men were decided. The center of the universe for those who resided in the Salasar.

At the very peak of such a mountain, in a chamber carved at the very edge of a cliff to accommodate an unobstructed view stretching far beyond the walls of Sabha, towards the glowing ivory mountains of the White Desert, stood the one man who held the power over the rise and fall of cities and empires. The tall, straight-backed, square-shouldered man in his mid-forties showed no signs of age beyond the streaks of gray among the otherwise jet black hair and the fine lines that seemed to have added more wisdom than years to the hard features of his face. Standing on the very edge of the balcony of his chamber with nothing between him and the plunging depths below, the salar of Rasharwi appeared to have been carved out of a rock —a solid statue that could not be moved or swayed by the wind that rushed through the opening. His eyes, deep set and in a piercing shade of blue, were fixed somewhere in the far distance as the last light of Rashar began to fade from the horizon and torches were being lit in the city down below.

Jarem izr Sa'id, Commander in Chief of the royal army and right hand man of the salar, tugged lightly on his fur-lined robe as he stood in front of the desk, waiting to be acknowledged. Depending on his mood and what was on his mind, the paralyzing silence the salar required before acknowledging the subjects he had summoned could last anywhere from a few breaths to the time it took one to climb the Black Tower on foot. Clarity of thoughts was important when one ruled such an empire, and ideas were too precious to be lost by meaningless interruptions. Cities had been built or sacked from these moments of silence, and men had been thrown, understandably, out that open balcony for breaking them.

"I'm listening, Jarem." The command had been smooth and lacking emotion. As always, he didn't turn from the balcony. This was, of course, deliberately done. One did not usually get to observe his expressions during report sessions, not until decisions had been firmly made, and by then he would have already finished putting aside all emotions relating to it.

Jarem took a step forward, sketched a bow, and began the ritual of reporting the important events that occurred in the salar's absence. These visits to the four strongholds and the provinces beyond them usually lasted four to six weeks at a time, more if there were problems to be dealt with. During which time Jarem would be put in charge of overseeing Rasharwi, making sure everything was in order, and that his projects progressed as planned. Upon the salar's return, Jarem would be summoned to make sure the salar was up to date with the information that would allow him to resume command seamlessly.

It was the first thing he did when he reached the Tower, on the same day, and before any reception or activities of leisure would commence. The salar, still in his dust-covered riding tunic, looked like he could use a bath and a long, undisturbed rest. Instead, he was standing, straight-backed and alert, listening to Jarem's long and detailed report and storing every word into memory. Salar Muradi was always working, thinking of solutions to things, or planning something with that incredible mind. Jarem often considered his own discipline and work ethics to be spotless, which was the reason why he'd been as trusted as he was, but compared to his salar, his qualities seemed suddenly small.

He hasn't changed at all, Jarem thought, watching the figure standing on the balcony with hands behind his back, casting a large, almost unearthly shadow on the stone floor. The boy he'd brought back from the dungeon of Sabha more than thirty years ago had looked like this when he arrived back at court. The young prince, still in his prison garment, hair long and wildly tangled, his face and hands filthy with mud and gravel from labor, had stood exactly this way looking up at the Black Tower as if he owned the place and had just returned home from a long absence. 'I want to see,' he'd said, eyes gleaming like a blade freshly honed as he smiled, staring at that very balcony at the top of the tower from below, 'what it looks like from up there.'

It hadn't taken long for Jarem to decide in whose hands he wanted to lay down his life and loyalty. From then, he and Ghaul—the prince's cellmate who'd been taken out of Sabha with him—had worked tirelessly to pave the way to the throne for the man who was now the Salar of Rasharwi.

"Anything else?" asked the salar when he'd finished, still looking out somewhere toward the mountain.

Jarem grimaced at a thought that occurred to him, and decided to investigate a little more before voicing it. "No, my lord."

The hard, unreadable face turned to look over his shoulder. "You hesitated."

Jarem swallowed as the pair of sharp blue eyes studied him, as if to catch something he might let slip. Three decades of being by the salar's side and he was still considered a liability. Jarem knew he was trusted only as far as his competence went. His loyalty had been tested again, and again, and again, and was still being tested now. It grated him sometimes, and he'd often wondered if he would ever be as trusted as Ghaul. Then again, it had been his disinclination to trust even those closest to him that had made Salar Muradi so indestructible. A sense of pride swelled in him at that thought. He was a soldier more than anything else that he was now, and there truly was no honor greater than being able to serve a man like his salar.

"I have yet to verify the facts," Jarem said, and saw the approval in those eyes.

"Give me the rumor then," he said, turning around to fill his goblet with the red Khandoor wine he'd brought back and gestured for Jarem to do the same.

He offered a slight bow and poured himself one. "There's been an assassination attempt on Sarasef's life."

The salar grinned and sipped his wine. "So, Saracen has decided to make a move?"

"Apparently. The Rishi is now split between the two brothers, or so I've heard, but I have yet to verify the details regarding the alliance on either side."

The two brothers had been at odds for years even before Sarasef took control of the Rishi—the name these mercenaries called themselves with. The fact that the younger brother had been chosen by their father as the new grand chief created such conflict, and both Jarem and the salar had been observing were it would lead to for some time. "This may be a good time to take the Black Desert if you wish to do so."

They had, after all, been paying a heavy sum every year to these mercenaries who ruled the outskirts of the Black Desert surrounding Rasharwi for the past decade. These mercenaries had been making a living from independently raiding Shakshi settlements and merchant caravans for as long as they existed. They shared an alliance with no one––or one could say with anyone willing to pay the price. The salar, having seen an opportunity to increase the tension in the White Desert without sending his own soldiers to their deaths, had opted to support their cause by offering a ridiculously high price on raided goods and prisoners taken by them. In return, the Rishi stayed clear of royal properties and citizens of Rasharwi, while the salar turned a blind eye to their crimes elsewhere. Jarem had never liked the idea of paying more than market price to these bloodsucking mercenaries, and had always found them too much of a threat to be left unconquered. It would have been better, he'd always thought, to take the region and dissemble the tribe altogether, and now, with their internal conflict, it would be a good time to do so.

"What would I do with the Black Desert?" The salar shook his head, smiling. "It's nothing but a useless, barren land full of useless rocks and vultures." He twirled the wine in his hand, sniffing the aroma before taking a sip. "The only valuable thing that damned place produces is its mercenaries who are doing a fine job raiding the Shakshis for us."

"At a price." A ridiculous price for that matter.

"Everything has a price, Jarem. Raids cost money, whether it's carried out by our soldiers or by hired help."

"They do, my lord, but perhaps less of one if we own them?"

The salar chuckled. "And force the Rishi to fight for our cause? You might as well try to tame a grown eagle while at it. They are what they are because they operate to serve their own interests. I don't need to cage a beast. I need to find a way to use it."

Jarem hated to admit it, but the salar had a point. The Rishi had always worked independently for centuries, its warriors bound together less by loyalty to their grand chief and more by the promise of wealth. In many ways, they weren't so different from the Shakshis, except they were more of an unruly brotherhood than a kha'gan whose strict rules and well-defined social structures formed a highly functional society. Sarasef and his tribes would be most difficult to subjugate without crushing them altogether, which would be considered, as the salar had put it, killing a highly valuable beast. Then again, the only way to utilize it... "You want to bind them somehow to our cause," he said, trying to catch up with the brilliant mind behind those sharp eyes.

The salar nodded. "We need to form a long-term alliance with the Rishi, creating a profitable relationship for both parties, and convince them that it is in their best interest to do what we need done. This conflict is a perfect opportunity to interfere."

It was a perfect opportunity, Jarem thought. They could lend their support to one of the brothers and tie the grand chief to the Salasar. "Are we backing Sarasef or Saracen?"

"Saracen is an arrogant, ignorant fool. He would never last more than a year leading them."

Jarem smiled and sipped his wine. His salar had always been a good judge of character, even when the encounter had been brief. "So we offer Sarasef what he needs to deal with his brother, but how do we make sure he won't brush us aside the moment he secures his leadership?" They were, after all, thieves and murderers who were as likely to stab them in the back as they were willing to trade with the Salasar.

"We can give him an army, on the condition that it stays to ensure the alliance afterwards."

That, they could do, Jarem thought. A large enough army stationed near their lair would make Sarasef think twice before trying to break a contract. Only... "Sarasef will need some kind of assurance that the army won't attack them from the inside." No Rashai soldiers had ever been allowed to enter their territory. It was going to take a figure of some importance to be held as a hostage to make him even consider it. "We could offer him a wife. One of the princesses, perhaps?" Marriage always worked to strengthen an alliance, and from what they knew, Sarasef was an intelligent, logical man who used his head as much as his blade.

The salar shook his head, his expression grew thoughtful. "Sidra and Majira are not yet ten. They won't last in the Black Desert, and Sarasef will never consent to a marriage contract on paper." He took another sip of his wine. "We can send a prince to be fostered. How old are Raoul and Nareen now?"

"Fourteen and fifteen, my lord," Jarem replied. "You approved their marriage to the daughters of the governors of Khandoor and Cakora last year. It may create some tension if you send them." The alliance between the provinces and Rasharwi needed constant nurturing. They could deal with one or two uprisings at a time, but more would be a problem. Jarem didn't think anyone would raise an army against the Salasar, not while Salar Muradi ruled, but he preferred to act in precaution rather than having to find a solution to problems, and had taken steps to bind these provinces to them long ago by suggesting the right marriages to the salar, including his own.

"And Azram is not an option." The salar frowned.

"Not without a protest from the salahari, which will create a problem with Samarra." The salar's official wife may not hold much power in the Tower, but her father, the governor of Samarra, was one of the most powerful figures in the peninsula they should keep on their side. To send a grandson he'd been working to put on the throne to be held hostage would be close to lighting a fire in a room full of hay.

"That's all the sons I have?"

Jarem shifted his weight at the answer that suddenly came to mind. It would need to be said, and would solve all the problems at hand, only it revolved around something that had been deemed sensitive and untouchable for a long time. It was, however, his job to give his salar the best possible advice, Jarem thought before deciding to risk it. "There is prince Lasura, my lord."

The halfblood prince was their perfect solution. He may be half a Shakshi, but he was a son no less, and also one with no use whatsoever otherwise. No governors would marry his daughter to a prince of Shakshi blood, and the prince was generally excluded from holding any position of power in the Salasar. Prince Lasura was expendable, as far as he was concerned. The only problem was, the Salar seemed to be favoring this son as much as he favored the mother.

The silence that ensued told him he'd hit a nerve. Jarem swallowed as he felt a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his forehead. He suddenly recalled the sound the last captain of the royal guard had made on his way down through the balcony after having suggested that his lowly Shakshi wife be placed in a different wing as befitting her status. Then again, that had been a different matter involving a quarrel between royal wives in the Tower. This was a matter of state. The salar would understand, wouldn't he?

"Lasura is a halfblood," the salar said, turning back to the balcony in an angle that made it impossible for his expression to be observed. "He will not hold much value as a hostage."

Jarem had expected this, and knew that it might be true. Still, it was worth a shot. "He is also known as the favorite son by the most favorite wife of the salar. There's value in this."

"Is he now?" The tone had been light and considerably thin.

"He's the only one you've taken with you on your hunting sessions, my lord, and you rarely summoned any other wife but Lady Zahara for the past two decades. The other princes and their mothers are beginning to feel it and have made several attempts to win the prince over to their side. His influence is growing and may alter the balance in the Tower." He paused and drew a breath, knowing he was on dangerous grounds here. "I don't want to say this, but..."

"You think they are my weakness."

Jarem swallowed. "I doubt they are," he said and paused a little to arrange his next sentence. "But it would be better that no one draws such a conclusion."

Sending the prince to Sarasef would not only show them otherwise, it would remove a big piece of interference from the Tower, weaken the power his Shakshi wife held, and at the same time kept her in check by separating the mother and the son. It would send a strong message, that the salar had no favorites, at least not one so important that he couldn't sacrifice for the greater good.

"Unless, of course, that is your intention," Jarem added. It could be. Salar Muradi rarely did things without a reason. For all the time Jarem had served him, he'd never allowed emotions to cloud his judgement. Jarem would hate to think a mother and a son would be able to accomplish that now, and had hoped it had been a part of some plan that had yet to be revealed to him.

The salar turned back to face him, deep blue eyes studied his closely as he said, "And what do you think is my intention, Jarem?"

Jarem felt the hair on the back of his neck stand at the question. One of the things Salar Muradi didn't forgive was people making assumptions about him, trying to read his thoughts to manipulate him to their advantage. It wasn't the first time Jarem had been tested, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous every time it happened. "I am still waiting for you to tell me, my lord, because I can't seem to see it."

A hint of a smile that appeared on his lips told Jarem he'd passed the test this time.

"I will think on it," said the salar. "If he makes it down the mountain."

"He'll make it." Jarem smiled confidently. "I am so sure, in fact, that I would suggest holding the reception until he returns with the birds to give him a big entrance. Sarasef may turn down a halfblood son, but he won't turn down one bearing a gift of a young spotted eagle." For some reasons, he had a feeling it would take a lot more than falling off a cliff to kill this one, and definitely more to kill the mother.

"I didn't know you have so much faith in him."

"He reminds me of a boy I met decades ago. Tough as a pair of old boots, that one," he replied in his most serious tone.

"Is that so?" The salar raised a brow. "Is he still around, I wonder?"

"Very much so, my lord," he said, raising the goblet in his hand in a salute. "I believe he will be for a long time yet."

A rare smile graced the handsome face that had altered little with time. Every once in a while, Jarem would see a glimpse of that carefree boy in the man upon whose shoulders the fate of the peninsula now rested.

"Go ahead and hold the reception. Find di Amarra, I will have a talk with him on this tomorrow morning."

"Di Amarra, my lord? You want him to accompany the prince?" He didn't like that one bit. Deo di Amarra might be the Tower's most valuable advisor and strategist, but he could also be considered the most dangerous to utilize where security of the Salasar was concerned. The man had climbed his way up from a blacksmith's workshop to the Tower by the age of twenty-four, established his own house and highly successful chains of businesses with connections in every province and Rashar knew where, and made it to the salar's inner circle all in one decade since he'd set foot in the Tower. Competence in one's men could make a ruler, an excess of it, as with all things, could break one. You couldn't pet a deadly snake and disregard its venom, and di Amarra happened to be one of the deadliest snakes in the Salasar.

"Sarasef will kill both Lasura and whomever I send with him if he turns down the offer, or he will take them hostage. As will I." The salar sipped his wine and turned back to the balcony, fixing his eyes somewhere in the distance. "If there is one man who can negotiate his way out of certain death, it's di Amarra."

It was true, Jarem realized only then. An offered hand to a proud man could be considered an insult. Not only that, but there was also a chance of them being held and used as leverage. This was an ambitious move with its own risks attached, and he had to admit there was no better candidate to propose such an alliance than di Amarra.

"For that, I am certain he can." He gave his salar a slight bow. "I will make sure he arrives first thing in the morning. Would you require anything else, my lord?"

"That will be all, Jarem." Salar Muradi waved his free hand to dismiss him. "But do send for my so-called favorite wife while I wait for my favorite son to return."

The tone had been full of mockery, of course. He would never truly admit to having favorites.

"Speaking of wives," Jarem said as he placed the emptied goblet back on the table, "might I suggest you summon Lady Amelia first, my lord? Her father has been repeatedly inquiring of late as to when he should be expecting a grandson. I believe you have yet to summon her since the night of your wedding."

The hand that held he goblet paused just before it reached his lips. He asked, in an expression that was more surprised than irritated, "You will tell me now which wife to bed first and when?"

"Only when it concerns matters of state, my lord. That is my job." It was in his job description as an advisor. Marriage and extension of one's bloodline were matters of state for any ruling monarch. "Also, we are, as you can see, a little short of princes and princesses."

"And so I am expected to breed," said the salar, this time in a more sardonic tone, "how very thoughtful of you."

"A son from a young wife every once in a while sends a good message to your enemy, my lord."

"Does it now?" The salar smiled. "And what message would that be?"

"That neither your appetite nor your hunger has been satiated," he replied. "A man who no longer conquers women can conquer no man. They need to know you are still the man who defeated them, and that you will do so again, and again, and again should the need ever arise, my lord."

A small chuckle rose from his throat. "Well, then. Send her up. I'll give her a son," he said. "Send for Zahara as well. I doubt one will be enough for my hunger or my appetite, if you put it that way."