The dark, narrow corridor echoed the sound of tortured ghosts and men as they walked down toward the main hall. Cut deep into the Djamahari mountain that had taken them three days of being led blindly in the maze of its canyons to get to, the lair of the Rishi resembled much of the Black Tower itself, only here it was deep and low with passages to underground chambers where prisoners and future slaves were kept. The evidence of it was rising up periodically from the dark staircases they passed; the smell of blood, of human waste, of something rotten or about to decay, intensified and underlined by the barely audible sounds of someone weeping and the clanging of chains. All there, in that small, dark corridor.

Lasura held his breath as he walked by, willing himself not to look deeper into what ever lay at the end of the stairs. Next to him, Deo appeared oblivious to it all. He seemed comfortable, even at ease, as if he'd frequented that corridor a dozen times.

That, or he knew something Lasura didn't.

Given that they both might never come back out of the chamber they were walking toward, and that there were just the two of them now, having been forced to leave the army and all their guards at the entrance three days ride away, Lasura found himself questioning the composure of his mentor. He knew the man, knew how well Deo could keep his concerns and discomfort hidden, but the way he looked that night wasn't about concealing his emotions.

No, this time it wasn't his power of observation at play. This time it was premonition.

He knew because he'd had his shares of them. Not in any way, shape or form, close to the visions one might imagine an oracle might have, no. It was more like a pressure or a weight in the pit of his stomach, an instinct that guided him to head in different directions without a concrete explanation why. It was the invisible tap on the shoulder that made him turn to the mountain where the eagle chicks had been, and the overhead reach toward a ledge on the cliff he hadn't known was there, leading him safely—and directly—to the nest he had yet to locate. There was, as much as he wanted to deny it, a power in his mother's blood that had been passed down to him along with her yellow eyes even if in small amount. And it was due to this, that he'd always suspected Deo of a similar gift he might have been keeping hidden. There were times, when his mentor's awareness of things had had no explanations. Too many times, in fact.

It was also due to this, that Lasura was certain—the same way he'd been certain about the birds—that he was walking down the exact corridor he was supposed to walk that was leading him to the exact chamber he was supposed to be in. He might even say, being acutely aware of the quickening of his pulse and the vomit inducing pressure in his stomach, that all the events that had happened in his life until now had been leading to this very moment, to what was there waiting for him behind the pair of those gigantic, weird looking metal doors.

The screeching of steel went through him like a blunt, serrated knife inserted between the ribs as two men pushed the doors open. Through the opening, a spacious, two-story high chamber greeted them with its rose-red polished walls and floors. Like the rooms in the Black Tower, the main hall had been cut out of the mountain, only back home the rocks were all black. In the Djamahari, the mountain range was made up of large varieties of rocks and stones, ranging from the jet-black obsidian, the intricately veined white, red, and green marbles, to the most brilliant turquoise in the peninsula.

This room, in particular, the marble swirled with layers of red, copper, purple, and what appeared to be fifty other shades in between, accented and made more stunning by the occasional streaks of white as elegant as a lady's fingers. Along the walls, several dozens of burning torches illuminated the chamber, each taking turns to light up their parts of the stage with flames that danced to the breeze coming down from—

Lasura drew a breath, held it at the sudden swelling of his heart. At the far end of the chamber, through a natural, circular-shaped puncture in the ceiling, the star studded night sky stared back at him like a scintillating eye of a god. Directly under that eye, an empty, gold veined, black marble throne sat atop a dais three steps above the main floor. Carved from a single rock to form a raven nearly twice the height of a fully grown man, the throne's empty seat was placed in the embrace of the bird's half-closed enormous wings as if to protect whoever would sit on it.

"The Red Hall of Marakai," Dee said, the yellow of his green eyes grew brighter in the light of the flames. "Also known as the Secret Chamber of the Sky Father. This, my prince," he turned to Lasura, sweeping his arms wide at the wonders around them, "is the throne room where Eli the Conqueror received his crown as the King of Kings."

It sure looked like something that belonged to the King of Kings, Lasura thought, still breathless and overwhelmed by the sight and the history that came with it. Thousands of years ago, when the peninsula had been one united nation, this very chamber had seen the crowning of the most brilliant supreme ruler and battle strategist to have ever lived. A man he sometimes felt his father had been trying to become.

No, to succeed.

"And where he died," a deep, resonating voice boomed from a doorway to the right of the throne. "Right where you're standing. Greetings, di Amarra."

Lasura followed the sound to its source, catching the new figure as he ascended up the dais. Wrapped in a cloak of black and silver wolf pelt, the man who could only be the Grand Chief of the Rishi had the height and mass to rival Ghaul and the severity of his father's presence all in one. Thick, black beard and brows framed a face one might call handsome had it not been scarred enough to give one a nightmare. He walked in slow, measured steps of a man equipped with enough confidence to fight something twice his size and half his age with bare hands. Hands, he recalled from several rumors surrounding the Chief, that could crack a man's skull with a mere squeeze and had done so many times.

Seeing him in the flesh, Lasura didn't doubt it. 

"You like the pelt, I see." Deo inclined his head a little as a gesture of respect. The most minimal form of obeisance and his first words of address said a lot about the relationship between them. Lasura was beginning to understand why his father had handpicked Deo di Amarra for the job.

"It is a fine gift," said Sarasef of the Rishi as he seated himself on the enormous throne, somehow making it small. He took one glance at Lasura then turned his attention back to Deo. "What will it cost me?"

Right to the point. No time wasted. No standing on ceremony, not even to address a prince of the Black Tower. Lasura briefly wondered if he should be insulted, and decided not to, not now in any case. In a way, it did give him time to measure a few things before putting himself forward.

The Chief's relationship with his mentor, for instance, needed to be taken into account. And while it wasn't out of the ordinary that Deo had thought of sending Sarasef an exquisite gift before their arrival, the fact that he managed to have it arrive before they did would have required him to have it sent during or before he'd gone to prison. A lot of conclusions could be drawn from that, if one were to think on it hard enough.

'Always consider your ally a weakness and an enemy your strength,' Deo had taught him once. 'Trust neither, and use both.'

Wise words that had gotten him through all kinds of shit in the Tower. Words he would have to heed now, more than ever, having been thrown into the same room with men that were much larger than him in most ways.

"Your hospitality, for a start," said Deo. "A comfortable room. Good food. Some service if you can spare a maid or two."

"It will be given," said Sarasef, his emotions fiercely guarded by the deep, growling voice one might equate with that of a beast. The number 57 tattooed on his cheek caught the light as he nodded, as if to remind them all who he was and what he commanded—the fifty-seventh leader of beasts. "And the rest?"

"The rest," Deo repeated and paused, as if taking time to decide. "The rest will be disclosed as soon as I am introduced to the person listening to our conversation from behind that door to your left, if I may be specific."

"Two," Lasura spoke up for the first time, a little surprised at his own decision. "There are two people listening, if I may be even more—"

The pair of reddish brown eyes suddenly focused on him, clipping his words short as they intended to. Still, out of sheer necessity, his mother's wretched pride, and his father's stubbornness combined, Lasura decided to meet that gaze head on and finished the sentence, defiantly, he might add, "—specific."

From across the room, Sarasef stared at him with a gaze that could set the marble under his feet on fire, and somewhere in the silence that stretched between them, feeling the air turning into something thick and almost toxic in his lungs, Lasura had a vision of himself being hacked to pieces by the man's legendary war hammer right where he stood.

Which gave him an urge to back down and offer some form of obeisance to this man who could easily make a grown man piss his pants—him included—if only he decided to rise from that throne. But unlike Deo, he was a prince of the Black Tower, a son of the salar. His presence, once put forward, must be acknowledged with proper respect by a man lesser than his father or he would lose his ground and power to negotiate forever, both of which he needed if he were to be fostered by this man for perhaps a long, long time.

And so he stood and waited for that acknowledgement, feigning indifference as he had done so for hundreds of time to not shit his pants every time he was being judged by his father.

"You are the son of the bharavi." The address, given after a long pause, had been more of a confirmation than a question.

Of course, Lasura thought with some bitterness. It was always his mother he would first be identified with. He had her eyes, after all.

"My name," he began, making sure the words carried loud and clear, "is Lasura izr Muradi, a son of Salar Muradi of Rasharwi, supreme ruler of the Salasar," he pronounced, saw Deo wince a little at that and decided it was too late anyway. "I am here to deliver a gift and an offer that is to be discussed in private. If you don't mind, I would like to know why your mysterious guests are to be included in this conversation, Grand Chief."

Another silence ensued, only in a shorter interval this time. Sarasef turned to Deo, an amused smile appeared behind his thick beard. "An apprentice of yours, I presume?"

"Royally appointed," Deo replied defensively. His mentor liked to remind people of that lack of choice sometimes. It had been a cruel joke between them for over a decade.

"Well then," said Sarasef, "I believe a little reunion is in order. You can come out. Both of you."

The door to their right opened, and into the chamber entered a young girl in white—no, a young bharavi, now that he could see her eyes and hair more clearly. At the same time, and while he was still trying to figure out what to think of it, another figure appeared on the opposite side of the throne. One that seemed, for once, to have surprised his all-knowing mentor.

"Ravi's tits," Deo swore out loud. Not a common thing to witness, especially considering where they were.

To their left, the Silver Sparrow of Azalea appeared in a tunic of royal blue made entirely of Makena silk embroidered with enough gold threads to light up a small room. Tiny gemstones were sewn into the sleeves and collar, and larger ones decorated his fingers. On his right ear, the signature golden ring worn only by Deo di Amarra's first class assassin glinted in the torchlight. That famous face, however, had enough bruises and cuts on them to offer Lasura a small measurement of delight. But even with the bruised and battered face and the hollowness of his eyes, the most sought after escort of the Black Tower—the fucking star of Rasharwi at one point—still managed to make everyone else seem ugly and underdressed being in the same room.

Not that it was unusual. All high end escorts got dressed up that way for the job. In fact, it was customary for the client to have an outfit sent several days before the appointment to offer time for preparation and make sure all their fantasies would be met. After all, the fees were quite ridiculous, and this one who could make a torn-up, dirt smeared prison garb look good had been the most expensive and coveted in the Tower.

"Prince Lasura." The Sparrow turned to him and offered a flawless, unpretentious bow that told him the hard feelings he'd always had against the man had never been shared, taken into account, or even noticed. "Dee," he continued, not at all happy to see his former master, from the looks of it.

The master, however, was even more pissed to see him. "Explain to me," said Deo, a rare rage in his tone, "which part of 'go west' did you fail so miserably to understand? The last time I checked, this part of the Djamahari is fucking south."

*****

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