Black Amethyst by savyleartist



Summary: Mozenrath, left for dead strikes a deal with Eris: She gives him Agrabah if he takes his late mother's place as her servant. In Agrabah, Aladdin is seeing Mozenrath's memories in his dreams, slowly piecing together the sorcerer's dark and secretive past.


Rating: R
Categories: Aladdin
Characters: Aladdin, Carpet, Cassim, Genie, Iago, Jafar, Jasmine, Mirage, Mozenrath, Original Characters, Sadira
Genres: Action/Adventure, Dark/Angst, Romance
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 01/30/10
Updated: 04/12/10


Index

Chapter 1: De Matre Vost (About Your Mother)
Chapter 2: Paciscor (The Deal)
Chapter 3: The Memories of Mozenrath
Chapter 4: Yin and Yang
Chapter 5: Silent Village
Chapter 6: Paper Memories
Chapter 7: Steel of Chaos
Chapter 8: VIII Farmiliar


Chapter 1: De Matre Vost (About Your Mother)

Death never really separates us from who we love. Death is only another point on a road that never ends, like the day a boy becomes a man, or a marriage day. Those we love don't leave us, they run ahead of us on the road-merely out of sight.

This is true for all. But for only a few, the lines of death and life are blurred to the point of nonexistence. Those who can see the dead as well as the hidden living, are the Imperiori, the advocates of the gods.

Many years ago, even the most minor gods had an Imperiori. They could be a head priest, or a simple magician; whatever the god needed. They were many and strong, welcomed in this world teeming with magic.

But mortal's fear and jealousy turned the tide of that age, and magicians, sorcerers and Imperiori alike were struck down or forced into hiding.

They became rarer and rarer until they were almost unheard of. Witches and sorcerers, elves and creatures hid for their lives. But there were some who refused to fade, and tried to live in peace with mortals, and they did for a time.

The last Imeriori, a priestess of Eris, a woman with the purest of magic running through her veins, was a sorceress of peace. She did not live in the temple nor in the magic community that surrounded it. She lived in the no man's land in between, hoping by this, she could bridge the gap.

Her name was Rathana. Fierce and strong, shrewd and beautiful, she was a force to be reckoned with. She promoted peace, but valued loyalty and duty more. If ordered by Eris to steal, she stole; to kill, she killed.

And one day, a handsome, penniless man found her, and enchanted her. They loved, and they seemed to be the connection, the link between mortal and magic. One day she tried to show him the extent of her power, to impress and please him. She only achieved reaching the coward in him.

Running like a skittish cat, and in his fear and hysteria, he caused the mortals to rise up and massacre the magicians' village. Neither woman nor child was spared. Rathana ran, for her life and the life of her child, and also to stop the hate spreading like a virus; to warn other communities of the event. She failed, and those who came to remorse their loved ones and fellow magicians buried her body in the temple.

As for her son…nobody knows if he is alive or not-not for sure.

But most magicians believe he is alive, somewhere, tucked away by force.

And he will return...


Mozenrath's eyes popped open. Within his first breathe, pain flashed so violently that he gasped, only causing more pain. A vicious circle of suffocation and pain. He panted gently, and tested out his right arm. He could move it without too much pain, so he used that hand to touch his side. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he felt the bones. Two broken ribs, and a lot of caked blood.

Shaking he tried not to bend his side as he pushed himself up. Pushing the limp hair out of his face, he saw the desolation of his home. The polished black marble that once stood so tall and grand now lay in dusty piles across the great expand. Scrolls half burnt, and ripped lay on places that were free of stone. Ripped fabric protruded, the colors faded, the pictures once beautifully crafted, looking demonic and slashed in the ruin.

The wall map of the world he had painted and magiced himself, which changed with the weather and civilizations expansions, was smashed into rocks-the flat, polished sides still moving.

Dust was still settling, making the moon's rays look serene over the horrid wreckage. The stars twinkled innocently down at him. Laughing, like the whole world was no doubt.

The pain was reseeding slightly, now standing up. But it didn't matter much. Everything ached. It would be just his luck that Aladdin and his merry band of destroyers would come bursting in while he was working on extremely volatile material.

Mozenrath leaned against a wounded pillar, and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember exactly what had happened. He had been working in his lab...then he had heard crashing-like the front oak doors being broken into-and then the crystal alarms started blinking rapidly.

He'd tried to put away the dragon's saliva and the elemental's blood before they could spill into each other, when that fez-wearing-bastard burst into the room knocking him over-and the mixtures.

Aladdin had gone on some spiel about how he just didn't know when to quit and blah, blah, I'm a hero, blah, blah, I apparently have no other clothes but these, blah, blah. Then the blood and saliva mixed and-boom! Blackness...and that was all he could remember.

All his work, his clothes, food and living space-were obliterated. The tangible reminders, the good and the bad, were lost in the wreckage. He held his hand to his face, as he trekked through the mountain range of jagged stone. Bones of inanimate zombie Mamluks crunched beneath his feet, the skin tripping him once or twice.

One, two, step after agonizing step he looked for anything that could be salvaged. He had to hold back tears. Tears were childish weak. He hadn't cried in years, not even in pain. Bare through it, keep walking. Step followed by step. Step followed by step. His side protested as his path went up and down, jarring his every foot fall. The cold desert wind pricked at his bare ruined skin like cold teeth. Twenty nine, thirty,-and suddenly he stepped on something slick and slippery, that made a stomach retching squelch.

Mozenrath lifted his foot. Sticky trails of skin stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and as he raised his foot higher, the stretched from the floor, dripping beads of black liquid. The sorcerer moved his hand over his mouth, his stomach pushing his dinner to his neck.

Xerxes lay, forever wide eyed, and forever screaming on the floor. His one eyes was some distance away, his jaw set at an impossible angle. Some of his entrails were swimming in his black pool of blood.

"Xerxes..." Mozenrath said kneeling down. He lifted the head of his half dead friend and familiar. The tears came now, raking his whole body. His head pounded as his nose choked and his face grew hot. The blood pounded in his ear, keeping in rhythm with his head. It seemed he couldn't get enough air into his lungs as sobs shot through him. He didn't care that the vile creatures blood on his face, dripping into his mouth has he gasped for air.

Everything he ever worked for destroyed. Relationless, homeless, fortuneless, and practically powerless. He would be better off dead to the world. How was he ever to rebuild this palace? He was too weak, and only one man. Anyone could simply come in and kill him, removed the wreckage and take over the sand teeming with magic. His land.

"Worthless boy. Worthless. Do you think there's anyone there who wants you? Would take one look at you? No one. Weak and worthless. Your mother was too weak to even save you." Mozenrath could hear his footsteps, coming closer. He edge away inside the cabinet. "Come out Mozey, I won't hurt you pet..."

His mind started back tracking. Through his closed eyes he saw children , dead and dying, reaching towards him, suffocating, begging through gasps. A hand slapping his face. Pain, so much pain, ripping him, hurting him. Stop! Stop, please make it stop! The walls of his home crumbling down, down around him. Roaring and crashing-so loud, too loud! He couldn't see, breathe, move! Trapped, closed in-no air! He needed air! He needed to move!

Aladdin shaking his head down at him. "He's dead, I think."

"Good," she said, her dark hair framing her face, casting shadows over the planes of it, eyes narrowing, glinting dangerously. "Who is better with him...?" She leaned down close, kneeling by him, her clothes dusty from the battle-cheek singed from the explosion. "You know..he's always reminded me of someone..."


Now it was colder...and it didn't hurt so much, except his stomach and chest, liek some one reached in him and wrung his heart and organs. "Did you really think anything could happen? What are you? Not a prince, no family-a murderer. Now leave! You make me sick! Murderer!" Her hand struck out and slapped his face. "Get away from me!"

Darkness again. Was he still remembering? Or...was he awake? Wind whistled by him. Mozenrath stayed absolutely still, listening to the wind's breathing, moving fast as it inhaled, slowly letting the breathe go, ruffling his hair. His muscles, clenching and shaking, relaxed, behind his eyelids he saw a flash of bright light as pain ripped through him again. Eyes flickering open, he tried to register what happened. An episode.

He hadn't had an attack like that in over ten years. He did not need the extra pain of a seizure to his bleeding wounds.

Spitting out the gelled blood, he looked up over at the sky…

And some one was starring back. With a poorly stifled cry he scrambled back.

"Good morning, star shine," the being said. It was a female, her skin tainted slight turquoise, Her body solid, trailing off into smoke. Her raven black hair moved gracefully around her, as if she was suspended in stormy water. Her eyes were trained on him, pale yellow and thick eyelashes. Her full magenta lips tiled up at his pain and shock. "Now that's not anyway to treat a guest."

Mozenrath, heart still thumping from the shock, raised an eyebrow. "Uninvited guest," he panted, "rude, really..."

"I would have knocked but..." she looked around, an elegant brow raised. "Sstill love what you did with the place." She walked over to one of the few pillars that was standing. Placing her hands on it, she leaned against it. Where her skin touched stone, it cracked, the lines snakes up and down it with ominous snaps. Mozenrath made a mental note to make sure she never touched him on his bare skin.

He placed his hand on a pile of stone, and heaved himself up, the other hand cradling his side. She had a glow about her, and that was never good. It meant extreme power, a god's power. Why would any god come to his aide? She wasn't an Indian god, nor and Egyptian, he knew them and what they looked like, from his many trips to Egypt. So there was only one option left: Greek. Why would a Greek god be here, with him?

More importantly, he could not try and trick her, or take her power, per his usual. He must tread lightly

"Thank you, but I'm afraid I'm not the one to thank for this...state."

"Ah yes, Aladdin again? Like a pesky fly-"

"Yes, Aladdin-why-how do you know? More importantly, to what do I owe this visit?"

"It's very rude to interrupt," she said, inspecting her fingernails lazily. "But I suppose I could forgive it. Firstly, I know, because I'm a goddess-but you knew that already, my smart little sorcerer." She reached to pinch his cheek, but he ducked back.

She pushed herself away from the pillar. He backed away as she loomed closer, tilting his head back to compensate for her height, three feet taller than him. She stopped a few inches in front of him, and smirked. She dissolved into smoke, and repapered, at his eye level. "Do you know, my dear child, that you are the only known Propori Sorcerer left in this world?"

Mozenrath jerked back as her hand came dangerously close to his cheek again. How had she known he had natural magic? "Yes I know I am-thank you very much, but it still doesn't answer my question."

"Someone like you should not be lying here, in a destroyed citadel, bleeding and crying like a peasant."

His ears and neck flushed with embarrassment and pure rage. He shook with the effort to control himself, his question all but forgotten. Calm yourself, breathe, calm, wait. Breath, calm, wait. She is a thousand times more powerful than you, and you are weak at the moment...

Maybe it was best to appease this goddess, perhaps she came to help. Clamping down his anger, he fixed his face into a mask of no emotions. "You speak the truth."

"Of course I do," she said, clasping her hands in front of her, and smiled a little bit, almost like a mother-a murderous mother-but a mother none the less. "How old are you? 25? And you've come so very far-only to lose it all. That's just not fair, is it?"

"No," Mozenrath breathed, eyes trained on her. What was she doing?

"Some pampered street rat, spoiled, angry because another little boy might have what he has. He wants to be special, when he's nothing more than common-while you, who is," here she laughed, "anything but common, just wants to survive."

Mozenrath's breathe caught. She had used the word that had become almost sacred to wizards. To survive. Wizards were spit at, chased, hunted really and called evil. Were they? Some maybe, some may not be, but either way, light and dark, they had one thing in common in the magic fearing world, they had to survive. And the lengths they would go to survive might be called evil, but when it was down to simple life and death, one must do everything necessary to come out alive.

"And survive you did," she continued, circling him slowly. "Not only, survive-but thrive! You've done very well for yourself-by yourself. You started out with beyond nothing, and because a Lord of your own making. Who is he to tell you can not have what you've worked for? He who has worked for virtually nothing these past three years?"

Oh. She was good. She pushed every button that he had, every scathing, nasty thought he had had towards Aladdin she had said in only a few sentences. Rage was filling him up, licking at his insides like fire. His face felt like it was on fire, as his eyes never left hers. "No right," he spat.

She came face to face with him. "That's right-none. He doesn't know who's blood runs through your veins-I do. He doesn't know your potential-I do. And I can make you great."

So she was offering to help. Mozenrath, quelled the rage inside him. But for what price? If you jump in quickly, fool, you'll never get out. Be calm, be level headed. "Indeed," he said step back a few paces. "How...inviting."

Her smile widened , eye narrowed, and brow cocked. "You don't trust me. Very smart, cautious one. Perhaps I should define terms?"

"That would be helpful," Mozenrath nodded. His side was screaming in protest, crying out for some medical attention. But he couldn't appear to her weaker than he already look. She might not help him-or worse, kill him.

She pointed a finger at him. "You, have more power than you know. And, granted, you've made the utterly idiotic choice of putting that nasty...mitt on," she said, practically spitting out the words. "But none the less, your irreplaceable mind, cunning and intelligence, when put to good use-could move more mountains. I don't think I can offer that but..." She held out her hand, and swirled her finger tips over her palm. Gold smoke collected there and formed something solid. She held her hand out to him.

Wary, Mozenrath stepped close to her, eyes locked with hers. She was still smiling, her gaze on his face, rather than what she held. With one last look at her, he looked down into her hand. There, in her palm, sat a three dimensional map of the seven deserts. He could see his land, a black patch south east of Agrabah. It shown, lighting up Mozenrath's features, making everything around him seem dimmer. He was captivated by this living map. She was offering him half of Arabia.

She closed her palm, and smoothly moved, like oil in water, around him, arms around his neck from behind, hands raised, fingers twitching in a 'come hither' motion. Shards of glass, sand and wood sliced through the air towards them, stopping, and repairing themselves into his hour glass. It spun slowly, as if to taunt him.

"Not only land, but I can help you with this...thorny problem."

"You can give me my life back," he said, glancing side long at her, his voice smothered in sceptisisim.

"Not, your entire life, not the life span a wizard should have." I knew it. "But I can at least give you a human's life span."

He cocked an eyebrow in thought. At 25, that was a fair enough deal. There was, indeed, no hope for anyone wear The Gauntlet to live past 37, and he had resigned himself to that fact. So the offer to live out a good 80 years was very appealing.

Then reality slipped in. That was powerful magic-very powerful, to stay off death. Even necromancers, such as himself, could only revive the dead partially. So she would want something heavy in return.

He moved out of her arms, a comfortable distance away. "My life, lands--"

"And the street rats head," She said, smirking.

"And my enemy...for...what? What do you want in return?" He narrowed his eyes. "What is in this...for you? Who are you?"

She laughed, tossing her head to the side. "Ha! I had forgotten that question." She drew herself up to her full height, splaying her fingers as they grew and webbed like bat wings. "Eris, The Goddess of Chaos. Discordia to the Romans."

Mozenrath blinked. Then again. She wasn't just a goddess. She was an extremely powerful goddess. A goddess who's blood was tainted by Titans, direct descendant of Nyx and Erebos. His mouth went dry. What could she possible want from him?

The disbelief must have shown on his face, because she shrunk herself back to relative human size again. and placed a hand near his cheek again. He jerked away from it, eyes returning to the pillar she had disintegrated a few minutes ago.

"You'd give all this to me-why," he said, eyeing her. If refused, this could turn dangerous, very fast.

"Well," she said, gazing at her fingernails again, "let's say, besides you being cute, I owe someone a favor."

"And that favor includes me...how," he said, annoyed at how she tended to talk in circles.

Eris eyed him again for a long, silent moment, before returning to look at her manicure. "Your mother."

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Chapter 2: Paciscor (The Deal)

"My mother..." The word sounded so foreign to him. Destane had beaten him whenever he asked questions about where he came from, or who he was, saying 'Your here now, and your nothing, live with it.' The only information he given him was that his mother died in the Great Massacre. "You're saying...the favor-you owe it to my mother?"

"In a way."

"Stop talking in riddles, damn you," Mozenrath snapped. Pain, anger and a massive headache killed his common sense, especially in uncharted and raw emotional territories such as his mother. She was a woman he didn't even know, but as every child has, he felt a natural protectiveness.

Eris started, eyes wide, like she was going to smite him. The floor shook and the night darkened further. Mozenrath took a step back, calculating in a rush how far he could get running with a wounded leg and tired muscles. Not far.

Then...it stopped. And she smiled, a smirk laced with poison. "You are so like her. Her anger made you rather foolish at times as well." She started to sit. Stone flew up and morphed into a throne for her, as she rested. "I don't owe her so much of a favor, but I remember her faithful and diligent work as my Impiriori-the last Impiriori...you do know what that means correct?"

"Yes, of course I do," he said through gritted teeth. Impiriori were advocates, voices for the gods on earth. It made it much easier for gods to secretly do their work, or get human to trust and come into service to them. As faith in the gods wavered Impiriori came rarer and rarer.

"Well-it's your duty now."

"Me?"

Eris nodded, said no more, but drummed her fingers on the stone. She was offering power, but servitude. He had been a servant, and his skin crawled at the idea of returning to that state.

He turned and paced in the silence, looking around. Servitude to a powerful goddess, half in her good favors because of his mother-well he hoped he still was after that little outburst. Or, he could stay here, amongst the rubble and dust of his 'home'. Rebuilding would take time, then he'd have to recuperate-restock his library, survive the elements without a home until the walls were completed, feed himself, and rest enough to regain his magic. The mental checklist wasn't exactly appealing. At best he was looking at least five years of pure work without making any head way in his plans. That was time he couldn't afford because of the gauntlet.

Or, accept the offer-become a warrior of chaos, become lord of the seven deserts, kill Aladdin, but still be a servant. A slave to her moods and to her power. She could take away everything she had given to him on a whim if she was irate...

And then she could give it back and more with just a little charm and ego petting. Was it really so bad to glorify a moody goddess if it meant becoming a sultan, and one of the most powerful people this side of the Jordan? Or giving him years of life? Putting a hand to his chin he stopped and leaned back on his good leg, and looked at her. "Life and power?"

She nodded again.

"Alright, then...you have a deal.

Eris smirk twitched only slightly, as she stood. Her stone throne crumbled back into its rubble as she sauntered over to him. Mozenrath shivered, but not from the cold. Eris held out her hand elegantly, tapered fingers reaching for him. "Deal."

Yet again going against common sense, he reached for her hand, and held it. Her fingers were surprisingly solid beneath his. It was cool and smooth, like marble, and nearly engulfed his hand.

Mozenrath nodded and tried to pull away--but she held on tight. White lighting shot up his arm, clawing its way through what was left of his right arm and the pain sunk it's teeth into his chest. He gasped and let out a long agonizing wail of agony and he fell to his knees.

Clenching his fists and arching his back, his body locked. Something was ripping through his skin like a monster's claws, filling the wounds with fire as it deepend into his flesh. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt rather than heard himself continue to wail. Hazed over with pain, all he knew was his hand still clenching the cool marble of Eris' hand.

When he thought that he could take it no longer, and simply black out form the sheer and pure hurt of it all, Eris let go of him. He collapsed on his back, gasping for breath, wincing as the air ripped at his already sore throat.

He kept his eye closed, slowly shaking his head from side to side, moaning in agony. He felt Eris approaching him, and lift up the side of his shirt. "Hmm. There, no one will interfere with you now."

"Wha...what the hell did you just do to me," he breathed. Eris pulled him to his knees, and he opened his eyes. His vision was blurred with tears. Rubbing his eyes free of moisture, he gingerly lifted up the thin cotton of his bloodied shirt and peered down at his sore chest. There, on the pale white skin, was a thick, bold black tattoo, etched into the skin. It curled near his shoulder and swooped down around his navel. There wasn't any blood but the skin round the mark was rubbed red, and tender. It looked familiar, but he just couldn't place it.

"If anyone sees that, they won't hassle you."

"How comforting. Maybe..." he lost the train of his thought, then shook his head and aborted it. He was too tired and in too much pain. He was surprised he was still alive...

"You will go to Greece, near Thebes, towards the coast. That is your first mission. Think you can do that?"

"Yes," he snapped. "Why don't you heal your servant, oh gracious mistress," he snapped, looking up.

There was nothing but thin air.




Later that night he gathered all the clothes he could, and searched the area for a structure of stone that was stable enough and would keep if from the cold and weather. He dropped the clothes and made a make shift bed, gathering at least a few hours of sleep.

He didn't know what to expect the next morning. It was all too much information-too much change-for him to comprehend. He pushed it to the very reaches of his mind, as he curled up, in pain, and rocked himself to a light haze of sleep.

The next morning he woke in utter confusion. Why wasn't he in his bed? Where was his bed? Where was...everything?!

Until everything came rushing back to him in a flood of memories. Oh, he felt sick. He had sold his soul to a goddess-he was a slave again. She had claimed she knew his mother-that could have easily been a lie!

But there was nothing to do with it now. Off to Greece he must go. But he wasn't so sure pure work would get him out of this one...

Standing, he felt his forgotten ribs scream in protest. Sitting again he ripped apart the clothes he'd slept in into strips. Shedding his bloody shirt he wrapped the strips round his chest and tightened it, not to the point of constant pain, but it would have to do.

He spent the next few hours scavenging for a bag, and any salvageable papers and scrolls. He also managed to find a cloak that wasn't completely destroyed, and climbed down into the kitchen. As he pulled up to the table with parchment, charcoal, a candle and bread, he set to work. The underground kitchen was the only room that had been spared the torch.

Form memory he could draw an ugly, but accurate map of the seven deserts, Africa and Greece. Munching on the bread, he contemplated what he should do. He knew there was a tiny town made of shops, where he could steal a few necessities, and follow the road to port. From there he'd travel to Cyprus, then Crete, and from there to Greece.






"Alive?" Jasmine sat straighter in her throne. "What do you mean alive? We left him dead, I'm sure of it. Aladdin," She said turning to her husband.

Aladdin was slouching in his chair, rubbing his chin. He wasn't contemplating the threat of Mozenrath still alive. What he was thinking of was why he feeling relieved that his enemy was alive.

He had thought he'd killed another human being. Not from ordering an army, or making something fall on them-oh no-but he had held his collar, and seen the light drain from his eyes, felt his skin go cold. In turn, he'd felt something inside him die along with him.

And now, realizing he was alive, lightened the burden he had been wearing for months.

Finally opening his mouth, he asked, "How do you know he's alive?"

The new vizier, Hajeed, bowed again. "A band of travelers where trekking through the past black sands, and heard his wails. They were on they way to trade in the city. When they went to investigate they said they had taken in a 'poor shivering creature on the brink of death' walking through and taken him to the nearest town. On the second day of their trading there, the man-fitting Mozenrath's description-disappeared, taking some of their clothes and food with him."

"That sounds like Mozenrath," Jasmine said folding her arms. "Should we go after him?"

"He's at a disadvantage, weak and barely alive, Jasmine."

"He's a danger! And he will get stronger!"

"He hasn't started to rebuild Jasmine," Aladdin said sitting up. "He's run away. Something tells me he's learned his lesson, he's going to hide, not fight." He knew this was a weak defense for his position. They had thought Mozenrath was simply hiding many times, and that had been the last of him-simply to come again with greater force. He knew they should ferret him out, and kill him for the safety of their people but, he couldn't get the image of his face out of his head. Pale, blood spattered, and hopeless, almost surprised. He had tried to say something, but he choked up and his eyes slid shut. Aladdin had let his collar slip from his fingers, eye trained on the lifeless face. He un gloved hand had been gripping Aladdin's arm. It fell from his skin, leaving a burning sensation behind. He'd whispered something-something barely audible. Aladdin wasn't sure but he had thought he'd said 'I'm coming...'

Now, in the hot throne room, he felt cold rivers shoot down his spine. Stupid memories. Maybe the transfusion between him and Mozenrath had left him un balanced. Yes that was the reason he felt relieved at this announcement-not for any sympathy, but simply a mental deficiency.

"Al...? Aladdin? Any one home, little buddy?"

Aladdin jumped at the proximity between him and Genie. He had been completely oblivious to the world around him. "Yeah, I'm fine really. Jasmine," she said turning to his wife. "I really do think we're in the clear this time. Trust me?"

It worked. His age-old line struck a nostalgic chord in her and she relaxed and nodded. "Aladdin, why don't you lay down? You look pale sweet heart." Aladdin stood, nodding and kissed her hand. Abu hopped from his cushion on the floor, to the throne, and from there, to Al's shoulder, cooing softly in worry.

"Genie," he heard Jasmine whisper behind him, "watch over him. I think he's coming down with something."

"Don't worry Miss Sultana," Genie said in his best army voice, and saluting her. He floated up to Aladdin as he walked down the corridor. "She's right Al-you don't look so good."

"I'm fine. I guess, I just didn't know what I was getting exactly when the sultan died," he voice trailed off. It hit them all hard-but it wasn't unexpected. His health had declined severally after their marriage. Jasmine had been so grief stricken, she'd locked herself in her room for a week, emerging, pale and thinner, but a bit less somber.

But one hardship followed another: Jasmine wasn't getting pregnant. As many times as Aladdin and she had tried, is was in vain. He'd asked genie if there was anything he could do, and was hit again with a dead end. Life and death, genie had said, are heavy things, in magic and nature. Even a genie at full power couldn't fully tamper with them. He had suggested that maybe it wasn't impossible, they just hadn't hit the mark yet.

As much as he'd love to believe that, month after month of no proof of a baby weighed down on him, and his masculinity. Jasmine reiterated her love over and over-but she simply didn't understand what it was like to feel like a part of you didn't work-like you were abnormal. Or maybe she did...it was simply different for a man. He was Sultan now-and a hero. To fail in something that should be so natural and easy for someone at his age killed his pride.

Not to mention the daily problems in a kingdom that were just normal worries. When he reached his own privet chamber, he fell gratefully into his bed.

I'm not a murderer. I'm not a murderer. He's alive. Genie had also explained what he meant by 'heavy'. He said to kill bared down on you-did something to you. Everyone was different to this effect. Some felt it a great deal, while others lost themselves bit by bit, the darkness eating at them. He had said the worst crime in the world you can do is kill kin, the slang term was kinacide. The slang covered all the bases, patricide, matricide, fratricide, etc., etc. The worst was a parent or a lover or a child of your own body, and only a step lower was siblings. Then aunts, cousins and so forth. That was a deed so heavy it could very well damn you in the afterlife if un justified or for selfish means.

Of course, kinacide didn't apply to this situation, nor did any act of murder. Aladdin could rest easy, if only for tonight.

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Chapter 3: The Memories of Mozenrath

She was staring at him again. He held her gaze challengingly. The black woman with the steel grey hair pursed her lips and turned on her heel to walk to a less offensive part of the ship. That was the fourth time on their journey she had done that. Walked up to Mozenrath, stared at him, caught his gaze, and walk away. He didn't think he looked that raggedy.

Sighing, Mozenrath turned back to his task. He had borrowed a small mirror from the ship's captain, and a knife from one of the deck hands, and began chopping away at his over grown hair. He'd always kept it longish, out of style and habit-but now every little detail counted, and long hair might just be the dead giveaway someone would be looking for. He looked very different with his hair chopped short, especially with the curls that always brushed against his cheeks gone. He did leave his bangs, only for fashions sake. He didn't have to look like a complete vagabond.

If it was possible he looked much more youthful, albeit much less grand then he usually did. But that was in part to his clothes. He despised commoners clothing, but for the sake of safety, it was best. The raw material scratched at his skin, but kept him covered and warm and hid his wounds, which were still completely painful, but just below the level of manageable. He'd also managed to nick a pair of gloves loose enough so that it fit over the Gauntlet.

Finished he ran his hands vigorously through his hair to weed out the loose stragglers, and shook his head. The midnight locks fell back into their natural place. Brushing himself off, he stood and entered the captain's quarters. He'd used this captain before-under many different aliases, and he was never the wiser. All he knew was that Mozenrath had handed him an old and rare scroll, and that meant he was to be treated with extra care. "Your mirror, captain," he said handing the glass over.

The brawny balding man looked up from the map he was poring over. Taking a long draft of his drink he took it back and hung it up behind him. "Very welcome dear boy. Now, I say, you look familiar--are you absolutely certain we haven't met?"

Mozenrath bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. "I am sure. I receive that comment many a time on my travels." He inclined his head, running a hand through his hair again and turned to the door.

"What are you running from, son?"

He hated that name. It made him sound like a little kid. Can't they comprehend he was a man, for Ares' sake? "Running from?"

"I've been saying and giving passage on this trade route since I was a lad at my father's hip, son. I know when someone is running."

"Perhaps, gracious sir, your vision is lacking," he said in a teasing manor, before bowing and walking back out onto the deck. To his dismay he heard the man's heavy steps following him. Mozenrath rested his forearms on the ships side, and leaned out looking over the waters. He'd seen it enough when he was a child traveling with Destane, but that was when he was ten. Many years had gone by since he'd traveled this way, and he had forgotten how clean and cool and clear the air felt, fresh and open.

"Then why do you look so weighed down," the captain said imitating his position.

Mozenrath chose not to answer this, but turned his head to the stern. The woman was staring at him again. This time she did not look away, but squinted, running her fingers over the chain around her neck. "Captain," he said, not breaking eye contact, "where does that woman fare from?"

"Her? That's old Henuttawy."

"You know her very well, then?"

"Oh, um. Yes, she travels his way frequently, on this boat. She's a creature of habit in her old age."

"Where does she come from, then." Mozenrath asked again, turning away from the woman finally and looking back at the captain.

"Egypt, she travels to Greece for whatever business is hers. Has she been giving you trouble, son?"

Mozenrath suppressed an eye roll. Gods, he despised that name. "No-is she a trouble maker?"

"No, but she does tend to frighten some of the passengers-she's a serious and grim thing." The captain drained his cup and gave him a side long glance. "Why are you going to Thebes? On your way to the wedding?"

"Whose wedding?"

"The hero Hercules, of course, and his bride Megara in Rome."

His blood ran cold at 'hero'. He mouthed the names, Hercules and Megara. They fit together-perfectly perfect, with their perfectly perfect perky pretty marriage, like so many other people. This time he really did roll his eyes. It disgusted him, heroes did. Usual oblivious to everything but themselves and their goals, sucking on silver spoons while others groveled for power.

"No, I'm not here for that."

"Education? Work, then," the captain asked.

Mozenrath glanced at him and swallowed. "Yes. I'm...taking over the family business."




The day before they docked, Mozenrath stayed below in his quarters-or, rather, his section of the ship below. He could hear the chaos above and was glad he wasn't in the way, or near them-pick pocketing fools that they were. He curled up against the cold, holding his wounds as the ship swayed in the small waves near the shore. He thanked whatever god had blessed him, that he never had sea sickness.

He tugged his cloak around him more firmly. The thick, coarse clothe hadn't even looked appealing in the traders van. How had the man hoped to sell such an ugly brown thing? But it was warm and large and long.

The traders had been relatively nice. They had had two children, a young son and a girl about sixteen years of age. She had had dark eyes, and soft curved lips. She had stared at him a great deal, simpering and giggling behind her hands while she handed him food. Had Mozenrath been at full strength, he would have considered seducing her. But with the trouble of contraceptives and the actual act of seducing, it was far too much trouble than a tumble with a little chit was worth.

And that brat boy of theirs had almost coast him. When he'd riffled through the different clothes and foods, he'd been starring at him when his back was turned. When he stood, the kid has wrinkled his nose and his eyes teared up. He must have been a fright with his straggled hair and grim face in the moonlight. A simple-yet affected sleep spell knocked the little snot bag out, and given Mozenrath a clean getaway.

He didn't know how he had trekked his way from the broken citadel to the borders-nor from the travelers caravan to port. All he remembered was the jarring pain from each step and the constant thirst. He'd never loved the sight of the ocean more. It took all he had not to run into it-face first, and amerce himself into it's cool wetness.

But in the few weeks he'd had to relax on the boat and heal, he'd been having extremely strange dreams of memories that weren't his own. They couldn't be-they had to be memories, because they felt so real, and vivid, but they couldn't be his. He'd never lived near a market place-nor in an a shabby inn with a tiny dark woman.

He knew he wasn't psychic, nor telepathic, which left only one logical reason. He must be seeing from behind Aladdin's eyes-or at least seeing Aladdin's memories, probably as an aftermath of the fusion between them. Fan-bloody-tastic, not only was he in hiding but was hounded by the street rats' mind. Why did fate always turn to bite him? Wasn't there any other young men that nature's humor could torture?

And even worse, the street rat's childhood was boring. Nothing but stealing, hiding from guards for this or that prank, chasing after girls way out of his league and gazing out over the city to the palace.

The palace never changed. It looked the same from Aladdin's childhood memories compared to Mozenrath's own recollections. He also saw the defeat of Jafar in the urchin's mind. Now that was a strange experience for the wizard.

Mozenrath remembered Jafar from his own childhood. Destane never traveled often into Agrabah but there were occasions, of course taking his apprentice, and his apprentice's companion-Xerxes. The man was a cold hearted bastard, but he was kinder than Destane. That...was probably not saying much.

On the other hand he'd actually was rather polite to the young curious boy and friend, letting them walk around his laboratory freely as long as the two boys didn't touch anything. Then again, perhaps it was simple out of fear of their master.

One of the reasons Destane had not gone to Agrabah often was because they had to sneak in. The Sultan might have been a pudgy foolish man, but the Sultana-while alive, was a shrewd, keen woman who had never liked Jafar, and monitored his actions often. Mozenrath had liked it though-the few times they did go. True, Destane was the most feared wizard in the seven deserts-but the Sultana had a whole army behind her. These trips usually meant no beatings or punishments because it would be to conspicuous.

This short stroll down memory lane caused Mozenrath to think of something that sent cold down his spine. If Mozenrath could see Aladdin's memories, then what could Aladdin see?




Careful now. Mustn't spill a drop. He tilted the small crystal bottle so that the emerald green liquid slid slowly to the lip of the bottle. It welled to the edge. Just one more centimeter. And there, the drop fell slowly from bottle into the ground fae's wing.

There was a hissing noise and yellow smoke curled from the glass plate. He was just about to cork the bottle of green wood elf blood when the heavy wooden door slammed open with a thunderous crash. His whole body started and the bottle sipped form his hands. "No!" He reached out, focusing at the containers decent to the ground. It slowed just before hitting the cold flagstone. Never taking his mind of eyes from the bottle, he lifted his hands slowly.

The bottle rose and settled softly on top of the wooden lab table. He twisted his head around to the perpetrator that killed his rare moment of peace. Xerxes leaned against the door frame tossing an apple lazily in the air. "Nice save, Moze."

He glared at his friend. He hated that name. "I was having a good day, until the gods let you live to see another morning." Taking a thin glass rod, he began stirring the contents he just fused together. He thought the blood was going to set the ground wing on fire. Wood Elf blood was extremely acidic, especially to anything mental, and fae's body was high in silver content.

Xerxes strolled into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. He shined the apple on his vest and tossed it in the air again catching it behind his back.

"You're not supposed to be in the kitchen," Mozenrath said, tilting the blood-wing mixture back and forth in the plate, examining the new crystals that were forming as it cooled.

"What a perfect little priest you'd make, Moze. Shall I repent before you," he said smirking, leaning close.

"No," he replied, taking the fruit from Xerxes just as the sandy, short-haired boy was about to take a bite. He sunk his teeth into the tangy delicacy, and spoke around the mouthful, "just don't point a finger to me when a maid rats you out to Destane."

"That was mi--!" Xerxes was cut off mid-whine as Mozenrath shoved the apple into his mouth hard.

While Xerxes tried to pry the apple from his jaws, Mozenrath took the plate to the window and examined the blood-wing in the sun light. Though the crystals were yellow-green they shone with a white light. How was that possible?

"Look at them," Xerxes murmured, coming up behind his friend. "Where do they all come from, do you think?"

Mozenrath lifted his eyes from his experiment and gazed down into the courtyard. Hundreds of children were below, all wearing the same brown piece of clothe round their necks. They varied in color size and gender, but none were above the age of 10. Watching them were the undead mamluks, who were the children older than ten; their clothes and skin hanging off their starved forms, sewed mouths forever in frowns. The children were doing various tasks of labor, washing, carrying clothes and food in wicker baskets, or carrying boxes far too heavy for them. There was no laughter, nor talking. Nothing that normally came with a crowd of children, of humans. Talking caused ideas-free thought. Free though spawned a thirst for freedom. Freedom was just one of the things forbidden to them-like normal lives, or the honor of being treated like basic living beings. All in the citadel was silence, cold and heavy.

"You asked that question so often," Mozenrath said, eyes turning back to the dish in his hands. "Like us, they must have had mothers, fathers, or they wouldn't exist."

"How'd they get here, you think?"

"How did you come to be here," Mozenrath asked looking over his shoulder. "Perhaps they were given to Master as payment-or ransom? Perhaps their parents thought they were giving their children another chance of a better life?"

"This is better? It's subhuman."

"Master can lie as good as the next man-better, even."

"It's not fair."

"My god," Mozenrath said, whipping around, placing his hand to his cheek, eyes wide. "Xerxes...surely you're not saying life is un fair?!"

"Ha. Ha. Don't quit your trade job Mozenrath, you'd hardly do for a jester. I'm simply saying, everyone should live-at least better than cockroaches."

"Be glad for what you have," Mozenrath snapped. "Be content that you're up here, able to philosophize, and not dead-or worse."

Xerxes looked up from his place at the window, eyes shining. Of course he couldn't forget the only reason he'd lived to see 13 was because Mozenrath begged Destane and told him he needed someone to assist him in the tasks his master set him, seeing as Mozenrath himself was such a lanky boy.

He had plenty of muscle strength-but Destane didn't have to know that, and seeing as Xerxes was a well built boy, the sorcerer had agreed. But Xerxes was on a shorter leash than any other person in the castle. But for some reason, this fact made Xerxes even more daring in whatever he did, like flirting with visiting witches, or stealing food from the kitchens.

Xerxes slowly walked over the table and pulled out a small clean knife, splitting his snack in half, and offered up one of the pieces. "I know. I was just thinking that-well since we're so lucky, we should be able to do something."

"You want to be a hero? You want to save poor, unfortunate souls, Xerxes?" Mozenrath's face hardened. "The world is not like a tale, friend. There is not a coup for every dictator, a princess for every prince. Dreams of for girls in silk beds with large dowries." He pointed his paired fore and middle finger at Xerxes. "Power is the only way to reach any tangible dream. Knowledge and power, means to make an end." He picked up the proffered fruit and took a vicious bite out of it.

"What do you have against hope-the world in general?"

Mozenrath shook his head and turned the page in a book he had propped up against a small onyx statue. "The more I see of the world, the more I am displeased with it. It's filled with ignorant murderous fools, wizards squandering their power, or "heroes" to air headed to believe. They do not know of true suffering, true torture."

"Are a dark little man Moze, but I like you for all you're faults. The more dark you are, the more reason there is for me to be hopeful," Xerxes chuckled.

"I am so lucky," the raven haired boy said leaning over his book. "Shamash..." he murmured the name as he read it, tracing his fingers over the painting in the book of the sun surrounded by runes.

"Anyway, I heard Jafar has something for master-apparently we'll be going back soon. Then you can see your little-," Xerxes stopped, his head snapping towards the door. Mozenrath heard it too. Heavy footsteps.

Tearing the apple half out of Mozenrath's hand, Xerxes flung both pieces out the window, then heaved to shut the heavy doors of glass, locking them. He turned, frantic to look busy. Thinking fast Mozenrath grabbed a rag he had in case of a spill and threw it to him.

Xerxes caught and skidded in front of the lab table, picking up a random empty glass bottle and began rubbing it free of imaginary grime. Mozenrath returned his attention to the dish at hand. He was shaking slightly now. Self loathing ran through him.

The door creaked open, and Destane walked inside, tugging off his left hand glove. The two boys turned, balling their fists and crossing them at the wrists, bowing their heads. They then returned to their tasks. Mozenrath kept his eyes on the dish, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of Xerxes' rag squeaking against glass.

"Two little mice hard at work I see." The tall man walked slowly around behind Mozenrath and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning to his ear. "And what is this one doing, hm?"

Where Destane's hand met Mozenrath's skin burned with loathing. Bile rose in Mozenrath's throat at the memories teetering on the edge of his mind. "Wood elf blood and a fae wing," he said in a barely audible voice.

"I see...and this?" Destane's thumb brushed against the corner of Mozenrath's mouth. The world froze, the boy's stomach falling through his feet. Xerxes paled, hands slowing their cleaning.

Destane liked his thumb. "Hm, apple I presume. And exactly how did you procure such a delicacy?"

Mozenrath glanced up at Xerxes.

"You were not here during the morning, so I did not have breakfast. I became woozy while doing my chores and did not think it would be--,"

"You know if I am not here you are not to eat," his master said in that same sugar honey voice.

"I brought the apple sir," Xerxes said. "I went into the kitchens."

Mozenrath's eyes widened. In his stupid attempt at heroism, Xerxes had just made the situation ten times worse. Now, not only were they both in trouble, Mozenrath had been caught in a lie.

"Really now? Is that so..."

Then the blow came. Mozenrath was knocked back by the blast of energy Destane sent through him into the table. The contents of the experiment went flying onto the floor, shattering. Slipping on the liquid, Mozenrath fell into the pool of broken glass and elf blood. He cried out as the blood sizzled against the skin of his arm and chest.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Xerxes being hit by a pain spell. The young boy cried out and fell to the ground instantly. Destane then turned his attention to his apprentice. " I took you on so you could work for me. That's why you are alive. For that to happen, you must have flawless obedience. Now, for your punishment for lying..."

Aladdin awoke with a start. It was only after he took the breath he did not know he was holding, did he realize he was crying.

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Chapter 4: Yin and Yang

Author's Notes: Thank you to my beta Cantare :)

A deck hand flung open the door that led to the underbelly and called to Mozenrath.  Twisting around he nodded and stood.  It was time for him to get off.  And he was glad for it.  This boat, no matter how well he was treated, was still stinky, cramped and dirty.  Climbing up the ladder he winced as the bright morning sun clawed at his eyes.  The sea shimmered like white blue glass, lapping against the pale peach shore.  The welcoming sounds of barters, sellers, buyers and other ship traders crescendoing around him.

Pulling up his hood, he started down the dock.  A large handed stopped him.  Damn it, not him again.

 "On your way, my boy?"

 "Yes, captain.  Thank you for your hospitality," he said, inching closer to the plank.

 "Nothing, nothing," he said, smiling and placing a hand on his belt. "Are you meeting someone then m'boy?  Surely you're not traveling alone."

 "I am fully capable of traveling by myself, sir." 

 "No doubt, no doubt," he said chuckling.  "But, as a man used to traveling alone, I must say looking back...I now wish I hadn't, really."  He gave him a fatherly smile which made Mozenrath want to blast his face off.  "So young you are-take care to make the right choices."  The captain hand clapped him on the back and turned back onto his cabin.

 Rolling his eyes, Mozenrath hurried off the boat, exceptionally glad to be free to roam by himself.  Hitching his pack on his good shoulder he weaved his way through the stalls and sellers until he found the main road.  He also found Old Henuttawy, standing there as if waiting for him.

 He locked eyes with her again and moved to go past her.  She side stepped him, blocking his way.  Stopping, he bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance, and stepped to the right.  She imitated him.  "Damn you old woman, what do you want?!"

 "Peace, Mozenrath, would you like to make a scene and expose yourself?"  Her voice was thick and low pitched, but surprisingly clear cut with her Arabian.  Eyes widening, he took a step back, maybe to run.  But to where?  Into the sea?  "Do not run, I will not harm you.  I had to be sure it was you.  I bring greetings from Tiye."

 Mozenrath stopped.  Tiye had been a childhood friend and his protector when Destane had brought him along on his frequent visits to Egypt.  She was the daughter of Mirage's servant, a vocation she now shouldered.  He hadn't seen her in five years, since he last escaped from the Roman governor of Egypt at that time, taking a certain jewel from the eye of Ra in the throne room.

 She had been mothering and protected him from Destane when he was too weak from starvation to withstand the beatings.  She'd also given him the tapestry of the Thorax when it had been traded into the temple of Ma'at.  He'd never admit it to anyone, but whenever he'd come across an Egyptian trader or traveler, he would inquire after her.

 "You knew you would find me here," he asked in a low voice.

 Henuttawy grabbed his arm and pulled him along as she trudged up the road, speaking in the same quiet voice he had used.  "No, of course not-she thought you might be dead from the reports we've been getting from Agrabah-until, that is, a trader reported to the Sultan Aladdin they had seen someone," and here she have him a side long glance, "that had stolen clothes and food, and was in his twenties, pale with black hair-and very badly beaten, with such a nasty wound on his right arm, he kept it constantly wrapped."

 Mozenrath touched his face.  He'd used the magic he’d regained from resting on the boat to remove the cuts and possible scars from his face and neck.  Thankfully the sun had tanned his skin to a rather normal complexion, rather than his ghostly pallor.  It wasn't much, but for the usual passerby glancing under his hood, it was enough. And, really, what could he do about his right hand?

 "She knew it was you.  She knew you were a 'stubborn bastard who would refuse to die any other way but glamorously.'"

 "That sounds like her," Mozenrath said, relaxing.  He didn't truly trust her, but he knew at least he was in no immediate danger.

 "Where do you head to, Pripori?"

 "To Thebes."

 "Now why would a broken bodied sorcerer go there?  They say it's a breeder of bad luck."

 Mozenrath wrinkled his nose.  He did not need to be reminded how weak he was at the moment.  Did she not know what he was capable of at normal strength?  Lord Mozenrath would not be insulted by this old woman!  Lord without land?  There's a laugh! "I simply must."

 "Uhn.  She's a brave one," Henuttawy chuckled and pulled the wooden staff that was tied to her pack, and leaned on it with every other step.

 "Brave one?" he asked.

 "Eris, I mean.  The gods won't like her reviving the fashion of Impiriori--then again, she was always a radical when limits were dictated to her."

 "The Trojan War you mean," Mozenrath said, trying to keep in stride with her.  She was surprisingly fast for a woman of her age.  She was also loaded down with a heavy cloak, a rather large pack, and many roped necklaces gracing her long neck.

 "The golden apple stunt, because she wasn't invited to the wedding?  Yes, she took rather badly to that."

 Mozenrath wouldn't call the action that started one of the greatest wars in history a stunt, exactly.  A well placed move-but not so flippantly named.  "If you know Tiye...do you also work for Mirage?"

 "That sniveling whore of a feline?  No, of course not-but after the death of her parents, I took to teaching Tiye to be good and strong-almost like a godmother, I think.  No, I am a priestess of Hathor, but I am going to Rome on an errand for her."

 "You are seeing Haji," Mozenrath said, looking at her.

 Henuttawy stopped and stared at him.  "Just how much has Tiye told you of her duties?"

 Mozenrath shrugged.  "She told me the legend of her great grandmother and Ceasarian-I don't know how much is true, but I know they're dynasty lives on in Rome under an assumed name-and her charge is Haji and his wife Siti. She protects them from afar like her mother to his parents before them."

 "Humph," Henuttawy said, raising an eye brow and pursing her lips.  "Well-yes, if you must know, I am seeing to them.  Siti's had a second miscarriage.  She's in hysterics saying she will be the end of Cleopatra's line."

 "Will she be?"

 "The stupid girl is young, and under great stress.  She was a dress maker for the Late Empress of Rome, and was distraught at her death-and it cost her first child, and now she had been sick-thus this miscarriage.  Tiye wants to stem the flow of hysterical missives and give her something that will keep her health up so she may try again but..." Here Henuttawy stuttered and paused.  "She's been...detained to stay in Egypt for a time."

 "Detained?"

 She waved a hand dismissively.  "Come, you will make camp with me before we part tonight."

 "No, I will--,"

"Make camp with me.  Hurry up, Propori, there isn't much time and we must get to a safe patch of ground before night fall."

 He wanted to curse out the hag and leave on his own. But something put him off. No one 'detained' Tiye if she was determined to go. He would stay with the wench if only for information.

 
 

 Everything was at a standstill.  Aladdin was clutching his shoulder where Mirage's claws had clipped him.  Warm, wet blood slipping in between his fingers, while his other hand clutched a guard's sword.

 Jasmine was clutching Abu to her chest, eyes locked on Mirage as she stood proudly-well, floated- in the middle of their throne room.  "It isn't going to work Mirage!  You can't split us up-if you haven't noticed.” He held up the sword.  The royal family crest ring shone in the afternoon sunlight.  "We're married-it's only strengthened us."

 "Oh, Aladdin," Mirage said laughing, tossing her hair over one shoulder.  "I'm not here to break you two up.  I'm here to tear you down," she said pointing a furred finger at him.

 "I doubt it can be done, Mirage, you've failed every other time," Jasmine snapped.  With catlike reflexes, Jasmine jumped out of the way as Mirage sent a yellow blast of energy her way.  It smote the ground Jasmine had been a moment before.

 "My, my--you need to tame your little wife there, Aladdin."  Mirage turned to him.  He growled and took a swipe at her, as she promptly disappeared and reappeared behind him.

 "Aladdin, how does it feel to finally kill an innocent man?"  An evil grin crawled over her feline features.

 "What are you talking about?" Aladdin snapped through grit teeth.

 "Didn't he look surprised when you checked him?  Look terrified when about to face death, Aladdin?"

 "Who?" Aladdin yelled.

 "Why, Mozenrath of course."  She folded her arms.  Checkmate.

 "Mozenrath is far from innocent," Jasmine spat.  Mirage turned to her and stepped out of the air onto solid ground. Aladdin's face flushed. He wasn't innocent! He wasn't! Anyone who survived the marketplace explosion swore it was Mozenrath! 

 "True, but he was innocent of exploding your marketplace," she purred.

 "That's not true-it can't be!  The people there said they saw him!"  Aladdin was growing pale this time-and not just from blood loss.  He felt like he would be sick at any moment.

 "Oh, anybody can look like anybody in smoky air and panic.  I mean-" She passed a hand over her face.  Now, instead of feline features she wore a face of a man pale with long black hair.  It didn't look quite like Mozenrath-but Aladdin could see how it could be mistaken. Mirage had destroyed half of their market. And Aladdin had...

 "He's not dead-he-he isn't-they said..." The room started to spin slightly, and Aladdin grasped his head.

"That a young boy with pale skin, black hair, and bruises stole something from a cart.  Oh, a dirty thief in Arabia-how rare," Mirage sneered.  "You can't be completely sure, now, can you Aladdin?"

 Aladdin lowered his eyes.  No, he couldn't be.  For all they knew, that scream heard in the Black Sand's was Mozenrath's last cry before he faded away.  He had killed a man-no worse; left him to die a painful death.  He'd destroyed monsters before but...he had killed this man with his bare hands-thrown him through windows, pushed him down a flight of stone stairs, beaten him-and now he had that weight forever on him.  Nothing could wipe it away.

 "Aladdin-don't believe her!  She's lying-and it's working-don't fall for it," he heard Jasmine cry, as though miles away.  He saw the world spin before him and a sudden pain in his knees.  He registered vaguely, that they had hit the marble floor.  He swayed there, pale and tipping over into unconsciousness.

 Suddenly, Mirage's face was before his own.  "Well now, how does it feel?  I think you still have traces of him in you, so you should enjoy this-the killing of your foe.  Then again-you so good and boring, you might just burn out what ever trace he left in you when he was in your body."  She wasn't sneering anymore, but completive.  "It's strange...that you should take after your father physically, but mentally...you're completely different aren't you?  Except of course on this score.  It's like you two determined to wipe out Cercio's line-funny how fate works-isn't it?"

 Aladdin stared at her dumbly, and before he could ask what in hell she meant by 'Cercio's line', he saw Jasmine come out of nowhere and slam into Mirage.  "Aladdin!  Sweetie, snap out of it!"

 Aladdin stared at her without actually looking at her, and heard behind them, the zap that meant Mirage was gone. He tried to drag himself out of this haze of pain. Emotional pain, of darkness. It was cold here-but comforting. All alone inside himself, no one to judge, no one to speak.

 He felt as if he was hanging by a string. If he could just shake it, break it and fall, fall without feeling, into the dark abyss. When had he closed his eyes? When had his body gone limp? All he knew was pain, as his head hit the floor.

 And the rest was silence.

 
 

 The fire crackled between them, the only illumination in sight.  Mozenrath had refused the food she had offered and taken out a bit of stale cheese form his own pack.  He didn't trust her still, though the food was probably safe-it was better to err on the side of caution.  He made a face when he bit into it, but swallowed it none the less.

 Henuttawy raised an eyebrow.  "I have some fresh."

 Mozenrath shook his head, and bit into his cheese again.  Still nasty.  His stomach whined in refusal, but he continued to eat it anyway.  Henuttawy shook her head ruefully at his stubbornness.  "You are exactly like your mother."

 He pulled out the cork in his flask.  "Many people seem to know my mother."

 "Many did-but most are dead."

 "The Great Massacre.  Were you there?"

 Henuttawy opened her mouth-and shut it again.  "In a way, but for the rest...I cannot say."

 "Why," Mozenrath snapped.  He was sick and tired of people not giving him any answers.  Was he a child to be told what to do and not why?  Did they think he was too stupid to understand?  Of so fragile he couldn't handle it?

 "When we thought you had died-well Tiye said she knew better-but I convinced her for a time you were dead.  She's stubborn, so st-,"

 "As you were saying," Mozenrath said through clenched teeth.

Henuttawy said nothing for a while.  "If you're going to be rude I won't tell you."

 "Gods below!"  He rubbed his head.  The ache in his head was creeping back, and pounding in rhythm with his heart.  "Is there no relief anywhere?"

 She poked the fire again.  "I suppose I can forgive you-so far you've had a hard road-."

 "Hard life," he said, sounding more like a teenager than a man.

 "As I was saying, there was a short time where we were all in agreement you were dead, we being Tiye and myself.  And so we made a blood oath never to speak of the night of your first birthday, or the death of your mother, ever again-thinking that the final chapter of that tale was closed because of your death."

 "My mother died on my first birthday?"

 "Yes."

 "How can you say that but not tell me what happened?"

 Henuttawy shrugged.  "I don't know-blood oaths are a tricky thing.  They let you say some things and not others.  For example, I can tell you that your mother's death, The Great Massacre and your first birthday happened all within the same week.  I can say I was one of the three people who saw your mother just before she died and I saw the fires of the Massacre from a boat.  But that is all about you and your mother's involvement I can tell."

 Mozenrath slumped back against the rock he sat next to.  Nothing important, and nothing that satisfied his curiosity.  "Can you tell me about the Massacre?  In general I mean."

 "I believe I can try," she said, throwing her poking stick into the fire and wiping off her hands.  Pulling out another piece of bread, she nibbled a corner, swallowed, and continued.  "The Great Massacre happened, as you know, in Thebes.  It was a slaughter of magical humans-witches, sorceresses, sorcerers, warlocks, their children-etc. etc.  It happened because the humans feared them, feared that their power was too great.  The two communities had tried to live in harmony-mainly because your mother kept the peace as a fair and just leader-I can say that...hmm, how odd.  She lived in no man's land-a track of land in between the magical community and the main road leading to the mortal city.  The two villages could see each other, and in between was your mother's house and Eris' temple.  I suspect that's where Eris is sending you.

 "They lived in a very fragile harmony when your grandfather, Cercio, was Imperiori, but with your mother...there was peace.  I think she could talk Amun from out of his throne if she had a mind to.  She was...simply exceptional when it came to leadership, but foolish in other areas.  For instance, that man that started the Massacre--" she broke off in a fit of coughing.  Mozenrath wasn't sure if that was the blood oath or not.

 Henuttawy waved her hand, and continued. "The Massacre really was unexpected.  Your mother was busy with making her house baby safe, locking up potions, putting away weapons, cleaning up and ordering baby furniture and clothes.  She had two or three simple missions during this time-Eris I think had a place for Rathana in her heart, and gave her leniency.  But it didn't matter much-there had been complete peace.  The plan to kill the magic ones was quite stealthy.  But when she saw the torches coming, Rathana quickly devised a defense-but it was too little, far too late, and she fled."

 "But I was saved somehow.  Why was I not brought straight to Eris?  Or my father?  Who is he?"

 But these questions sent Henuttawy into a stream of coughs so ragged, Mozenrath feared she might start coughing up blood.  He waved his hand quickly.  "No, forget I asked-stop coughing, I won't ask them again."

 Henuttawy finally calmed down and leaned against a flat rock.  "Oaths are hard on an old woman's constitution."

Mozenrath nodded.  "But may I ask this...Destane...really wasn't my father-was he?"

 "Of course not," she snapped with such anger that Mozenrath couldn't stop himself from jumping.  "That disgusting bastard-do you know what he did?!  Oh...please forgive me...you must know best of all-I didn't mean-"

 Mozenrath held up a hand.  "No, I understand."  His eyes were unfocused as he stared into the fire.  Mozenrath knew that Destane was one of the most feared-but not respected-magicians of the time.  No one crossed him-and thus his disgusting ways went on unchecked.  He enslaved children to do menial and often dangerous work, and when they grew old enough to potentially fight back, he forced them to take an aging potion, killed them and turned them into Mamluks.  These poor souls were treated worse than the darkest sinner in Tartarus by Destane, and Xerxes and Mozenrath had been among them.  That was of course, until Destane had an eye for Mozenrath and his Priporum-or his natural magic, which was the strongest kind of magic.  The kind where pure magical energy ran through the veins freely and powerfully. Which raised another question--how did Henuttawy known he was a Pripori?

Mozenrath supposed he should have been glad that he'd save Xerxes for as long as he did, but as for the other children he just...

Shaking his head violently, he came out of his reverie.  He could sometimes sense when an episode would come on, and that train of thought led right to a black out.

 "Mozenrath," Henuttawy said, placing a hand on his shoulder, making him look up.  "I don't know if this will quell the memories but...your mother never feared Destane-she was one-and probably the only-who confronted him and lived.  That...that is your lineage, boy.  That's where you come from."

 It should have made Mozenrath feel proud. It should have charged him with pride and confidence. But really, it made him feel very, very small.

                                                                                     

 

 


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Chapter 5: Silent Village

Mirage stood over her orb grinning. The portal cast an eerie light over the feline features of her face. In the sphere, Aladdin sat alone in his chambers, his head in his hands. Mirage could almost taste the depression radiating from him. Oh it was just too delightful! The strong, moral hero, the people's Sultan reduced to a moping child. Truthfully, nowadays, breaking apart Aladdin and Jasmine was not too difficult. Their marriage was rocky enough, what with no heir and the position of monarchy changing the little rat and princess day by day.

 The two or three times Jasmine had taken control from her father had not prepared her for the full time job. Each day she grew a bit harder, a bit more frightened of the very real threats against her country.

 Usually, Aladdin and his soft heart would balance out her shrewd decisions. But with him indisposed, victory was looking more and more possible to the feline demi-goddess. "Good...good-oh this is just too perfect," she said, giggling.

 "It certainly looks that way doesn't it?"

 Mirage swung around, fur on end. Eris was sitting on her throne, in all her smoky glory.

 "Eris," Mirage said breathlessly.

 The chain of command in the world was thus: At the bottom various creatures and animals. Next were mortals, regular humans, and above them elementals and demi-gods like Mirage. And finally, the gods.

 Now, since Mirage was in the business of chaos, Eris, like Chaos, was more or less her direct superior, apart from Set. But with smoky wonder Eris made even Set and Chaos bow their heads in respect. Discord was just her vocation, it was her passion and hobby.

 And Mirage hated her. She did not like anyone more powerful than her flaunting their position over her.

 "You seem to be having great fun with the little hero," Eris said, nodding at the portal.

 "Indeed," Mirage said smugly. "Day by day, the little princess realizes she's alone with Aladdin shrouded in sadness. And so, Agrabah's strength will fall and with it, its monarchy."

 "Very good," Eris replied, a little too sweetly. "How did you start this decay of the little urchin?"

 Mirage swallowed. She was not stupid enough to come out and say she had pinned the blame on the little bastard of a Lord. Rathana had been her favorite servant, and almost like her friend, and so killing her son was definitely an act of war in Eris' eyes. She had even checked in on the little brat throughout his life without his knowing.

 The feline elemental had despised the mock Lord. His mother had taken a keen interest in dashing Mirage's plans if their missions had crossed paths, using the excuse that it was under Eris' orders that no one get in her way. It was a constant struggle for dominance, with Rathana always winning.

 She wouldn't admit it, but Mirage had enjoyed watching the citadel crash down on both Aladdin and Mozenrath. It gave her perverse pleasure watching the boy suffer constantly.

 But now, Mirage had to watch her step. She didn't know how much Eris knew of the recent events. Choosing what to say carefully, she flippantly waved one of her hands. "I tricked Aladdin into killing one of his enemies. He took it a little rough."

 "Truly," Eris said, a little too zealously. "Whom?"

"Oh...I'm not quite sure-,"

 "A young wizard?"

 "It could have be-,"

 "Perhaps a prince of his own making?" Slowly around the two women the room darkened. With an ominous creaking and groaning, it seemed to bend in on itself.

 Eris stood from the throne, the color and features of her face darkening with anger, the golden eyes shining, pupilless. "Don't play coy with me! I thought we had an understanding, Mirage. After your first time meddling with my plans you were never to go near him again."

 "It wasn't my fault they mistook my disguise for him!"

 "Little liar!" The goddess' voice rattled the walls of the room, the very foundation shivering with the force of it.

 Stumbling back, Mirage fell back onto the cold unforgiving stone. Eris smiled, white teeth glinting in the dark, lips curving into a grin of satisfaction.

 Anger shot through Mirage at the sight. How dare she come into her domain and treat her like a naughty child?! People fell to their knees in fear of Mirage! Fiery rage flooded Mirage's veins, and clouded her mind and rationality. She grew recklessly brave, and opened her mouth. "Why do you care? Bored now, because Hades left you in the dust? Trying to fill the void with old memories?"

 Eris stopped short, raising an eyebrow. The glow dimmed from her eyes as she stood in silence. This reaction gave Mirage the courage to continue on. "Speaking of old memories, that scheme to take over Olympus--was that not your idea those many eons ago? Didn't you plant the idea of him wearing Zeus's crown while lying in his bed? I suppose you just didn't fit into his plan.

 "And you definitely don't fit into his salvation. He's only just been recruited back into the gods' good graces by marrying Kore-pardon, Persephone. No, no, looks like he's upgraded, Eris. Why would he want you, when he could have the pure and sweet earth goddess?

 "I even hear he's still keeping tabs on his human slave. Megara--what a lovely name. So a mortal and a half Titan goddess replace the pure blooded Eris. How embarrassing."

 Mirage blinked, and the very next second, Eris was nose to nose with her. "What....was that name again?"

 Mirage swallowed. The anger fled from her system, leaving her with the cold dread and realization of what she had just done. Somehow, Eris just as she was, was scarier than when she showed her demonic spirit. The feline's words replayed in her head, each one filling her with ice cold fear. "Which name," she managed.

 "Did you say Megara? From where?"

 "Megara of Thebes, I believe."

 Eris stepped back, silent.  She neither spoke nor moved. Mirage stood up, brushing herself off. "She's about to start her own fairytale life. She's to be wed."

 "To whom," Eris snapped, actually sounding a little anxious. Any other time, Mirage would have grinned at this, but now, she just wanted the goddess gone.

 "Hercules, who saved her. They're in Rome, I think."

 Time crawled by in silence. Mirage fidgeted with her collar, waiting. Minutes later, Eris raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Hm," she mumbled, nodding. "Well this trip hasn't been a total waste. Thank you, Mirage."

 "For what?" the elemental said, sounding slightly alarmed.

 "Seems I have a new plan of action." Eris grinned and made her way to the door. Stopping on the threshold, she turned her head. "I seem to be forgetting something...ah yes." Lifting her hand, she balled her fist.

 Mirage let out a shriek has her wrist cuffs glowed and shrank, the metal biting into her furred skin. Her nails clawed at her arms in a desperate attempt to loosen the ornaments.

 "Do not dare to meddle in my affairs or touch what is mine ever again," Eris snapped. "This is the second time I go without smiting you, if only not to anger Isis. Mozenrath has been branded under my sign. Do not touch him."   She lowered her hand.

 The cuffs loosened and Mirage rubbed her wrists. Anger flaring again, she returned to her throne. She had much to plan.

  
 

Sleep didn't come easily.  No matter how much this old woman told him, he still didn't completely trust her.  Mozenrath's eyes finally closed with pure exhaustion, but even in sleep, no peace came.  His brain bombarded him with blurred images and sounds.

 Some on was holding him, and they were running.  He could see red and oranges, maybe fire?  He could smell wood and sword polish and lilies.  It smelled so familiar, and he felt so comforted, though he could sense the danger.  Whoever was holding him, he would be safe.  He could hear himself saying, "Back...itty bit, back, Mama!"

 "Hush, darling," a soft voice murmured to him.  "All will be well, we must be quite, hush, please close your mouth, please, my darling."

 Now he could smell salt water.  Everything was dark, but he felt the carrier hand him to someone else.  Voices, panicked, then the sounds of hundreds of feet.  Screams, closer now.  And now the person holding him was running.  She smelled different-like incense.  Feet running on wood, someone crying above him, shouts--it was so cold...so cold... Salt water, cold water, splashing over him.

 Then an extremely familiar voice-a man. Destane’s. "How puny he is. It will be very easy won't it?"

 "Maybe," a woman said," just make sure he's never found."

 And then Mozenrath jerked back to consciousness.  Sunlight ripped at his eyes as he lifted his lids.  Holding up a hand he looked around.  He had been laying his head on his pack, his cloak tangled around his legs.  The fire had been long put out, and the ashes scattered.  Henuttawy was sitting cross legged in the same spot, smoking a long pipe.  She was staring at him, one eyebrow raised.  "Morning."

 "How long has it been light?"

"An hour or so." She stood and hefted her pack again, and took up her walking stick.  "We should be in town in four hours.  Think you can make it all bleary eyed?"

 "Of course I can,” he snapped, hopping to his feet and pulling his cloak back around his shoulders.  "Who are you to ask me that?"

 "There is still life in these old bones, child-and enough to beat you if you don't keep that tongue in check," she said over her shoulder as she walked towards the main road.  Scowling, Mozenrath felt the childish urge to stick his tongue out at the old woman.  Who was she to tell him what to do?

"If you'd like to wander around lost, be my guest--but if not, hurry up, follow me."

 

"No, I think I shall leave on my own," he said through gritted teeth, clasping his robe shut.

 

"Fine, but when you're done blundering around I will be on my way to Rome."

 Mozenrath lingered as he watched the old woman walk out of sight down the road. He wasn’t sure if he was glad to be free of her belittling attitude, or frustrated that he didn’t have more time to wring information out of her. Flipping up his hood, he headed down the other fork in the road. No one was on it, and the morning sun was just beginning to rise, setting the perfect temperature. Cool enough to keep him awake, warm enough to keep him from shivering.

He hung his head, swinging it back and forth, searching the ground. A few yards later, he found what he was looking for. A discarded stick on the ground that was relatively smooth and straight. He didn’t have a map of the area, so this would have to do in giving him directions. Holding out his right hand, palm up and flat, he placed the stick across his fingers. Concentrating, he murmured a few incantations. The twig shuttered and shimmered slightly, awaiting his orders.

“To Thebes,” he said. It shuttered again and it spun widely, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, as if it wasn’t sure of itself. Then with one more rotation, it stopped, pointing just right of his path. Pocketing the enchanted stick, he started on the way it had pointed.

He was still stinging from her comments and superior attitude. Telling him when to calm down, and what he was going to do. Pah! Who was she? An old crone he could have snapped in half. Then again, he didn’t need his only friend angry at him for killing their godmother.

How small his world had been whittled down to. When he was a child, no matter how unhappy, he did have at least three people he cared about, a small circle who wanted him. With one, the less said the better. The others were Tiye and Xerxes.

Xerxes had been his constant companion, accompanying him anywhere, whether in human form or not. As a fellow slave, he’d brought some laughter and light to his world-even if Mozenrath would rather jam cutlery into his eyes and rip them out than acknowledge that fact to him. He wouldn't have let him forget a comment like that for months. Xerxes was one of those people that could light up a room with his very existence, like a candle that kept burning no matter how many times you tried to snuff it out. He always had something to say and was never afraid to say it, even if it got him into trouble more often than not.

Xerxes constant chattering about this or that, girls and food, had made pleasant background noise to Mozenrath’s silent work. It gave the other half of his mind that was not on his work something to concentrate on rather to return to wallow in his own despair of his situation. But it usually meant them both getting the strap when Destane would sneak up to the door and walk in on him mid-sentence.

And then there was Tiye. Mozenrath had seen many lovely girls, and many cunning witches, but Tiye would always hold some place in his chest where his heart should be. She had a gentle beauty and a strong constitution. One was never sure what exactly she was thinking, or what she felt, except for those who knew how to read her. It gave Xerxes and Mozenrath endless hours of entertainment to needle her and find out what did and didn’t bother her.

And of course, he could never forget the breathless hours the three of them had spent in various closets and cabinets to escape Destane’s anger. The secret places, the magical puzzle locks on doors that led to dimly light, clandestine passageways, the hours huddled together, playing silent games, waiting for a safe time to reemerge. The warm, free afternoons, practicing magic on different fruits and pets in the temple of Ma’at while Mozenrath's master was working, teaching each other how to write in different languages, walking the halls, reading the hieroglyphics off their stone surfaces, and then acting out the heroic battles themselves.

His childhood had been horrific-yes. And that was part of the reason the few good memories he had shone like a crystal in the dawn’s light.

 As Mozenrath walked on, he felt a vague sense of foreboding. Like someone was gently running their finger up his spine. The more he walked, the more metaphorical fingers caressed his back. He also noticed he could not hear the birds.

By the dock and along the road there had been trees and plenty of birds squawking and singing. Now, there were no trees, no birdsong, no...anything. It was growing very cold and lonely, stretches of land and rock in front of him. Tightening his gauntlet, he convinced himself he was just being foolish.

That was of course, until he actually saw the town on the outskirts of Thebes.

Once, in his childhood, when Xerxes and Mozenrath had been roughhousing, they had knocked over a candle onto a desk full of papers. Mozenrath could remember the lumps of steely black and charred parchment in bunches after the flame died out. And now, looking at the deserted town he was standing in, that image from his past gave him a sense of deja vu.

Each home was empty, burned from the inside out. The calm breeze made a door hanging off its hinges bend against its way as he passed. The smell of ash still lingered even after twenty odd years. Mozenrath could only conclude that this had been the wizarding town Henuttawy had mentioned.

Burnt ruins as far as the eye could see. Curiously, he popped his head inside some of the houses. Most had been completely consumed by the fire, while others still had remains of furniture and clothes.

One had a child's playthings still laid out on the ground. Walking into this house fully, he picked up the charred doll he found in the corner. The head promptly fell off, the gown disintegrating in his fingers. He lifted his head, looking into the other room. A woman's gowns were thrown haphazardly inside, their colors charred black.

They had not even spared the children, he thought. Nor the mothers, pregnant or not, apparently.

He hurried out, dropping the doll's body by the door as he passed it. He returned to the main path through the town. He felt cold and sick, and he wanted out of this ghost town, now.

Further in, he saw flowers on some doors, maybe two or three weeks old. Obviously people came here on the anniversary of the Massacre to pay their respects. That's right, my birthday was a few weeks ago. They seemed far too vibrant, too happy to be allowed in a desolate and tragic place like this.

This entire settlement burned alive. Was there anything even left to bury? And the young wizard received his answer. What looked like the town square now had been covered with wooden plaques sticking out of the ground. It was like a rice field of pseudo tomb stones.

Each plank had one name written on it, and there were thousands of them crammed together. But what made Mozenrath's throat close up in horror where the crosses that surrounded the square. Most were empty, but two still had the remnants of skeletons on them. The one body that had a skull stared at him, its mouth in a permanent scream. The empty sockets seemed to follow him as he hurried past, wanting to be free of this awful place. It reminded him all too much of the mock grave stones Destane erected for the children he slaughtered.

Mozenrath couldn't count how many times he'd been ordered to write the name of the a child in the stone--with said victim watching him. Some cried, some tried to stop him, ask for help. Still others-the worst, stayed quiet, and simply watched him with dead blank eyes.

 He also had a childish fear that if he did not move fast, a hand would rupture from the ground and drag him to the underworld kicking and screaming.

And just outside the town...in the no man's land in between...near her mistress' temple

The wizard could see the outline of a small temple in the distance. There must be his...mother's house. Our house, he thought. It was our house...my house for a time.

And for a moment, Mozenrath was utterly confused. He wasn't sure what he should feel. Fear? No, that was stupid, it was only a structure. Comfort, perhaps? Sadness that this place could have been his home, unburnt and happy if not for that one snitch to the human town? Had he been happy here? Had she been a good woman? Had she been kind to her son, loving to her son?

He ached with the need to know. He always had ached for knowledge. Had she been the same way, this woman he only knew by voice-by a smell? How much of him had he gotten from his mother? How much from his grandfather, the servant of Eris before her?

He loathed feeling unsure. He hated it to his very core. Being unsure meant you were susceptible to weakness, that you could be convinced wrong and overcome. He needed confidence.

It's just a house. And who cares what you got and where you got it? Be glad you are alive! Be glad that as soon as you are done here, Agrabah is within your grasp. Soon, all you'll have to do is reach out and take it and you will have one. The street rat's head on a platter, and you on the throne!

The temple of Eris was pretty small compared to the normal standards. It wasn't open, and it was airy, but had thick stone grey walls with heavy doors. The large brass ring handles were rusted and cold to the touch despite being in the sun constantly. On the doors was the same symbol that was now tattooed across his chest. The tattoo tingled as came closer the structure.

Rubbing his chest, he decided to delay his entrance into the temple. Stepping down from the door, he made his way over to his mother's whitewashed house a half a mile away.

Someone had obviously re-cleaned and rebuilt the house in honor of its former mistress. The roof and exterior were clean and fresh, and flowers were littered around it. Plates with burnt incense sticks where placed on the window stills. And a sheaf of parchment was nailed to the smooth wooden door.

The last Imeriori, a priestess of Eris, a woman with the purest of magic running through her veins, was a sorceress of peace.  Here is where she spent her days.

 Her name was Rathana.  Fierce and strong, shrewd and beautiful, she was a force to be reckoned with.  She promoted peace, but valued loyalty and duty more.  If ordered by Eris to steal, she stole; to kill, she killed.

 Mozenrath ripped the parchment from the nail, enraptured by the text.

 Her name was Rathana.  Fierce and strong, shrewd and beautiful, she was a force to be reckoned with.  She promoted peace, but valued loyalty and duty more.  If ordered by Eris to steal, she stole; to kill, she killed.

Mozenrath's mouth twitched up. He was starting to like this woman.

And one day, a handsome, penniless man found her. They loved, and they seemed to be the connection, the link between mortal and magic.  One day she tried to show him the extent of her power, to impress and please him.  She only managed to reach the coward in him.

 Her lover had betrayed her. That must have been his father.   Swallowing, he felt irrational shame color his cheeks. True, he hadn’t been influenced by this man in his childhood, and he probably was better than Destane. But knowing he was born of a coward wasn't the brightest moment in his day. 

Running like a skittish cat, and in his fear and hysteria, he caused the mortals to rise up and massacre the magicians’ village.  Neither woman nor child was spared.  Rathana ran, for her life and the life of her child, and also to stop the hate from spreading like a virus; to warn other communities of the event.  She failed, and those who came to mourn their loved ones and fellow magicians buried her body in the temple.

Remember her.

Mozenrath placed the paper back on the door. He lingered in front of it for a few more moments. It felt like he was on a cliffs edge, about to take a step into thin air.

With the feeling of falling, he pushed open the door.


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Chapter 6: Paper Memories

Author's Notes: Thank you Cantare!

Bindi is the red dot or jewel wworn on the forehead. Now, from what I can gather, bindis are worn everday and mostly by women, while tilakas are more for religious hholidays and are worn by men two. If I am incorrect please tell me so

The inside of the residence was surprisingly clean. Yes, people definitely kept this house clean out of respect and memory. It was small. When he first stepped in, he was immediately in the kitchen and eating area. Just to his right was a large fireplace surrounded by lounging pillows and small low tables. Mozenrath could see a small hall through the only other doorway.

Finding nothing of interest here, he moved to the small hallway, untouched by sunlight. One door had a symbol burned into the wood-the same symbol etched into Mozenrath's skin. He rubbed his chest, remembering how painfully the tattoo had clawed itself into its new home. The other door had a picture of a god painted on it. It looked Indian-a small person with gold pants and a red sash.

He decided on this door first, gently pushing it open. Sunlight burst forth, and Mozenrath covered his eyes. The room was open and light, with a large window. The biggest piece of furniture in the room was a bassinette. Small crude play figures and a box lay on the chest of drawers next to the cradle. The walls were alive with color. Painted heroes and creatures danced their way across the white stone.

The young lord recognized some from his studies-Sita and Rama in the forest, Kore and her nymphs dancing in an elegant circle. Atlas hoisting the earth on his shoulders. Fire and water elves battling on the shores of the Red Sea, and Zeus casting down his father from Olympus. Even such macabre images like Medusa and hydras. Every story a child would be told in their youth.

This must have been his baby room. The wizard wondered if it was right to feel so detached from his own room. Then again, it was a room for a baby-one he never utilized or knew existed until today. He felt a pang thinking of how well loved and cared for he could have been.

He searched the drawers out of curiosity, but only came up with air and a few scrolls here and there that had blessings for the dead. Examining the box, he found the words 'My Son' engraved on it. Once he opened it, a strangely familiar tune trickled out. Mozenrath gingerly lifted the trinket and placed it in his bag.

Lastly, he peered into the cradle, which held nothing as well. He lingered over it, fingering the fine crafting of the wood. Around the rim was a border of carved mermaids and sockets where he presumed tiny jewels had once sat. Had he ever been placed in this cradle? Or had the mob come even before his mother had a chance to use it?

Mozenrath stepped out and closed the door. The only room left was his mother's. A part of him did not want to know. A part of him wanted to remain ignorant and safe in his cocoon of pain and bitterness at what had been taken from him--a family. He had been able to be happy without knowledge of where he came from and who he was. He had known who he was--he was all of his own making. It had been safe to think he had just appeared into this world for the most part, that he was alone. Alone, nothing could be taken from you--nothing could hurt.

But if he took a step toward rebuilding these long burned bridges, he wouldn't' know what would happen. He couldn't be certain; he didn't have a plan. That feeling was so foreign to him, so alien it was like trying to read something in a dead language. Too late now, you've already taken that step. His chest twisted again at the reminder of the deal he had struck.

Had I known what accepting her power would have opened to me...

Would he have refused? If he had, would he have regretted it? Yes, it was stripping him naked mentally and emotionally , digging up his past. But he knew somehow that his natural curiosity would have haunted him the rest of his life if he had not taken Eris' deal and found his mother's home.

Too late now.

He pushed open his mother's door, and was yet again nearly blinded by the sun's bright rays. The room was built similarly, a large window at one end, a chest of drawers against the wall, but there was a bed instead of a bassinette. The walls were bare, sans the large map pinned up. Whoever rebuilt this house must have known his mother quite well--or had visited here frequently.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he moved into the room. There was something under the covers of his mother's bed. He hesitated, wondering if he should disturb anything in this room, but his curiosity got the better of him. Pulling back the sheet, he found a book lay on the bed. Two pieces of wood covered in thin leather that bound together yellowing pages. Sitting on the bed, he let the book fall open in his lap.

On the inside cover was scrawled:

'For my precious daughter

Cercio.'

It was a book full of sketches, fantastic ones. Cercio had talent beyond anything Mozenrath had seen. The sketches looked like they could climb off the page and breathe.

The first one was of a lightly tanned woman, looking everything the Amazon, except for the bindi between her eyebrows. She was sitting, tying together an arrow. She could have been Mozenrath's twin sister. They had the same long, straight nose, full curved lips, long swan like neck, long tapered fingers and thick rebellious curls. Except for the eyes. This woman's eyes were sparkling, and were some light shade that stood out startlingly from her tanned skin and dark thick eyelashes.

Mozenrath stared at the picture for a long time. He didn't need anything written to tell him this was his mother. For a moment he had no idea what to do with himself. Shouldn't he be feeling something violent? A strong happiness, or sickness? All he felt was...hollowness, like his body was as unsure what to feel as his mind.

He turned to the next sketch. Rathana-my mother-with an older, darker woman. She too sported the bindi upon her forehead, but unlike Rathana, she had a sari wrapped around her. At the corner of the page was written 'mother and daughter'.

He flipped through the rest of them. They were mostly of Rathana and her mother at different stages in her life ranging from girlhood to adulthood. In some she was accompanied by Selene, Tiye's mother, and, shockingly, a younger Henuttawy.

She said she was like Tiye's godmother, and she had recognized him immediately--then why did he have no recollection of her?

At the end were two sketches that seemed the most detailed and worked on. The first was of a young baby boy, sitting in a patch of weeds or flowers, playing with a small wooden figurine. His large, dark eyes examined the thing intensely. It was him, and if the young lord had any doubt, on the bottom it was written 'My Grandson'.

The very last picture of the book was his mother, cuddling the same boy. She was grinning at him, laughing. It was the same laugh that had been permanently stamped on Xerxes' face when he was alive. The kind of smile that could brighten the night on the day of a new moon. The baby in her arms was stretching out, reaching for his mother's face.

They looked happy, standing in front of their white washed home. Rathana's mother was in the background, smiling at the two as she carried a basket of clothes. A normal multigenerational family. He tucked the book into his bag, thinking how to deal with the book and the emotions. Was it looting? Technically no, he figured. Legally, all that was here was his now.

Remaking his mother's bed (though he didn't know why he cared) and closing the door, he exited the house. Now he just wanted to get away, and not dwell on his new findings. Work, he needed to work and keep these pestering emotions at bay. Making sure the door was firmly shut, he headed up the path towards the foreboding temple, black against the morning sky.

Eris watched the young wizard in her portal basin. She sat back on her throne, just as unsure as her servant. It had been years, and still, every day she thought of the injustices done her former Impiriori--to her friend. Rathana had been a great support in her time of need--not that Eris would ever say it aloud.

The goddess had known the girl's entire family line, as they had all worked for her. But she had only even been close to Rathana. When Eris had been abandoned by Hades, it was Rathana who had taken up the slack of not only thinking up plans and missions but executing them. It had also helped that Rathana had gone undercover and burned one of Demeter's altars to the damn ground.

She and her son had the same kind of tenacity--or pigheadedness Eris had told Rathana. Nothing was going to stop them, even if, in Mozenrath's case, it meant becoming subordinate to someone else for a time. Not that Eris would ever dream of abusing her power over him. Still, that didn't stop her from teasing the creature.

Also, mother and son were devastatingly beautiful. It had been Rathana's downfall, and it had not saved her son from heartbreak either. Eris knew about the girl who had nearly broken Mozenrath. She knew it all.

The goddess had been watching the boy since infancy--helpless to protect him. It had been all she could do to restrain herself from blowing up the entire desert when Mozenrath trailed after that girl like a castrated lap dog. She knew it could only end badly, and it did, almost as horrible as she imagined.

But she was rectifying her mistake now. She would give the boy what he needed to be the great sultan he could be. Also, with her carefully crafted plan, a little revenge could be completed as well. Sitting back with a smirk, she poured herself some wine into her wide lipped glass. This was going to be so fun!

Swirling her drink, she brought it to her lips. As the alcohol stilled in the glass, for a moment, it was tinged pink before relaxing to its normal clear state. With the glass' rim at her magenta lips, she paused and pulled the cup back. This kind of drink was colorless and odorless; she knew it well, it was her favorite. She threw the glass away from her where it smashed on the cold stone. Vapor rose, pinkish in hue, and coiled into a heart before disappearing.

That was a love potion and obviously strong enough for a god. Was this some kind of sick joke? Using the same potion that stole Hades from her on her? Grabbing the bottle she stormed out of her realm and disappeared into smoke.

She reappeared upon Olympus in a full rage. The skin around her eyes had darkened to a demonic black, her hair rippling like hurricane water around her head. Athena and Harmonia, her partners, came forward, but once they caught her eye, they immediately shut their mouths.

The other gods quickly stepped out of her way. Eris never came to the Mount. Every god was a bit skittish after she had thrown the golden apple and started a horrid war. And then she had only been irritated. By the look of her now, she was downright enraged.

Ares shook Artemis' arm, and they both gathered their bows and stumbled out of Eris' way as she walked into the courtroom of the gods. Turning, Eris searched the stunned silent crowd.

Athena pushed Harmonia, who shook her head violently. Athena and Hera then both nodded and tried to push her forward again. Shaking her head firmly this time she shoved Poseidon forward. The three goddesses stepped back from their brother as Eris' eyes lit upon him.

Giving the women a withering glare he calmly clasped his hands in front of him. "Eris. What a surprise. M-may I ask wh-who you have come to, um, to call on?"

"Where is Aphrodite," she growled.

Everyone gave a noticeable sigh of relief. The target announced was not among them, so they relaxed and waited to see what would unfold.

"I do believe my niece is at her home–why?" Poseidon said, following her as she made her way out. Eris stopped and poured some of her wine onto the floor. The same fuchsia smoke rose up from the spilled liquid.

The god murmured in comprehension. Artemis raised her hand to her mouth as she tried to hide a giggle. But Eris' keen senses heard her clearly. "You think this is funny, hunter?" Ares stepped away from his half-sister as Discord zeroed in on her. Artemis shook her head. "You who has never had a man-or could catch one," Eris said, snapping off one of her arrowheads. Artemis gasped, affronted. Ares guffawed. He was not spared as Eris turned her glare on him. "And you who resort to whoring around with a married woman and siring bastards."

"Aye," Harmonia squeaked blushing with shame, being one of those bastards herself. Poseidon sniggered, and even Athena had to cover her mouth.

When the goddess of wisdom was composed enough, she walked up behind her partner. "Some gods never learn Eri--"

"Shut up."

"As silent as the grave," Athena said stepping aside to let Eris pass, but followed her. "What are you going to do to her?"

"I don't know, but you'll need your uncle to wash away the mess," she snapped.

"Oh, this will be fun," she said hitching up her skirts to keep in step with Eris.

Aladdin was brooding. Strange, how an act he'd never done before came so easily to him. He seemed to radiate disease and a notion that if anyone came near it'd be the last thing they did. This was the morning commoners lined up and had a chance to speak face to face with their rulers about their grievances and problems, no matter how big or trivial they might be.

In front of his wife and himself was a well-off trader's daughter, trembling on the floor and fingering her veil. She had been given alcohol by her neighbor's son, and he had taken advantage of her. Her mother was insisting she marry the boy, for who else would take her? But the slip of a child proclaimed in a timid voice that the man was a brute and she didn't want him--even if she by chance carried his child.

Jasmine was comforting the poor girl, and kept nudging his arm for his help. The problem was Aladdin knew nothing of the situation, so immersed was he in the dream he had witnessed last night.

Mozenrath pulled his cloak around him tighter as he stood hesitantly in the corridor. He had to keep telling Xerxes not to touch anything, lest his butterfingers knock over a vase and shatter it. Their master had left them in the hall while he talked to the grand vizier. He was still smarting from the preemptive beating Destane had delivered to remind them of what would happen if they made a scene or tried to escape. He'd find them and kill them most likely, or something near there.

"It's so bright here," Xerxes murmured, sidling up to Mozenrath. "White marble, silk curtains, I suppose this is what heaven looks like, don't you think? And all the pretty servant girls--ooh, hello," he said as one such girl passed, winking at her.

She giggled at the handsome blonde boy, and waggled the fingers of her free hand at him. He winked at her again. Mozenrath stomped on his foot. "It's not like we'll know what heaven looks like–at least I won't," Mozenrath said, making sure his clothing was immaculate. He'd be damned if anybody looked upon him as the poor dirty slave boy. He was a sorcerer's apprentice; he held a place of honor.

Whatever helps you sleep at night, half of him snorted. Maybe that notion will fill your belly, and heal your skin. The power of positive thinking, eh?

Shut up, he snapped inside his mind. Xerxes paced annoyingly, peering through the large pillars into the next large room. Faint tinkling sounds of a woman's jewelry filtered in, breaking the silence nicely. Mozenrath shifted. Could it be the queen? "Xerxes, get away from there," he hissed.

"...What?"

"Someone's coming."

"I know, Moze, come here you gotta see this-,"

"Just get away from there, I don't care about a pretty servant girl."

"But it's n--,"

Suddenly the wall slid open. "Come in, boys," the tall, thin magician said, beckoning them in. It'd been a few years since Mozenrath had seen him. He was cruel and harsh, but tolerated Xerxes and Mozenrath because they shut up and stayed still. Mozenrath, though, would never understand this man's fetish for extravagant clothing.

Mozenrath pulled Xerxes away from whatever he was staring at and entered the Magician's laboratory. Glass bottles of every shape and size covered every table and fixture. Most of them were filled with liquids in every color of the rainbow. Some bubbled, and some frothed, while others evaporated into glass tubes which spiraled into another glass.

The ceiling had a large domed glass top, which was magicked to look like stone from the outside. From the inside you could look up at it and see the sun or stars depending on the time.

But the worst aspect of the room was in the corner where a golden cage held a relatively young bird. It took one look at him and squawked. "Vagabond--RAWK." Gods below, he hated that damned thing.

Mozenrath and Xerxes wandered aimlessly around the lab as Destane and the Magician talked. It was obvious that Xerxes' brain had checked out for the moment, and was training after his friend, but Mozenrath kept a keen ear on the conversation.

"And what would I gain," Destane was saying in that silky smooth way that made Mozenrath want to retch.

"What could I give you, a great and powerful man, that you don't already have," the Magician shamelessly schmoozed.

"Perhaps, then, there would be no point in giving these to you...?"

"No! No, I...I may have something..." The Magician rifled in his pockets for a moment and pulled something out. From Mozenrath's distance and angle, he couldn't see what it was, but it was shiny.

"That? Why would I want a broken trinket," Destane said, bored.

"It's not a trinket, nor is it broken...I just haven't found the other half."

"And what does it do?"

"It leads to it."

At this Mozenrath had a hard time controlling his features. He couldn't be caught eavesdropping. But the way The Magician had said it... 'it' sounded like something powerful.

"Really now," Destane said, wetting his lips.

"I swear, once I'm done with it, I will give it to you oh gracious lord, when I'm powerful enough...but to stall until I find the other half of this I need those rubies."

Destane held up the two small rubies. "They're made with the blood of vampires, and they contain the compelling powers of those creatures. I will hold you to that oath, Jafar."

The Magician bowed, and caught the two rubies Destane had given him. He picked up his staff and inserted them into the eye sockets of the snake. "You are most gracious, my liege."

"I want the lamp once you have completed your goal." Destane sounded eager, nearly breathless, which caught his ward off guard. Destane was the epitome of cool, calm and collected--in part that was what made him so frightening. And if Powerful Destane wanted this lamp so badly, it must hold something wonderful, something more powerful than even him.

Something that could over throw him? Mozenrath hurriedly pushed down these mutinous thoughts. Somehow (Mozenrath generally guessed that his face gave it away) Destane would always know what he was thinking. But this tiny blossom of hope, this candle in his very dark soul could not be put out; no matter how many times his mind repeated the mantra not possible, not possible, not possible.

"Boys," Destane snapped. "Let us go, the Queen is at her dinner, now is the time to leave. Wait for me outside."

Mozenrath bowed and pulled Xerxes away from his inspection of magical bird feathers on the wall in a glass case. As soon as they were back in the Black Sands, he was going to have to reiterate the whole conversation, he knew. But now, he really didn't mind.

As soon as Jafar conquered Agrabah, the lamp would pass to Destane...and if Destane left it alone for one minute...

"Ow, come on, what's the rush?!"

"Be quiet, we have to leave as soon as we can."

"Um-why? What's the–what's this," he said, interrupting himself. A gold bangle was rolling on the ground and stopped, spinning at their feet. It was delicate, with birds engraved on it, with the tiniest jewels Mozenrath had ever seen as their eyes. He bent and picked it up. Right by his hand stopped two lavender silk slippers.

"Oh! Oh, um, thank you."

Mozenrath glanced up. And that tiny flame of hope and light roared into a bonfire...

Back to index

Chapter 7: Steel of Chaos

"Now what could I possibly do to help you," Aphrodite had said, meeting Eris in her entrance hall. "You can create chaos within love well enough without my help."

"I want an explanation," Eris said through gritted teeth, throwing the bottle down.

Athena raised her eyebrows at the pink smoke that rose from the liquid. "What? It didn't work on whoever you gave it to?"

"So you did sneak it into my possession," Eris snapped. The floor shook with her barely controlled anger.

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. "No, I didn't. Why would I want a love-struck chaos machine walking around? Who would that help?"

"Then how do you explain this?"

"Well if you would stop shaking the floor, we might be able to go into my store room and see if one of my vials was taken."

Eris took a deep breath. The floor calmed, and she smiled. "Is that better, princess?"

"No, you're still here, but let's go," Aphrodite said, turning on her heel.

The chaos goddess gritted her teeth. As soon as this mystery was over, she was going to wipe the floor with the blonde and dance on her corpse. Smiling at this very pleasurable fantasy, she followed Aphrodite.

In the very back of the white marble palace were two large wooden doors, their knockers shining golden. Inside, shelves upon shelves held millions of tiny vials in wide-ranging shapes and colors of soft purples and pinks. The potions glowed slightly, splashing light over the goddesses' faces. Aphrodite grabbed a hold of the old rolling ladder and climbed to the very top. She called down to Eris as she searched through the different bottles. "The bigger or more powerful the creature, the stronger the love potion must be. More powerful creatures have larger defenses. With mortals, it takes a drop, or a prick of my son's arrows, and they're enamored immediately with the first person they see. With wizards and witches, it takes a bit more, but it can't be too powerful or it becomes obsessive love, and you know how that'll end up.

"But for a goddess, it needs extra oomph. When given to a god it needs to have the essence of the person they're trying to make the god or goddess fall in love with-blood, a hair-in the worst cases a limb."

"How lovely," Eris called back.

"And that is one of the main reasons I don't give the hard stuff out--whoops."

"What?"

"Seems I do have a missing vial." Aphrodite grasped the sides of the ladder and slid down. "I can assure you, I didn't do it--I'm already in hot water after being caught with Ares again, I don't need any more attention."

"Who else has access here?"

"It's only my son and I."

"Eros," Eris growled.

"Stay away from my boy," Aphrodite said. "Accept it, Eris. Hades wasn't shot by Eros, he just fell in love. Persephone is beautiful and bright, can you blame him? It also was a perfect way to wheedle his way back among the Olympians after that takeover plot went south. Do you think it would have benefited him at all with you on the Underworld's throne with him?"

Eris took a step forward to make her murderous fantasy a reality, but was stopped as the doors behind them swung open.

"Eris," Eros' overly smooth voice crooned. "I thought I'd find you here." His usually long mahogany hair was cut short, giving his violet eyes room to shine. He leaned against the door frame one hip cocked, his black silk shirt open across his chest, smirking. He was absolutely gorgeous.

Too bad Eris would now have to rip him apart limb from bloody limb. Her hands closed around his throat, throwing him back against the wall. "You little cretin, I swear I will mount your head on my throne!"

"Wh-what?"

"Eros, really," Aphrodite said, bored. "How could you do this-who wants to be in love with her?"

Eris whipped around. "Not the time Aphrodite."

"You didn't drink it," Eros asked panicked.

"No, of course I didn't. I will not play party to your pranks," Eris spat.

Eros stopped hurriedly re-lacing his shirt, muttering darkly. Eris circled him, seething. "So, what did you plan? To have me stumbling about like a lunatic? That would have been funny for you, hmm? Funny to have me acting like a fool for a man-who was I to fall for-,"

"When did you get this bottle," Aphrodite interrupted, apathetically plucking at her sleeve.

"Three days ago," Eris snapped, never taking her eyes off her prey.

"Hmm."

"It doesn't matter," Eros said, planting his hands on his hips again, facing off against the raven haired goddess. "It was a stupid idea; you found out, it's past."

"Oh? And what else of mine have you booby-trapped, eh? "

"Nothing! I've never-,"

"Three days ago, that's the day after you cut your hair, wasn't it Eros," Aphrodite interjected again.

"Mother," Eros snapped, face gone white.

"Does it matter," Eris snapped. "I hope the Olympians haven't gotten so bored with their lethargic lives that they're trying to amuse themselves by knowing each other's personal schedules."

"No, not my point, it's just that it takes a day for the ingredients to dissolve completely into the solution or the love potion."

"What does that have anything to do with this? Are you really suggesting that Eros put his hair in the potion...?" Eris turned to Eros.

The culprit was currently fingering the protruding feather of his wing nervously. He shifted from foot to foot like a scolded child, not looking at her.

Eris' anger drained out of her faster than Cleopatra's armada in battle. She started at Eros in disbelief for a long moment before slapping him harshly across the face. Eros started back so violently that he fell back onto the floor, clutching his bleeding cheek, watching Eris' retreating back.

"I just don't know what's wrong with him," Jasmine fretted. She was pacing back and forth in the sitting chamber off the main hall. Genie sat, with Abu on his shoulder watching her. "He's barely talking to me; he's walking around here like he's a zombie."

"He's even avoiding me," Genie said. Abu squeaked something that sounded like 'me too'.

"Oh, this is really bad." Jasmine fell onto her backless couch. "If he doesn't talk to me, he's usually confiding in you. Genie, what's happening to him?" Her voice was growing thick. "Is he possessed? Do you think Mirage did something to him?"

"I don't know, Jas..."

Aladdin, who was seeking relief in the hall, listened with a heavy heart. He didn't want to ostracize his family, but he just couldn't stand to be with them. Just not at the moment, not when he felt so sick. He couldn't look at Jasmine, and not see her as he had seen her.

He had tried reasoning with himself. She had always been a beautiful girl. If Mozenrath had seen her, how could he have not felt warmth from the very sight of her? Aladdin himself had fallen in love the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

And that's what made him feel so dirty. That there was any parallel between him and the cruel, evil sorcerer made him cringe. It also didn't help that a sickening sensation overwhelmed him whenever she was near. It wasn't her fault Mozenrath had thought her lovely. Why should she endure his censure because of another man's feelings? So he avoided her, not wanting her to see the darkness in his eyes.

As for Genie, Aladdin simply couldn't stomach his antics at the moment. He couldn't pretend that he was okay, and laugh and smile when he felt so dark. He wouldn't lie to them.

The lamp. The way Mozenrath had thought of the lamp scared Aladdin; scared him because a part of him thought that the wizard deserved it. He had seen the torture Destane had put his servant through. Aladdin couldn't even nap without seeing snippets of Mozenrath's life before his eyes. Most times he woke up sick after seeing Destane test out his torture devices on Mozenrath.

Everything Aladdin knew-thought-was right had been flipped on its head. Mozenrath had had a choice, and he had chosen evil...hadn't he? Or could it be that not everybody had a choice? Not everyone could be saved, or not everybody was as evil as he thought?

Aladdin himself had stolen to survive, and while not being completely evil, it was wrong. But he needed to live. Mozenrath did Destane's bidding to survive, and that was all he had known, like all Aladdin had known was stealing and running. How cruel had Mozenrath had to become to not break?

But Aladdin was a hero. Mozenrath was a villain. Their paths were clear-cut. Mozenrath would never have the same sympathies for Aladdin as the street rat felt for Mozenrath now. Because he was a villain...right?

"Until I stole his power, and his throne," Mozenrath had once gloated. He had overthrown an evil force and freed himself from slavery, as well as Xerxes (though how Xerxes had gone from brown-blond boy to eel, Aladdin didn't know). Mozenrath had been Xerxes' hero, hadn't he? And hadn't he freed those children?

The Sultan's head started to pound, and his stomach felt sick. Everything had been so simple. Hero defeats villain, and he had played that out with nary a thought. But this formula, widely accepted by all as 'justice,' was now in question. Mozenrath was doing all he knew how to do, what he was good at. Could Aladdin fault him for that?

Aladdin could almost hear his enemy's sneering voice: "I don't need a street rat's pity," Mozenrath would proudly declare. And why shouldn't he have been proud? He had singlehandedly overthrown a wizard that would have made Aladdin run in the other direction immediately.

Now Aladdin felt truly sick. How could he be admiring Mozenrath for stealing a man's humanity? Because that man had no humanity, because he deserved what he got. Aladdin clapped his hands over his ears. Now he was starting to think like Mozenrath! Aladdin stumbled down the hall. He would go to the apothecary and see if he had anything for a dreamless sleep.

It was getting dark by the time Mozenrath reached the stairs of the temple. The building was made of black marble. Seventeen years worth of graffiti was splashed across the worn stone; things like 'Devil's house', 'Demons dispelled,' 'Purify this land', and pictures too crude to dwell on. Purify? Is that what they think they were doing? Then again, all asinine mortals think that magic is inherently evil.

It's not like you're an advocate for proving them wrong, a small voice sneered. He made a note to find a way to eradicate that annoying subconscious presence.

The tall stone doors were cracked and roughened by two decades of weathering. The dark marks carved into the stone had faded to illegibility except for the sign of Eris. The symbol still stood black and ominous. He rubbed his tattoo over his shirt again. The door had no knob, and no indication there had been any. Pulling his gauntlet tighter, he pressed a finger of his right hand to the door. The glove glowed and he attempted to open the door with his magic. His blue power turned black and backfired on him. A sharp pain raced up his arm into his chest.

Hissing, he cradled his arm against his chest. So this place didn't like any magic other than its own, eh? He tried pushing the door manually, but that didn't work, not that he really expected it to. "Gods below," he swore softly, leaning from foot to foot, thinking. He ran his hand across the granite, eyes sweeping for some kind of button or handle.

As he examined the door he saw that all the symbols were interconnected. Some flowing directly into each other, and others were only connected by thin divests. "Oh for the love of..." he murmured, "She could not be that cliché." Having no other option, he reached behind him and pulled his knife from his belt. Closing his left hand around the blade, he cut into his palm.

Wincing as he stretched the broken skin, he opened his palm and laid it against the crack in the door. His blood skittered quickly up the carvings, crawling up to the Chaos mark in the middle. With a scraping rumble of stone, the doors slid open.

Mozenrath blinked as the faint, familiar scent of decaying flesh reached his nostrils. It was vast and empty inside the temple. From the dying afternoon light, he could make out a tall obelisk at the far end of the structure, and two rows of mirrors on the left and right side reflected the light from the moon to illuminate the windowless structure. The walls were covered in dust and spiderwebs.

"Homey," he remarked.

He looked over his shoulder at the dusty road stretched behind him, then back at the desolate temple. Shrugging, he took a step inside. The doors closed behind him with lightning speed. With a sizzling hum, the top of the obelisk started to glow with a menacing purple light. Mozenrath flattened himself against the doors, eyes wide. A beam of light burst from the point of the tower and scanned the room. He covered his eyes with his left hand as it shone directly into his eyes. The light looked him up and down and lit on his gauntlet, where it stopped.

The humming sound grew louder, as if the light was charging up. Mozenrath's heart started to race. This place was going to do anything to keep opposing magic out. The young wizard leapt to the side, just missing the blast of energy that smote the ground where he had been standing.

Mozenrath stared at the smoking crater that could have been him before realizing the light was searching for him again. She gets a servant, and then tries to murder him, Mozenrath's mind screamed. He ripped off his gauntlet and shoved it into his belt behind his back. He held up his ravaged hand. "It's gone, look!"

The light looked him over, pausing at his waist before retreating. Mozenrath slid down the wall. His heart was beating so wildly he could hear it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and calmed himself. Lovely, what next? Spikes from the ceiling? The floor turns into fire? A warning would have been nice!

"Okay," he breathed, "okay, it's over now. Just...move with caution. You've been in worse situations before." But not without his magic.

The gauntlet had stolen just as much as it had given; as a natural magic wizard, a Propori, he should be able to produce magical energy from his bare skin, but with the gauntlet that ability had been ripped away. Yes, it doubled the power behind the energy, but it could still be easily taken off or stolen. That was the problem.

But he still had his Sense of magic, albeit a dull one from years of abuse. He could sense something extraordinarily strong here, just out of reach. The Sense felt like pressure on his chest, pushing in on his lungs. The closer he got to an object, the more pressure he felt.

Yet there was nothing but the obelisk in the room, and it had obviously powered down. He ran his hands against the walls, sweeping away the thick cobwebs. He searched for a crack or something that would indicate a secret chamber.

He didn't find anything, but on the walls there were thousands of names, like a huge family tree that spiraled around the walls again and again. At the beginning the names were in ancient runes, slowly descending into more modern text. It surprised the young wizard the variations of names and cultures the Greek goddess had employed (as he assumed these were the names of her previous servants). After five rotations of the room, the line ended near the door.

The name Cercio was connected to Ananya. From them, the name Rathana was connected. Mozenrath's mother's name also had a marriage/companion line connected to it. But her love's name had been violently blasted out of the stone. Mozenrath ran his thumb over the crevice. With a smirk, he wondered if Rathana had done that herself.

While he had meandered around the room, he hadn't noticed his hand still bleeding. A thin trail of blood marked his journey through the temple. While the sorcerer was examining his family tree, the trail of blood across the middle of the floor glowed. Silently the stone tiles melted away, revealing the hidden chamber below.

It was only when his Sense sent a shock down his spine that he realized what had happened. He whipped around. The magic was positively radiating from the compartment below. He approached the edge, peering over. Below, lying in a mass of old books and papers was a thin, long, leather-sheathed sword. The hilt was wrapped in black leather as well, the three ends topped with silver and a single black amethyst.

"Well this was anti-climatic," Mozenrath said hopping down into the cubicle below. Ripping off part of his belt, he wrapped his sliced hand before picking up the weapon. The sword didn't seem especially powerful. "All this for a blade? What's so special about a sword-oh..."

Mozenrath had pulled the sword out of its sheath. The blade was shining slightly, and radiated magical energy. This was elfin steel, stronger than iron, more beautiful than white gold. Near the hilt was another chunk of black amethyst surrounded by intricate, delicate designs burned into the metal. Below that, in Hindi, Rathana was written. But as the necromancer stared, the letters writhed into his own name. Mozenrath was now proudly displayed on the steel. But that was not the only thing that was changing. At first it was far too light for him, but as he continued to hold it, it grew heavier until it was perfectly balanced in his hand. The sword had acclimated to its new master.

Mozenrath knew he had to restart his collection of magical artifacts, and this was a perfect place to start. This object was so powerful it was almost sentient. He grinned in his excitement. Damn, he wished his lab was still standing; he could spend hours studying this blade. Mozenrath had read about elfin steel before, but never actually seen it, just as he had never seen an elf either. They'd hidden long ago, to protect themselves from mortals.

But the wizard knew they existed. When Mozenrath had looked through his masters things after his 'death', he'd seen that Destane had had a correspondence with a fire elf called 'General Ashai'. Still, to be holding, nay, to own something made of elfin steel made his heart race with excitement. If he was still unsure about his chosen method of returning to power via servitude, all doubt ended here.

"Pretty isn't it?"

Mozenrath jumped and spun around. Eris lay on her stomach on the floor above him, her chin resting on her palm.

"That is getting extraordinarily annoying."

"It's my house, so to speak." She disappeared into smoke, and reappeared next to him. Mozenrath noticed something off about her. She was looking him over repeatedly, leaning from foot to foot, the heel of her foot tapping annoyingly against the paper covered floor. She was agitated about something. The wizard hadn't known her long, but she didn't seem the type to have a nervous habit. "Like it?" she asked, pulling him from his observations.

Mozenrath sheathed the sword. "It's...fascinating. How old is it?"

"A few centuries. It was acquired by your ancestor, Jalalun. He had a little...tryst with a royal from Underground Elfin court."

"Delightful," Mozenrath said wrinkling his nose. Underground Elves that mined their metal were depicted as disgusting creatures with leathery graying skin and metal welded onto their bodies. The pictures he had seen in books didn't necessarily disturb him, but thinking of romancing one was...creepy.

"The ends justified his means don't you think?"

"Perhaps-it is a beautiful artifact, powerful and lithe."

"It can cut through any kind of magic spell."

"I can do that by myself," Mozenrath said.

"No doubt you could for most, but the most ancient and binding spells? And now that it bears your name, anyone else who tries to touch it will burn their skin right off."

"Really," Mozenrath laughed. "Wonderful! This is the most amazing thing I've acquired." Holding the sword awkwardly in his skeleton hand, he kneeled down amongst the papers and books. "What are these?"

"Journals. Texts. Various miscellaneous things, anything my Imperioris thought was of importance, they wrote it down and placed it here for safekeeping. I know there are a few medical journals, some scientific texts. Chemistry and science seem to run in your line, as well as megalomania. "

"Really," Mozenrath snorted, thumbing through a scientific journal from a few decades ago. "From what I hear, Rathana could have ascended to heaven at any moment. I'm surprised a girl like that is your servant."

"Is that the impression you got?" Eris chuckled. "She was an assassin."

"Really now," Mozenrath asked, glancing up. That was different.

"I'm assuming you read the little memoriam on the front door?" She continued at his nod. "People like to romanticize legends and leaders after their death. Just because she kept the peace doesn't mean she wanted to. She had no warmth for most mortals for what they did to her kind-but she was smart. She knew it was better if there was peace, since her kind was globally outnumbered. She was wise for her young years and extraordinarily strong--like another magician I know."

Now Mozenrath knew something was wrong. Not only had been forthcoming with her information, she had complimented him.

"She also wasn't as powerful as they say."

"I had my suspicions," Mozenrath said, leaning against the wall. The only time a Propori, or a wizard with 'the purest of magic through their veins', was born of a Propori was centuries ago, and was most likely a myth. Proporis were few and far between. The farther down the family tree from them, the weaker their children's magic. Most wizards in this day and age were so weak they needed incantations or objects to channel their magic, like wands or amulets.

"She was a telepath, that's perhaps what made her such a good assassin." Eris disappeared again, returning to the upper level.

Mozenrath selected a few of the older books and tossed them onto the level above. Tying the sword to his belt, he pulled himself up, struggling slightly on his bone hand.

"You have a new mission."

"Yes, going home." Mozenrath shoved the journals into his pack. "I have a rat to kill."

"Not yet."

Mozenrath's jaw tightened. Somehow, he knew this was going to happen. Gods below, isn't there another man the fates can toy with? He held in the many oaths he wished to shout and turned to his mistress, trying to keep calm. "You said if I took your mark you would help me kill that street rat filth," he shouted. So much for control.

"And I will. Patience."

"When?! "

"When he's not on guard. Mirage didn't help by revealing herself either."

Mozenrath groaned softly. He felt his headache crawling back. "What does she have to do with anything?"

"She framed you for the marketplace scuffle, and proceeded to gloat about it to the pauper sultan."

The wizard growled. "So that's what the street rat was babbling about. Oh," he growled, "If I ever get my hands on her..."

"I've taken care of it," Eris said dismissively."She shouldn't be bothering you anymore."

'Shouldn't', didn't mean she wouldn't rock the boat again. With what he heard and seen of Mirage, it was more of a guarantee that this wasn't the last of the cat. But the sorcerer felt his irritation diminish slightly. "You've taken care of it?"

"Yes," the goddess said, not explaining further. "Now, stay away from the seven deserts for now. He's more then likely watching the Black Sands, and reinforcing his protection. I'll take care of the little rat." Eris placed a hand on Mozenrath's cheek. He jerked away. Eris smirked. "I'll prime him for your arrival. In the meantime I have something to keep you entertained."

"Which is...?"

"Doing what you do best," Eris said smiling. "Ruining heroes."

"Let me guess-Rome? You want me to sabotage the wedding?"

Eris leaned against the obelisk. "Nothing so complicated. Just the lady. Get her to come with you, willingly."

"Why?"

"To sabotage Hercules, bring him down, cause general chaos throughout the city," Eris said, bored.

"As true as that may be," Mozenrath said, equally nonchalant, "let us not insult each other. You and I both know there must be something more substantial to this. You're not that shallow."

Eris rolled her eyes. "Curiosity, curiosity, the death of the feline. If you must know, she is the former slave of Hades."

"Former slave of Hades marrying a hero. Let me guess, he saved her form the underworld, they fell in love and plan to live happily ever after."

"Bravo. Yes, and her former master is still watching her, in secret. If she were to disappear all of a sudden, Hades would have to reveal his dirty little secret to get her back. It will be interesting to see him explain it to his perfect little wife."

"Toying with the king of death. Bold. And what do I do with her after that?" Mozenrath didn't want to carry around some air brained damsel. He despised having someone around, slowing his progress. Having to make sure they both were covered, hidden and not followed would be a tedious, sluggish process. Not counting the mindless chatter that would come with a princess-like escort.

"Oh, I don't know," Eris said, annoyed. "And I don't care-just keep her alive."

"Leverage," the sorcerer asked. If he ever needed to get out of a situation, he'd need something to trade for his freedom without causing a bloodbath.

"Exactly. I'm sure you'll figure it out when you get there. Now, off you go, get rest, you have more traveling to do."

"Why can't you just send me there? Or heal me? I am your servant- you should be protecting me," he said, internally wincing at how childish he sounded.

"Ask no questions and receive no lies," came her ghostly voice. She was nowhere to be seen, now.

Mozenrath felt a strong urge to stamp his foot in frustration. Every time he thought he got close to an answer, it seemed to slip away from him, like water through his fingers. Even in this strangely forthcoming mood, Eris was frustrating and secretive. How had his mother ever lived being under this goddess' command?

She accepted it because it brought her fame. It brought her power.

"It brought her a sticky end," he murmured. His stomach lurched at the vicious comment with a bit of guilt. No, it her fame hadn't been her downfall. Romance, the sweet smelling fog that clouded the mind had. She had fallen in love with someone unworthy, a dirty, no good, street rat. A thief that had been below her importance and breeding. And because of that he'd caused her death.

Like mother like son, don't you think? To let first love mislead them, play them for a fool? Bit hypocritical to judge her. The young wizard felt uncontrollable anger bubble up inside him. Illogical as at was, he felt cheated. Maybe her blood had made him the fool he'd been in his youth?

Easy to hate someone, when they're dead isn't it? Easy to be angry and vicious toward her when she isn't here. She gave her life for you.

So? He'd been saved to be a slave. Her sacrifice was worthless. That's not fair, a tiny voice said. Hypocrite again. You risked it all to save Xerxes.

And it did so much for him, didn't it? Dragged myself through the River Styx only for him to be a slimy familiar only to die later in agony. If Rathana had been smart she would have saved herself-or better, not fallen so stupidly in love.

She was only human. Couldn't you have been to her what Xerxes was to you? He thought back to the sketch of Rathana holding him. She looked happy, looking at her baby son. She could be as easily deceived, as you were, by her 'love'.

He wasn't angry at her, not really. He was angry that he had been cheated from a life he deserved. A position of power, of significance. He had suffered countless years or slavery and torment to end up in the position he should have received at birth.

The magic of a genie was handed to you on a silver platter, he had said to Aladdin. The powers of a god should have been handed to him as a birthright, but he had to give up his right hand, his very home to reach this point. The son of a great leader had to crawl from the dirt to receive his due, while a street rat had been bestowed with a genie just by accident. The injustice of it all was what infuriated him.

But it's almost all set to rights. You've received your due, and with patience you'll see the street rat dead. Patience. You waited before, you can do it again. These things can't be rushed.

Mozenrath pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning on. He could wait. Besides, he had a damsel to steal and a hero to ruin. He could see the pleasure that Eris got from pulling a string and watching everything collapse. This could be fun.

Swinging his pack on his shoulder, he paused before approaching the door. After a few moments though, he rummaged around his bag for some rubbing charcoal. He approached the wall where Rathana's name was carved. Under it was a small black snake holding an eye in its mouth. With the charcoal he drew a line from his mother's name. There he wrote: Lord Mozenrath. This impulse done, he walked to the doors. They opened upon his approach.

As he walked out, he thought he saw a dark shadow on the wall beside him. He turned his head fully, but nothing was there.

Back to index

Chapter 8: VIII Farmiliar

No matter how much obedience you beat into them, when left to their own devices, boys will go to amazing lengths to amuse themselves. Destane had left for the day, and would likely not be back till late in the night. This meant two things: neither dinner nor lunch would be allowed to them, and Mozenrath and Xerxes were free to start another rousing round of flag war.

As soon as their master stepped outside the Citadel gate, the boys went to planning. The concept was relatively simple. Two flags on either side of the Citadel, mamluks guarding them and acting as lookouts, and traps laid out to trick and trap each other as they tried to steal the other's flag.

They found spare cloths in two colors (this time Xerxes took grayish purple and Mozenrath took his favorite shade of blue), and cut them up into squares. They rounded up fifteen mamluks each and pinned their color to them, marking two teams. Mozenrath pinned them like badges onto their shirts, whilst Xerxes opted to use a nail and tacked the squares to their heads. Mozenrath didn't bother to tell him that this plan of action might impede their sight.

Mozenrath then retrieved the two white flags from under his mattress that were the objects of the game. Their names were painted on each one. Mozenrath had done it as soon as he had learned his Arabic alphabet. Xerxes was illiterate, and only knew his flag because his name was shorter. The boys would choose a side of the Citadel, either east or west, as their territory. The throne room was safe territory, neither Xerxes nor Mozenrath's, free for wrestling and trying to pry their flag from their opponent's hands.

Mozenrath chose west this time, and threw his flag on top of a tall bookcase. He went about ordering four mamluks as defense around the flag. These undead beings had a consciousness, but no personality or will of their own, and the other children were working outside for the day, so there was no fear of the servants ratting out the boys for their game. He used most of his mamluks for surrounding the flag. With his crude and untrained magic he set up a few alarms by charming bells that, if passed, would ring loudly.

Checking over his work, he decided it was time to enter enemy land. He stripped himself of his blue tunic, leaving him in his black undershirt, pants and boots. Seeing as the whole building was made of black marble, if he had to hide behind a guard mamluk or behind a black curtain, he would blend in perfectly.

He checked every trap one last time before heading into the throne room. It was empty, and not a sound could be heard. Xerxes was somewhere just biding his time. Thankfully only three of the twelve torches were burning, so Mozenrath easily flitted from shadow to shadow.

Xerxes was nowhere to be found. Usually the young wizard could hear his big mouth yards away. He was safe at the moment. As he tiptoed slowly through the dark corridors searching for any sign of a trap, he began to reflect on recent events.

It had been about a week since their fatal trip to Agrabah. Mozenrath had browbeaten himself into giving up any kind of foolish hope that he could acquire the lamp and overthrow Destane, but the small fire of rebellion festered in his heart and stomach with a Spartan spirit, refusing to die.

'This is your life,' his mind screamed. 'Slave! Slave-do you understand that? Not even an apprentice--no matter how much free rein he allows you in the library or lab, you are nothing. To aspire to anything more will get your head lopped off.' But something in him kept screaming 'no'.

Perhaps he was spending too much time with Xerxes. He had always wondered at his friend's attitude. It was s if Xerxes wasn't living the life of a slave-he was just waiting it out, as if someday, something better was coming. And he was expecting it.

Mozenrath just couldn't understand that mentality. The universe wasn't some cosmically just place. There were times when there was no justice, bittersweet or not. Or maybe because it was just because Mozenrath was a wizard and his kind's history was proof to his 'no justice theory.'

In the ancient days, magic and mortality lived in relative harmony. The four species of elves were out and about, the gods walked among humans, and the earth positively oozed magic. Elves, faes, wizards, demons, nymphs-what have you-all intermarried, and romance and adventure abounded. It was only until magical energy started to decline through the generations and magical creatures started to die out had the real resentment begun to rear its head.

Mortals, the supposedly weaker of the races, became fearful of magic and its power. And why not? There were some truly horrifying ancient wizards, not to mention the Elvin monarchies were as unstable as a stallion on stilts and usually wrought war and death amongst wizards and mortals alike.

Nonetheless, the cruelty and malicious injustice shown to magical beings were mind-blowing. It wasn't as if magic users were constantly stepping in and sending everything to hell. No, that'd be the gods. Evil wizards and kingdom revolts were generally far apart in years, say decades or even centuries.

What really made mortals hate magic whether it was long term resentment or hate toward one particularly irate dictator that stepped on too many toes, was not recorded. No one really knew, but what was known was the aftermath. Witch hunts, revolutions against magical kings and queens, and destruction of ancient artifacts filled the history books. Things like the Great Massacre, the entrapment of Queen Shishyla, the enchanted queen and her mystical court, and the weeding out and killing of fire elves were great monuments to magical injustice.

Mozenrath personally felt that most of them were myths. I mean, he thought, there's magic in this world. Some of the deserts are led by enchanted monarchs. In Rome oracles are treated with high respect.

Then again, something is never truly pitied until it's an endangered species, isn't it?

Still, are we to believe there that Queen Shishyla is still alive and trapped somewhere? That a small city-state of wizards could be burned away without repercussions? That fire elves fought great battles on the sands of Quarkistan? History is so sodden with myth, who can really know anything.

You really should stop talking to yourself, it's not healthy.

Shaking his head, he resumed concentrating on the game. It was eerily quiet. He should have met something by now. Then again, Xerxes could have put all his traps right next to his flag. An okay plan, but a dead giveaway to the location of the prize.

Yet even as he continued his cautious journey, his mind returned to its wonderings. The girl, that lovely creature whose bangle he had picked up. She had been dressed in soft silks, in a pale lavender that lay over her dark skin perfectly. Her wide warm eyes had smiled as brightly as her rose-colored lips. Her black hair had framed her face when she bent to take the trinket from his hand. "Thank you sir."

She had called him sir, like he was some noble's son or older distinguished gentleman. It had given him a charge of male pride, and flushed his skin. He'd never wanted to touch something so much before.

He'd seen other girls and flirted, of course. Especially Tiye's friend Mina, a quiet lamb of a girl with soft auburn hair. They had the tiniest bit of a romance-as much as they could when he was a slave boy and she was a servant girl, seeing each other only once every few months. She had made him want to kiss her and so forth-but not like this girl. This dark beauty had made his every sense fly to the moon and back. He could still feel the silk of her fingertips, the sight of her face, the smell of jasmine oils, and the sight of her ruby lips...

Even now his body flushed-just by the memory. Was he sick? This couldn't be normal, this was like a violent reaction. Like the time Destane forced him to try an antidote for some poison he had created to see if it was fatal. The antidote had placed him on bed rest, because he couldn't walk and felt searing heat.

This was akin to that feeling. Just the short memory of her made his knees turn to jelly, and skin turn pink. Something was wrong, it had to be. Maybe he was just a sick person for wanting-thirsting for another chance to see her. His clothes were feeling extraordinarily heavy and itchy. He tugged at the collar of his shirt for some relief.

No! He had to concentrate. How had he gotten into the observatory? His unsupervised feet had wandered up a few flights of stairs to a tall room with a domed top. The glass was clean and uncolored, so the midday sunset leaked through, shading the room in golds and purples. Was she watching the same sky right now? Or was it still bright and blue in her sky? Was she sitting on a balcony, gazing at the dying day, or inside doing something lady-like?

Oh, this was an illness. He couldn't concentrate on anything, not even a simple game. Rubbing his eyes vigorously, he looked around. If he were Xerxes, where would he hide a flag, what location would be the most humorous and clever?

Mozenrath smiled. Xerxes would have put it in broad daylight to be cheeky, that was where he would have hidden it. Mozenrath descended the stairs and headed toward the kitchens to search there first. Maybe he could knick some honey while there. Mozenrath licked his lips in anticipation.

He picked up speed until he heard the echo of a bell going off. Xerxes had tripped his trap. Mozenrath leapt the last four steps, and raced through the halls. Mozenrath only skidded to a stop when he noticed that one of the black velvet curtains were open a crack. Skidding to a stop he ripped the cloth back. The dying sunlight was obstructed by the white bed sheet flag tacked to the window.

"Check mate," he said grinning. He ripped it from the window and set off as fast as he could to the throne room.

The pillars zipped past him, and all he could hear was the wind in his ears and the heavy thump of his footfalls. He could just see the glimmer of the torches the surrounded the throne in the distance-and Xerxes nowhere in sight! Almost there!

Abruptly, the entire world spun, as Mozenrath tripped and went flying. "The hell...?" He stood looking behind him. A thin line of rope had been placed across the floor. It was being pulled across the floor at lightning speed with a loud 'Zzz'!

"Oh sh--." Mozenrath tried to leap out of the way, but was a second too late. What the rope was pulling were five mamluks tied together, to slam into the victim, aka Mozenrath. For the second time, Mozenrath went ass over teapot to the ground. The young sorcerer crawled out from beneath the pile of zombies to see two rough brown boots.

"I believe this is mine," Xerxes said, taking the flag from Mozenrath. Xerxes was wearing Mozenrath's flag like a midwife's hair kerchief. He took his own flag and tied it round his neck like a cape. "I do believe that I am the victor, my good friend. And now-my victory dance!"

Mozenrath rolled his eyes and detangled his legs from the undead mass. His friend was dancing in a circle, hips swaying, and head bobbing in a truly ridiculous dance. As Xerxes passed, Mozenrath caught the end of his 'cape'.

"Ack!" Xerxes stopped mid-dance and fell to the ground. "Well, no need to choke me, sour grapes."

Waving his hand Mozenrath turned to the trap. "How did you rig this?"

"I took those pieces from that metal horse thing that was left at the gate last week by Mechnicles or Mechanese or whoever, and started tinkering with the metal parts when you were playing with your chemistry set, here." Xerxes pulled back one of the black velvet curtains, and gestured to the small gold contraption on the floor. Rope was being fed through one hole and when Xerxes tugged on it, it started to pull the rope again. The mamluks still tied together drug along the floor.

Mozenrath kneeled down to take a closer look. "Really? How did you know how to put it together?"

"I didn't. Just having some fun, and there you are. Handy though, huh?"

"It's impressive-you did something right."

"Kick in the head, ain't it? Don't act so surprised.""

Mozenrath smirked and stood again, ripping the flag from Xerxes' head. "Yes, well, when you create something that can clean and carry, then I'll get excited. Till then, clean up your mess."

Mozenrath returned the flags to their hiding places. Xerxes hid his contraption in the hole in the wall he and Mozenrath had dug out long ago. They hid small bits of food, letters, notes and other miscellaneous items there. Destane almost never came in here, and when he did, they covered the hole with one of their cots or a raggedy piece of cloth.

"Think fast," Mozenrath said, throwing a wet sponge at his face. Xerxes caught it, but gripped it too tight. Some soapy water squirted into his eye.

"Brat," he said, rubbing the afflicted organ. "What are we doing? Scrubbing the halls?"

"You are. I have children to…put to bed." Mozenrath scowled at the term. He had children to age and kill, then bring back as mamluks. Destane forced him to use his necromancy specialty to make more mamluks. The only reason Mozenrath did this rather willingly was because death, even a walking death, was better than the life they led.

"Which?"

"The red hai--,"

"They have names, Moze. Names."

Mozenrath closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to use their names, he didn't, couldn't, think of them as people. It was too hard, but dealing with a determined Xerxes was far harder. "Malina, Jotoro, Milkateh, and Boja."

"Awww, Malina? The hot kitchen maid? Couldn't you, I don't know, save her till later? I was gonna…have lunch with her." Xerxes threw him a lopsided grin.

"I doubt you'd get very far," Mozenrath said. "She'd dispose of your…fork before you could blink. Nasty temper."

"But that's what makes the chase so much more fun-and victory so sweet," the brunette said throwing his arms wide.

"V-Victory? When have you ever won a girl?"

"I got Selya to kiss me, didn't I?"

"Because you cornered her and wouldn't leave her alone till she did. Even then she ran away and got one of the butlers to chase you round Mirage's temple with a broom," Mozenrath reminded him as they headed down the stairs.

"A kiss is a kiss," Xerxes argued.

"If you go after a girl-which in our position is stupid, in any case-why not go after one by being normal and not a strutting ass?"

"So I should go after a doe-eyed lamb, like Mina, hm?" Xerxes smirked, looking at him sideways.

Mozenrath tried to scowl, but a smirk fought its way to his lips. "Mina is a nice girl, so?"

"A nice girl is just a naughty one in disguise. Lucky for you then, that she's so completely smitten with the brooding fantastically haired Mozenrath."

Mozenrath touched his curls, glaring. "She's our friend. It's a wonder that she can stand you for more than two seconds. It's different for me-I live with you, it's adapt or die. But she willingly talks to you. She must be an angel."

"Star crossed! The angel and the brooding beast."

"Go wash something," Mozenrath said, pinching his ear.

"Yes, litter master," Xerxes mocked, bowing before strutting away.

Mozenrath waved his hand dismissively, before grabbing his cloak and heading towards the doors. Outside the Citadel the children worked, tending the gardens. Where there should have been roses and lilies were planted various and sometimes poisonous plants that Destane used for his experiments. The older children helped teach the younger how to plant which and when they were right for picking. Jotoro and Boja had their heads down working vigorously. This was not uncommon. The older the children got, they thought they could stave off death by working harder, trying to please their master. It never worked with boys, and for the girls… Mozenrath shivered. Surely they were not that desperate to cling to life.

"Jotoro, Boja," Mozenrath called. The two boys looked up, their eyes widening. Boja grasped Jotoro's sleeve. He was visibly shaking. "Come with me."

The two young lads stood-knees knocking-and came forward. Some of the children reached out and grasped their hands momentarily as a last sign of kinship. A few of the girls turned their faces away, tears sparkling in their eyes. The youngsters looked around confused, having yet to discover what their paths would lead to.

Jotoro straightened his shoulders. He was Mozenrath's height, tanned, with dirty blonde hair. "Is it time?"

Before Mozernath could answer, Boja interjected: "Isn't there anything you could do? You could say you couldn't bring us back and let us run."

Mozenrath shook his head. "You will follow me."

"But-"

"Boja, still your tongue. What is to be, will be."

Mozernath nodded, but internally snorted at Jotoro's bravado. Once in a while Mozenrath would come across one like him, stone faced, almost proud to meet his death. Most were like Boja, scarred, and pleading, hoping that the 'favorite' would help them. The worst, in Mozenrath's opinion, where the Silents. Those who walked behind him as if they were already undead. Their eyes were blank, dead, and gaping as they stared at him, and obeyed him mindlessly.

They entered the Citadel again, and headed towards the kitchen. He could hear Malina and Milkateh fighting. Others were jumping in, trying to calm them. All stopped when Mozenrath pushed open the door.

The kitchens were favorably sized, and the once white stones were stained gray and black. No children under eleven were allowed down here. Destane didn't care what happen to his slaves, but didn't want to be bothered if the younger ones cut themselves. Malina was screaming holding a large meat knife like it was a broad sword. "I won't go! I dare that frizzy haired pup to come and get me!"

Mozenrath's hand shot to his hair. It was not frizzy! He scowled. He was used to these digs at him and Xerxes. He and Xerxes were not allowed to spend more than an hour in the company of the other slaves because they were allowed to live. 'Chatter creates disobedience,' Destane said. So the other slaves were either indifferent or bitter.

"Yer bein' ridi'cilous, Mali! You ain't the only wun goin' to the tower! Yer gonna get us all a good beatin!"

"No I won't go, I tell ya!"

"Malina, Milkateh," Mozenrath called calmly.

Malina turned, knife at the ready. "Come for me! I dare you! Not so strong without that son of a whore Xerxes, are ya, ya skinny bone bag!" She jumped up on the counter and launched herself towards him.

Mozenrath crouched and leaned back, lifting his hands. His magic was unbridled and untrained, so all he needed to do was concentrate on what he wanted to happen, and mentally push with all his might. He concentrated solely on her stomach, imagining two large invisible hands pushing her right above the belly button. He gave one last mental push and Malina stopped midair, dropping straight down to the floor.

Malina clutched at her chest breathing heavily. Mozenrath used his foot to drag the blade to him and picked it up. "Are we done with these charades? May we go now?"

Milkateh kneeled down, and helped Malina to her feet, pushing her flaming red hair from her face. "Are yer awright, Mali?"

"Fine," she said, her calm finally cracking. "I…"

"Hold me hand. Hold me hand an don let go go, awright?" Malina nodded, lowering her head so no one could see her tears. Milkateh looked back at Mozenrath, breaking an empty smile. "We're ready."

Mozenrath looked at their entwined hands, and shook his head. "Follow me."

He climbed the winding stairs to the tower. The second tower level held the 'Changing Room'. Before Mozenrath could open the door, Xerxes came out, holding his bucket and sponge. "I just finished cleaning in there, I thought…"

Mozenrath nodded. Xerxes put the bucket down and watched them as they all filed in, but caught Malina's arm as she passed. "Listen, Malina…how 'bout a kiss? Take the edge off?"

The loud crunching smack across his jaw was his answer.

Inside the room were seven cots with thick mattresses, covered in warm quilts. They were arranged in a semi circle around a low round table. The ceiling was high and painted a pure white, so when the firelight bounced off it, the cold gray stone did not look so imposing. It had been Xerxes' idea.

Mozenrath uncovered a fresh loaf of bread and divided it equally into four pieces. Pulling together four glasses he poured out a rich colored wine. After adding the colorless, odorless poison, and placed the commodities onto a tray and brought it over to the table.

"Take a seat on a bed. Eat as much as you like but drink all of the wine," Mozenrath said.

Xerxes came in, holding his reddened cheek. He nudged Mozenrath to continue. The sorcerer sighed again. It was another idea of Xerxes, to allude that their deaths would not come from the wine. "If you start feeling sleepy, lie back, and take a nap. I will wake you when it is time."

Milkateh kissed Malina's hand before downing his entire glass. Malina simply nibbled at her bread. Jotoro patted her knee before urging Boja to eat.

Mozenrath turned his back, drumming his fingers against the wood of the lab table. Xerxes shifted from foot to foot before making for the door. He couldn't take it, and Mozenrath couldn't blame him. Who would want to watch their peers die?

When he turned back, only Malina was still awake sitting on the edge of her bed. The other were 'sleeping' on their cots, their chests still. She was starring into the depths of her goblet, stalling.

"Drink," he ordered.

She looked up at him, silent. A few beats passed before she opened her mouth. "How can you stand there, knowing they're dead? Knowing you did it?"

"I can stand because my legs work and I do not wish to sit."

"You're a monster for being so cavalier. Is the death of somebody so meaningless?"

"You put so much store in it, but you do not know, do you? That death is only a beginning?"

"Whatever you have to say to yourself," Malina said, taking the rest of her wine in one gulp. She popped the last of her bread into her mouth and curled up on her bed. Mozenrath pressed a finger to her neck after a few moments, and felt the dull 'thump' slowly fade away.

He had to work faster now. He had to take the aging potion and tip it down their throats before the bodies grew cold. It was always strange to watch victims age. It was like watching years literally pass before his eyes. Malina made for a very fine looking woman. Mozenrath made a mental note to inform Xerxes of that. Pulling off his blue tunic for the second time today, he pulled up a stool to one of the cots, preparing himself mentally for crossing over. Jotoro would be first. The young wizard placed his hands onto the boy-man's chest. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

He started to feel a falling sensation, like the ground, ceiling, his very body start to gently fall away. Everything began to grow cold as he fell. Kicking gently he finally felt firmness underneath. He could Sense the barrier. He had to catch them before they transferred to the other world-the Underworld. It was hard to get the soul once they passed over and impossible if they already boarded the boat.

'Jotoro,' he called, reaching out. His fingers brushed something-cloth. His hand tightened. The next part was the difficult one. He couldn't let go, he had to rip the soul in half, and pull back-had to return before he, himself, was pulled over too, lost forever to the Underworld.

He dug his heels in and tugged repeatedly. He leaned backwards, concentrating, trying to feel his limbs, his body, as he kept his hold. He could feel his fingers tingle, the warmth of his breath on his upper lip, the itch of his wool undershirt, the ache of his feet in his too small boots.

Mozenrath started, gasping and shivering. His fingers, ears and nose were freezing, and turning a pale blue color. He flexed his limbs, working the blood back into them.

Jotoro's corpse opened its eyes. "Can you hear me," The necromancer said in a clear voice.

He-it-nodded.

"Then you can understand the words I am speaking?"

Another nod.

"Try and move your hands and arms." He left the mamluk to that task and retrieved a needle and thread from the lab table. "You will hold still," he said, leaning over the zombie. He threaded the needle expertly, and plunged the sharp tip into the flesh of the corpse's lips. "You know, you'd think with how many times I do this, I could open a tailor's stand, hm? Make lots of money with a simple cross stitch. Pay for Mina's freedom, marry, and always have enough food to eat, and blankets to keep warm. Sounds nice, doesn't it? That would be an interesting conversation. 'Please Lord Destane, let me and my magic go so I can sew dresses for fat ladies and crotchety old lords.'" Mozenrath cracked a smile. "Listen to me go on, starting to sound like Xerxes. His useless dreaming is wearing off on me. "

All this talking to yourself, it's-

"Not healthy. I know that," Mozenrath said, aloud.

An hour or so later, Mozenrath was stitching up the last one. Milkateh, Jotoro, and Malina were standing silently against the wall, inanimate and stoic. Xerxes opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Guess who's here."

"Death and he's come to take your sorry ass away."

"No."

"The angel of mercy then, to do the same?"

"No. Tiye, Mina and Seth, they're at the front door. Apparently Mirage has something for Destane as Tiye's first mission."

"And the other two?"

"Seth for protection, and Mina for sanity. You think I'm annoying-,"

"Seth doesn't make you less annoying, the gods are just cruel enough to make someone else more so, as hard as it may be to believe." Mozenrath stood, wiping his hands. "Up Boja. The four of you leave, go stand guard in the east wing or something."

The four new zombies shuffled out, and Mozenrath followed Xerxes to the main hall. The three visitors stood, still by the door. Seth and Mina looked uneasy, but Tiye had seen it all before plenty of times. She was a tall, tanned girl with sharp black eyes. She was one of those rare, pure blooded Egyptians blessed with fashionable straight hair, which was cropped around her shoulders. Her gold painted lips turned up slightly when she saw the two boys entering the hall.

Mina ducked her head shyly when Mozenrath nodded to her. Soft brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a thin brown dress that clung to her developing body made for a nice image. But it did not set the embers ablaze as it used to. As horrid as it was, all he could do was compare her. She had no regal grace, no shine in her hair, no fiery personality behind the chocolate eyes, nothing that made her grand or alluring. Just Mina...

Just Mina…

Just…

"Mina," Aladdin whispered as his eyes opened. The early morning sun was crawling over the room, making the gold fixtures and cream marble shimmer happily. He was not in the black, cold Citadel, but in the warmth of Agrabah. But right now, with no child, barely a marriage to a woman he could hardly look at, and nightly nightmares, it felt just as desolate as the winding black sands.

---

The corner of the ceiling was leaking. The silence was broken with a soft 'dwip, dwip', as the water collected in the bucket.

It was a mild annoyance, and Mozenrath gladly suffered it. The inn was small, nice and warm. The plump no-nonsense landlady had given him a free meal when he walked in. "You look like you've been nibbled on by a pack of hell hounds."

He didn't tell her that if he had been 'nibbled' on by hell hounds, he'd be a gelatinous pile of flesh and quivering organs. The hounds would take his bones, of course. That was their favorite treat, he heard.

He had traveled a long way, half by practical means, horses and caravans, and half by teleporting. That attribute of the gauntlet took a lot out of him. Teleporting in the Black Sands was easier because the sand was rich with magic, and teleporting in Agrabah was easy because he knew the place so well. But simply pointing to a place on a map, concentrating, and teleporting took a lot of energy, and left him completely spent.

Greece and Italy were so different from Arabia. In Arabia it was easier to hide. People lived in kingdoms separated by long, vast tracts of desert. News stayed local, and resources were too precious to waste on hate mongering.

But in the west people lined the streets, shoulder to shoulder. While it might seem like a good place to disappear it meant that one slip, one sign of true magic and there would be a thousand witnesses.

Yes, true magic, Mozenrath thought. Not the smoke and mirrors 'magicians' do at dinner parties for the nobility.

The second best thing about the inn was that he was able to take a long, piping hot bath. What wonders mere water could do for the body. Of course at first it had inflamed his still scabbing wounds, but now he could move without wincing. Much. Mozenrath rubbed his curls dry as he walked back into his room. The sword was safely tucked between the bed frame and his mattress. The books and papers he had taken from the temple lay over the bed, small table, and even the floor. Maps he had found tucked between the pages of one of the compendiums were tacked up on the walls. He has already begun to translate the writing on them. The older annotations were in Greek, naturally. There was some Arabic and Egyptian here or there, but the freshest ink was in Punjabi.

The handwriting was small, neat and feminine. These notes far outnumbered their predecessors. His mother had crossed out some names and points saying things like 'taken over', 'destroyed', or 'blocked'. Rathana had obviously been busy. She had been practically everywhere, even so far as Gaul and Britannia.

He saw at first glance several caves of Ix he himself had never known existed. One was right in Italy, and he made a mental note to visit there as soon as this mission was complete.

Combing back his curls with his left hand, he set to work copying the annotations from the older map to a newer one he had bought. He circled a few places he wanted to go before going home to start rebuilding his collection.

He paused to make a note in his leather journal that he should start working on a way to use the crystal of Ix without backfiring. He grimaced at the memory of Dagger Rock.

What you need is more caution. Check and recheck, cover your ass so it doesn't get kicked. Don't let anything slip through your fingers or catch you off guard. You can't rely on anyone, not at all.

Mozenrath returned to the map, trying to will the memories away. He should not have put any trust in the princess to obey him.

'I always get my man.'

Not always, Mozenrath thought. Pompous little chit. She'd be at his mercy soon enough. Perhaps he'd be merciful at first. She was beautiful and part of him still lusted for her. But a stronger, darker, and hungrier part of him thirsted for her pain and suffering. How delightfully twisted he could be; to want her to suffer, to revel in it after what had transpired.

Love someone's pain, eh? Sounds like some one else...

No, he was not like Destane! Destane reveled in pain of the innocent, to swing his power around because he could. Mozenrath was logical and calculating, and only hurt those who deserved it, and those who were unfortunate enough to get in the way. If they're stupid enough to get in the way of Lord Mozenrath, they probably deserve to be blasted away.

Then again, was there anything wrong with enjoying the pain of his enemies? To feed off the fear and hate in their eyes? He gave them a choice, to obey or die. If they were stupid enough to turn him down, they deserved what happened to them, didn't they?

He threw down his pen, frustrated. His mind would not stop spinning around and around. It jumped like a frog from pad to pad. From his position, to his choice, to his mother and from there to his past; dwelling on a living Xerxes and a whole Tiye to the princess, and continuing to his fall and wounds, only to return to his fateful deal. Over all this, something nagged at him, at his over analysis, his slow healing wounds, and his deliberating attitude.

You are still Lord Mozenrath! Just because you've been knocked down does not mean you are allowed to regress to a child again!

For once he knew what Xerxes meant by 'I need a drink'.

He was never going to get any work done this way. He blew on his map, drying the ink and rolled it up. He made a fruitless attempt to tidy up the room, but aborted that uphill climb in favor of slipping gratefully into bed. He reached in his bag and pulled out an old battered volume and opened to a marked page. It was a biography of Mael and Kirrata, twin Proporis born long, long ago, in the ancient days, before mortal/magic dissidence. They were great minds and the first to put spells, incantations, potion recipes and a catalog of magical artifacts to paper. Their collected works of the basic spells and such that every magical being should know were called the Compendium.

Anyone who was properly trained in the old, and in Mozenrath's opinion, true ways of magic learned from the Compendium in the beginning. Since it was dangerous to make any more copies, a young witch or wizard would learn from a family Compendium passed down from generation to generation. Mozenrath still had his, tucked safely in his pack. Selene, Tiye's mother had given it to him when he had become an apprentice.

Mozenrath loved this biography of them. This novel had gotten him through extremely lonely nights traveling on one errand or another for Destane, when neither mamluks nor Xerxes were allowed to accompany him. It spoke of their fantastic adventures as pioneers in magic, seeing just how far they could push the limits, and discovering new spells and elements. They had met the old Fae Kings of lore, and dragons, something Mozenrath desperately wished to see before he boarded Charon's barge.

In fact, when he began to build his collection after Destane's death, he used this biography as a guide to find magical artifacts and places, an example being his knowledge of the Muktar.

He had always built Kirrata up in his mind as the perfect woman: magically powerful, beautiful, adventurous, snarky, sexy and witty. And he aspired to be marked down in history as a wizard akin to Mael's power.

He lost himself in the immersion of the book, as he followed them across ancient Arabia, fighting off sand worms and working with the Witches of the Sand exploring sand magic. Perhaps it had been this team that had created the Black Sands?

It was only when Mozenrath had read the same line five times that he begrudgingly marked his place and snapped the book closed, ripped back into reality, with its leaky roof.

Tossing it on his bedside table, he moved to snuff out the candle. On the far wall something flitted by. Mozenrath started and jumped out of bed. "What the hell?"

He saw it again. The black shadow that had watched him leave the sanctuary now stood, peeking around the small dresser.

It was definitely male, shorter than the wizard and with disheveled hair. He moved from behind the furniture and shoved his hands in its pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Are you following me," Mozenrath snapped.

He shrugged.

"Are you a ghost? Of someone from the Massacre?"

He shrugged again and walked around the room. That is, walked around the perimeter, as it was obvious he was limited to the walls.

Placing his hands on his hips, Mozenrath turned in a circled, following the shadow. "Why are you following me? What do you want?"

The shadow shrugged again and hopped up onto the shadow of the bed, folding his arms behind his head.

"Alright then, get out."

He didn't move, though the sorcerer didn't really think he would.

"I don't normally do this, but you seem a little dense." Mozenrath brought himself up to his full height. "You don't know who I am or what I'm capable of-so I warn you now, leave."

He made a motion with his hands, in a mocking attempt at pleading. He seemed to say "Oh no-o-o please don't," sarcastically.

Mozenrath flushed with anger, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, I know how to fix this."

He extended his hand and closed his eyes. He let his mind detach from his body and cross the barrier, trying to feel around for the soul and shove it hard over the edge to the other world. He stretched out, and caught hold of something cold and clammy. He had him! Preparing himself, he made to push it--

And he was suddenly slammed harshly back into his body so fast and furious that he physically stumbled back. His limbs were shaking, and a cold sweat made his shirt stick to his skin. The shadow was panting too. It wiped its forehead and gave him a very rude gesture.

Mozenrath sat on the edge of his bed, and reached out to try again. Once again his necromancy met a virtual stone wall. The ghost silently raged at him for his attempts. Mozenrath pushed his hair back, shivering from the cold. "What in the hell are you?"

The ghost-if that is what it was-shook his head sadly and folded its arms. He kicked at the floor.

"Are you a ghost or not," he repeated.

He looked up and paused. Then shrugged, shook his head, paused, then nodded. Mozenrath translated that as 'I suppose so.'

"And you're trapped? You can't go over? Or are you purposely annoying me?"

He shrugged and walked over the dresser again, 'leaning' against it.

"Did Eris send you," Mozenrath said through grit teeth.

A shake no.

"Were you sent by anyone at all?"

He shook his head again and slipped to the floor. Mozenrath did the same, thinking. He was well versed in every kind of ghost, poltergeist, demon or spirit, considering his Specialty. But he had never come against something he could not push over to the other side.

He spent the next half an hour asking various yes or no questions, getting absolutely nowhere. Out of pure frustration he went over again, purposely hurting the damn thing so maybe he would leave. The shadow didn't, but it was entertaining to watch it stamp its feet and gesture at him.

The necromancer bowed his head, the cruel smile falling off his face. It was going to be a long night.

---

Zatel was a pimp who ran one of the dirtiest, nastiest, cheapest, most popular brothels for miles. Such a disgusting place was far beneath Mozenrath, and he would never bring himself to purchase any of his merchandise.

But it was a super highway for gossip. If anyone wanted to know anything about anybody, all they'd have to do is come here and ask around.

The sorcerer himself was leaning against a building across the road. He could hear the festivities clear in the otherwise silent air. He wrinkled his nose. He hated coming down to the poorer part of town; such crude, crass people and classless women.

He wasn't quite sure why he was deliberating. He felt happy that finally he was doing something other than travel, getting something accomplished. But it was different this time.

A few people passed, drunkenly singing together off key. He winced at this assassination of his ears. What's wrong with me? All there is to do is march in there, rip some answers from him then leave.

He readjusted his position against the wall. Confidence, that's what had been wounded. He had spent the last few months hiding out and licking his wounds because he knew he couldn't handle a fight in his condition. He had once been the most feared wizard in Arabia, and now he was just starting to walk without a limp.

Please, what are you talking about? You're Lord Mozenrath! It's like riding a horse, once you get the rhythm, you can go back anytime and ride flawlessly. Go in there, throw around a few threats, intimidate him a bit and leave.

True, it was always fun to watch Zatel cower and slather on the flattery.

You've relaxed too much. All this digging up the past is changing you, making you revert. Stop standing around, damn it. You could make the greatest cower in fear-this is a gout ridden pimp we're talking about.

But would he be able to see the broken man behind the persona? The wounded dog that had once been a fierce hunter, now curling up for protection?

Once?! It's not gone! You have to start rebuilding somewhere, and here's easy practice. Move or I swear to god…

He seriously had to stop talking to himself. If he was starting to threaten himself with harm, it was perhaps time to rethink spending so much time alone.

The path up to the door was familiar to Mozenrath. This was his first stop to find any information on the underground, magical or non magical. A few exhausted women lounged about in the entrance hallway, half asleep or half high. They reached out for his pale hand as he passed, laughing languidly.

Inside the music was loud and crass, beating on the ears like elephant feet. Mozenrath loved music enough to know that this noise was an abomination. People laughed and shouted, women squealing and giggling on customers' laps. The whole place stank of sex and alcohol, and it made Mozenrath want to retch. He schooled himself not to show any sign of distress.

Slipping into his commanding 'The Dreaded Lord Mozenrath' persona was like pulling on a warm freshly laundered shirt; warm, safe, and familiar. He straightened his stance, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin imperiously. There you go. Looking the part is half the battle.

Ah, there it came, the confidence he had been rifling for. His step was sure and firm as he entered the main room. A few of the more sober people looked around, raising their eyebrows, impressed.

The women smirked like hungry hyenas. Here was a man who was obviously in a class of which they never saw around here.

A relatively handsome woman sauntered up to him and took his left hand.

"Now, whot can I do for ya?"

"Tell me where Zatel is."

"Why would you want 'im? I should 'ope I'm prettier than the masta," she giggled.

Mozenrath pulled his hand away. "Be quick, or be gone. I need to find him, I have business with him."

"Oh," the woman said nodding. "Ya lookin to find dirt on someone then? Well c'mon, I'll take ya to 'im." She took his hand again and pulled him through the throng of drunks and whores. He pulled the cloth of his turban over his nose and mouth, desperately trying to filter the air. It had been three nights since the ghost first appeared in his room, and every night since he'd tried to contact it, or throw it roughly into the Underworld with no avail. His senses were exhausted and now overwhelmed by this smelly and disgusting place.

Up a dark rickety set of stairs and a few dim hallways and they were in Zatel's personal harem. Mozenrath was hit in the face with the smell of hookah and poor wine.

Zatel was a short, small, plump man, with beady eyes, mousy brown hair and beard, and a round pink face. He reclined at the low scrub wooden table. He threw his arms open wide. "My Lord!"

"Zatel. Disgusting as ever, I see," Mozenrath said walking up to the table, smirking. He kneeled and crossed his ankles, sitting back on his heels. This was easy meat, nothing to worry about.

The pimp laughed. "Do you hear this, girls? Still as humorous as last year, sir!"

Not that humorous. Mozenrath smiled again. "It has been a rather long time. Since you referred the thief Amin Damoola to me, wasn't it?"

"I assure you Mozenrath, he was the greatest thief at the time-,"

Mozenrath lifted his hand to silence him. "It has been permanently taken care of. I do not appreciate sloppy work. It's safe to say that he will not disappoint another client," the sorcerer said with a shark-like grin.

Zatel swallowed nervously and shifted. Mozenrath tilted his head to the side, and sipped up his pain like wine. Still good as ever. I told you so. It comes back instantly.

Yes, now shut up.

You should not reply to yourself, you know.

His guide came over and refilled Zatel's goblet. The wine had thick gobs of...something in it. Mozenrath repressed another retch and covered his glass top. "Water," he said, before turning back to the pimp.

"I hope nothing too serious has brought you here," Zatel said, nodding to his hand.

Mozenrath glanced down at his bandaged left hand. Another scar he wore on his quest for power. He flexed his fingers slightly. "No, nothing too serious. We all must make sacrifices for what we want, don't we?"

"Yes, yes of course! Very wise!"

Mozenrath rolled his eyes. Some of the girls were moving closer, trying to listen in on the conversation.

"Now what can I do for you," Zatel said, sipping his wine, hand shaking slightly.

"Information, obviously."

Mozenrath's guide came back and poured him some water. Brown gold flecks swam in it, sinking to the bottom. He pushed the goblet aside completely.

"Tiva, get out of here, the man and I are trying to speak. Now who do you wish information on?"

"A girl, named...Meger? Something like that, the hero's bride."

"Megara? Oh yes, I know her. She was a pretty little thing. Wish I had gotten her to join when she was younger-she would have been my number one lady."

"So you knew her when she was young," Mozenrath said, intrigued.

Zatel nodded behind his glass. "Came here and lived with her grandmother, the old bitch of a woman. She and her twin brother came when she was around 13 or so. Beautiful young thing, but her brother's mad. Would randomly stop in place and say the strangest things, always in rhyme. But who can count the ways of the insane, eh?

"Their old gran mistreated them something awful, beat 'em, didn't feed 'em, you name it. Meg was quite the famous thief in our humble little town here."

Mozenrath scowled. Oh, simply fan-bloody-tastic. A thief with a noble streak, how original! A female Aladdin was not what he wanted, and the last thing he expected. He scowled and let Zatel go on.

"A bit of a bar room brawler actually. Never went a week without getting into a scuffle or something, till Adonis came through. Ran off with him with nary an engagement or bride price."

"Then why is she marrying a hero," Mozenrath said, leaning his cheek against his knuckles. A spit fire like that with a past was probably not something a hero would want plastered across the city as his bride.

"Well Adonis almost died, you see. Got sick with something or other. She sold her soul to Hades to save him. At least that's what the rumor mill churned out. The only facts are, Adonis got better, and she somehow got mixed up with Hades. Here was me thinking the gods don't even watch anymore! Interesting eh? How you think something is gone, and they just pop back up again?" He nervously took a sip of wine. Zatel's glance his way did not go unnoticed by the necromancer. "I guess they're just laying in-,"

"Zatel, it's a wonder I haven't killed you in all the years I've known you. You've been talking for five minutes and I've gotten little to no information." Mozenrath lazily tugged his gauntlet tighter.

Zatel paled, and his beady eyes widened. Taking off his cap, he mopped his sweating forehead and continued. "Ah, well, yes. You know there was some trouble in Thebes a few years back. That was her and Hades. Hercules freed her apparently, though I'm not sure how. I've never really heard of anyone who escaped a deal with Hades...yes well," he said, faulting catching Mozenrath's annoyed glare. "She now lives at Hercules' chateau, and from what I've heard it's not an easy transition from outlaw to lady. She's tall, with long brown hair, and from my connections in Rome she makes a habit of sneaking out and visiting her brother in the asylum."

Mozenrath mentally tagged this fact. If he could somehow find her on one of these secret trips, it would be his ticket in. He shifted to a more comfortable position. "She's not taking to that life well, then?"

"Not at all. All she can speak is Latin, and when she does speak Greek, it's like Tiva over there. She's a thief, and a former slave. It's like a street rat wearing a crown, it's absurd, right?" He laughed a little too loudly. When Mozenrath didn't partake in his humor, he quickly sobered. "And believe you me, people are not happy about it." He burst out laughing at one more attempted to move the stone faced lord. "If you hurry, you can see when the Emperor meets with her and Hercules-there should be a laugh! I can't imagine she's very happy with the arrangement, being forced into a box that obviously can't contain her."

Good. If she's unhappy it'll make her more susceptible to manipulation. If I can get her to follow without too much force it'd be for the best.

"Has she any living relatives, besides her brother?"

"No," Zatel said, shaking his head. "Not living. Her parents were never in the picture-and as much as I tried to find out, no one speaks of them so I guess they will remain that way. Her old bitch of a grandmother died long ago."

"Do you know where she came from before?"

"Thebes, I think," the pimp said shrugging. "Not surprising, you know how it is there. Complete chaos."

Mozenrath pinched the bridge of his nose before standing. Something about the answer rubbed him the wrong way. "Very well then."

"I hope I was helpful to you my lord!" Zatel held out his hand grinning. Obviously he was relieved their little interview was over.

"I hope you were too, for your sake." Mozenrath put his boot on the man's shoulder and pushed him to the ground. He grinned at the terror stricken look the man was giving him.

Ah, how could he forget the power fear brought? The lovely feeling of control? Hmm, how I missed this part. "If you send me on a red herring again, like Amin, these girls will have to wipe your intestines off their clothes and look for another brothel to call home." Mozenrath took his glass of wine as an afterthought and threw it to the floor. "And, good god man, I know you have enough money to buy at least decent wine."

Zatel kept very still as the young sorcerer turned to leave. The girls giggled at their master's misfortune, only stopping after he glared at them.

Tiva came up to him again. She took his left hand, and caressed it gingerly. "Will I be seein ya's around anytime soon, ya think? I could help you 'heal' from your poor wounds."

Mozenrath touched her chin. "My dear, not on your best day and my worst," he said, walking out the door and finding his way through the corridors and stairwells. He needed to find a secluded place where no one would see or hear him. One teleport and he would be in Rome.

Outside, he slowed his step and rolled his shoulders. Yes, that was exactly what he needed to whet his purpose and remind him of his station. No more digging up the past, reverting to the quiet little boy he had once been.

Lord Mozenrath was back.

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