Star of Cursrah

10

The 383rd Anniversary of the Great Arrival

"You'll be sorry now," growled Samira Amenstar to the cavalry captain. "Striking royalty comes at the cost of the offending hand… and then your head."

The lean, dark captain hammered her lips into a tight white line. After four hours' ride-and endless grumbled threats from Amenstar-the cavalry and their captives entered the hills northeast of Cursrah. Before them unfolded a city of tents. Foot soldiers and horse troopers marched and galloped hither and yon. Scores of slaves chopped, baked, and dished food onto long plank tables.

"What are they up to?" murmured Gheqet.

Tafir nodded to an open-air workshop. Dozens of slaves repaired and manufactured shovels, pickaxes, mattocks, and crowbars. Slave children wove rushes into baskets heaped up like winter apples.

"Hundreds of hand tools and baskets to carry dirt," the architect's apprentice said. "There must be some kind of excavation going on nearby."

"Make way. Prisoners for questioning," bellowed their escort.

Slaves and soldiers sidestepped. The camp was laid in neat military lines, with Samir Pallaton's big square headquarters tent centermost. The cavalry patrol rode the three captives up to six spear-wielding guards. As they dismounted, Samira Amenstar took charge and marched into the tent as if she owned it. The cavalry captain trotted to keep up.

"Samir Pallaton!" shrilled Amenstar.

Everyone in the tent turned. Prince Pallaton and nine advisers studied parchment maps pegged to an easel. Servants hovered at the back of the big tent, and eight guards were posted about. All wore undyed linen tunics emblazoned with red ox heads.

Amenstar still wore her riding clothes of plum blouse and yellow trousers smudged with dust and campfire smoke. Her silver tiara and cornrowed hair were streaked with blood from a sliced ear. The young woman looked every inch a princess as her fury boiled over.

"This woman whipped me!" Star shrilled. A royal finger stabbed at the sweating cavalry captain, who stood at rigid attention. "As a princess of the blood, I demand she be punished with her life-flayed alive and her guts hurled to the jackals! She struck me, if you can believe it, with her filthy, common hands, knocked me off my horse, called me a bitch and a trull, and lashed me like some slacking dung shoveller. I have condemned her to be burned at the stake, and I order you, as a royal heir to a throne, to punish her immediately."

Placidly, Samir Pallaton waited until Star ran out of breath. Handsome and hirsute, stocky and swarthy, the prince wore a common uniform accented by leather cross-belts, shoulder wings, and the red ox head sigil stamped on a leather disk. On campaign, he wore matched short swords at each hip, a leather skullcap with red neck cloth, and the spitting cobra headband.

As Amenstar panted to a halt, Samir Pallaton waved forward his cavalry officer. Saluting, the dark, lithe woman trembled slightly.

The army's commander asked calmly, "Captain Chawal?"

"Your Majesty, these people, traveling without escort and in disguise, violated our border, refused to give their names when asked, then tried to flee."

"So you lashed them and fetched them hither?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Well-disciplined, she didn't babble excuses.

"Good work. Well done." Pallaton handed the woman a small purse from his belt and added, "Please accept this bonus for escorting the samira safely here. Share it with your troop. Dismissed."

Boggled and relieved, the captain stamped a smart about-face and marched from the tent. Amenstar stared, speechless, while Samir Pallaton smiled. Sauntering back to his maps, Pallaton shooed his advisors and waved for a servant.

He asked Star, "Will you take beer and some breakfast? We've only soldiers' rations."

"I-No, I will not!" snapped the princess.

"We will!" chimed Gheqet and Tafir.

Amenstar's blazing glare accused them of treason, but she soon gave in to a growling stomach. Servants proffered small beer, oat cakes with salt, dried tirfin, and fresh figs. While the young men stuffed themselves, Star nibbled, still livid.

"Pallaton, I can't believe you didn't punish that woman," she said. "Even lifting a hand to royalty demands that hand be cut off."

Samir Pallaton drained his mug and lobbed it to a waiter. Dusting his hands, he returned to sorting maps.

"Times change, Your Majesty," he said. "These days, I need the talents of a good officer more than the approval of a poor princess. Events thunder out of control, like an avalanche down a mountain. Old customs will be swept away unless they're rooted in common sense."

"What events do you speak of?" Star asked, ignoring the cheap jibe.

Samir turned from his easel, grinning, at ease, in command.

"Oh, your betrothal to Samir Nagid of Zubat, for one," he said. "That little stone dropped onto a mountainside set many rocks rolling, and the landscape will soon be altered."

"You speak in riddles," sniped Star. "I'll not play word games. If you'll summon a guard, I wish to be escorted to the river."

"I speak of politics, Amenstar, a thing you avoid as "boring.' " Pallaton shook his curly dark head. "You can't roam the countryside at will, incognito or otherwise. Bide a while as my guest, and learn a little about politics."

"As your prisoner"-the princess's voice dripped acid- "or your audience?"

"Hear him out," Tafir interrupted. "Something's in the wind."

As Amenstar protested, Gheqet snapped, "Star, shut up, will you? This is important," as if berating a sister.

The princess goggled at the men. For the first time, Star saw herself alone, perhaps in a hostile camp. She needed to cooperate, so wisely sighed, "Very well, Pallaton. Play your game."

"No game, Star. This is life in the wilds, where you live by wits and claw." Pallaton's casual familiarity stoked the princess's wrath, but she kept quiet. "Sit," he said, "and I'll try to explain."

Sinking into folding chairs, Star and her friends attended, the young men still downing food and drink. The prince unrolled a scroll and pinned it to the easel.

"Let me begin with a map." Pallaton plied a dagger for a pointer as he said, "Here we see all our peninsula of Calim's Home, or Calimshan. Her western border is the Dragons' Wall, her northern border the River Agis. Crammed in this corner, penned by mountains and the river, verging on wilderness, stands Oxonsis, my wild and free homeland. At the far south, verging on the Shining Sea, sprawls Coramshan, biggest and boldest of our seaport cities. Close to Coramshan huddles Zubat, a city of arts and culture, and eastward of everyone, isolated by desert, sits tiny Cursrah, guardian of Great Calim's wisdom.

"Except Great Calim is vanished," the prince added ominously. "Leaving Cursrah alone, small as an anthill in a busy corral, and just as easily crushed, even accidentally."

"Crushed?" chirped Amenstar. "Cursrah? Great Calim isn't vanished! He's, uh-"

"Exactly. He's missing. No one knows Calim's exact fate." Samir Pallaton sketched a circle with his dagger and said, "All we know is that Great Calim and Mighty Memnon battled fiercely to control this desert, and no one's seen either since, though rumors abound."

"Ancient history," sneered Amenstar. "It's naught to do with us."

"Not true. The genies battled a mere fifty-two years ago. Our grandfathers were witnesses," corrected Pallaton mildly. "The dust of the genies' battle still settles on our heads. Calim and Memnon exhausted their powers unto death or dissipation. One is a thin wind, the other rooted in rock."

"It's blasphemy to criticize Great Calim," snapped Star, "may he boil the blood in your veins. Calim is hardly impotent."

"Precisely my point," said Pallaton patiently. "Imagine a leviathan whale washed up on the beach. Even dead, it sends out such a powerful stench that people shudder and fall sick. So it is with the Trapped Terrors. Their powers radiate like twin suns. Calim in the sky and Memnon in the ground continue to hate furiously, and their hatred daily alters our lives.

"Study the hills and plain." Pallaton pointed his dagger out the tent door, and everyone instinctively looked. "Grasslands turn into desert year by year, warn the nomads. My shepherds and vintners agree. The foothills of the Dragons' Wall no longer feed as many sheep. Oxonsis's crops wither because rain conies less often. Perhaps the burning hatred of the genies drives off rain clouds. Lakes dwindle and dry up, and streams sink underground. Sand creeps into everything."

Pallaton stroked his easel and showed grainy fingertips.

"So," he continued, "habits change. My farmers and herders seek new and arable land. Inevitably, my citizens intrude on land claimed by Zubat. Years ago, in times of plenty, no one argued about our borders. Now Oxonsis and Zubat scuffle for territory. Skirmishes have led to border raids. Soon will come invasion, and finally war. Note, Samira, that war is an extreme arm of politics. So politics should not be ignored by anyone who wears a crown.

"Answer this," Pallaton asked, his dagger tapping the map. "What lies inside the territory disputed by Oxonsis and Zubat?"

"Cursrah!" bleated both Tafir and Gheqet. Amenstar watched with worried eyes.

"Exactly. Don't look so surprised, Samira Amenstar; this news was discussed at your party, but you were too bored to listen. Remember that I accused Samir Nagid of climbing into the pockets of Coramshan? He denied it, but it's true. Zubatans are not warriors. They study the arts and arrange parties. When they need fighters they hire foreign mercenaries, but mercenaries are expensive, and the fighting-with my loyal Oxonsins-escalates. Needing money and protection, Zubat formed an alliance with wealthy Coramshan, allies, but not equals. Zubat is now a vassal of Coramshan, and Samir Nagid is a prince with no power. You might want to rethink your impending marriage, Amenstar."

The prince's grin was mocking, and Star fumed.

"Instead of scuffling with Zubat," Tafir said, having followed the argument, "Oxonsis must war against Coramshan, but Coramshan is ten times the size of Oxonsis."

"Twelve times. One of her regiments equals our entire army," stated the prince flatly. "How long will a war between Oxonsis and Coramshan last?"

"Not long," Amenstar said. She was intrigued. Why hadn't she paid attention to this important news instead of tattletale gossip and frivolous jokes?

"No, not long," Samir Pallaton said. His smile was gone as he contemplated his city's fate. "Oxonsis is isolated and alone and may soon be overwhelmed. So we take quick and desperate measures to stay alive."

"What measures?" asked Star.

"Secret ones, for now."

With a flick of the hand, Pallaton changed the subject.

"Back to Cursrah's troubles," he said. "Your city has always been safe and untouchable for many reasons. For one it's remote, and desert encroaches on the south. For another Cursrah was crafted by Calim's own hands, and though the genie is supposedly a helpless prisoner of the sky, no one knows for sure. Lesser genies still guard its water, palace, and the upper air. Even dragons, which infest Calimshan like sand fleas, fly clear of Cursrah.

"So does Coramsham. Those coldhearted and ignorant bastards are deeply superstitious, so they don't dare anger Great Calim by attacking Cursrah. Coramshan lusts to annex Cursrah, same as they did Zubat. Actually, any child knows Coramshan wants to conquer all of Calimshan, and woe betide our land when the worshipers of evil Bhaelros are our masters."

Pallaton paused, shaking his head over a bleak future.

"Anyway, as a first test of loyalty, Zubat is ordered to seize Cursrah."

"What?" barked the three Cursrahns.

"It's true." Samir Pallaton paced now, back and forth, and said, "All my spies agree. Samira, your parents can verify the plot. It's one of many schemes the bakkal and samas have fought for years. Coramshan is clever. If Zubat assaults Cursrah, and Great Calim rises up and slays Zubat's army, Coramshan loses nothing. If Zubat conquers Cursrah, why, Coramshan gains another vassal."

"Zubat wouldn't dare attack Cursrah," snarled the princess.

"Not yet," Pallaton conceded, "but Coramshan demands action. So Zubat has sent in, not an army, but one beardless youth."

"You mean," asked Gheqet, "Samir Nagid?"

A curt nod, and the prince said, "Now that Samira Amenstar, Cursrah's eldest princess, is in line to become Queen of Cursrah-"

"I am not," Amenstar interrupted. "My two elder brothers stand above me in line for the throne."

Samir Pallaton stopped pacing so abruptly he almost fell.

Facing Star, he asked quietly, "You-haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" Star felt suddenly cold and didn't want to hear. "My elder brothers serve as diplomats at the sea-coast-"

"I'm sorry. Your brothers are dead." The prince tried to be gentle, but the words jarred Star. "Rilled by Hatori assassins. One was stabbed and one was poisoned, despite the efforts of their bodyguards. You're now the bakkal's eldest child and will inherit the throne should your parents die, and the Hatori plot to kill them daily. When you wed Samir Nagid on the first day of autumn-"

"It won't happen!" Star came out of her chair, and for a moment wanted to strike Pallaton, to hit out blindly at anyone. Tears ran down her face for her lost brothers, whom she'd hardly known. She tried to sting the prince but only sounded selfish and petty. "I won't marry Nagid, nor anyone else, except by my choice, and you-why should I believe your wild concoctions? You're probably jealous because my parents chose Nagid over you."

"Perhaps a bit, dear Amenstar." Pallaton's deep brown eyes flared with sudden warmth and passion-so much so that Star was startled-then the light flickered out and he said, "I'll find some woman who's not repelled by my hideous visage. My parents' list of potential brides runs off the table. Save your pity for your home."

"My-Cursrah?"

"I told you Oxonsis must take desperate measures to survive. One reason I sought your hand was so Cursrah and Oxonsis could become allies. Now Cursrah will be Oxonsis's enemy, and I can't allow that."

"Oh?" In control again, the princess arched an eyebrow and asked, "What can Oxonsis do?"

Pallaton still fiddled with the dagger and now flipped it in his hand. For a moment, Amenstar feared assassination, but with one swift turn, the prince snapped the dagger at the easel. Its cruel point lodged into the heart of Cursrah.

"Rather than see Cursrah ceded to Zubat and Coramshan, I'll destroy her."

"Destroy-" Amenstar stared dumbfounded.

"How?" Tafir and Gheqet shot to their feet.

The cadet shook a fist at the prince and said, "Never! How can you destroy an entire city?"

"You'll see," Pallaton told him simply, then folded hairy arms across his broad chest. "In three days' time."

Three days passed while Amenstar stewed in a stifling canvas tent, her every move watched by unblinking guards. Unable to talk to anyone, she'd felt her emotions churning, but they had gone nowhere. She was angry at Pallaton for imprisoning her, despairing her city could be saved, self-damning for not attending her tutors, sad at her brothers' deaths, and so on, round and round until Star was emotionally exhausted-and emotionally vulnerable.

Star pondered Pallaton and was surprised at how attractive he seemed. As a prince he ruthlessly planned some assault on her homeland, but only because his own homeland was outnumbered and under siege. As a man, Star had to admit he was handsome, charming, intelligent, and considerate. He cared for his troops and his city. He didn't hate his enemies, even spoke well of Zubat and Samir Nagid. Under different circumstances, Pallaton would work as hard to keep peace as make war. Star knew pride had overruled her sense to the point of folly. A sudden thought bloomed and startled her. Pallaton would make an excellent husband, father, and king.

"That's all might-have-been," Amenstar sighed.

Then, late one afternoon, Pallaton invited her to go riding. Amenstar was almost grateful-until she recalled he planned Cursrah's destruction, absurd though it sounded. Deciding she must learn the worst, Amenstar consented. With her ankles tied to stirrups, she and Tafir and Gheqet were escorted from the tent city by Pallaton's bodyguard of thirty or more.

Riding northeast on a broad, flat path, the party soon reached the Agis. The silver river rippled from east to west, from the mountains toward the sea. The water ran swiftly, hurrying with whorls and eddies, channeled by stone ridges that prevented it from overflowing. Farmers always cursed "The Dry River" that, rock-bound and never flooding, was useless for irrigation.

At a rocky shelf, a cedarwood ferry manned by slaves hung on a thick rope braided from hemp. Pallaton's party dismounted and covered their horses' eyes with their scarves so they wouldn't spook. Slaves grunted and chanted as they hauled the ferry across by main strength, with the great rope bowing almost in a half-circle because the current ran so fast.

On the river's northern side, the party climbed a steep ridge, iron-shod hooves slipping on shale. Atop the ridge they found that a curving path had been hammered wide and flat by thousands of bare feet marching in both directions. No one ordered the three Cursrahns to be silent, so they talked while Pallaton conferred with his advisors.

"Finally we'll see what those slaves are digging," Gheqet, apprentice to architects, wondered aloud. "I've wracked my brain to fathom what they could be digging up out here in the wilderness, and how any earthworks project could threaten Cursrah. I can't imagine a thing."

Breasting a second ridge that doubled back toward the river, Samir Pallaton was met by his chief engineer and his staff, all in military tunics painted with a crossed pickaxe and shovel. Under one man's arm rested a silver trumpet.

The prince called, "Are we on schedule, Dewert?"

The engineer nodded his white head. "Your vizars arrived just after noon, sire," he answered. "They threw bones and read the auguries, and find the elements auspicious."

Pallaton nodded, squinting at the sky as if anticipating rain. Rounding a bend, the Cursrahns finally saw the mysterious digging project. In a shallow valley running due north, perpendicular to the river, swarmed hundreds of brown-and-white bodies like termites.

Amenstar peered closely, but quickly gave up and asked, "Gheq, what are they doing?"

The budding architect shook his head, just as confused. Craning in his saddle, Gheqet sketched in the air to make sense of the scene. The earthwork was only a deep trench that lowered the valley's floor, which was already hemmed by rocky slopes. Hundreds of slaves, Gheqet estimated, dug the ditch with hand tools and lugged the dirt out in baskets. The trench was half a mile long and led to nothing but more valley between hills.

They rode on, high above the ditch, aiming for a low hill overlooking both the river and the trench. Atop the hill were four small tents. Soldiers guarded the hill's perimeter.

"This makes no sense," Gheqet mused so only his friends heard. "I don't see why Pallaton bothers digging a ditch. Even if they cut through that stone ridge to tap the river-damned hard digging-they'll only catch a dribble from the Agis, a tenth of what they'd need to fill this trench at the most. What will they irrigate that's worth the trouble?"

"Could they steal water from the Mouth of Cursrah?" Tafir asked. He referred to the opening of the famous aqueduct, the source of all the city's water. Gheqet craned in the saddle to point west and said, "Those hills block the view, but the aqueduct mouth lies about five miles down river. Pallaton can't cut off Cursrah's water supply from here. This little ditch won't lower the aqueduct an inch. Besides, the river's protected, same as the aqueduct, by Bitrabi. Try to steal water, and you incur the wrath of our marid."

"Magic can combat magic," muttered Tafir. "They said vizars are coming. Pallaton must have some plan up his sleeve. Maybe he's got a tougher genie trapped in a bottle."

"Impossible," countered Amenstar. "No one could oppose a sanction placed by Great Calim."

Her young companions didn't argue. Soon the party reached the low hill, which was too steep for horses. Dismounting, they climbed. Amenstar graciously let Pallaton hold her hand up broken rocks like big steps. At the top waited a dozen men dressed in red. Their leader carried a tall staff that looked familiar. These were Oxonosis's vizars, Star realized, but what did they plan?

"Look," murmured Tafir. "The genie staff."

"Genie-staff?"

Star remembered. Held erect by the chief vizar, the staff was taller than a man, twisted like the fabled Staff of Shoon made of unicorn horns, painted and gilded to resemble genie smoke, and crowned by a clever cloud holding a winking sapphire. Pallaton had brought it to Star's party. She'd thought it only an odd showpiece, but Vrinda, their administrator genie, had peered long and hard at it. Why?

Atop the hill, Amenstar could see half the horizon to the south and east. As Gheqet had noted, the chuckling river ran in its own ancient trough, and a stone ridge a quarter-mile thick separated the precious water from Pallaton's erratic dirt ditch running north. Amenstar was trying to think of something clever and defiant to say when the prince spoke.

"Remember the legend of Ajhuutal? It was a prosperous seaport east of Coramshan."

"I remember," replied Star, vaguely. "It sank into the sea and became the Spider Swamp?"

"That's it. It was long ago, when Calim still strove to conquer this land. He wrestled with a marid named Ajhuu in the Steam Clashes. Finally Calim unleashed an earthquake that shattered thirty miles of the River of Ice into a crumbly delta. The sea rushed in and created Spider Swamp. Coramshan calls the event the Shattering. I suppose now it's safe to use the old name, the Ajhuutal Mutiny."

"It's never prudent to mock Great Calim." Star deliberately raised her voice so the sky might hear. Still, her breath came short from a tight chest, as if disaster portended. "Will you unleash magicks to undo the enchantments of our benefactor? Only lesser genies ever gave Great Calim a battle."

"I can ply the greatest of magicks… Calim's own." Pallaton's teeth glowed like wolf fangs as he scanned the sky. Reaching a decision, he called, "Trumpeter, blow!"

With a flourish, the military engineer saluted, puffed his cheeks, and blew a long horn blast. Instantly, like an anthill kicked open, slaves spilled from the dark ditch and streamed up the rocky slopes. When the brown-and-white bodies were halfway up, the prince nodded to the chief vizar.

"If it please your grace," said Pallaton, "you may commence."

The vizar in red raised the curved staff over his head and loosed a wail in some arcane language that made Star's skin crawl. Five more vizars, standing at five points around their chief, added more wails like men enduring torture. Gheqet and Tafir glanced about wide-eyed, as did soldiers guarding the perimeter and the samir's bodyguards.

Pallaton swayed from foot to foot, excited as a child, and said, "That staff is said to be Calim's Scepter. It should be-we paid a fortune to grave robbers for it!"

Amenstar sniffed. "At Cursrah's College we have warehouses stuffed with mystical gimcracks," she said. "Most are fakes."

"As may be," Pallaton conceded, "but our wisest vizars think this curved stick is genuine. We'll find out now if it is."

The chanting dragged on until Amenstar wished to cover her ears. Junior vizars burned incense and threw offerings of rice and cinnamon to the four winds. Nothing seemed to happen, until Pallaton pointed upward. The sun had been occluded by a high haze. Gradually the haze lowered and thickened, becoming a full overcast that darkened the land. A stiffening breeze made Star shiver. Far away on the slopes, slaves raised brown arms and murmured in awe.

The chief vizar's weird wail reached a crescendo. Howling, the man raised the staff high and stabbed it hard upon the hilltop toward the river, so hard Amenstar wondered the shaft didn't shatter.

A rumble shook the world, and people glanced up.

Tafir muttered, "That wasn't thunder…"

A tremor trilled through their legs.

"Wh-what-"bleated Amenstar."L-lords of L-light-t-t-t,…"

"E-er-earthquake," chattered Gheqet.

Another rumble rolled past, a grumbling toll like a monstrous iron bell. On the slopes above the new ditch, rocks trickled from peaks, and slaves scampered to avoid small avalanches. A hollow boom sounded. Amenstar squeaked and fell to her knees. She'd seen the hills move.

Along the banks of the Agis, a stone ridge flexed as if Great Calim had snapped a blanket. A rising, rippling boom slowly cracked hills further along the river's northern side-where the vizar had aimed in striking the staff. A soldier shouted above the roar. Everyone pointed and screamed together.

The north bank of the River Agis-solid stone- dissolved.

As if tired, rocky ridges forty feet high suddenly let go and slid into the riverbed. Untold tons of stone dropped into thousands of gallons of water. Displaced, water gushed into the sky as if a child had stamped in a puddle. In slow motion, the water arched high above, then rained and spattered torrents over broken ridges. Another cascade shot higher than the hills, pounded the landscape, and dislodged more rocks.

The spectators felt another temblor tingle their toes as the earth bucked like a wild horse. Another slab of hills, a newly uncovered face, broke free and followed its brother to crash into the riverbed. More water squirted- a murky brown deluge. Thrown off her feet, Amenstar sprawled facedown, hands and knees scuffed raw. The vizar, his acolytes, and soldiers also clutched the ground lest they be flipped like fleas into the sky. More groans and booms shook the world. Dust and water vapor boiled into a swirling brown mist.

Drenched in mud, Amenstar huddled like a whipped dog and prayed: "Dark Destroyer, take me away! Blind me, Orus of the Thousand Eyes, so I never see such a sight again!"

As if drawing close to witness their destruction, the overcast sky lowered until Amenstar feared to stand and attract lightning. Thick air choked her as well as fear. Cracking and crackling now shook the sky while everywhere rocks broke, sheared, and tumbled, pulverized. Still the shaking hummed through Star's body until she felt her bones would shiver into jelly.

Above the noise, Tafir shouted, "L-look at the c-clouds!"

Hunkered like bugs, spectators craned their necks to see the sky. The blanketing overcast had split in a thousand places. Scattered clouds coalesced into deeper black patches. Far off in a more peaceful world, the sun was setting, and shafts of brilliant yellow slanted across the landscape through a thousand holes in the sky. Amenstar caught her breath at the phenomenon. It was like a hailstorm of sunbeams.

Tafir pointed out one massive cloud directly overhead, a roiling gray-black anvil tinged red by the setting sun.

"It's a genie," the princess blurted. "Genie smoke!"

"Spirits of the Sands," Pallaton shouted as he scrambled to his knees. "It must be Almighty Calim himself. Run! Get off the hilltop!"

Terrified, blinded by dust and mist, Amenstar only saw dimly as the chief vizar and his acolytes scooted to their knees, raised their arms, and sent up prayers to the greatest genie of legend. Their escort of guards were less certain it was time to pray. Some stood still and gaped while most ran pell-mell away from the riverbank.

Pallaton grabbed Amenstar by both shoulders and jammed her slack body to his breast. Slapping Gheqet and Tafir before him, the prince took three loping strides and quit the hilltop. Rocks and sand jigged underfoot as he struck the downslope and lost his footing. Star tumbled end for end, down to where their horses had been killed by rolling rocks.

They heard what happened later from spectators ranged along the rocky slopes. Seconds after Pallaton and the Cursrahns vaulted from the hilltop, from the deepest part of the roiling thunderhead flashed lightning so bright people recoiled as if struck in the face. A sizzling bolt scorched the air and struck the hilltop square on the chief vizar and his pilfered scepter. Watchers grunted in sympathy as the priest and his acolytes exploded into charred gobbets of flesh that rained far out over the rocks and splashed into the churning river.

There came a pause while the world froze, and waited.

Thunder, an unimaginable crash that rattled teeth and jarred bones, slammed the land as if to punish it. Anyone who'd stayed half-risen was knocked flat by the explosion, and everyone feared they'd been permanently deafened. In a jumble of rocks and sand and horseflesh, Samir Pallaton craned to look up the hill. His mouth hung open, his pallor ghastly white.

Above a high buzzing whine, Amenstar heard a squeak, and realized it was Tafir shouting at the top of his lungs: "I think that scepter was real!"

"I think Calim took it back," replied Gheqet. "It's-oh, no!" Crawling to his friends, the architect's apprentice tried to drag both Star and Tafir to their feet. "Look there-the ridge cracked-the river turns!"

Struggling to their feet, supporting one another, the three friends gazed at the River Agis. It boiled and churned in its rocky bed, a torrent of hissing water, mud, and sand. Along the Agis's old course, the watchers realized, the shattered hills had slumped into the riverbed and blocked it for half a mile or more. Tiny trickles seeped amidst the jumbled rocks, but the barrier dammed the water completely. Denied its usual route, the mighty Agis backed up. Water seethed and trembled in whirlpools and maelstroms, then began to spurt along the northern ridge of the river, where its stony restraint had cracked.

"There it goes!" hollered Gheqet.

Unconcerned with its destination, the River Agis rushed and pushed against the cracked northern face, and broke it. As the ridge shattered, Pallaton's newly dug ditch beckoned. Astonished slaves clung to the walls of their tiny valley and watched the River Agis gush into their earthworks and fill it, turning a barren gash into a true living canal. Water lurched and slopped and boomed northward, scouring the canal and carving a new riverbed amidst the constricting hills. As Pallaton's engineers had predicted, the river had turned, found lower ground, rushed in, and now flooded off out of sight.

Northward, many miles, the river would once again hook west, inevitably driving for the sea.

"Great Calim," Gheqet whispered, "help Cursrah in her hour of need…"

"It can't be," Amenstar gasped, and her breath turned into a sob. Tears burned her cheeks.

Samir Pallaton had predicted accurately. Not a drop of the Agis's life-giving water would ever reach Cursrah again. With the riverbed forever blocked, the famous aqueduct five miles west would run bone dry within hours.

For the first time in her life, Amenstar wept for her homeland. Her parents had spoken the truth. Without water, Cursrah would soon be swallowed by the desert.