Moaning at the strong flow that drained him, the Shah gripped her with his thighs in a painful embrace.

Soleiman the Agile lodged deeper in her soul.

Resting from their love struggle, she caressed the Shah and wished she had not, that day, surrendered to her mother and had instead trusted her own memories. She had sailed past the acrobat, her hips keeping rhythm to the beat in her chest. But the stunned glance she had thrown him had tattooed in her soul the image that would populate her nights and lock her womb to the Shah. She pressed her body to the Shah’s to scare Soleiman away.

The king, in Gold Dust’s arms, dreamed of Raven. In the royal kayak, they floated on the river. He pointed out species of trees that grew on the hills surrounding his palace. He labeled the numerous varieties that had invaded the land, some tall and fair with delicate branches, others stocky and tar-colored with heavy stumps. A howling wind had blown their germ from other shores, spreading their tentacles deep into Persian soil, finding permanent residence, assaulting the space of primal foliage, and infecting the natives with a peculiar malaise. The alien plants bore holes into the once-flourishing earth and strong gusts transformed the river into muddy, worm-infested torrents that overflowed, mounting the hills, up to the alabaster palace, and poured into the harem, snaking into Raven’s quarters.

The echo of his nightmare resonating in his head, the Shah sprang up, groping for his scimitar. “Raven! Where is Raven?”

“It’s only a dream,” Gold Dust whispered, touching a finger to his lips. Raven everywhere, even in his nightmares. Gold Dust gathered her skirts and ran from the room.

The king’s mouth clamped into a determined line; his eyes darkened. No invader would be allowed the abundance of Persian soil. He had summoned the help of every man and beast in his kingdom. Now he would demand the help of magic and spirits of the dead. Striding to the corner of his room, he yanked at a silk cord.

Narcissus appeared and waited, a shadow at the entrance.

The Shah signaled the eunuch to pick up one of the maps that lay about the room. “We have to make sure our plan to vanquish the enemy is foolproof.”

Narcissus knelt down and examined the symbols sketched on the frontiers of Persia and on the tortuous mountain paths. He recognized the favorite’s fine strokes at the borders of the parchment, retracing the trails from which an attack by the army would take place. Had she helped devise this strategy, a direct assault on the army of Teymour the Lame, while he was trapped in the valley?

Rage flamed in the eunuch’s putrefied guts. For months, war counselors, generals, the Shah, and his sultana had been planning war strategy without consulting him. The sultana had involved herself in matters she had no right to. Now it would be impossible to curtail her power. Narcissus fought to contain the bitterness about to spill onto the deerskin parchment. He raised his head and, summoning his courage, he announced, “Gold Dust, the favorite, must accompany Your Honor to battle.”