Barbecued Phoenix

By the time she had read theentire scroll thrice over, thirty miles of desert had elapsed, the ghostly,inverted dome on the horizon had winked out twice before her eyes, and her humbleparty had arrived at the foot of the real structure: a mammoth dome carved fromwhite limestone and marble, the perfect curvature of its roof inlaid with vast,silver-dappled sheets of mother-of-pearl. It was a mausoleum of shells bothancient and new that rose straight out of the sands, giving the disturbingimpression that what she was seeing was only a sliver of the whole buriedbeneath the desert eons ago.  

Now here she was: probing theoutside of this impregnable dome like an ant around an upturned sugar bowl,questing for the hidden door, and hoping that it wasn’t lying somewhere underher feet. (She was fairly-certain that there wouldn’t be enough time for her toshovel, and Ezarel 2 disliked extra labor as much as his namesake; after theirsecond circuit around the dome, he had suddenly sat down with a sullen thump,refusing to budge for all the sand biscuits in the world.) On foot, she stoppedagain in front of the hairline crack running vertically up the face of the dome likea scar, just above the last, puzzling footprints Ezarel left on this plot of theworld.

Running alongside the crackwas an inscription in old Arabic, and repeated in Phoenician, Greek, Latin, andstill more languages than her linguist’s eye could decode in this lifetime. ButArabic she knew like the back of her hand; she read the first inscription again:at the beginning of time, what did the sky look like? The Guardian blinkedonce, finally smiled to herself, and answered aloud with that basic astronomylesson from her world: the sky was made only of light.

The wall of the dome suddenlysplit with the sound of three immense cracks; three more perfectly straightfissures etched themselves across the limestone wall at right angles, revealingan immense stone door that fitted seamlessly against the foot of the dome. Asthe Guardian uncurled from her defensive crouch, the door pushed inward with begrudgingslowness; the reply to her answer for the riddle on the wall. She turned;Ezarel 2 was still glaring sidelong at her from his seat on the sand, as if tosay ‘it’s not my problem’. Sheglanced through the door; the noon light streaming into the opened tunnelrevealed her partner’s footprints along the sand-streaked marble, that expensivecaduceus brand standing out bold on his heels.

Without further ado, theGuardian lit the torch from her pack, nodded goodbye to her ride, and steppedforward into the darkness of the marid’s lair. The stone door abruptly shutbehind her with a slam that almost caught her heel in the crack; if a buildingcould laugh, the echo of that slam was doing a good impersonation right now.Ezarel must have gotten the same welcome, the Guardian thought to herself,wiping the sweat from between her eyes; if he was still alive, and learnt thatshe squawked less than two steps into the dreaded jinni’s lair, he would neverlet her hear the end of it. Her courage returned with a tiny spike of spite,and she went on into the dark.

Fifty steps in, and thecorridor emptied her into a blaze of light. The Guardian winced, shielded hereyes, and found herself at the bottom of a cavernous central chambercrisscrossed with slanting shafts of light, the noon sun piercing the airthrough dozens of apertures drilled around the roof of the dome. Each shaft of light ricochetedat least once off dozens more mirrors suspended high in the air, scattered or tightened through angled glass lenses the size of wagon wheels, and funneled through monstrous brass pipes, until the center of the muraled floordazzled her eyes like the brightest point of noon on midsummer’s day. Or acircus-ring under spotlight.  

Her ‘host’ was waiting halfwayup the dome, at the top of a flight of stairs that was nothing more than aseries of carpeted copper slabs levitating in midair. He was busy adjusting alens wider in diameter than his chest, swiveling it back and forth by fineangles. It seemed like a minor technical detail that he wasn’t even touchingit, instead moving the massive glass lens from yards away with minute pivots ofhis wrist.

She reminded herself not to presumeanything from his looks; all jinn were shape-shifters, illusionists, andspell-casters from the wild hinterlands with a decisive bent towards trickery.At the moment, this marid looked like middle-aged man who did spend his life lifting weights with more than his mind:broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and strong, with a full-sized black beardspeckled with gray, and swathed in sea-colored silks that constantly shiftedcolors and rippled under the shafts of light that caught him. The Guardianwaited in the doorway almost two minutes before the old jinni settled the lensat the mysterious angle he was looking for, locked it in a vast orichalcumclamp, and finally turned to her. He had a handsome, angular face that lookedhewn out of teak, with lightning-blue eyes that stabbed down at her in godlyregard.

At last the marid broke thesilence: congratulations on coming so far, and alone. His voice rang deep likea gong; the words courteous and laser-precise with their irony. As he descendedunhurriedly towards her, the higher copper slabs flew down to extend the reachof his suspended staircase, like a stack of cards shuffled in midair. Seeing asshe had defeated the optical illusion, the desert, and the riddle on the wallof his home, he mused that she must be an extraordinary scholar and mage forall her tender years. Or– now he stopped one floor above her, crossed his armsover his ample chest, and smiled, flashing white teeth pointed like the fangsof a jackal– was she just blessed with extraordinary luck? A sadly commonthing, these days.

This jinni was expecting herto grovel; the Guardian wondered what would happen if he learnt that she wasblunter than a well-worn rubber. She replied anyway, lowering her torch and keepingher expression deadpan and honest: all great discoveries were powered by atleast one part luck, and four parts of knowing how to exploit it.

The marid’s smile dropped onone side as he eyed her coolly and presented one last challenge. With a suddenexplosive rise of his hands, the air filled with a cacophony of snaps ashundred-pound clamps and hooks came undone. The Guardian glanced further up; abad decision. Because hundreds more pounds of lenses, mirrors, and pipes beganspinning wild overhead across the space of the dome; the air winked with light;the floor pulsed with the chase of vast shadows; the Guardian ducked back intothe eave of the side-corridor, imagining the results of an enormous mirrorcrashing down on her from three stories up. Above, the marid loosed a single,cold chuckle and suddenly arrested the wild flight of mechanist’s parts with asideways snap of his hands, fingers clenched rigid, like a maestro ordering anorchestra into silence. Clamps clinked into place far overhead. He finally badeher to look up again: was that tongue of hers good only for pithy quips? Orcould she properly tell where she was now?

Only a man several centuriesold could pull off such a condescending tone. But the Guardian obeyed, inchingback into the hall and craning her neck up at the new configuration of lenses,mirrors, and pipes suspended in the air. Early afternoon light fell through oneaperture in the ceiling and burned through a series of dozens of alignedlenses, before ricocheting up and down two man-sized, curving, parabolicmirrors, and finally exiting out through another narrow pipe capped by a tinylens. The final rays focused with lethal intent on the far wall of the atrium,too bright even for her to look at.  

Officially, she was atranslator, though she always had a keen interest in the sciences. And therewere only two possible occupations that came to mind that demanded such intensefocusing of light. One of them had to do with burning ships, which was a bit unlikelyto happen in the middle of a desert. Which left the other option. The Guardiangave her answer, more amazed than she wanted to admit: it was a telescope, sanscasing. This dome was an observatory.

For a moment, the marid didn’tsay anything, but slowly refolded his arms across his chest. Then he spokeagain, his tone inscrutable: correct, although this building also functioned asan astrolabe, calendar, and map of the known universe. In the darker corners ofthe atrium, the Guardian could now see the truth in his words: numbers andgeometric symbols were etched in rings of multicolored marble around the floor;constellations, planets, and stars glittered in jewels aligned along theimpossible curves of the ceiling that soared high overhead, a compact firmamentpaneled with pitch-black jet for the darkness between stars.

As she gawked, stretching outher torch as far as she could, the marid climbed his hovering staircasematter-of-factly to his immense, tube-less telescope, lost in his thoughts againas he sent sundry parts spinning into and out of the main structure with singlejerks of his forefinger. Or at least, he corrected himself, one day this will be the greatest eye to peer intothe depths of the cosmos, hopefully all the way until he could discern thebeginning of time: the birth of this universe itself. Four centuries of hislife went into building this observatory to unlock the secrets of light and thestars; he had another two centuries before he joined the ashes and– suddenly,his face twisted into a grimace, as though he just bit into an acid date– mustdelegate this project to someone else. But,this dome was already enchanted to bear his name until every last stone wasscoured; good luck to whichever successor tried to carve their own name on hislife’s work.

Thoroughly-ignored again bythe marid, the Guardian reflected on Ezarel’s warning: they did have massive egos. This one inparticular had a scientist’s ego of lunar proportions: it was his own glory, ornone at all.  But despite the four-centuryage difference and an IQ difference of a hundred points, she couldn’t disappearas conveniently as she just did from his awareness.

She risked a cough from thebottom floor, earning a sudden blink and an annoyed stare from the maridmaster-astronomer. He finally asked, wearily: yes, yes, what did she want? Thoughhe was still deciding whether she was a true but badly-taught scholar, or alucky fool, he was obliged to answer one question for coming this far. Anythingworthwhile she wanted to know? And for the sake of her pride, he hoped it wasnot a question about her astrological future. Look around: were they really atthe center of the universe? How many planets and stars could she begin to seein this galaxy alone? If the cosmos couldn’t trouble itself with such minutelifespans, why should he presume to?

His manner reminded her ofsomeone, only amplified a thousand times over. Maybe this was why nobody workedwith him for four centuries. The Guardian mustered her anger both old and newto raise her torch high and meet the marid’s stormy eyes as she asked herquestion: where was the elf that came here yesterday? She knew that he neverleft the observatory. There were no tracks leading away from here, and hissteed was still missing.

A new air came over the maridat the mention of ‘the elf’. His irascible professor’s mode broke; now he peereddown at her like she was a flea that dared to step on his beautiful marblefloor. So, it was that Greek-speaking elven charlatan she was looking for: theso-called alchemist interested in ‘the refractive index of rare crystals’? Mentally,the Guardian noted that that sounded like a typical Ezarel gambit; outwardly,she gave a poker-faced nod.

It was the wrong answer: themarid came striding down towards her, copper steps spinning forward like throwncards, until he stopped just a few feet short of the ground. Close enough forher to catch a scent like ozone rising from his skin; the smell of plasma, of lightningin the making. In a quiet, lethal voice that was somehow more terrifying thanthat mass telekinetic display, he told her just what happened with his lastvisitor.   

Yes, the elf was here, and heused his one question to discuss the theoretical uses of maana crystal focusesfor generating experimental light waves. Then he dared to ask a secondquestion: if the marid had one such specimen with him. Which he showed toprove that he did base his theorieson sound experiments. But then the elf had the gall to try to bargain for it,claiming that he had a team interested in unlocking more uses for the maanacrystal that could benefit the marid’s research one day; he made a false promiseto keep him up-to-date on their work. Then he lied again on where his team wasbased. That impertinent little son-of-a-flea: of course the marid knew about the Guard of El, and what the maanacrystal was, which was precisely whyhe dared to conduct only a few experiments with it. But the elf had thetemerity to assume that just because he was old, and based deep in the TamariskCountry, that he would know nothing about the Oracle, and attempted to buy theshard off him for a pittance, promising a false academic exchange. What he wasreally promising was to treat him like a fool; to turn him into anotherlaughing stock at the Guard’s headquarters. Naturally, he was in the right toteach that prospective thief some respect.

With a brisk wave of themarid’s hand, a seven-foot glass mirror detached itself from a wall on thesecond story and descended towards them. The mirror flashed once as it passedunder a shaft of light; when the glass cleared again, there was Ezarel insidethe frame, slumped upright in a dreamless sleep. His long hair was undone andtousled on one side, as though he was tossed sideways into a casket after ascuffle, and didn’t bother move again. After a few beats, the Guardian had tobite the inside of her cheek to check if she was hallucinating. But no: she wascurrently staring at the worst magician’s trick she had seen so far in this world.

Grimly, the marid told her aboutthe ancient covenant he honored: three tests to gauge the worthiness of thescholar seeking him, and a reward of one question about anything they wished toknow in the universe. That was his contribution to this sordid world, whilethis observatory was still unfinished. Now if the elf had used his firstquestion to simply ask if he couldhave the Grand Crystal shard, and explained how he would dispose of it safely,the marid would have given it to him. But for all his education, he had a fraud’sheart, and dared to ridicule the marid’s code when he stepped into his abode. Sohere, this was his answer to her question. He intended to keep this elf hereunder glass for another century– because he didn’t look a day over sixty; hecould afford to lose another hundred years– and then loose him back to hispeople as a sad, hoary old man with nothing to show for his trouble, except acentury of progress to catch up on in what remained of his life. Now she mustanswer his question: what was herrelation to this insect?

Her answer was short, but itstill took a supreme effort to push it out of her stomach: this ‘insect’ underthe glass was her colleague and idiot boyfriend, who decided to leave herbehind at camp to negotiate alone. Now she was here to rescue him. If that wasn’tso unreasonable.  

The marid pinned her with ahard stare, though not in anger: that wasunreasonable. In fact, it was the strangest thing he had heard this century:how could an asinine man like this have a lover, much less someone willing torisk death for him?

She tried a laugh; she spent ayear trying to come up with an answer too. But it was what it was.

Her host offered anotherinscrutable look from his electric-blue eyes, then snapped his fingers; hedidn’t suffer liars and con-artists in his abode. So save those tears; shewouldn’t win anything from him just because she was a woman. No, she must proveher own honesty. With that, the marid turned and climbed into the air again.

‘Save her tears’? The Guardianwas halfway through calling him a misogynist pig when something warm drippedoff her chin; she touched her face. Ah, this was new. She couldn’t remember thelast time she cried in public.

A sharp clap of hands from twofloors above broke her train of thought; all but one ceiling aperture closed,the bottom of the dome plunging into twilight. Lamps sprung to life from theirsconces. The mirror holding Ezarel struck the floor once with a bang, joltingthe man inside awake. His blue-green eyes flickered open, then widened inhorror when they met hers. But more mirrors were coming undone from their hookson the walls, identical to the one housing Ezarel, surging forward until theyformed a twelve-sided ring around her. Eleven versions of her own face staredback from various angles, from ten infinite corridors in the glass; eleven angledreflections of Ezarel slapped their palms on the other side of the glass.

Suddenly, the twelve mirrorsspun quick like a roulette table; a wall of flashing silver swinging widearound her. The Guardian froze; Ezarel yelled in alarm. Her reflection winkedout in a blur, and his reflection slowly angled into place inside each mirrorlike eleven doors swinging closed, as light rebounded over and over and slantedin impossible angles within the spinning ring of silver. When the roulette cameto a stop at another sharp snap of the marid’s fingers, every mirror was filledcorner-to-corner with Ezarel’s image. Twelve iterations of him lurched to theside of their prisons, dizzy with vertigo. And twelve of his faces opened inidentical, stupefied expressions as they gazed at each other.

The Guardian was just a littlebit glad she could no longer see her own expression in the mirrors.

Half-hidden in the twilightabove the ground floor, the marid sat down cross-legged on one step and calledout the rules of his last test: could she tell which of these fools were him,if she claimed such an intimate partnership? She was allowed three questionsbefore making her one guess. Guess wrong, and he would turn her out and keepthe elf for his well-deserved imprisonment.  

Twelve Ezarels looked up and answeredfor her in twelve voices: he was one sadistic old freak. What was this supposedto be? His social experiment?

Perhaps, the marid repliedwith a sublime smile. The Guardian was three-quarters certain he was justriling Ezarel, whose twelve pale faces were rapidly approaching puce. She cautionedherself mentally: don’t let them distract her; don’t let any of them distract her. Because today they were up against agenuine master of optics and magical illusions who was more than a little mad.And she couldn’t afford to fail.

So with longtime practice, shefiltered out the new argument breaking out between Ezarel and the marid, weavingher torch around as she examined each mirror up close. None of them were quite‘mirrors’ anymore, each reflecting her face imperfectly like transparent glass,with Ezarel trapped just on the other side, or so it seemed. The realism wasincredible.  

She asked her first question: werethey all illusions?

The marid answered with abooming laugh: eleven mirrors held illusions, while one was a true connectionto her questionable partner. The Guardian mentally translated this: Ezarel was not actually trapped as a reflection(which was physically-impossible, even by generous magical standards). So oneof them was a type of scrying glass to his actual prison. She wouldn’t gainanything by breaking open the mirrors. Besides a death sentence from the marid.

Suddenly, there was another imperioussnap of fingers; the ring spun again, three mirrors ejecting themselves,leaving just nine Ezarels left. All of them wrung their hands at her with abewildered expression: why in the Oracle’s name did she waste that question? TheGuardian declined answering; presumptions would only hurt rather than help hertoday.

His voice ricocheted frommirror to mirror as nine different Ezarels attempted to talk over each other.She wasn’t supposed to follow him… that was why he left her behind at the camp…Oracle knows why she was sucked into this bizarre game… marids were extremelydangerous, and extremely confident in their own abilities… and they werepitiless to anyone they considered ‘beneath them’… This time, the Guardian’scomposure snapped; she interrupted the nine Ezarels: if he hadn’t taken off while she was asleep, she would have been here tohelp him, to ask the second question on his behalf and keep him from takingsuch a stupid gamble. How did he think he could get away with lying to a jinniat least four centuries old?

Four Ezarels went silent; fivemore flared up. There was no evidence to show that the Grand Crystal’sfracturing affected this region; most locals didn’t even know about it…. thismarid was isolated for centuries, and only ever treated the shard as a uniquespecimen of maana crystallization… but imagine what the mad scientist would doif he knew its real potential… a discreet, peaceful solution, that was what thedeal was… would she have done better, with her famous tactlessness that ruffledcertain feng-huang feathers in the past?

Now the Guardian was tempted tokick in one of the looking-glasses, marid death sentence be damned. Her spinestiffened as she lashed back: if he thought she was a burden, he might as wellsay it. Nothing she did at work ever pleased him, despite what she accomplished as a ‘simple translator’. If theyboth made it out of the desert today, she was going to set her sights elsewherefor the Light Guard recommendation. As if she needed his approval personally.  

Now six Ezarels fell silent;only three dared to speak, a uniform somberness taking hold of them. No, shedidn’t need his recommendation per se….Frankly, he wondered how she held out this long for his decision… Well. If shewanted to leave the Absynthe Guard and started traveling in earnest as a linguist,he might as well give his recommendation now. Professionally, he never had anyobjections…

This time the Guardian staredback at the panel of Ezarels, three of them suddenly, uncharacteristically,giving in to offer what she wanted for months. It was too perfect. She tiltedher chin back up to the darkness of the dome, and asked her second question:was the marid reaching into her imagination to forge these illusions?  

The caster made a strangehuffing noise through his nose, and denied it flatly; he dealt with the forces ofphysics, not the idiosyncrasies of the mind. Now she had one question left. Thering spun again; three mirrors pivoted out like cards on a gambling table; sixpale-faced Ezarels were left to stare at her.

The Guardian tried to keep herface perfectly neutral, staring at the flickering shadows cast by her torch: itreally was Ezarel speaking. Onlysomehow, his words were projected through different mirrors, with slightvariations. The part of her mind that lingered on their months-old grievance wasfloating high from his sudden switch to compassion: so he did think well of her. The other part of her mind rooted in the presenttest cursed a blue streak: how was she supposed to pick out the real man fromthese mirrors when all of the reflectionswere essentially him?

She tested him again,swiveling around in a tight circle to catch all his faces in the hexagon ofmirrors: why did he stall for so long when he had no professional objections?One reflection lapsed silent; five pretended to rub at the bridge of their nose;four of those finally spoke up, not looking at her; two of them looked a littlepiqued. Hadn’t she thought about it seriously, what being a linguist fluent insix languages meant, sans Yhar’s clinical anxiety…? One: lots of research. Two:lots more traveling. Three: a bevy of diplomatic functions, where someone was bound to train her to be more polite… Itwas a change; a huge change, and every time he tried to discuss it seriouslywith her, something went wrong… She was ill-tempered, that was it. So of coursehe needed to wait until she cooled down to try again…

‘Ill-tempered’? Only becauseshe was dating him, the epitome of tact– Suddenly, the Guardian bit off herreply, almost dropping her torch as realization finally slammed into the backof her ribs like a runaway cannonball: hewanted to talk her out of it. All this time, Ezarel was hoping she woulddecline the Light Guard position, except there were no rational reasons for it.Which was why he was spinning his wheels for months: stalling, calling for moreevaluations, meeting with her alone after night-shifts in the lab only to breakinto another completely-unrelated argument, going to bed together silent…Because it was irrational to ask her to decline the promotion, he couldn’t sayhe wanted her to stay for him.

The Guardian finally askedanother question, faintly, on reflex, her pulse still throbbing: could herepeat what he just said? Six Ezarels shot her an irritated look; four of themrubbed at the bridge of their nose and launched again into the same speech; twoof them just sighed, muttering about slow humans and why they were putting upwith this, before summarizing with a blunt question, their expressions deadpan–was traveling abroad and attending diplomat’s parties nine out of twelve monthsof the year what she really wanted?

And that was when she noticed somethingdecidedly strange in the hexagon of reflections. She brought up one hand tointerrupt Ezarel– earning six simultaneous protests– and turned back to themarid for her third and final question: if it wasn’t her imagination andmemories being projected on these mirrors, then was he just using a loop ofEzarel’s past reactions? Somehow, he could capture his voice as well as hisappearance, and play different segments of his reactions at random times acrossdifferent mirrors. Hence how the differences between the doppelgangers were gettingmore complex the longer the actual Ezarel spoke. Except for when she asked themto repeat exactly what they said.

The marid had no snide remark forher this time– he affirmed her guess simply; everything she saw in the domewas made by him, after all. The hexagon of mirrors spun in a silver blur aroundher, then split apart into a broken triangle, three mirrors flying back totheir resting places on the wall. Three Ezarels were left, lips compressed intoa taut line, none of them daring to offer a word. Overhead, the marid’ssonorous voice echoed down to them: it was time to choose, and choose well. He hadevery intention to honor his word if she failed.  

Now the three Ezarels couldn’tresist: as one, they looked up and called him a threat to society, and adecrepit nutcase of a bastard besides. The marid flashed his jackal’s smile andreplied conversationally that he looked forward to showing him a mirror afterone hundred years; then he would see what ‘decrepit’ looked like. The threeEzarels winced.

The Guardian, meanwhile, waswracking her brain, trying to ignore the trajectory of her heart as it droppedto her stomach. She was on the righttrack, but the loops were happening at random intervals, perhaps evencontrolled by the marid; she doubted she could get lucky again by tricking thereflections to repeat themselves exactly.

Now there was the possibilityof catching the first reflection to offer a new reply. But it was easier if themirrors were arranged side-by-side, instead of equidistant around her; one lateturn, and she’d miss the exact moment when one of the reflections might launchinto a new speech.

Or she could simply wait todetermine which of the doppelgangers never lapsed into silence, which wouldindicate the real Ezarel and the source of all these (often irritating)replies. But with the stakes this high, the merciless marid was likely to leaveall three mirrors playing Ezarel’s reactions at real time, offering no loops,but three perfectly identical reflections.

No, she had to rely on morethan voice and expression to determine which one was really her partner.

She closed her eyes and fittedher free hand over her mouth, willing herself to breathe slowly, calmly, and think. And then the startling warmth ofher lips against her cold hand gave her the solution. Or one solution, atleast. She hoped the marid wasn’t too possessive about his mirrors.

The Guardian strode up to thefirst mirror till her nose was almost to the glass, already misting over fromher breath, and she could see the blue-green eyes of her partner crease inconfusion at what she was doing; an expression so familiar that it was almostcomforting. With a pang, she wondered how long it had been since they stoppedarguing enough to simply touch each other, with no qualms.  

The glass that met her lipswas cool to the touch, like pondwater picked up and ironed into a solid sheet,soothing to the skin. She pulled back; the misty imprint of her mouth lingeredright where Ezarel’s would have been… if the man in mirror wasn’t currentlyshying back from the ghost-kiss, shoulders pivoted in a strange dodge, eyeswide in bewilderment, but looking over her head. It was almost– she thought,with a stab of humor– like their first kiss all over again.

She promptly moved to the nextmirror. The reflection was leveling an irked look her way, asking what in theworld she was doing. The Guardian answered with the touch of her lips on theglass, angling up out of old habit to catch his lofty mouth, the hard plane ofglass pressing into her in his place. She drew back again; the Ezarel she sawwas muttering something under his breath, his hand passed over his eyes, asthough forced to sit through a show of ungodly embarrassment. Or something forhuman tastes. It was starting to look like their first date again; she feltsurer now.

She arrived at the finalmirror. This Ezarel still had his hand over his eyes, but now, like a littleboy ordered not to watch what came next, he was peeking at her through the gapin his third and fourth fingers, his expression unreadable. This time, shemoved slowly, holding his gaze in hers as she leaned into the cool plane of theglass, and pressed her lips gently into the mirror. And she drew back by afraction, lips hovering fractions of an inch away, holding her breath to avoidmisting the glass, and mouthed the same words that she uttered in front of theprevious two mirrors, visible only to the man who would have been close enoughto kiss: she forgave him.

This time, Ezarel’s hand fellaway from his face, followed by that old mask of wryness. And he stared at herfrom the other side of the glass with eyes openly-fragile, and dejected.

A split-instant reaction to ahidden message. Now the Guardian couldn’t hide her grin for all the world asshe rapped the frame of the third and final mirror: this was her choice. Thiswas him.

Beyond the glass, Ezarelbalked, blushed, then recovered his old self within two beats, slapping back atthe barrier with equally-fervid hands. Of course it was him– to think that sheneeded all that time to figure it out!  

Before the Guardian couldreply, the remaining mirrors blanked out, and withdrew to the far corners ofthe atrium; the looking-glass before her abruptly lifted clear off the floor,sending her stumbling backwards and Ezarel staggering in his own prison fromvertigo. A strident double-clap, and the apertures on the roof of the domeswiveled open again, flooding the floor of the observatory with saffron-tinged afternoonlight. A third of the way up the dome, the marid was standing upright on his hoveringstep, perfectly expressionless, one hand upturned and clenched stiff as helevitated the mirror holding Ezarel’s image. For a gut-churning moment, shewondered if he was going to drop the mirror two stories through the air insteadof conceding defeat.

Instead, the marid turned andfitted the mirror back onto its perch on the second story, just below the sprawlingconstellation of the Hydra. Ezarel’s image dissolved into the spreading pool ofsilver as the backing of the mirror re-emerged. And in total silence, thelooking-glass swung outward into the air, revealing an identical mirror on itsconverse side, and a hidden casket tucked seamless into the wall. Inside was a disheveledEzarel, blinking painfully as the afternoon light lanced into his eyes from hislong confinement.

Perhaps there were some magictricks that were worth the trouble. The Guardian hollered out his name from themain floor; the elf started, took an instinctive half-step out, and almost felltwo stories down, stopping himself just in time by gripping the sides of his verticalcasket and swearing once in his language. The marid clicked his tonguedisapprovingly– at Ezarel’s gracelessness or how he didn’t succeed in falling,she couldn’t tell– and flicked several hovering copper plates towards the elf;courtesy steps that allowed him to descend shakily down to the Guardian on themain floor.

She caught him in her arms ashis feet finally found the ground. Nothing broken, her mind tallied, as shefelt and patted him through his white tunic; nothing worse than a day of muscleatrophy and confinement. Ezarel held himself stiff under her sudden embrace,his hands automatically landing on her elbows to check her; his voice– hoarseat the edges from yelling– assured her drolly that he was all right, it wasdefinitely him, now she could stop fussing. Still, he was holding onto her aswell, his face a shade too pale, his long hair askew, his breath stilltremulous and mixing with hers.

With him, what was spoken wasperhaps ninety-percent distraction: the real messages lay in the tacit, in thewordless, and in the instances of touch. She managed a smile, and left her replyat that.  

Something sharp glinted out ofthe corner of her eye; she swiveled, and discovered Ezarel’s rapier spinningpoint down in the air next to them. Above them, the marid remarked archly that therewere one or two things they might have forgotten.  

Ezarel pulled a disgruntledexpression as he snatched his weapon back, half-pivoting so he was shieldingthe Guardian with his body. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he thanked themarid for his legendary hospitality; the Guard will definitely make note of it.The old jinni returned the sub-zero stare: the Guard wasn’t welcome in thesehalls after his performance; hestrongly encouraged them not to visit again.

With that, a black lacquered boxhovered out of a recess on the second floor, tipped itself over the rail, and dropped like a stone into theGuardian’s arms. She caught it with a grunt. Ezarel stared strangely at the box,and continued to stare until she twisted the silver key stuck in the lock, and liftedthe lid. Inside was a piece of the Grand Crystal roughly the size of an ostrichegg.

For the first time, the marid lookedweary as he seated himself again on the copper slab in the air; he declared flatlythat he would hold onto the ifrit’s spell that Ezarel used to reach hisobservatory– it was the first time he ever saw it translated into Greek, by asteady hand. But he trusted that they would still be able to find their way outof the desert. One Eastern Woolapiyou was better than none; their previous beastroamed into the wild like the ill-tempered animal it was when Ezarel didn’temerge after a day. So much the better; this was an observatory he ran, not a zoo.

Two Ezarels were enoughanyhow, the Guardian joked under her breath, finally shutting the box. Herpartner shot her a sharp look over his shoulder, muttering that he would giveher his reply later at camp. For diplomacy’s sake.

Now the marid turned his eyesto the Guardian, the blue lightning in his gaze waning as he puzzled intenselyover her: so she was a linguist. But not a mage, alchemist, or astronomer?

Linguistics was the best jobfor sampling every field of knowledge, the Guardian replied, as she alwaysdid when that question was posed to her. At her side, she felt the stiffness ofEzarel’s shoulder, the tension in his silence.

Six languages was a fair start…for a human, the marid noted mildly. There may be some guilds outside the Guardof El who would pay for her services, without questioning her lineage.

Ezarel scoffed through hisnose, remarking if he was trying to pay her a favor, he was coming fromentirely the wrong direction. The Guardian was ready to step on his foot, untilshe noticed that he was completely avoiding her eyes.

The truth lay in what wasunspoken. She answered the marid quickly: she enjoyed traveling, no question…butonly when there was interesting– and challenging– company. Quietly, she lether fingers brush the edge of Ezarel’s sleeve. And was answered by hisblue-green eyes finally flicking her way, in a hidden smile only she could see.

The marid seemed to glowerdown his nose at them, as if offended by her answer. But with a sharp pivot ofhis wrist, the doors behind them slammed open one after the other, opening theway back to the desert. His expression smoothed into something even lessreadable as he bid them both a formal farewell.  

There were some gestures thatshouldn’t be questioned once received. The Guardian offered her free hand toEzarel; he took it. And the two of them retreated from the marid’s lair andback into the blinding desert, without another word.

The funny part is that this is probably the first genuine piece of Ezarel fluff to hit this blog. And it involves him being used as an unwilling magician’s assistant for several pages. >_> 

And no, I do not have a phobia of stage magicians. Quite the opposite: I enjoy writing about crazy sorcerers and mad scientists of all creeds; it might have shown in this work. ^_^’ 

His favorite tools:  

Short silk scarves are his preferredmeans of tying you down: they’re easy on the skin, and won’t raise any eyebrowsif specially ordered. Best of all (for this nerd), silk carries incrediblyhigh-tensile strength for its weight and is proportionally stronger than steel;just try to escape after he has trussed you up on the mattress. And controlfreak that he is, Ezarel won’t bother add a sly slipknot that you can use tofree yourself; you’ll have to beg him to let you go. That’scalled authentic bondage.

Analgesics and stimulant balms are amonghis favorite ways of teasing the skin. (Nerd power strikes again.)Ezarel keeps a personal stash of these sweet-smelling, piquant plant oils for medicalemergencies… and for ‘privately treating his partner’. His ‘treatment’ involvesrubbing them generously into your inner thighs and down the axis of your body, rimmingthe shape of your nipples and your sex in a gentle massage. Then he’ll grinlike the world’s most questionable doctor when you start twisting against yourrestraints after his hands leave your body, the oils lighting every nerve onthe most sensitive spots of your skin, burning deliciously for the next hour ormore as he finally grinds himself against you, kissing and kneading at the restof your flesh still waiting to be inflamed.

If he’s feeling especially wicked,he’ll break open a canister of rough ice blocks, and rub one sliver againstyour nipples: making you jolt, squeal, and curse at him as the shock of coldpulls your nipples fully erect, your wrists yanking at the restraints. He’llwarm them up again, of course– wrapping his lips over them to suck and teasethem with his tongue into a pliant softness. But if there’s enough ice to lastthe night, there’s good chance he’ll repeat this stunt when your skin isflushed hot from your first climax, and he decides that he’s not throughwith you yet.  

His favorite position:

Frankly, Ezarel prefers having youin the most submissive position: on your knees with your wrists strapped to thebed posts, your head bowed and pressed into the pillows to muffle your cries ashe spears you from behind, hitting far and deep with each stroke. And he’ll mock-chastiseyou every time he slows to a steady rhythm that rocks you on your knees–remarkingin his ironic way on how loud you are, how shamelessly you’re enjoyingyourself, and how he’ll have to reconsider holding these nights if you insiston informing HQ that you enjoy being taken by him– before he enters anotherburst of thrusting that breaks your retort into a groan, your spasming hipsheld tight in his hands.

But now and again, if he’s feelingambitious in teasing you, he lays you recumbent on the bed to see your face,your hands again lashed to the bedposts or pinned under your back. Once you’restraining at the knotted silk, and raw need has dissipated your pride until you’regasping for him to stop playing games and come inside, he’ll finally‘acquiesce’, assuring you with a grin that it’s only because you insist so much.And that’s when he’ll tilt your pelvis high to enter, always agonizingly slow sohe can watch you clench tight beneath him, and just barely unclench as hislength slides home deep inside, transfixing you to the bed.

It’s not romance that counts onthese nights; it’s effect, and control.  

His way of finishing:

Let’s not forget that Ezarel’smischief is largely cerebral, not visceral– this wisecracker gets his kinks frommessing with the rules, or creating new rules that put others in a flux. Like hispartner, for example.

There are always a few ‘conditions’before he agrees to let you come on the nights that he breaks out the silkscarves, and he loves to vary them. For example: don’t twist too far out ofyour position, see if you can stay silent– muffling your cries behind closedlips– from beginning to end, don’t swear at him, don’t forget to answer to thenew pet-name he has for you tonight, or address him with ‘yes, my lord’ or eventhe dreaded ‘daddy’. Breaking a condition once will result in him suddenlystopping, even withdrawing his sex from you, followed by a mock-lecture untilthat crest of pleasure falls away, and then you’ll have to fulfill another‘condition’ to apologize. Like, say, taking another rub of hot cayenne extract.Or letting him finish by taking you from behind. (Though most of the time,watching your face twist in frustration as you beg is good enough forhim.)  

But if all goes well, he might surpriseyou with a very sudden trip into climax, his member and his hand pushed againstyour sex applying that studied anatomical knowledge without even aslight warning. And while you’re still in a haze, he’ll finish on his own, backarching high as his hips snap piston-quick and erratic against the splay ofyour legs, what control he has crumbling as his member thrusts at its furthestyet inside and his own voice escapes him as he fills you.

It’s in those moments afterfinishing that Ezarel becomes truly mellow for the first time that night: restingfull against you as he catches his breath, eyes closed, respective roles meltingtogether and abandoned in the heat of climax. Until you feel your wrists chafe,and you remind him that you’d like toget your turn to touch him. Only thendoes his sarcasm rebound; he’s still unlikely to answer with a ‘yes’, but he’salways prompt in undoing the silk knots and letting you untwist from yourawkward position.

It’s later that you’ll find the unspokengains of the night: when he starts drifting to sleep against you, and completely forgetsto object when your arms fall to rest over his shoulders. Despite what he says on the mornings after… it’s not an accident. Not really.

If you play this well with him, there may be some benefits to these ‘special nights’ that only you can claim.

…You can end a bondage/orgasm-denialpiece on a sweet note. People are really complicated. ;)