Though its reputation was of sin and decadence, Qarth bespoke order and control, or at least its outward appearance did. At the heart of a rocky valley, as spectacular as it was imposing, this fortress city—heavily guarded by the red-turbaned minions of Memnon—was dominated by the battlements and turrets of the Great Teacher's palace. The sandstone throne room of that palace was a magnificent space worthy of so renouned a warlord—gilded, pilastered, adorned with stark, muted (though colorful) designs that anticipated Valyrian culture of centuries to come; torch lamps— dark metal bowls of fire on spindly legs—threw a golden hue across the vast chamber, rife with lush drapes, intricate tapestries, oversize urns, and furnishings of strong simple design.
Along one wall slept two chained young beasts— a tiger and a lion—barely bigger than cubs, but not the pets of a commonplace man, not even a commonplace ruler. A huge, ornate golden throne, overseen by a shieldlike symbol, and bookended by ivory tusks pointing left and right, provided a looming perch fit for the king Memnon meant to be; along one side of the throne room, a spacious balcony looked out across the spires of the city ... the fabled city of sin that now belonged to Lord Memnon.
At a small round table near that balcony sat the sorceress, Cassandra, poring over a parchment map on which she arranged agates and jade and other smooth stones, in a manner, a pattern, flowing instinctively from an unearthly source within her. Clad in a diaphanous robe, her breasts and loins covered in glittering chain mail, regal in her golden headdress, she was attended by two similarly underclad beauties with feathered fans, soothing her from the warmth of the desert clime. But their presence, like the heat itself, did not penetrate her preoccupied, almost trancelike state.
With delicate gold-and-jewelbedecked fingers she ran her searching touch across the face of the map, and the rune stones she had arranged there . . . ... summoning a vision: the warrior queen, Isis, on horseback, at full gallop, riding toward a forest, beyond which (Cassandra somehow knew) a settlement awaited. Then the queen drew up her steed, as smoke streamed into the sky from the decimated village. Around her, at her side, were her sister warriors, her tribal council; but coming toward her were more of the female fighters she ruled, and they showed the ragtag signs of battle, the blood, the soot, the despair. Slung across one saddle was a mortally wounded warrior; and on the queen's face anger and sadness fought for dominion. Cassandra opened her eyes. She could feel the anguish of Queen Isis, but she kept that shared sorrow within her: no tears fell. Like so many seers, Cassandra had erected defensive walls— otherwise, she would be a slave to her visions. A familiar voice boomed across the throne room: "And what news from my sorceress, today?"
She turned, nodding to her attendants, who slipped away, even as Lord Memnon—a warrior king in black leathers—strode across his throne room with his righthand man, Thorak, and left-hand man, Takmet, at his appropriate sides. Remaining seated, she swiveled toward Memnon, regarding him with half-lidded eyes. "The forces of Queen Isis are scattered to the four winds."
Memnon grinned, like a greedy child, exchanging satisfied nods with both his chief advisers.
"The people of Meara," she said, "are reeling from the death of their king." At this mention of the father he'd murdered, Takmet smiled a little. The sorceress did not reveal her repulsion, merely continued. "Ashur's tribes are evacuating their villages," she said. "They are without direction... . Leaderless."
Memnon's eyes tightened. "And what of the Nubian?" Cassandra shook her head, and her dangling earrings made small music. "Balthazar ... and his people ... remain hidden from my sight."
The warlord's eyes flared. "Do the gods shield them?"
She offered him a tiny shrug. "My gift does not reveal this, my lord."
Memnon drew in a deep breath, then let it out, before throwing a smiling glance at, first, Takmet, then Thorak. "Give our generals the news of this disarray in Meara. Have them make ready my armies. Also, increase the patrols in city for Wizard Merlin, I want his head."
"Yes, my lord," Takmet said. Thorak said the same, but Thorak was not sure about this, since the Wizard showed wide range of abilities and he has heard there are three more Wizards win Merlin's group. He couldn't tell this to Memnon, since he knew Memnon will not take it well.
As the advisers made their exit, Memnon approached Cassandra and touched her shoulder, his smile surprisingly gentle. "You think me cruel?"
"I rarely think of you at all," she said, though her tone lacked the apparent contempt of her words. He strolled to a table of food and ripped a shank of venison from a platter. "You sorely test my good nature, Cassandra."
"I am here only to fulfill a purpose." He turned to her, holding the shank of meat like a club. "Yes? Perhaps you've forgotten what life is like, outside these palace walls." The warlord tossed the venison across the room, and his young lion and tiger began to scuffle over it, until finally they were snarling and snapping at the meat and each other.
"That is what it is like out there, my pet," he said to her. "Heartless ... ignornant... savage ..." What an apt description of Memnon himself, the sorceress thought; but she did not share this view with her host. With a wave, Memnon summoned guards from the periphery who separated the two beasts, yanking them back on their chains; one guard cleaved the remainder of the shank of meat with his sword, and gave each animal its share. Memnon returned to the seated woman's side. "That ignorance . .. that barbarism ... I can change it all. Am I not called the Teacher of Men? I can transmute savagery into civilization, in our lifetimes. Just as the prophecy says ..." As if not even listening, Cassandra rose and wandered to that table of food and drink; she poured herself a goblet of wine. But her words indicated she had indeed paid attention to her lord: "I know the prophecy." "You should," he said, going to her. "The vision, after all, was yours, Cassandra. ... Say it."
"Don't you know it, my lord? Don't the words ring in your mind at every moment?"
Memnon with fanatical gleam in his eyes urged"Say it!"
She sighed. " 'By tolling bell, and thunder's swell... a flaming star falls from the sky. By a full moon's glow, a prince is riding. I've heard the thunder of his hooves. Swift as the wind he rides. His enemies will cower before him... and their wives will weep tears of blood... the stallion who mounts the world."
"Such lovely words," he said, and with the back of his hand he stroked her cheek. "Such a lovely woman ... what a queen you'll make. For I am that king of legend, my love ... celebrated by the gods themselves."
She looked at him, her lovely face blank, her eyes unblinking, and said nothing. "When that time comes, when the prophecy is fulfilled," he said, "you shall take your place beside me.... On a throne, of course .. . and in my bed."
She smiled—a tiny smile. "Only a virgin can be blessed with second sight. My lord, in your bed of delight, I would lose my gift .. . and you would lose your advantage on the field of battle."
Technically this is fake, it was just a false news spread by previous Mystics for safety reasons.
Memnon returned the smile and studied her perfect features. "Ah, my beautiful sorceress ... When I am king of the world, I will no longer need your visions ... all I will require is the vision of loveliness that you are." And Memnon ran his hand up the expanse of her bare arm, fingers gentle on her flesh; but even as he savored the thought of the ecstasies that awaited him . . . them ... the sorceress flinched, feeling a chill, and a wave of revulsion. She drew away from the warlord, as a new vision seized her mind, her being, took her at once to the desert, where she saw....Merlin entering thr city with two older men by his side.
But she did not share the vision —threat or not— with Memnon, even when—noting the surprise in her eyes, sensing another vision had come—he asked, "What is it?" Instead she merely informed her lord that she was tired from their journey. Memnon searched the woman's face for deceit or trickery, but saw nothing, and suggested she rest. "I will have need of you tomorrow," he told her, "when my generals come caning." She bowed her head. "Thank you, my lord," When she turned and walked away from him, the warlord called to her. "Cassandra"
She stopped, but she did not turn to him. He said, quietly, "Your well-being is of the utmost importance to me. You know that, don't you?"
That was as close as this proud warlord could come to telling the woman that he loved her. Admitting his thirst for her—the lust in him—was far easier than acknowledging the tender emotions he felt, which shamed him.
"Yes, my lord," she said, hating him. "You are most generous." And as she glided from the throne room, the mighty warlord watched her go, drinking in every supple curve of her body, relishing the bounce of her dark hair on her shoulders and the tinkle of her jewelry and the grace of her movements. Like a drunk who has forsworn the bottle, this strong man wallowed in the weakness of loving her, and longed for the day her purity would no longer matter, when he could love and defile her.
At the crest of a rocky slope, Merlin arrived with Morgan and Gandalf— paused to survey the valley below ... and the fortified, walled city whose structures, humble and grand, were lorded over by a castellated palace.
Morgan frowned and said,"So previously famous Qarth is now reduced to City of Sins by Memnon."
Merlin nodded and replied,"Yes. The city that was once known as "the Greatest City that Ever Was or Will Be" has been reduced to a place infested with looters,pillagers and thieves."
Merlin made his way towards Qarth,the architecture of the city incorporates a triple-layered defensive wall, and each layer is elaborately decorated with carvings: the outermost layer is 30 feet high, constructed of red sandstone, and decorated with carvings of various animals. The middle layer is 40 feet high, constructed of grey granite and carved with scenes of soldiers at war. The innermost layer is 50 feet high, constructed of black marble and features intimate scenes of lovemaking.
Merlin with Gandalf and Morgan cast a disguise spell, as there face and hair morphed and changed into different identities.
As they reached the fortified walls"What business have you in Qarth?" the burlier of the guards demanded.
Another guard checked there faces with a hand drawn picture of Merlin, but seeing it was not a match shook his head.
"I have come to do business with the Thirteen," Merlin said.
The Thirteen were members hail from the Pureborn, descendants of the deposed Kings of Qarth, who hold hereditary seats and possess a majority of members. The Warlocks of Qarth also hold a single permanent seat, occupied by an envoy of their order. The rest of the seats are occupied by merchants invited by the council, and remain there for as long as they are powerful and feared enough not to be dismissed or replaced by another candidate.
But after Menon's take over they lost majority of there power and now could only cower at Memnon's feet, also they have to provide a tribute to Menon every now and then.
The guards checked and seeing nothing suspicious, they waved Merlin and his group on through the gate.
Soon the Merlin,Morgan and Gandalf found himself in a buzzing, bustling bazaar, leading his camel and his stillslumbering companion through an exotic array of belly dancers, flame blowers, snake charmers, fire walkers and sword swallowers, an open-air market where vendors sold fruit and vegetables and woven baskets and fine carpets and every other commodity known to man, and perhaps a few previously unknown as well. Dens of iniquity offered sustenance, if one could survive the clientele, and outside one of these rough bars, they stopped at a horse trough.
As they cautiously pulled back up their hood, the shadows danced across their features, concealing their true identity. With a flicker of anticipation, their face began its transformation, a slow unraveling of disguise morphing back to their true face.