Izebadd
It cannot hear you, had said Izebadd’s grandchild to Ibn Samar. Not in the way that you think.
Ha.
Well, but the child was not wrong, was he? The palace heard nothing, for however skilful the sorcery that powered it, a mere building it remained. Glass piled upon glass, jewels crowding upon gems, magic and enchantment bound up in an endless mess all together. A pretty thing only. Tricks. Foolery.
How he hated it.
How he had always hated it, from the moment of his first arrival. Gleaming against the cool night sky in its myriad of colours, filled with naves and fools engaged in heartless revelry; a profoundly useless construct. What power Ibn Samar had! And to what a use he had bent those remarkable arts!
Izebadd had wanted it for his own. He hated it, he loved it, he wanted it
