The Prince of As-Datan

Warning: The following story contains elements of bondage, mind control, and slavery. Don't read if those are elements you'd prefer to avoid.

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The teeming multitudes converged on the stadium, and Prince Aman let himself move with the flow. The Wizard-King Satim had decreed a week of celebration in honor of his seventeenth year on the throne, today being the fourth. After three days of games and feasting, the entire city buzzed with excited speculation about what would come next. Rumor had it that the King had procured three full teams of legendary tiger horses, and that they would race today. So Aman heard from the mouths of anxious spectators, each anxious to shove their way through the gates before the hippodrome had filled.

Aman would not be joining them.

The horses themselves had been sent as tribute from the defeated kings of Jolok, Melianis, and Kano, former rivals who had all prostrated themselves to the Wizard King's rule. People of the city called him Satim the Gamesman, restorer of the ruined hippodrome, and benevolent lord who had brought races and spectacle for all to enjoy. To the rest of the world he was simply The Conqueror, a sorcerous despot who had already crushed a dozen kingdoms and set his eyes on more. With the southern kingdoms cowed, there was no question where he would turn his attention next: As-Datan.

Slipping from the crowd's edge into an unattended alleyway, Aman let the people pass him by as he cautiously made for the towering wall at the alley's far end. Keeping to the shadows, his eyes scanned the ramshackle houses for any signs of life. So far, his movements went unnoticed, but he couldn't count on that lasting. With the crowd spilling onto the streets, the palace guard was out in full force, and all entrances were heavily guarded. All except the hidden ways.

Pressing his hands to the wall, Aman's fingers found the secret grips buried into the mortar. Checking once more that nobody had seen him, the prince began his ascent.

It was no fault of the guards that had missed the hidden ladder. For anyone but the prince, there would have been nothing but smooth, unclimbable rock. Yet the palace knew him, and it answered the call of his royal blood.

The time of the emperors was long passed, driven to ruin by civil strife and invasion, but the blood of old was passed unbroken through the line of Datian kings. It was their ancestors who had build the usurper's grand palace, and though the Wizard King proclaimed himself the emperor restored, the palace knew where its loyalties belonged.

For this reason, and this reason alone, the Kingdom of As-Datan had risked its crown prince on such a daring mission. No lesser agent could do, the palace would not acknowledge them. The prince's younger brother Badur had dueled him for the honor, but Aman had emerged victorious. The fate of his people was now in his hands.

His people were at risk, that much was clear. In the past decade, his kingdom had lost nearly half its territory, its people placed under the yoke of their foreign governor. Though their warriors were brave and fearless, they had been driven back step by step until only the fortified highlands remained. Even that could not last long. They would make the invaders pay for each step they took, but could see no hope in victory.

How could they, with the Wizard King's potent magic raised against them? How can you fight against an enemy whose armies can march without fatigue thirty miles a day across enchanted roads, who can beguile your scouts to see friendly banners as enemies and foes as allies, who can spoil food and ruin equipment, or send doughty men into deep lethargy. Without magic of their own, what hope did they have to stand against him? His father the King was determined to hold until the very last, but without power their doom was inevitable.

This was why Aman slipped over the crenelated walls, passing through hidden doorways and tunnels that would open only to him. Somewhere, hidden within this palace, was the foundation of the Wizard King Satim's power: the spellbook of Satarys the Great. The long dead Emperor had once been the greatest wizard the world had ever seen. Said to have ruled for over two hundred years, his quest for immortality ended not from age, but from the knife of an aging grandson who refused to die old and uncrowned. Much had been lost in the civil war that followed, including the Emperor's treasured spellbooks. Like so many other wonders of that age, it was thought lost forever until Satim found them.

With luck, the spellbook would respond to his royal blood, divulging secrets that even the Wizard King was unaware. If not, its power would still allow them hope of an even fight.

Aman strode though the hallways trying to suppress the self-conscious unease he felt at being in the open. Though it would have been nice to travel in secret, it wasn't possible. In some places, there were no passages to follow. Whether from defense or suspicion, the builders had chosen to limit their secret traffic. Other sections had been subject to renovation over the many centuries. Unwittingly, those new architects had paved over many an entrance, never knowing what their work sealed off.

Eyes forward, face placid and determined, the prince did his best to remember his lessons. Gaze ahead, pace measured. Move with the crowd, neither hurried nor slacking. Act as if you belong, move with a purpose, and no one will think to question you. Wearing a plain, nondescript set of livery, it was easy for the prince to be mistaken as just another young functionary carrying out his duty. Especially today, when the celebration required so many preparations to carry out. He had unwittingly tensed as he passed the first guard station, but the soldiers gave him only the most cursory of glances. By the third or forth he paid them no more heed than they of him.

Though it lacked the sheer numbers of the crowded streets, the palace thoroughfare was far from empty. Many others crossed back and forth beside him. Young, overworked pages hustled about carrying some burden or another, maids scurried past government functionaries, and a hundred others beside. Aman found himself easily distracted by the scantily clad serving girls who passed freely through the hallways, but that was true of most who saw them.

As if he were just another functionary who had found his destination, Prince Aman turned from the main corridor down a hall of mostly unused offices. Following the ancient map he had memorized, the prince made his way into the third room on the left, searching along the wall until he found a secret lever which would open the passageway to the first of the great vaults.

Each of the vaults was a node of power and enchantment, among the strongest in all the empire. They were all but impregnable to either force or skill. Only the original key could open the great vault doors, and the Wizard King had gathered those long ago. There were three of them in total. One for the city treasury, one for the empire's, and one for the emperor's personal use. Or so it had been in the old days. Now, the Wizard King had co-opted all three, and it was said that he'd amassed a great store of artifacts, hoarding anything that appeared to carry even a sliver of power.

The sole weakness of the otherwise impermeable vaults were their back entrances, offering unrestricted access to anyone who possessed the blood to use them. Why had the builder left such an opening? Prince Aman had no idea, the records showed only their presence, not their purpose. Perhaps there were once enemies more ferocious than anything his family could produce, or had he genuinely believed that his descendants could remain peaceful and united? Whatever the reasoning, Aman suspected that this vulnerability had much to do with the brutality and finality of the later civil wars.

Whatever the reason, it now served as a great boon to Aman, and he blessed their foresight as he opened the door into the first vault. Just one glance inside left him awestruck at the marvels held within. He had expected just another dusty storeroom, however secure it was. Or perhaps an armory, sterile and orderly. Instead, he had entered into a treasure hall beyond his wildest dreams.

From the first glance, it was clear that the lightstone he had paid so dearly for would not be necessary. What need did he have for it when so many of the artifacts glowed and twinkled like tiny stars brought back to the earth. Overwhelmed by the majesty of it all, he spent awestruck, silent minutes just staring before remembering his purpose.

Wondrous though the collection was, there were no spellbooks there. Or any books at all. Though as he stared at the assembled wonders, he wondered how necessary the book was. With so much power here, could one of these artifact save his people? His eyes scanned down the rows of shelves, wondering at each and every treasure he saw. What did they do, what purpose were they created for? Would they held defeat his enemies, would they save his people? He wished he had some way to know.

There was a remarkable diversity to the collection. Dusty potware stood side by side with glowing crystal. A short sword seemed promising, until he noted the spiked protrusions rising hungrily from its grip. What toll would it take from its wielder, he wondered, and would it be worth it? His duty was to his people, and he would bear any price for them, but never unknowingly. He could not afford the risk.

There were idols too, holy symbols and figures of long faded deities. Forgotten, but perhaps not stripped of all power. One in particular drew his eye, a bronze statuette roughly half again as tall as his hands. Modeled after some beautiful dancer caught mid pose, its ruby eyes sparkled with an inner light all of their own. It was beautiful, an artifact of such wonder and grandeur that he could scarcely believe it. His eyes latched onto the idol, unable and unwilling to force his gaze from it. From the moment he first caught sight of it, all the other treasures seemed like cheap tin. Step by step, its obvious and terrible power drew him in.

Who are you? he wondered. What do you do? Can you save my people?

His hand closed around it, and from the moment of first contact he was overwhelmed by its power. Though it burned hot as a glowing coal, the pain never came. Only a scalding, roiling intensity as power flooded through him. This was it. This was what he had been searching for without ever realizing it. He tried to lift the statue from its shelf, but his hand refused to obey.

No.

Something was wrong. It was too much, too fast. Growing by the second, the power threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to force his hands away, but found himself utterly immobile, frozen in place as torrents of energy consumed him from the inside. His mouth opened, and he let out a wordless scream. There was no sight now, nor scent or touch or sound. Only power, burning white hot through his very being, consuming all sense and awareness.

He blinked, realizing that he had been awake for some time, utterly senseless to his surroundings. His muscles ached, as if he had held the pose for untold minutes, but how long he could not say.

I am alive! he marveled, remembering the inner fire that had consumed him. Then the statue had not-

In that moment, he realized what had been bothering him. He was still staring up at the statue. Staring UP. A moment ago it had been below eye level. Now it looked down on him, its once glowing eyes inert and lifeless. The power was gone, and so was the beauty. Where was the captivating spectacle that had drawn him in? Surely not this cheap and tawdry idol?

Then he noticed his arm, and gasped in shock as he saw the tiny, hairless hand still wrapped around the statue.

It's turned me into a boy! he gasped, shocked by the change. It seemed impossible, but who could deny what had been wrought. He was shorter, his slight arms all but hairless, the muscle definition he had trained so hard for nowhere in evidence. A powerful magic, that was certain, and a boon. If it could grant youth to his aging father and make him into the mighty warrior he had once been, it would be a tremendous blessing to his people.

Yet even that would not be enough, Aman realized. Even at his greatest, his father was just one man. To preserve his people, Aman would need some power greater still. Boy or not, he would have to continue. Perhaps if he disguised himself as one of the pages?

It was only when his chest unexpectedly bumped the shelves that he realized the truth. Hissing with disbelief, he sprang back, but could not deny the reality that his hands discovered when they pressed against his chest.

"Impossible," he said, but it was true. The statue had left him not a boy, but a maiden.

Rushing back to the statue, he stood on his tiptoes and grasped the it with both hands. Finding it unexpectedly weighty, he shook vigorously, willing the magic to return.

"Change me back," he demanded, unnerved by the voice which passed his lips. Its call was high and pure, ringing with an almost playful lift despite the gnawing terror he now felt.

"Undo this," he cried, "Fix me!"

But the statue remained inert.

Releasing the statue, he slumped to the floor, his head in his hands. How could this have happened? He was a prince, a warrior, not some slight maiden. Once again, magic had cursed their kingdom, this time taking its toll on him personally.

It took several long minutes before he regained control over himself. Gathering his mettle, he stood up once more.

"No matter what form I wear, I am a prince of As-Datan," he said resolutely, ignoring how his feminine voice gave lie to those words. "I have come here for a purpose, and will not rest until it is complete."

Besides, what power could this curse have compared to the mighty spellbook he sought. With that in hand, surely it would be short work to break the enchantment. His circumstances had not changed just because his body had. The only way forward was to retrieve the spellbook and save his kingdom. He could not leave until that task was complete.

As he left behind the vault full of perilous artifacts, another truth became plain. He could not return to the palace thoroughfare as he was. A nondescript man wearing plain but tidy clothes was absolutely unremarkable. A wild eyed woman wearing barely fitting male garb would be spotted in an instant. Even with the belt cinched all the way, his trousers threatened to fall with every step. The tunic was far too baggy, hanging near his knees even as the sleeves spilled over his hands. One step in public, and he was sure to be taken for questioning.

Thankful that the passage opened into a little used wing of the palace, Prince Aman searched through the vacant rooms trying to find something more suitable. Mostly they proved useless. Offices, record rooms, clerking stations, they all lacked even a shred of clothing, much less something that would fit his new frame.

It was towards the end, when began to grow discouraged, that he chanced upon a room that held something of interest. The low, wide couches and lavish cushions immediately marked this as a pleasure den. Not the most lavish in the palace, considering the worn look to the furniture and the unimportant corridor where it stood, but unmistakable nonetheless. Believing this another useless room, it was only completeness that had led him to open the wardrobe, and it was there he found the feminine clothing he had searched for.

Yet wearing what he found within was unthinkable. Almost literally so. He, the prince of a proud and noble people, could not possibly wear something this. The gauzy, transparent garb of a palace pleasure slave.

But what other choice was there?

Anything for my people, he reminded himself, trying to dispel the knot of disgust that congealed in his stomach.

Reaching out his hand, he took the blue set from its carefully hung hook. Thin, smooth, and nearly weightless even to his tiny hand, it hardly seemed like clothing. Yet in all his searching it was the best he could find. Without it, he could not seek the next vault and his mission would be doomed.

"Anything, right," he said with a sigh, shucking the oversized shirt which had fit so well earlier and letting gravity win the futile struggle over his trousers. If he had tried to ignore his new body before, it was impossible to do so now. The snug pantaloons clung tight to his hips and crotch, only to flare out into gauzy semi-transparent wisps. Pulled tight, they offered incontrovertible proof of the newfound flatness between his legs, rubbing against his new crotch with every step.

The top was brief, breezy, and almost unbearably exposed. Leaving so much uncovered, it reminded him more of days spent practicing shirtless than it did of clothing. Except that no vest had ever clung so tight to his chest, nor been so constraining. As he pulled it close around him, he marveled at how it tugged against the very foreign weight on his chest. Lifting and supporting, yet, but also revealing and displaying. Consciously reminding him of his newfound breasts in a way that the shapeless fabric of his discarded tunic never had, he found himself constantly aware of the way they hung. Held high and tight in the constraining fabric, it felt almost like a pair of hands gripping his chest to hold them in place.

There was a nagging sense that he was forgetting something, and just as he prepared to leave the thought struck him. What could he do with his oversized clothing? He dared not leave them here where they might be. The room was small and sparse, with hiding place in evidence. In a panic, he tossed them down the waste chute, consigning them to the rubbish bin, but protecting himself from discovery. It was only after he watched them vanish that he realized he could have left them in the secret passageway.

"Too late for that," he told himself, "I can worry about that when I've recovered the spellbook."

The exit almost broke him, the almost unbearable shame at being seen in such a demeaning outfit. It was only the sure knowledge that any other clothing was lost that prevented him from turning back. There was nothing behind him, all his hope lay ahead.

As he stepped into the hallway, heads immediately turned. For one terrifying moment, he feared discovery, that his spell enforced disguise was as transparent as the clothing he wore. In its own way, the truth was almost as bad. Blushing scarlet, he realized how closely the looks mirrored those he had earlier directed towards the pleasure slaves.

Walk like you belong, he told himself, forcing a blank smile to his lips as he joined the rushing crowd. With each step he took, he grew more conscious of how his reshaped hips had altered his gait, giving it an uncontrollable swing that accented his behind. A trait he could cure, with effort, but not without drawing unwanted attention. With people surrounding him, he was once again reminded how little he wore, his body so uncovered compared to everyone that passed him.

The women were disdainful, if they bothered to acknowledge him at all. The men appeared almost hungry, like he was the prize treat on a dessert platter laid before them. More than once he was openly groped on the way to the second vault. The prince fumed - he had dueled people for far less back home - but there was little he could do about it here.

Alas, the second vault proved no more useful than the first. This time, the artifacts were joined by potions and elixirs, stacked beside baskets and jars full of unfamiliar herbs. More prudent this time, he left the unmarked containers where they lay, caring only for the spellbook that was to be his prize and salvation.