“It was once. Now it is a place of prayer.”
“It is still a fortress.”
The gates were open, and Ekodas led her inside. Vishna and several of the other priests were drawing water from the well. Shia stopped and stared at them. “You have no women for this work?” she asked Ekodas.
“There are no women here. I told you, we are priests.”
“And priests have no women?”
“Exactly so.”
“Only sisters?”
“Yes.”
“Your little tribe won’t last long,” she said with a deep throaty chuckle.
The screams died down, and a hoarse, choking death rattle came from the slave. His arms relaxed, sagging into the chains, and his legs spasmed. Zhu Chao slashed the knife into the rib cage, sawing through the arteries of the heart and ripping the organ clear. He carried it to the center of the circle, stepping carefully over the chalk lines that marked the stones, zigzagging between the candles and the wires of gold that linked the chalice and the crystal. Laying the heart in the chalice, he drew back, placing his feet within the twin circles of Shemak.
The Fourth Grimoire lay open on a bronze lectern, and he turned the page and began to read aloud in a language lost to the world of men for a hundred millennia.
The air around him crackled, and fire ran along the wires of gold, circling the chalice in rings of flame. The heart bubbled, dark smoke oozing from it, billowing up to form a shape. Massive rounded shoulders appeared, along with a huge head with a cavernous mouth. Eyes flickered open, yellow and slitted. Long arms, bulging with muscle, sprouted from the shoulders.
Zhu Chao began to tremble and felt his courage waning. The creature of smoke threw back its head, and a sibilant hissing filled the room.
“What do you want of me?” it said.
“A death,” answered Zhu Chao.
“Kesa Khan?”
“Exactly so.”
A sound issued from the creature of smoke, a slow volcanic hissing that Zhu Chao took to be laughter. “He wants your death also,” said the demon.
“Can he pay in blood and pain?” countered Zhu Chao, aware that sweat was trickling down his face and that his hands were trembling.
“He has served my master well.”
“As have I.”
“Indeed. But I will not grant your request.”
“Why?”
“Look to the lines of your life, Zhu Chao.”
The smoke dispersed as if a clean wind had swept through the room. The chalice was empty, and the heart had vanished without a trace. Zhu Chao turned to where, moments before, the body of the young slave had hung in chains. It, too, was gone.
The sorcerer stumbled from the circle, not caring about the lines of chalk his sandaled feet smeared and scattered. Taking up the Third Grimoire, he carried it to a leather-topped desk and searched through the pages. The spell he needed was a small one, requiring no blood. He spoke the words, then traced a pattern in the air. Where his finger passed a shining line appeared, a spider’s web forming. At last satisfied, he pointed to various intersections. Small spheres sprang into being at each spot, some blue, others green, one gold, two black. Zhu Chao drew in a deep breath, focusing his concentration. The web began to shift and move, the spheres spinning, circling the golden globe at the center. The sorcerer took up a quill pen, dipping it into a small well of ink. He found a large sheet of papyrus and began to write, occasionally glancing up at the swirling pattern in the air.
After an hour he had filled the page with symbols. Tired, he rubbed his eyes and stretched his back. The swirling web disappeared. Taking the sheet, he walked back to the chalice, said the six words of power, and dropped the papyrus into the golden bowl.
It burst into flames, which reared up, forming a burning sphere, a great globe that rose from the chalice, hanging in the air before his face. The sphere stretched and flattened, the flames dying down, and Zhu Chao saw a man dressed in black moving along the high walls of his palace. In the man’s hand was a small crossbow.
The scene flickered and changed. There was an ancient fortress with high twisted walls and tilted turrets. An army was gathered there, scaling ladders and ropes at the ready. Upon the wall, on the highest turret, stood Kesa Khan. Beside him was a woman, also dressed in black.
The vision shimmered, and Zhu Chao saw a dragon high in the sky, circling above the fortress. But then it turned and flew straight toward Gulgothir, passing over the quiet homes and flying like an arrow toward Zhu Chao’s palace. Its shadow swept over the land like a black demon, flowing over the palace walls and into the courtyard. There the shadow froze on the flagstones, blacker than night, rising up and becoming a man.
The same man, carrying the crossbow.
Faint now, the image swirled once more, and Zhu Chao found himself gazing at a cabin in the mountains. The man was there again, as were the bodies of the nine knights. The sorcerer was shocked. How had Waylander overcome his knights? He knew no spells. Fear flickered in Zhu Chao’s heart. The dragon in the dream had flown to his palace, promising death and despair.
Not mine, thought Zhu Chao, fighting down the beginnings of panic. No, not mine.
His weariness was forgotten as he moved up the winding stair to the upper rooms. Bodalen was there, lounging on a couch, his booted feet on a silver-topped table.
“What is there that you have not told me about Waylander?” demanded the sorcerer.
Bodalen rolled to his feet. He was a tall man, wide-shouldered and lantern-jawed, his eyes blue beneath thick brows, his mouth large and full-lipped. He was the image of the younger Karnak, and his voice had the same resonant power. “Nothing, my lord. He is an assassin—that is all.”
“The assassin has slain nine of my knights. You understand? Men of great power.”
Bodalen licked his lips. “I can’t explain it, my lord. My father talked of him often. He said nothing about magic.”
Zhu Chao fell silent. What reason would Waylander have for coming to his palace save to kill Bodalen? If Karnak’s son was no longer there … He smiled at the young Drenai. “He will not thwart us,” he said. “Now there is something you can do for me, my boy.”
“Gladly, my lord.”
“I want you to ride into the Mountains of the Moon. I will give you a map to follow. There is a fortress of great antiquity there, a curious place. There are many tunnels below it and chambers filled with gold and jewels, so it is said. Take ten men and plentiful supplies and move into the fortress. Find a hiding place in the underground caverns. Within the next few weeks Kesa Khan will journey there. When he does, you can emerge and kill him.”
“There will be many Nadir warriors with him,” objected the younger man.
Zhu Chao smiled thinly. “Life offers many dangers, Bodalen, and a brave man can overcome them all. It would please me if you agreed to undertake this small quest.”
“You know I would give my life for the cause, my lord. It is just—”
“Yes, yes,” snapped Zhu Chao, “I understand. You were born with the looks of your father and none of his courage. Well, know this, Bodalen: at his side you were of great use to me. Here, as a runaway, you are valueless. Do not make the mistake of displeasing me.”
Bodalen paled. “Of course not, my lord. I … I would be happy to … a map, you say?”
“You shall have a map and ten trustworthy men. Very trust-worthy. And if you do this successfully, Bodalen, you will be rewarded beyond your desires. You will become king over all the Drenai.”
Bodalen nodded and smiled. “I will serve you well, my lord. And you are wrong: I do not lack courage. I will prove it to you.”
“Of course, my boy. Forgive me. I spoke in anger. Now go and prepare for the journey.”
* * *
Ekodas led Shia through the dining hall and up through the second and third levels to where Dardalion sat in his study. The young priest tapped at the door.
“Enter,” called the abbot. Ekodas opened the door
, ushering the young Nadir woman into the room.
Dardalion rose and bowed. “Welcome, my dear. I am sorry that your visit to Drenai lands should have had so unsettling a beginning.”
“Did I say it was unsettling?” countered Shia, walking forward and scanning the study, her mocking gaze drifting over the burdened shelves and open cupboards stacked with scrolls, parchments, and books.
“Do you read?” asked Dardalion.
She shook her head. “What would be the purpose?”
“To understand our own needs and desires we must first understand the needs and desires of our ancestors.”
“I do not see that as true,” she answered. “The desires of our ancestors were obvious; that is why we are here. And those desires do not change, which is why we have children.”
“You think that history can teach us nothing?” asked Ekodas.
“History can,” she admitted, “but these are not history; they are merely writings. Are you the leader here?” she asked, turning to Dardalion.
“I am the abbot. The priests you have seen are my disciples.”
“He fights well,” she said, smiling and pointing at Ekodas. “He should not be here among prayer men.”
“You use the term as an insult,” accused Ekodas, blushing.
“If you feel insulted by it, then that is what it must be,” she told him.
Dardalion chuckled and moved around his desk. “You are welcome here, Shia, daughter of Nosta Vren. And in the morning we will direct you to your brother, Belash.”
Her dark eyes sparkled, and she laughed. “Your powers do not surprise me, Silver-hair. I knew you were a mystic.”
“How?” inquired Ekodas.
Dardalion moved alongside the bewildered priest, laying a hand on the young man’s arm. “How else would I know about the … unsettling, did I say? … attack?” Dardalion told him. “You have a keen mind, Shia. And you are a brave woman.”
She shrugged. “I do not need you to tell me what I am. But it pleases me to hear the compliment. I would like to sleep now. The fighting prayer man offered me a bed.”
“Ekodas, take our guest to the western wing. I have had a fire prepared in the south-facing dormitory.” Swinging back to Shia, he bowed again. “May your dreams be pleasant, young lady.”
“They will or they won’t,” she answered, her eyes still faintly mocking. “Is your man allowed to sleep with me?”
“I fear not,” Dardalion told her. “We are celibate here.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Why do men play such games?” she asked. “Lack of good lovemaking causes diseases of the belly and back. And bad headaches.”
“But set against that,” said Dardalion, barely suppressing a smile, “is that it frees the spiritual mind to heights rarely found in more earthly pleasures.”
“Do you know that for certain, or is it only in writings?” she countered.
“It is only in writings,” he agreed. “But faith is an integral part of our life here. Sleep well.”
Ekodas, his face burning, led the Nadir woman along the western corridor, his discomfiture increased by the sound of the abbot’s laughter echoing behind them.
The room was small, but a bright fire was burning in the hearth and fresh blankets had been laid on the narrow bed.
“I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said stiffly. “I will wake you in the morning with a little breakfast: bread and cheese and the juice of summer apples.”
“Do you dream, prayer man?”
“Yes. Often.”
“Dream of me,” she said.
10
THEY WERE CAMPED in a sheltered hollow within a wood, and a small fire flickered in a circle of stones. Senta, Angel, and Belash were sleeping, with Waylander taking the third watch. He was sitting on the hilltop, his back to a tree, his black clothing merging him into the night shadows. Beside him lay the hound, which he had named Scar.
Miriel lay wrapped in her cloak, her back to the fire, her shoulders warm, her feet cold. Autumn was fading fast, and the smell of snow was in the air. She could not sleep. The ride from the cabin had been made in near silence, but Miriel had linked into the thoughts of the riders. Belash was thinking of home and vengeance, and whenever his thoughts turned to Waylander, he pictured a bright knife. Angel was confused. He did not want to travel north, yet he did not want to leave them. His thoughts of Miriel were equally contrasting. He was fond of her, by turns paternal and aroused by her. Senta suffered no confusion. His thoughts were filled with erotic images that stimulated and frightened the young mountain girl.
Waylander she left alone, fearing the newfound darkness within him.
Sitting up, she added several sticks to the fire, then shifted her position so that her legs and feet could bathe in the warmth of the small blaze. A voice whispered into her mind, so faint that she thought at first she had imagined it. It came again, but she could make no sense of the words. Concentrating her talent, she focused all her power on the whispers. Still nothing. It was galling. Lying down, she closed her eyes, her spirit drifting up from her body. Now the whisper was clearer but still seemed to come from an impossible distance.
“Who are you?” she called.
“Trust me!”
“No.”
“Many lives depend on your trust: women, children, old ones.”
“Show yourself!” she commanded.
“I cannot. The distance is too great, my power stretched.”
“Then what would you have me do?”
“Return to the flesh and awaken Belash. Tell him to hold his left hand over the fire and cut his palm. Let the blood fall into the flames. Tell him Kesa Khan commands this.”
“And then what?”
“And then I will come to you and we will talk.”
“Whose lives depend on this?” she asked. Immediately she sensed his agitation.
“I can talk no more. Do this swiftly or the link will be broken. I am nearing exhaustion.”
Miriel returned to her body and rose, moving to Belash. As she neared the Nadir warrior, he rolled to his feet, knife in hand, his eyes wary. She told him the message she had received from Kesa Khan and expected him to question her or express his doubts. But the Nadir instantly moved to the fire, slicing his knife blade across his open palm. Blood spilled from the wound, splashing into the flames.
The voice of Kesa Khan boomed inside her mind, causing her to reel back. “Now you may come to me,” he said.
“Can I trust this Kesa Khan?” she asked Belash.
“Does he say that you can?” he answered.
“Yes.”
“Then obey him,” advised the Nadir.
Miriel did not rely on the words but read the images beyond them. Belash feared Kesa Khan, but there was no doubt that he also admired him and would trust him with his life.
Miriel lay back and let her spirit drift clear. Instantly she was swept into a bewildering maze of light and color. Her senses reeled, and she lost control of her flight, spinning wildly through a thousand bright rainbows and into a darkness deeper than death. But before fear could turn to panic, the darkness lifted and she found herself sitting by a lakeside village. There were houses there, rough-crafted but secure against the winter wind and snow. Children were playing at the water’s edge, and she recognized herself and Krylla. Sitting beside them on an upturned boat was a man, tall and slim, with wide staring eyes and tightly curled hair.
Miriel’s heart leapt, and for the first time in twelve years she remembered her real father’s face. This was the winter just before the Vagrians had invaded, just before her parents and all her friends had been butchered. It was a peaceful time, full of quiet joy.
“Are you comfortable with this illusion?” asked the wizened old man sitting beside her.
“Yes,” she told him. “Very.” She turned her attention to him. He was no more than four and a half feet tall, bird-boned ribs pressing against the taut skin of his chest. His head was too large for his bod
y, and his wispy hair hung lank to his shoulders. His two front teeth were missing, and his words were sibilant as a result. He was wearing ragged leggings and knee-length moccasins tied with strips of black leather.
“I am Kesa Khan.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It will,” he assured her. “We share the same enemy: Zhu Chao.” He almost spit the name.
“I do not know this man.”
“He sent the dark knights to kill your father, just as he sends the Gothir army to wipe out my people. And you do know him, Miriel. Look.” The scene flickered, the village disappearing. Now they sat on a high wall overlooking a flower garden. A man sat there, his robes dark, his hair waxed to his head, his sideburns braided and hanging to his chin. Miriel tensed. It was the scaled hunter who had tried to capture her and Krylla five years earlier, before the silver knight had rescued them. But here he had no scales. He was merely a man sitting in a garden.
“Do not be misled,” warned Kesa Khan. “You are gazing upon evil.”
“Why does he seek to kill my … father?” She hesitated as she spoke, the image of her real father strong in her mind.
“Bodalen serves him. He thought it would be a simple matter to hunt down Waylander and slay him. Then he could have returned Bodalen to the Drenai, awaiting the moment the son betrayed the father.” The old man chuckled, the sound dry and unpleasant. “He should have known Waylander as I knew him. Ha! I tried to hunt him down once. I sent six great merged beasts to destroy him, along with twenty hunters of rare skill. None survived. He has a gift for death.”
“You are my father’s enemy?”
“Not now!” he assured her. “Now I wish him for a friend.”
“Why?”
“Because my people are in peril. You can have no conception of what it is to live under the Gothir yoke. We have no rights under their laws. We can be hunted down like vermin. No one will raise a hand to object. That is bad enough, but now Zhu Chao has convinced the emperor that my tribe—the oldest of the tent people—needs to be eradicated. Exterminated! Soon the soldiers will march against us.”