The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  Harani looked melancholy. ‘For understanding. That is what I think.’

  ‘Should we wait? How long will he pray?’

  ‘Until his prayer is done.’

  The sun baked the top of Gilwyn’s skull. He waited, cultivating patience, waiting for Prince Aztar to finish his devotion. At last the prince ceased his song, bent low to kiss the rock, then straightened his stooped spine. It occurred to Gilwyn that the effort to climb the rock had been enormous for Aztar, whose body was racked with burns. Aztar slowly turned his head to regard them from his perch. A mild annoyance flashed across his face.

  ‘Stay,’ commanded Harani. ‘I will leave you now.’

  ‘What? Harani, wait . . .’

  The woman ignored Gilwyn’s plea, turning and walking back toward the camp. Gilwyn thought of going after her, but Aztar was already making his way down the jagged slope, painfully coming toward Gilwyn, his head and face protected by a brilliant white gaka. The dark skin of his cheeks glowed with redness. His eyes flashed when they met Gilwyn’s.

  ‘You are to go,’ he grumbled. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To speak with you, Prince Aztar. I’ve been thinking.’

  Aztar remained perturbed. ‘On your way, boy.’

  Gilwyn shook his head. ‘I can’t go, not yet. I’ve been thinking about what you told me, about Princess Salina. I’m going to speak to her, Prince Aztar.’

  ‘So you have said.’

  ‘That’s right. And when I told you, you got angry. I don’t understand why.’

  ‘Why? That is none of your concern.’ Aztar drilled Gilwyn with his gaze. ‘Is that why you came here?’

  Gilwyn spoke carefully. ‘Prince Aztar, you’ve been kind to me. I didn’t expect that. I expected you to kill me.’

  The prince’s suspicious eyes barely softened. ‘You were wrong about me. Perhaps we were wrong about each other.’

  ‘Yes, we were. But I wanted to repay that kindness if I can. I want to bring a message to Salina for you, tell her you’re still alive. She thinks you’re dead, probably. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘To her, I am dead,’ said Aztar. ‘I have nothing to offer her, and nothing to say.’

  ‘But you love her. She should know that you’re alive, at least. When I see her, I can tell her that for you.’

  Behind his cloak, Aztar looked regretful. ‘I cannot stop you,’ he said. Pulling the hood close around his face, he brushed passed Gilwyn on his way back to camp. ‘Go.’

  Gilwyn hobbled after him. He had been so sure Aztar would welcome his offer. ‘Don’t you want to tell her you’re alive? That you still care for her?’

  ‘It makes no difference. I cannot see her again. Not ever.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I am forbidden!’ Aztar roared. He whirled on Gilwyn, ripping back his hood and exposing his burned and furious face. ‘Look at what Vala did to me! My love for her is a curse, boy. It must never rise again.’

  ‘But what if she loves you? What if she’s suffering because she thinks you are dead? That isn’t fair, Prince Aztar.’

  ‘Why do you pursue this?’ Aztar groaned. ‘Why must you torture confessions from me?’

  ‘To repay you,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Because you’ve been kind to me. And because I think you’re wrong. I know about Vala, Prince Aztar. I know that He is a kind and loving god. Maybe he did punish you for attacking Jador. But not because you love Salina. That can’t be.’

  Aztar snarled, ‘You know nothing of Vala, boy. You are a northerner; you do not even believe. I have devoted my life to the Serene One. And I know my crimes. Let me suffer them in peace.’

  Gilwyn looked at the man, stunned by his refusal. He had wanted to repay Aztar’s kindness, but now he realized he had stumbled into a hornet’s nest.

  ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll go. And when I see Salina I won’t say anything about you. I won’t tell her that you’re alive or that you were kind to me. I’m sorry, Prince Aztar. I only meant to help you.’

  He started off, wandering past Aztar on his way back to camp, leaving the prince in the shadow of the hill. He went five or six paces before Aztar called after him.

  ‘Wait.’

  Gilwyn paused, turning hopefully. Aztar’s pained eyes faced the ground.

  ‘Tell her that I am alive,’ he said. He lifted his gaze toward Gilwyn. ‘Tell her that I love her still.’

  ‘But you won’t go to her?’

  ‘No. I can never go to her. Tell her that as well, Gilwyn Toms, and that I will never forget her beauty.’

  Prince Aztar covered his head again, then turned and walked quietly back toward the hill. Gilwyn waited a moment, wanting to say more but having no words. As Aztar again began climbing his sacred hill, Gilwyn walked slowly back to camp, where the magnificent black stallion waited for him.

  9

  A chorus of song birds greeted Salina as she made her way through the palace gardens. Already the sun had risen, but Salina’s mind still slept, and as she padded across the cobblestones she let out a long, unlady-like yawn. The brightly coloured birds who had risen with the sun ignored her outburst as they sang, clinging happily to the fruit trees in the garden. The first rays of sunlight shone through the green leaves, warming the small balls of sweet-smelling citrus. The palace itself was already humming with activity, but the garden remained blessedly quiet, and Salina took satisfaction in the silence. Tonight was the last night of Oradin, the week-long festival of the new year’s moon. That meant legions of revelers and a long night pleasing her father’s many friends, and Salina was already dreading it. When she was a girl, she had loved Oradin and the sweet-tasting moon cakes that came with the holiday. For a week she and her sisters would choose pretty clothes to impress the boys, painting their nails and polishing their jewelry until it sparkled. Of all the Ganjeese holidays, Oradin was not the most holy or important. It was simply the most fun, and for that reason alone the people or the city looked forward to it all year. But Salina took no joy in this year’s holiday, nor in the tedious task her father had assigned her for the morning.

  Princess Salina of Ganjor was the youngest of five daughters, and often described by her father as the prettiest rose in his garden. Until recently, King Baralosus had indulged Salina, favouring her with liberties he had never granted her older sisters. She had been independent, able to make up her own mind as to her education, her friends, even her manner of dress.

  Until now.

  At the end of the garden, Salina glimpsed the woman who had come to the palace to instruct her. Her name was Fatini, and Salina had seen her around the palace many times before. Fatini was the wife of Toran, the silk merchant who supplied the fabric to all of the king’s tailors. She was a woman of great stature among the servants, certainly rich by Ganjeese standards, but when she came to instruct the king’s daughters she lost the haughtiness she displayed in her own shop. Salina slowed her pace, sure that Fatini had not yet seen her. Around the woman were wooden tables burdened with bales of fabric and tools. Fatini herself fiddled with tools, testing and arranging them as she waited for the princess to arrive. All five of Baralosus’ daughters had been instructed by Fatini, patiently taught how to make their own mejkith. Now, it was Salina’s turn. She was to wear the veil tonight, hiding her pretty face from all of the hungry male onlookers. Salina cringed at the thought, wondering how thunderously mad her father would get if she simply turned around.

  A bird in the tree above Salina’s head began to sing, getting Fatini’s attention. Spotting Salina in the grove, Fatini smiled and urged her forward. Except for the two of them, they were alone in the garden. Grateful no one else had come to watch her, Salina reluctantly proceeded. Fatini had arranged their work area under a beautiful, wide-spreading orange tree. A carpet of fallen leaves softened the ground beneath the tables. Salina looked around, dazzled by the colours of the many fabrics Fatini had brought with her. The display softened Salina’s mood. She would be able to choose her own colou
r for her mejkith. The thought brought out the child in her.

  ‘Good morning, Princess Salina,’ said Fatini, rushing forward to greet her with a smile. Though many merchants and their wives spoke the tongue of the continent, Salina had never heard Fatini speak anything but Ganjeese. She had a practiced, aristocratic accent that made the language sound beautiful.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Fatini,’ replied Salina, giving the woman a slight bow. Even though she was a princess, she could still be intimidated by her father’s lordly friends.

  Fatini reached out and took Salina’s hand. She had long, dainty fingers laden with rings that dug into Salina’s skin. ‘Look!’ she pronounced, making a sweeping gesture at the tables. ‘I’ve brought only the best for you, Princess. This is a special day for you. Your formal mejkith!’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I am happy for you, child. No, not a child! A woman.’

  ‘Yes, a woman,’ Salina agreed, though the distinction was not what it should have been. In Ganjor, becoming an adult was not the same for women and men.

  ‘Here, sit yourself down, child,’ said Fatini, steering Salina toward a chair near the largest table. ‘First we will choose a colour. Have you thought of what you would like?’

  Salina sat down, staring at the bales of fabric. ‘No. I have a green dress for tonight. A mejkith that is green should do fine.’

  ‘Oh, but this is your first mejkith. The dress you wear is less important.’ Fatini happily started going through the fabric. Like most Ganjeese ladies of means, she wore a dress of velvet, the colours slightly muted yet nonetheless beautiful. Silver and gold threads rounded the cuffs, all perfectly stitched. ‘You should choose a colour that makes your heart sing,’ said Fatini. ‘Something that will make men wonder about you.’

  ‘Lady Fatini, this is my father’s pride,’ said Salina. ‘I do not mean to be unkind, but I have not given this much thought.’

  ‘Then it is time you did think of it, child. You are a woman grown now, and tonight is a formal night. You cannot act like a little girl any longer. Consider what people will say about you, and your father. Always consider that, Salina.’

  Salina nodded, concealing her anger. Everything she did was carefully considered so not to embarrass her father. That was the duty of all daughters – to make their fathers proud, and never, never to embarrass them. People like Fatini simply never noticed the contortions Salina put herself through to please her father. Still tired from being woken up so early, Salina felt her lips twisting in rebellion.

  ‘We’ll choose the best colour for your face,’ said Fatini. She had a large swatch of lavender silk in her hands, which she helped up to Salina’s face, just below the eyes. ‘Look how pretty this is. Do you think so?’

  Salina shrugged. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘Nice?’ Fatini seemed hurt. ‘Child, do try to understand what we’re doing here. The mejkith will give you mystery. It will mark you as a woman, ready for a husband.’

  ‘Husband?’ Salina shook her head adamantly. ‘No.’

  The lady laughed. ‘Oh, yes. There will be many fine men at your father’s celebration tonight. Do not be surprised if one has his eyes on you.’

  ‘One already had his eyes on me,’ said Salina. She knew it was an open secret. The entire palace knew of Aztar’s interest in her. And now that Aztar was gone – maybe even dead – no other suitors had come forward.

  ‘Prince Aztar would have made a man for you,’ said Fatini softly. ‘Your father spoke of him often.’

  Did he speak of Jador too? Salina wondered. Or how he simply bargained me away for it? She wanted to ask these questions with an acid tongue, to pin Lady Fatini down like a butterfly, but she did not. She simply pushed the lavender silk aside. She had already settled on green.

  ‘If Prince Aztar would have had me,’ she grumbled, ‘it was not my father’s place to speak of it. I am a woman grown – I should be able to choose my own time of marriage. And my own husband.’

  ‘That is northern nonsense,’ said Fatini. She looked at Salina gently. ‘Your father is very wise, Princess. Let him make these decisions for you. You will see – he will not fail you.’

  ‘But I do not wish it, Lady Fatini.’ Salina pushed herself away from the table. ‘I do not wish to be bartered as my sisters were, or share a bed with a man three times my age.’

  ‘That is how marriages are made, child. That is how I met my husband, and Toran is a good man. He has provided well for me and our children. He works hard to make a fine life for us all. Do not fret so. Your father will choose wisely. Your husband will have the means to make you happy.’

  Salina glanced up at the woman. ‘We are so different, you and I,’ she sighed. ‘You take joy in the mejkith. I do not.’

  Fatini put down a bale of silk she was about to unravel, pulling up the only other chair to sit beside Salina. She did not seem offended by the girl’s words, but rather confused. In the shade of the orange tree, she smiled the way a mother might, plaintively and without judgement.

  ‘Princess, if you were my daughter I would tell you things, about how a man shivers when he looks at a woman in a mejkith, and how he hungers, wondering what beauty lies beneath.’

  Salina laughed, feeling her cheeks flush. ‘Fatini, please . . .’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Fatini with a grin. ‘Men love mystery. You see? The mejkith is not a prison, Princess. It is a mighty shield! It gives you power. If I was your mother I would tell you these things.’ Lady Fatini sat back. ‘But I am not your mother, so I never told you that, did I?’

  ‘No,’ chuckled Salina. ‘You never did.’ She reached out and took the fabric Fatini was about to show her, a rich silk the colour of sparkling emeralds. ‘Now, show me how to make a mejkith.’

  Happiness flashed through Lady Fatini’s dark eyes. In the still cool air of morning, the merchants wife lined up her needles and cutting tools and began her teaching. Salina listened intently, still not wanting to wear the mejkith but not wanting to disappoint the sweet, surprising woman, either. She had misjudged Fatini, she decided, and cheerfully let Fatini guide her hands across the fabric, using a sharp blade to cut the delicate silk. The first would be only practice, Fatini told Salina. There was no need to worry about mistakes.

  ‘We have all day,’ said the woman.

  Salina settled into her work, and after an hour she had learned to work the little tools. She was already an accomplished seamstress, a skill all the women of the palace learned from an early age. As she worked some golden thread into a long needle, Salina began to sing to herself. It was a glorious morning in the garden, too lovely to retain a foul mood. Then, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed someone waving at her. Salina put down her sewing.

  ‘Nourah?’

  Her friend and handmaiden stood a few paces away, partially hidden in the grove, staring at her sheepishly. Nourah gestured nervously for Salina to come. Salina frowned, surprised at the girl’s forwardness. Nourah was a close confidant, and smart enough not to interrupt unless something important had arisen.

  ‘Lady Fatini, your pardon, please,’ said Salina, getting up from her chair. ‘That is one of my maidens. She must need something.’

  ‘Of course, Princess,’ said Fatini, preoccupied with her own projects. ‘Do not be too long, though. You still need work.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Salina promised, then excused herself to go to Nourah. One of her youngest handmaidens, Nourah was nevertheless among Salina’s most trusted. Salina was closer to Nourah than to any of her sisters, and had confided her deepest secrets in the girl, who had kept them all safely locked away. Nourah’s brown eyes jumped nervously as Salina approached, obviously bursting with news. Anxiously she waved for her princess to hurry, keeping herself partially hidden in the grove.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Salina asked crossly. ‘Nourah, you shouldn’t have come . . .’

  ‘I had to,’ Nourah insisted. She waited until Salina was well within earshot, keeping her voice to a whisper. ‘Salina, Kamag came to see
me.’

  Salina started at the name. She took Nourah’s shoulder and turned both their backs toward Fatini. ‘Kamag? When?’

  ‘This morning, when I was shopping in the market. He wants you to come.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  Nourah bridled at the question, bracing herself. ‘Salina, he said it was about Aztar.’

  Princess Salina felt her heart race. She had not had news of Aztar for months, nor had she heard from Kamag, either. From his place in his safe little tavern, Kamag had helped Salina ferry Seekers across the desert, keeping them safe from Aztar as they sought Jador. Like she, he had risked his life to help the desperate northerners, always using Nourah as a messenger. Since Aztar’s defeat, there had been no need for them to talk, and very few Seekers who needed their help anyway.

  ‘Aztar . . .’ Salina put her hand over her chest. The news had winded her. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing else,’ said Nourah. ‘But he wants you to come tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? I cannot come tonight! It’s Oradin!’

  ‘Kamag knows, but it is urgent. I told him of the gathering at the palace, but he insisted that it cannot wait, and that you would want to know.’ Nourah looked helpless, like the young girl she was. ‘I’m sorry, Salina. I do not know more.’

  Salina simply wilted. ‘Aztar. I can’t believe it . . .’

  Nourah looked at her expectantly. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What can I do? I have to be at that cursed gathering tonight.’ Salina felt exasperation rising like a cobra. ‘My father will skin me if I miss it.’

  ‘Tell him you are sick,’ Nourah suggested, ‘that you have your moon time.’

  Salina rolled her eyes. ‘He is wise to that one. So is everyone else.’

  ‘Think of something else, then. Eat a bad fish or some spoiled milk.’

  ‘I don’t want to really be sick. Seriously, now, think . . .’

  Salina turned back to Lady Fatini, who waved at her impatiently. Salina waved back with a face that begged indulgence.