Sharon was visibly shaking; she spun from the awful sight of the fires and the bloody massacre and strode through her bedroom and out into the hall. The braziers in the tiled corridor burned dimly at this late hour. Twisting shadows danced across the concave ceiling and along the walls like grisly images of nightthings.
The two guards on duty looked with surprise at the young princess standing before them.
“My lady?” said the first.
“What is happening?” she flared.
Mutely the guards exchanged quick glances. “Not to worry, my lady.”
She glared at the black-cloaked soldiers, noticing their expressionless features, their calm and steady demeanor while the city went mad around them.
“Not to worry?” she panted, gesturing beyond the open door of her room to the scarlet-glowing sky. “Haven’t you seen? Haven’t you heard the screams, the fighting?”
“Everything is under control,” assured the taller of the two. “The situation is being well taken care of; there is no need for alarm.”
Sharon was frantic. “Are you insane? People are being slaughtered in the square!”
Both men stared blankly.
“Look for yourselves!” she cried. “Samarkand is aflame!”
“Everything is well under control,” repeated the first soldier, and, as if giving emphasis to his words, his large hand gripped strongly the hilt of his scimitar.
“Take me to my father,” Sharon demanded. “I want to speak with him now.” These soldiers were treating her like a stupid child; she could see things were not under control. But as she spoke, the screams outside had all but ended, replaced by the harsh clatter of hoof-beats against flagstone as more cavalry charged across the square and through the main thoroughfares, routing the mobs as they found them.
“Your father is not to be disturbed, my lady. He is with the emir, discussing the situation. Please, go back to your rooms and try to sleep.”
She let out her frustration with an angry toss of her head. “Then take me to Hezekiah.”
The guard shook his head slowly, face bathed in soft shadows. “The minister is also occupied, my lady. There are serious affairs of state to be discussed.”
In disgust, Sharon pushed him aside and started down the long corridor. The second soldier hesitantly began to pull his sword from its sheath. “Forgive me, my lady, but you must return to your quarters.”
Sharon spun around hotly, the hem of her robe swirling. Her cold glare made him uneasily return the scimitar to its place.
“Amrath’s orders,” said the soldier evenly. “We were instructed to make certain that you are safe.” And he bowed his head, his hands folded into a pyramid, fingertips touching his forehead.
“I don’t want to stay alone. Take me to Zadek.”
“Zadek, my lady?”
She spoke of the mystical mullah sequestered within his rooms in the highest tower — a strange man, with few friends, now an outcast from the religious sect to which he had sworn to devote his life. Once he was said to have had the emir’s ear and favor; now, though, through circumstances never fully explained, he lived the life of a virtual recluse, seeing only a select few inside those rooms and spending his days and nights alone with his enigmatic writings. Many considered him mad, a raving lunatic; to others he was merely a fool, little more than a court jester, allowed these bizarre freedoms because of some whim of the emir’s. To Sharon, however, he was neither. Once a friend of her father, as well as her tutor, only Zadek might provide some of the answers she needed, especially now.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said the first soldier, “but you’ll have to go back —”
“And if I refuse?”
“It would be better that you didn’t.”
His warning was not enough for the strong-willed young princess; she tightened the belt of her robe and stepped past both guards, taking long strides as she crossed the corridor. When she reached the wide vestibule, she came upon the narrow winding stairway leading up to the mystic’s private chambers and started the long climb. At the slit window on the first landing, she paused and looked out. The sky had begun to darken, again, light from the fire steadily dimming. A few flames, still leaped across distant steeples, and billows of heavy smoke were rising across the face of the moon. A dull orange glow shimmered over the thousands of tiled roofs spread out from one end of the city walls to the other. The fire was ebbing, no longer out of control, and the streets, even in these brief moments, had all but returned to an eerie quiet.
She climbed higher, shivering a bit at the currents of icy air flowing through cracks in the stone, passing through what seemed like endless darkness until at last, out of breath, she reached the top — the highest point in all of Samarkand.
Sharon smoothed her robe and tried to brush her hair back into place with her hand; then she entered the low-ceilinged hallway. The smooth walls were patterned with ever-shifting shadows cast by thin night candles struck into rusted iron frames at random places, along the dank corridor. The hall was desolate and forbidding, but at the far end a tiny flame of butter-yellow, light flickered outside twin, massive arched doors. Sharon hurried her steps and crossed the threshold to the light, hesitating at the doorstep of Zadek’s strange domain and, wondering if perhaps she had not made a mistake coming here like this.
Her hand took hold of the black-iron knocker and she tapped it once against the thick oak door. The sound echoed hollowly all the way back to the stairs. To her surprise, Zadek did not come to the door and inquire who was there; rather, his gravelly voice, unperturbed by an unexpected midnight visitor, bade her enter.
She pushed the door open slightly and stepped slowly inside. The air was heavy with incense burning from a single brazier placed near the center of the room. A waning candle flickered from a holder, almost extinguishing when a rush of wind followed behind her from the opened door.
Sharon stood still, breathing heavily. Her brocaded robe gleamed dully in the dim light, barely concealing the smooth roundness of her breasts. Against the pallor of her troubled face, only her mouth provided a touch of color. She let her gaze wander round the room; it was oval and claustrophobic, exactly the way she remembered it, filled with worn tapestries and paintings depicting grim night scenes of forests inhabited by strange flying beasts of mythology and unknown birds with plumes of gold, hissing fire. On a near wall hung the mural of a map, a sweeping map of the known world, showing every land and city from Damascus in the west to the vast regions of Cathay in the east. In the north were the barbaric lands of Rus, with its pine forests and frozen lakes, bleak ranges of mountains, sheets of snow and ice that never melted; in the southwest, Arabia, its endless deserts and caravan routes to the holy city of Mecca; and much farther east, beyond the empires of Persia and Samarkand, the huge subcontinent of India.
Zadek’s sparse furniture was dusty and worn. Apart from a few handcrafted vases and sculptures set on pedestals, there was only a chair and a huge table. The table was cluttered with mounds of papers and scrolls, all writings from which the renegade mullah would translate and study. Among them were some Sharon knew to be ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics; others were sacred tablets written by the mysterious monks of Lhasa, that hidden city high in the heavenly like mountains of faraway Tibet. Also among the papers could be found transcripts of the Koran, the Moslem bible, in its original Arabic, dating from the time of Muhammad himself, and biblical texts in Hebrew, Persian, and even Urdu. It was said that Zadek read, wrote, and spoke in no less than eleven languages and was basically familiar, with seven or eight more.
There was no sign of the mullah as she pensively searched the chamber; but then came his voice, seemingly distant, calling to her by name.
Startled, she crossed from his workroom and pushed aside the thick velvet curtains. Then she saw him, his silhouette stark against the night sky, standing with his back to her at the edge of his balcony. He wore a purple aba, hood flung back. His hands were clenched firmly behind his back,
feet slightly apart, body straight and rigid. He too had been watching the fire and the mobs below.
“How … how did you know it was I who came, teacher?” she asked tensely.
Slowly Zadek turned around and smiled, providing no answer. She stared into his extraordinarily deep-set eyes, black as coals, and felt a flush of anxiety. Zadek was never one to make her feel comfortable — not with his uncanny sense of presence, his strange ability to look into her eyes and somehow read her innermost thoughts.
“Forgive me for intruding,” she apologized.
Zadek fingered his gold necklace, heavy links polished to a reflective shine, fastened to a huge emerald that dangled just below his breast. “You are troubled and you wished to speak with me,” he told her in a low tone.
Sharon nodded. “Yes, teacher, but if I have disturbed you …”
The gray-haired priest of Islam flared the nostrils of his hooked nose and shook his head once. He was not a tall man, but his stout build and carriage always made him appear far larger than he actually was. His face was long, pockmarked, ears slightly too large for his head, with a thin mouth, almost feminine. A pointed goatee protruded from a square-set jaw, making his profile seem devil-like when observed in shadows.
He held his place for a time, studying the girl, thinking how long it had been since she had been here last. He twirled the pearl ring on the middle finger of his left hand and beckoned for her to join him on the balcony. She did so hesitantly.
“These are evil days upon Samarkand,” Zadek whispered. Sharon stood at his elbow while his gaze swept the horizon, his pronounced frown betraying his own anguish.
“Can you tell me what is happening?” she asked.
The mullah fixed his eyes on the far-distant mountains and heaved a deep sigh. “We are in the last days of glory, young princess. Look upon the face of Samarkand and weep.”
She had come to Zadek seeking comfort and assurance; instead, his strange words were frightening her even more, and she trembled. “I’m frightened, teacher. Tonight, don’t speak to me in riddles. Too much is happening, things I don’t understand.”
Zadek nodded somberly, knowingly. “What is it you want to know?”
She tugged at his sleeve, forcing him to look at her. “I overheard something today, teacher, something … I should not even repeat.” There were tears in her eyes and she bit her lip. “I saw my father and Hezekiah in the garden today, speaking in whispers so no one might hear.”
“Of war?” His eyes burned into hers. “Of the menace of the Huns who gather across the river?”
Sharon swallowed and nodded, a suggestion of red from the sky’s glow crossing her features. “How did you know?”
Zadek smiled again, only this time more deeply. “’Tis no secret, Sharon. Reports of their movements have been pouring into Samarkand from every caravan.”
“Will” — her voice was slow and deliberate — “will this be the crusade you once told me of?”
He looked down gently at the young girl beside him, seeing her not as the full-grown woman she was, but rather the child he’d known since her birth, the daughter he had predicted for Amrath in the days when they were still friends. “No, child, the events of which you ask shall come later, in another time and age. But know that these Huns, this terrible scourge upon the face of the earth, shall cost us greatly. A time of mourning is at hand.”
Sharon put the back of her hand to her trembling mouth. “And will Samarkand fall?”
Zadek thought for a long while before answering. Then he said, “There is rot within far worse than any enemy without. To be saved, we must look to ourselves, to our own peoples. United, there is no foe that cannot be beaten, but divided …” And he ended his sentence with a sad shake of the head.
The princess pressed him further. “But we are divided, Zadek! See below — women crying in the streets, the fires …”
The cunning, mad mullah grimaced. “Brother against brother, father turned against son.” He spread out his hands as if to encompass the entire city below. “We are our own greatest enemy, Sharon. Have we both not seen it every day of our lives? Or are you and I as blind as the rest? A house divided cannot stand, must one day fall.” He sighed wistfully. “If only the emir had listened …”
Sharon’s eyes dramatically narrowed and she looked at her companion with growing trepidation. “Speak the truth to me, teacher,” she implored. “Hide not what you have learned. What was the reason for these fires, for the people to turn upon the palace and the palace to turn against its people?”
Zadek was emotionless when he said, “The ayatollah has been arrested, dragged from the Great Mosque and taken to the dungeons.”
Her heart beat like a drum; she felt the blood rushing to her head. “But that’s impossible! I heard my father say he would speak personally with the emir, stop such folly from occurring —”
“The emir’s mind was set, child; he would not listen. The ayatollah gave no fight, no struggle; he submitted himself to Samarkand’s law without questions. And, now the people are enraged. The damage has been done, and there is no man who can undo it.” He put his arm around her as she choked back a tear, and led her back inside. She sat upon a scarlet-laced cushion, eyes filled with tears, and held her hand out numbly when he handed her a stemmed goblet filled with honeyed wine. Lifting the brew to her lips, she took a sip, closed her eyes.
“I don’t understand any of these things, teacher. What is happening to our world?”
“It is changing,” replied the mystical priest. “Like the seasons, there is a time for everything. Every flower, no, matter how beautiful, must sooner or later wilt and die. It is sad to see, yet” — here he paused — “yet from its roots another flower shall grow to replace it, perhaps one even more lovely than the last.”
“What are you saying?” cried Sharon, looking up at him sharply, denying everything he was telling her. “Samarkand has stood for a thousand years!”
“And is a city or even an empire so different from a single man, Allah’s greatest creation? I think not. Each of us is allotted his time, his moments of glory, and each of us must face the inevitable reality that he is mortal. We live; we die — so it has always been, Sharon. Think of the invincible Alexander; shall it be otherwise for Samarkand than for him?”
There was a deep, prolonged silence between them after Zadek had finished. Sharon found herself alone with her thoughts, listening to the sounds of night. The breeze was blowing gently past the curtains, causing the candle’s flame to flicker and shadows to jump. She heard the last clatter of distant hoofbeats in the again quiet city and knew that an uneasy peace had been restored, but restored by the sword, and she shuddered to imagine the terrible toll it would have taken.
She drank the last of her wine with a single swallow, refusing Zadek’s offer to refill the goblet. Then she stood and aimlessly paced back and forth beside the doors to the balcony. Things were happening so fast, she could no longer think straight. She felt troubled, tired, bone-weary, and sick at heart. In the space of a single day she had seen her safe, secure world turn upside down, cruelly crumbling before her very eyes while she stood helplessly by. She was now in a world she hardly recognized, a world facing destruction, and there was no one who had either the skill or the courage to avert it.
“What is to be, Zadek?” she asked sullenly.
“In the new Samarkand? Who can say?” He ran a forefinger across his chin, drawing the outline of his beard.
She tapped her foot impatiently. “Are we doomed, then? Is there no hope?”
The mad mullah crossed the room and withdrew a tiny leather pouch hidden behind one of the larger stone icons in the corner of the room. Then he sat cross-legged upon the floor, untied the cord, and poured the contents into an open palm. Four colorful tiny stones trickled down, one as white as ivory, one as blue as the sea, one ebony black, and the last fiery red.
Zadek closed his hand around them tightly, shook his fist in the manner of a soldier c
asting dice, then hurled them to the floor at his feet. Sharon watched with wonder as the stones seemed to quiver and slowly began to glow, first dully, then more brightly, until the light they cast shone over his face and flowing robe. The mystic shut his eyes and spread his hands above the stones, lost in deep concentration.
Sharon had seen the gems before; the Glowing Rocks of Babylon, they were called, said to have been stolen from the Persian emperor Darius upon his death at the hands of conquering Alexander so many centuries before. What roads these fabled stones had traveled through the ages, Sharon had no idea, only that somehow the strange defrocked mullah, Zadek, now had them in his possession.
“What do you see, teacher?” she asked.
Zadek opened his eyes and bowed his head, his gaze intent upon the gems as they glittered, their light dancing like snakes. He held his breath and bit hard at his lips, his features distorted as though suddenly he were in torment.
She repeated the question, no longer afraid.
“I see,” he rasped, speaking as if no one were there, “death and pestilence, frightful events that are cloudy yet clear to me. The chasm among us grows wider, and the day of reckoning grows perilously close. I see fires, huge, billowing fires across the land, from the mountains to the southern deserts. I see a scroll, a holy scroll of Islam burned and trampled underfoot, while a nation in chains weeps for a cause lost.” He stopped briefly, catching his breath, then quietly went on: “Rubble and ashes from which a tree shall grow … and upon a pale horse there comes a rider — faceless, hooded — and the rider gathers together the remnants of all that has been lost and brings them together to reclaim what has unjustly been stolen. And the grim faces of my forefathers smile, for through their struggle, one has come to bring the Gift.”
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 3
