For the first time, the other witches spoke. “Snake and frog, frog and snake,” incanted one. “Bat’s blood pure and pig’s blood vile; goat’s milk soured and calf’s milk spoiled …”
“The figs of life and the mushrooms of death …” The third finished the verse without a pause from where her sister had stopped: “Thy enemies are caused to fear thee, as a king rides a wolf, as the Lords of Old charge their powers into thee. Drink, Sharon, princess of Samarkand. Drink so that we may see you all the more clearly.”
Mesmerized, Sharon looked deeply into the eyes of the eldest and put her mouth around the lip of the ladle. The strange liquid burned as she swallowed, sweetly pungent, racing through her veins and hotly spreading over her nude body. The light rain was like a wet blanket serving to cool the sudden fire that was raging within her.
“Drink once more, princess of Samarkand,” came a voice, but whose it was she could no longer tell. Again she felt the brew swill in her mouth, thinly trickle into her belly, and surge forth through her limbs.
It seemed that a drum had begun to play, a low, lyrical beating — doom-doom, doom-doom — and a soft, ethereal flute started to weave a doleful tune. But where were the players? Sharon glanced around in growing trepidation. She could see nothing but the trunks of the gnarled trees, the white bog lifting and swirling from the sodden earth. The Three Hooded Witches laughed.
“Sharon of Samarkand,” they seemed to whisper, “Sharon of Samarkand,” again and again, as if in song, perfectly matched with the drum and the flute.
Sharon felt her head begin to spin; the world was growing dimmer around her, and she could not distinguish the swaying forms. Hands were touching her, lightly, softly, fingers with sharpened nails probing the recesses of her young, perfect body, cupping her breasts, feeling their way down her back and up her spine, over and between her legs, across her face and lips, examining every centimeter of flesh, while she helplessly reached out, dizzily groping to stop the world in its spin.
On and on the examination went; but how much time had elapsed, she could not tell. Time had lost all meaning, just as the world had seemed to lose its own. She could distinctly hear her name being chanted, yet somehow it was someone else they were calling. She was someone — or something — else, lifted from her former self and somehow set free to drift out of her body, to roam and drift, to soar above the treetops like a bird, to burrow deeply into the earth like a worm, to spread herself out limitlessly like the notes of the strange flute music that now filled her ears.
Sharon of Samarkand … Sharon of Samarkand …
Who was she now; what was she now? It did not seem to matter. The potion had changed her, its magic turning her into a new form, a new being. She was flying with gilded wings, racing toward a huge, blazing sun set in a perfect sky, glowing in warmth, basking in the sun’s purity, encompassed forever. She was a drop of water in the ocean, feeling the spray of crashing surf, surrounded in a world ultramarine, so peaceful, so tranquil, as though she had always been there and would never want to leave.
Her hands … Her hands were being held out before her. The witches were staring at them, running their fingers along the lines etched into her palms. And they were still chanting, not her name but something else, something she could not understand. But it did not matter; nothing mattered. She was the master of the world, mistress of the sky, goddess of the sea. They and she were one, and she wished for the hallucination never to end.
For the first time she could see the faces of her examiners. Within the shadowed curtains of their hoods, all became clearer to her. They were ugly, dreadfully ugly — stringy black hair, matted, filthy, hanging loosely over pockmarked faces filled with warts and moles. Their cheeks were sunken, white as clouds, noses-crooked and broken over twisted and misshapen harelips. Aged they were, ancient, as old as creation, their eyes slitted like cats’, cunning, intelligent, seeing straight through her, examining her soul as their hands continued to probe her flesh. Yet … Yet they were beautiful — maidens from fairy tales, cream-skinned goddesses whose perfect forms had mingled together and blended into her own, hair as rich and pure as morning sunlight, splashing freely over faces filled with love and warmth, breasts firm, hips rounded, skin young and tanned beneath colorful dresses of the finest silks. It was a dream world, Sharon knew, a fantastic, incredible dream world Into which she had been whisked.
She was floating again, feeling their touch, writhing with pleasure while her flesh shimmered with beads of perspiration. A lotion was being spread over her, and she sighed.
Abruptly she came crashing down. Her eyes had begun to focus, and she found herself lying upon the wet dirt, the drizzle pattering around her. The palm of the eldest witch was upon her belly, pressing forcefully until it hurt.
“She carries the seed of the impure!” cried the witch. “She is blemished!”
Her sisters drew back, bony hands retreating into the sleeves of their robes. “Unclean! The girl is unclean! She has been touched by the Vileness!”
Sharon was sobbing now; she could not control it, could not control her body from shivering or her tears from flowing. “No!” she wailed, tossing wildly upon the earth. “It’s a lie! It’s a lie!”
But the witches hovered over her, this time like vultures, poking her, prodding her, fingers digging cruelly and savagely. “She must be cleansed!” they chanted in unison. “She must have the evil seed removed!”
Sharon put her hands to her ears to blot out their laughter. The seed of Kabul was in her belly, its terrible legacy there someday for all to see. The witches could not be fooled, no, not these wizened hags whose magic had permeated Grim Forest since time immemorial. They knew; they knew it all — her shame, her anger, her pain, and her hatred, the terrible abuses that had been inflicted upon her, so that her purity was forever gone, stolen from her by a black thief in the night. They could feel it, live it as surely as she had been forced to, and now force her to live it again.
In her state of illusion she was once more in the palace, beside the pitiful, demented emir. And then came Kabul, the great khan swaggering as though drunk with triumph, banishing his vile son from the chamber, once more touching her, forcing his will upon her while she struggled to break loose. And then his scream, his ghastly, shrill scream as she plunged the needle deeply, as deeply as she could, reliving every split second of that moment of horror.
Sharon was screaming and rolling on the ground, the hands of the witches now changed to Kabul’s hands, the drizzle turned to his dark blood pulsing from his infested eye, pouring over her, drowning her in it, choking her so that she could not breathe. She gasped for air, her hands shooting out before her like arrows.
“Don’t touch me!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “Don’t touch me!”
But the Three Hooded Witches did touch her, again probing her womanhood, learning all her secrets and drawing them into their own minds and experience. Another fluid was being spilled from a vial over her. It stung, stung like ten thousand bees buzzing about her head, injecting their poison into her skin, draining her blood.
“Cleansed!” chanted the witches as the drumbeat became a frenzied blur. “Cleansed, cleansed …”
Through her agony, Sharon could feel her head being lifted and a goblet put to her lips.
“Worms and lizards, lizards and worms! Weed and slime, slime and weed! Take the poison from her belly, scatter it forever to the winds!”
What they had just done, Sharon could not tell. All she knew was that suddenly there was an awful pain deep inside her stomach, growing swiftly until it had spread through every limb. She was paralyzed by it, numbed beyond her senses. “No, no!” she raved. “Nooooo!”
Leering, hissing, mumbling incantations, the witches did what had to be done. Her torment reached unimaginable heights, and she could feel the weight of her burdens squashing life itself from her.
“She must be freed, she must be freed!” rasped the witches. “Skin and bone, oil and fat! Lard and
grease and the head of a snake!” And something foul and sickening was jammed into her mouth, stuffed in gruffly and pushed down her throat before she could vomit it out.
She grabbed her stomach, doubling over, intense pain swelling. Softly she moaned, not caring what would happen next. Amid her shame and pain she wanted only to die, to sleep forever in a peaceful sleep, to never have to open her eyes and face the world again.
The cauldron was spitting fire, shooting off wild embers of shattering light that blinded her, hot ash searing her already agonized flesh. Through it all, dimly, Sharon was sure she could hear the witches laugh, cackling among themselves, pointing at her broken form as it lay huddled and defenseless in the rain-soaked dirt.
As Sharon tried to get up and face the hags, she felt the world beginning to spin again, trees and forest zooming past her eyes at breathtaking speeds, so fast that watching was making her sick again. She shut her tear-filled eyes tightly and wrapped her arms around herself. Then suddenly she could feel nothing, and she smiled: The pain was gone, and the suffering and hatred as well. Once more she was at peace, as before, when she had soared to the sun. And at last she was able to fall into the restful slumber she had been praying for — the first sleep since fleeing the city that was not filled with terrible nightmares and memories.
With large, amazed eyes the saya peered down at the stilled child of Samarkand and felt herself shudder. She glanced at the witches, all three mute before the cauldron, then turned back to the girl. She herself had seen or experienced nothing of what Sharon had been through — and neither had anyone else. Ever since the girl had drunk from the ladle, no one had so much as touched her once. The witches had asked questions only, and Sharon, drugged by the brew, had been compelled to answer and relive everything they had wanted to know.
“You may bring her back now,” said one of the hags suddenly.
Carolyn’s eyes darted to the eldest witch. “She is … all right?”
The Three Hooded Witches nodded as one. “The potion has done its intended work; the poisons have left her body. She is free.”
“And what of the Gift? Did the holy man lie? What shall I tell the Judges? Does she truly bear the Mark?”
“The holy man spoke the truth,” said the eldest gravely as she replied from the shadows. “The girl has the Gift; she must learn how to use it. You saya, must teach her. It was her suffering that gave us the true answers; this khan of the Huns has created his own downfall. The girl shall lead the Kazirs well. The Prophesy is fulfilled. Sharon is the One.”
Chapter Fifteen
The horses clomped slowly in the fading darkness as they followed the deep ruts and scars of the wadi, winding their way to higher terrain. Paled slivers of gray were eagerly pushing up along the rim of the horizon, heralding the coming of a new dawn like an advance guard. Through long shadows they crossed, moving out of the dark and into light, the shades retreating from the brightness. The last vestiges of forest were already well out of sight, and the riders pressed the road in search of the hidden trail back to the Stronghold, where Tariq would anxiously be awaiting their arrival.
The golden sandy majesty of the Steppes lay before them, an endless desert jewel tucked at the foot of the sweeping mountains to the north. Sharon sat tall and still in her saddle, grasping loosely at the reins of her horse, trying to piece together the puzzle of the journey. Her companions, as always, remained outwardly gloomy and close-mouthed. But it seemed to the princess that now when they looked at her, either purposely or by accident, there was a glimmer of awe in their eyes, a new respect that she somehow commanded, which she did not yet understand. Even Zadek seemed singularly different, as though the hours she’d spent with the strange witches had cast some unknown mark or pall upon her, a mark that left her no longer — in his eyes, anyway — the young girl who had been his pupil.
Events of the night before last were sketchy to her at best. It was easy enough for her to recall the overwhelming fear that had taken hold during her time at the clearing, even the hypnotic stare of the witches’ eyes as she was handed the ladle and made to drink, but everything that transpired afterward was still mostly a blur, like a bad dream that was all too vivid and yet, when she tried to recall it, slipped elusively away — forever out of reach no matter how hard she tried to pull it back.
When she had awakened yesterday morning, it was in a dew-wet dawn. Someone — who? the saya? — had dressed her and covered her with blankets, and she was surprised to find herself well away from the clearing, taken back across the lake and to the very spot Carolyn had led them just before the pilgrimage in the forest began. Roskovitch, Asif as his shadow, had been silently squatting over the small morning campfire and had handed her a cup of steaming broth to take away the nip in the air. Save for a few brief words about preparations for the ride back to the Kazir Stronghold, nothing else had been said, neither by the saya, who always seemed to remain quiet and introspective, nor by Zadek.
The only communication seemed to come from Carolyn’s ever-searching eyes, at times making Sharon most uncomfortable. What was it that the saya was thinking? Did she still see Sharon as an intruder or, worse, an impostor, as Yasir had claimed? Or was it something else again, something that an outsider among the Kazirs could never hope to understand? Whatever, Carolyn seemed as mistrustful of her as she had that night before the judges, and Sharon wondered if she were not waiting for something, biding time until she too could make her own claim against her.
Carolyn’s antelope horn bobbed loosely from her necklace as her horse trotted from the bank of the wadi onto the flat terrain of the plain. Far in front, glistening in all the colors of the spectrum, glimmered the high rock walls of the Stronghold. A small pleased smile worked its way over Carolyn’s otherwise drawn face. Roskovitch reined in behind her, grinning from ear to ear, and then he whooped joyously, gave spur to his horse, and, with his scalp lock flying wildly in the breeze, galloped toward the hidden fortress.
A heady wind had started to blow as the last leg of the journey neared completion. Dark thunderclouds were rolling in rapidly from the west, which was already black in midafternoon. The riders, exhausted and eager to reach shelter from the approaching storm, picked up speed. They crossed the yellow grass of the plain swiftly, splashing over a shallow, muddy creek and cutting a dusty trail between the water-starved trees of the Steppes.
“Behold the Stronghold of the Kazirs,” rasped Zadek to Sharon as they approached the perimeter. She looked up at the massive walls, secret recesses along the ledges, and rocky heights hiding a dozen watchful sentries, and it occurred to her that she was seeing the secret entrance, something that no outsider had ever done before — or at least had ever lived to tell about.
Beside a solitary oak sapling, there stood an enormous red-trunked tree rooted to the earth like a great statue — thick, straight as an arrow. She stared at it in wonder, judging it to be perhaps fifty or more meters high — higher by far than the tallest steeple in Samarkand — and with a breadth of at least nine at the base. No branches spread from the scarlet trunk for at least a third of its height, and those that did seemed to poke out abruptly, almost artificially. There were no leaves, though; the branches were totally bare, but the bark near the root was rich and healthy, assuring her that the tree was not dead.
As the saya led her companions toward the sheer, smooth wall, Roskovitch halted beneath the shadows of the tree. His horse reared on its hind legs, and the barbarian from Rus cupped a hand around his mouth, issuing a shrill call, the cry of a loon.
In response came another cry, almost identical, from high, high up in the tree’s topmost reaches, carrying down upon the increasing wind.
“The signal,” said Carolyn matter-of-factly to the startled girl and the mullah. She laughed as Sharon gasped when the face of the mountain before her started to rumble.
The princess stared in disbelief; the rumble turned slowly into a grind, the sound of rock sliding over rock, and right before her eyes the smooth
wall split into two, one face pulling to the left, the other to the right. A black canyon opened before them, deep as an abyss and as dark and foreboding.
“Praise be the Prophet!” wheezed Zadek, his body shaking with the resonant roll of the massive slabs receding into unseen recesses. And as he spoke, lightning struck and the world was bathed in pale blue light, briefly giving the Samarkand fugitives their first glimpse into the fortified Stronghold.
“A city!” gasped Sharon, leaning forward in her saddle and staring in shock. And so it was — a Kazir city, as unlike Samarkand as the desert was to the sea, yet a city nevertheless, made up of hundreds upon hundreds of tents and structures built of the mountain’s stone, climbing up the rocky heights. It was a veritable beehive, clusters atop one another in seemingly never-ending succession. And so vast, so incredibly vast, was the Stronghold that there were fields of green behind the city; furrowed land, well watered and tended, where harvests were already being sown.
“Allah’s mercy,” Zadek was heard to mumble as the saya led the way between the opened walls.
“There is much more to be seen,” said Carolyn with an air of obvious pride. She gestured grandly all around, waving on occasion to one or two watchful guards posted atop the inner parapets, their curved Kazir daggers clinging to their waists. Within deep clefts, a host of others watched while the band of four gained entry. Sharon was about to ask the first of a thousand and one questions when the noise from behind caused her to spin around; the smooth walls were closing behind her tightly, shutting with a hollow clang as each side slid perfectly back into place.
The sky was suddenly black above, the storm almost directly overhead. Zadek squinted into the distance; he rubbed his eyes, not daring to believe what he was seeing — a deep, fertile valley, with brown fields and herds of grazing sheep bunched randomly along the gentle slopes, a Garden of Eden amid the dry and arid Steppes. Shirtless men were tilling the fields, wielding rakes and hoes, and as the first rain pelted the soil, they ran and sought shelter inside the many whitewashed sheds that dotted the land.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 16
