Andrion realized that Miklos stood beside him. “My lord, you must not let him live. You must avenge Sarasvati’s honor.”
“She has avenged herself and helped us,” he said placatingly. “We have no time now for personal vendettas.”
“Gods!” Miklos exclaimed, stung. “She is your sister!”
“Miklos, it galls me as much as you that we left her behind. We can only repay her by winning our battle. For that we need Tembujin.” Andrion set his jaw and laid his hand on Miklos’s shoulder, willing him to understand, to obey. “He is our ally now. That is an order.”
The soldier’s face fell, wounded, struggling not to resent. “Yes, my lord,” he muttered. He jerked away, leaving Andrion’s hand empty. Yes, Andrion thought ruefully after him, I have feet of clay. And a heart of clay, it seems. He recalled how just this evening they had sparred with practice swords, laughing as each of them in turn won a match.
“The gods work in subtle ways.” Dana called softly.
“Indeed they do.” He spread his cloak like the shadow of his thoughts around him, and joined her. They sat, each in their silent shells, watching the moon cross the sky.
* * * * *
In the depth of the night Andrion awoke with a jolt, realizing that his necklace was still in the Khazyari camp. He tested his thoughts and feelings; no, he did not seem to be enspelled. But then, apparently, one never did. When dawn came he had prayed a hundred times that Sarasvati still had the necklace with her. He could do nothing about it if she did not. For the son of a god he was remarkably powerless. He arose feeling as if he had been sifted through a beer strainer; he stepped out into a tentative dawn, the world not quite real . . . Stop it, he ordered himself.
A company of horsemen waited outside the pavilion to escort them to the rites. Those chosen seemed well pleased with their task, anticipating what to them was a few days’ recreation. The Sardians would never understand Sabazel. Andrion looked sourly for Patros.
The governor, appearing as much the worse for wear as Andrion, supervised the rigging of a litter for Toth. “Healing,” Patros said, in a litany as much for himself as for the old servant, who seemed somewhat stronger this morning and lay looking about him with the bright insouciance of a sparrow.
“My lord,” Patros said stiffly to Andrion, “how can I atone for the treachery of my kinsman Hilkar?”
“We do not choose our relations,” Andrion replied, “or direct their actions. You have no atonement to make.”
Patros sighed. “Thank you.” He turned to confer with Nikander. “I should stay here with the army, with you.”
“Go on to Sabazel.” Nikander nodded sagely.
You deserve the blessing of Ilanit’s touch, Patros, Andrion silently finished for him. And the dueling princes require supervision, he thought, noting Tembujin standing nearby, shoulders bowed as if expecting a blow. Several soldiers hovered with dubious expressions behind him, ready either to guard him or protect him; not even Andrion was sure whether Tembujin was a prisoner or a guest.
Andrion was obscurely pleased to see the Khazyari wearing a tunic and breeches cobbled together out of tent canvas, and some officer’s cast-off boots. Yes, the man had lost a measure of his manhood, which was all to the good; but he had also lost his fighting trim. The odlok’s proclivities being what they were, Andrion thought reluctantly, he could perhaps regain some confidence at the rites of Ashtar. Dana’s friend Kerith, now . . . He sighed, steeled himself, caught Tembujin’s eye and beckoned.
Tembujin looked around, realized Andrion was summoning him, slouched across the open area before the pavilion. He passed Bonifacio, stonily ignoring the priest’s shudder and gesture against the evil eye. But he was caught up short by Dana’s emergence from a nearby tent.
The two stared at each other a long moment. Then Dana grinned. “What happened to your hair, Khazyari?”
Tembujin essayed a grin of his own. “And yours?” He walked around her, staying well out of reach. Dana turned her back on him. Miklos came around a corner leading Ventalidar; he saw Tembujin and stopped dead. Then he, too, steeled himself. Andrion was relieved to see that the young man’s face was hard but not sullen. Dana began a quiet conversation with him, close under Ventalidar’s flaring nostrils.
“Are you well enough to ride?” Andrion asked Tembujin, assuming a veneer of courtesy.
“Ride where? To Sabazel, with you?”
“Yes.” Why, by Harus, was he pleased to see a spark in the beast’s eye? Keep goading him. “Yes. To test your abilities.”
“Ah,” snapped Tembujin, goaded.
Toth was watching them, not wistfully, but with an odd humor. Suddenly his face froze. Andrion followed the direction of his gaze. The morning vitrified into shards of glass, each stained with its own image, clear and yet distant. Not the faintest breeze stirred the encampment.
Shurzad, her eyes burning black brands, advanced from the opposite side of the open area. Even before the legionaries she went unveiled; her face was clammy white, her lips slitted over sharp teeth. Valeria walked behind her as if pulled on a leash, her eyes vacant above a lopsided veil. The gray cat was a slinking shadow beside them, its tail erect and crooked at the end, its topaz eyes intent on its prey.
Shurzad’s left hand clutched white-knuckled at her amulet. Her other hand was concealed in the drapery of her skirt. Toth struggled to rise, failed, exclaimed, “By Ashtar’s eyes, my ordeal has destroyed my wits!”
Tembujin saw the amulet. His head went up, alert.
Dana parted from Miklos. “Kerith would be pleased to befriend you.”
“Thank you, my lady, but I shall stay here.”
Patros, his back to Shurzad, was still speaking to Nikander. Bonifacio found a stain on the hem of his robe and called a servant to sponge it.
Toth grabbed for Andrion’s hand. “Raksula. The Khazyari witch. Hilkar gave her an amulet just like that one, one that Shurzad gave to him. My lord, forgive me, I did not realize until now; the amulet is the sign of Qem, and Qem is an aspect of the Khazyari—”
“Khalingu’s wings!” exclaimed Tembujin. “The woman is possessed!”
Andrion hurtled through spinning stained-glass splinters, splinters that pierced him, tore his mind, opened it, bleeding, to the truth. His hand fumbled for the hilt of Solifrax, moving as slowly as if through thick honey. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Shurzad was a few paces from Patros’s back. Her mouth curved in a malevolent smile. Her eyes did not blink. Valeria struggled. The cat dropped into a crouch, stalking. Gods! Andrion shouted mutely, gods, make someone move, make someone turn around! But each person-shape was a painted image, unmoving, unconscious.
His mind wrenched, seizing control. The sword leaped from the sheath spitting flames, brighter than the pale dawn sun. He lunged, cloak billowing, plume floating, slowly, slowly, and soldiers scattered before him.
Shurzad pulled a dagger from her dress. “Go to Sabazel,” she shrieked. “Go, and be damned!” Patros turned. Nikander raised his arms, Dana’s eyes started from her face, Miklos’s mouth fell open in alarm. Shurzad’s dagger darted toward Patros’s heart. Shocked, he did not dodge.
“Ashtar!” Andrion cried, striking. Solifrax sang and Shurzad’s dagger flew from her suddenly bloody hand to land quivering in the dirt before Bonifacio. The priest recoiled and tripped over his servant. Ventalidar reared, jerking Miklos, who sprawled into the dirt. The cat whisked under Shurzad’s skirts. Toth collapsed on his litter, gasping for breath.
Tembujin appeared in the corner of Andrion’s eyes. He snatched the amulet from Shurzad’s throat. She screamed as if he had torn the living heart from her body, clasping her hands to her throat, buckling to her knees. Valeria moaned and swayed; Nikander caught her as she fell.
Curious soldiers rushed up. Nikander growled an order, and just as quickly they disappeared. Shurzad’s forefinger lay in the dirt. Blood flooded the front of her gown as she crouched, whimpering like some small animal pinioned
by a trap. But it was her throat she held, not her hand. Droplets of her blood stood in hard scarlet dots across Patros’s cuirass. He did not move, did not speak, stricken.
Dana lurched forward, ripping the hem of her new cloak, and laid a scrap of cloth over the severed finger. Then she began binding Shurzad’s hand. Shurzad’s vacant eyes rolled toward her, passed by without recognition, stared into the distance. Dana’s face was as tightly closed as a flower nipped by frost. It was she, Andrion recalled, who had brought Shurzad here.
He gestured sharply to Tembujin; Tembujin threw him the amulet. It left a faint trail of smoke in the air. Andrion caught it on the tip of his sword and raised it high. “Harus, Ashtar, an offering.” His arm quaked, his hand burned, the charm sparked into flame. He let it fall onto the scrap of cloth and the finger. They sizzled, emitting a cloud of acrid smoke, and the scent of burning flesh fouled the morning air. Then only black ashes remained. A breeze pealed through the encampment, sweeping smoke and ashes into the vault of the sky where a falcon drifted, its eyes seeing all.
The stunned faces of the watchers moved, waking from vision. Tembujin looked at Andrion with a certain cautious awe. Impressed? Andrion asked him silently. And then he realized where he was, and who, and what he had just done. He had mutilated Patros’s wife. He had called down divine fire. His arm was numb. The bitter smoke still clotted his throat.
The silence was broken by a muffled howl from Shurzad’s skirts. The cat erupted from its shelter, dancing as if its paws were on fire. Tembujin plucked it up by the scruff of its neck. “So,” he said. “A small snow leopard. Shall I kill it?”
“No,” Andrion responded, swallowing. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Even it deserves healing. Return it to its cage, and bring it to Sabazel. Bring us all to Sabazel.”
Sabazel, said the wind in his ear. His fingers tingled on the sword. My strength or yours? he asked the polished blade, he asked the wind. But neither offered a reply. Power ebbed and flowed about him, through him, within him, but he could not be frightened by it. He would not.
“Oh,” said Bonifacio. “Sorcery.” Hurriedly he began a prayer. Nikander called for Valeria’s and Shurzad’s serving women. Patros turned to Dana, looking at her as a condemned man would look from his solitary cell. She bit her lip deeply and embraced him. Andrion sheathed his sword. He found himself wondering when Patros’s hair had gone so gray, his head sable and silver against Dana’s golden one.
Shurzad and Valeria and the cat were carried away. A wide-eyed Miklos presented Andrion with Ventalidar’s reins. “If we have the same enemy,” asked Tembujin with a puzzled frown, “are we friends?”
Andrion did not even try to answer. Aching in every limb, he mounted Ventalidar and turned him toward Sabazel.
* * * * *
Raksula shrieked in pain and outrage both. She threw the amulet away from her burned and blistered hands and watched, cursing, as it disintegrated into ash. Odo made some sympathetic noise; she turned on him, scratching at him until he ran in terror from the yurt. She collapsed in a pile of skirts and spite, sobbing in frustration, swearing vengeance upon Andrion’s auburn head.
Chapter Seventeen
Sarasvati squinted against the sunset, searching for the walls of Iksandarun. But the city was still too far away. Soon, though, the little band would be there. And then what?
The plain rolled to the horizon like a golden sea. Only the straight line of the Road pierced its monotony. Only the huddled yurts and horses and camels of the small encampment, perched on a hilltop, broke the indigo sweep of the sky. A scout rode into the west, the hooves of his pony drumming against the ground. A falcon wheeled overhead, feather tips brushing the silver egg of a waxing moon.
Sarasvati eyed moon and falcon hopefully, but they offered her no sign. She turned back to her yurt. Hilkar stood there, smiling in thin-lipped, heavy-lidded malevolence, an expression he had no doubt copied from Raksula. A shiver, rising hackles, rippled through Sarasvati’s body as he seized her arm. “Let me go,” she ordered him.
“Now, now, my lady,” he said. The honorific was a sneer. “You are hardly in a position to give orders, are you?”
She wrenched her arm away. “Slimy beasts like you are made to be trodden upon. Traitor.”
“Ah?” His other hand whipped from a fold in his cloak. It held a long Khazyari dagger. Sarasvati’s eyes narrowed but she did not step away. “Who is the traitor?” Hilkar whined. “You betrayed the father of your child, did you not? Who is the worse, my lady, you or me?”
She spat in his face and spun toward the shadowed doorway of the yurt. With the howl of a jackal, Hilkar leaped after her. The knife caught a last slanting ray of the sun and glittered.
One watching sentry nudged another. The second strolled away.
Hilkar and Sarasvati fell together into the interior, a flurry of cloak and skirts on the rich Mohendra carpet. Sarasvati clasped Hilkar’s wrist in both her hands, holding the knife away from her. Its sharp tip circled her face, and her eyes glinted corundum blue. “So you still serve Raksula,” she gasped. “Every witch needs a toad for a familiar.”
They struggled for the knife in a silence punctuated only by sharp intakes of breath and muffled curses. At last Hilkar, perspiring with effort, brought his knee deliberately into Sarasvati’s stomach.
She cried out and her face went stark white. Her hands slipped. Crowing with delight, Hilkar knelt over her, knife upraised.
A shadow blotted the doorway. In one stride Obedei seized Hilkar’s clothing, jerking him away from Sarasvati, tore the blade from his fingers and set it against his throat.
Groaning, clutching her belly, Sarasvati sat up. Her hair lay in long red wisps across her damp face, her chest heaved. She raised her hand as if to stop Obedei, and then let it fall.
“No, no, governor,” Hilkar gabbled, plucking at Obedei’s boots. “I am under Raksula’s protection. Raksula did not tell you to slay me . . .”
Obedei shook him, snarling, perhaps more at Raksula than at Hilkar himself. “Guard him,” he said to Sarasvati. “No attack you no more.” He dragged Hilkar ignominiously from the tent. Yelps penetrated the felt as the nuryan kicked him.
“Ah, Obedei,” murmured Sarasvati, “would you help me if you knew how I betrayed Tembujin?” She sank onto the carpet, considering the intricately twining leaves and vines of the pattern. Suddenly she tensed. Her fingers felt the faintest stirring within her belly, like the flutter of tiny wings. “Ah,” she exhaled, “poor fatherless bastard. It is your mother who must be strong.”
She lay a long time, curved around the helpless body of her child, as the light failed and darkness filled the world.
* * * * *
They moved slowly, burdened by Toth’s litter and the wagon carrying Shurzad and Valeria, and came to Sabazel at sunset.
Dana looked up, up, to the heights of Cylandra wreathed in mist. The familiar sight lifted a burden from her shoulders; she felt herself breathing more deeply than she had for days. The sun sank behind the mountain, spreading translucent shadow across the plain. The company passed the boundary between light and darkness and was encompassed by gleaming twilight. Lights sprang up in the city, and the brightest flared before the gates. The shield, glowing in welcome. Dana urged her horse into a gallop.
Ilanit held the star-shield before her; Dana could not tell whether she supported it or it her. And yet she laughed in delight as her daughter leaped from her horse and embraced her. Ah, Dana thought, sanctuary in a mother’s arms. They looked at each other hungrily, hoping to see that nothing had changed. But Ilanit’s face was taut and keen, worn with care, as if she had stood on this spot ever since Dana and Andrion left two months before. Dana knew that her own face had changed no less.
“What happened to your hair?” asked Ilanit lightly. “Did you cut it yourself, in contrition for your misdeed?”
“Mother . . .” Dana began, but she could not carry the jest, so she answered truthfully, hating herself fo
r making Ilanit’s face grow even tighter.
When the rest of the company arrived, Ilanit raised the shield again, letting its glow touch every face, inspecting each for similar reassurance. She did not find it. Patros looked at her with anguished eyes, her young brother Andrion nodded stiffly in his new armor, Shurzad and Valeria gazed at her with haggard, beaten faces, no longer able to hate her. One face was old and ill, and one was a young Khazyari’s, staring at her as curiously as she stared at him. The soldiers of the escort, at least, seemed as soldiers always did, exchanging ribald jests in anticipation of the rites. Ilanit sighed—how few men really understood—and gestured, and the Horn Gate opened.
Torches filled the temple square with dancing shadow shapes. A group of men, waiting to one side, rose to their feet with good-natured grumbles. Kerith waved eager greeting to Dana. Lyris leaned on her javelin, watching the newcomers with jaundiced resignation. Andrion swept her a bow and she saluted expressionlessly.
“We waited for you.” Ilanit said to him, “as you asked.”
“Thank you,” he answered. “We need this moment, Ilanit; a deep breath, the sanctuary of a mother’s arms, before the struggle begins.”
“But the struggle has already begun, has it not?”
He smiled, grateful for her perception. “Yes indeed.” He drew Solifrax a handsbreadth from its sheath; the bright metal hummed, and the shield answered in subtle resonances of power.
Ilanit touched its rim to the sword and considered the twin sparks they emitted. “Sword and shield ride together again. Good. I grow tired of watching it gather dust.”
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