by Allan Cole
"I learned later that this description wasn't so far off the mark. The originals were done long ago by a great artist—a wizard—in the employ of that ancient king.” She motioned at the golden-mailed king in the mural.
"But my grandmother used those murals for her own purposes,” Jooli continued, voice harsh. “At one time they were all beautiful pastorals that lifted the spirit. But she painted over portions of them, inserting nightmarish, sinful scenes. Despicable things. They make me ill just thinking of them. And then she used the altered murals to create black spells against her enemies. I learned later that her bargain with Charize, the monster queen, made all this possible.
"For some reason, she never touched the mural that now sits in this room. I don't know why. But I think she's afraid of it."
Safar asked, “Can you tell us anything about the people depicted in the mural?"
Jooli smiled. “I certainly can. In fact, I met the dark woman. She is a creature of the mural. It was she who told me about you and your holy mission. She bade me to wait for your appearance in Syrapis. And to do everything I could to ensure that your mission is successful."
Safar was stunned. “You mean she only exists in that painting?"
"Quite so. Now, at any rate,” Jooli said. “She and her family lived hundreds of years ago. They were rulers of Syrapis when Lord Asper arrived here from Hadin. They watched over him while he labored over his books, seeking an answer to the disaster that would someday overtake the world. And when he died, they created the idol and the death chamber you found his coffin in. Asper made the coffin with his own hands when he knew his death was near."
"What about Queen Charize?” Palimak asked. “How did she and her monsters end up ruling Asper's chamber?"
"My grandmother said that she was Asper's Favorite. He came upon her in Hadin and although she was evil, her magic was so strong that he used her to help cast his most difficult spells. Before he died, he enslaved her and set her to guard his tomb.
"But over much time she managed to break his spell and free herself. There are some who say that Charize is responsible for all the warfare in Syrapis. That she and her minions set human against human to feed on our misery."
Jooli shrugged. “I don't know how true that is,” she said. “In my experience people don't need that much of a reason to kill one another. I do know this, however. In order to live and create her sisters she required someone in the outside world to help her. And, in recent years, my grandmother was that person."
Palimak grinned, demon eyes glittering in delight. “Now that Charize is dead,” he said, “it'll make it damned hard for your grandmother."
Safar sighed. “Maybe so,” he said. But his tone was doubtful.
He was thinking of the new being Queen Clayre could now rely upon. The creature that was Kalasariz who dwelt in King Rhodes. He didn't say anything, because he was loath to tell Jooli what Rhodes had become. Even though she disliked him—perhaps even hated him—it would be a difficult thing for a daughter to bear.
He decided to wait for a more appropriate time. The tale Jooli was telling was already having a great effect on her. Her features had become pale and drawn, eyes sitting in bruised hollows. He changed the subject.
"What of the Spirit Rider?” he asked. “Could you tell us of your meeting with her?"
Jooli nodded. She was growing weary. Not so much because of the talk, but because of all the memories that had come flooding back as she spoke to her new friends.
Somewhere far off a dog howled and she realized the storm had finally ended. Silence cloaked the room as she gathered her strength.
And then she drank down her wine and began the tale...
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JOOLI'S SONG
She was a lonely girl of less than ten years. Her limbs were long and lanky like a young colt's, and she could scamper up a tree like a mountain goat. And she could run like the winds, sprinting past even the fastest boys in the Kingdom of Hunan.
Jooli was full of fire and curiosity, but inside there was an emptiness created by the loss of her mother. An emptiness made deeper and sadder still because of her father's neglect. And so it was that when her grandmother took Jooli under her wing, at first she went gladly. Looking for love even more than the knowledge of the world that she so craved.
The Queen Mother's chambers were a frightening place for a child. The light was dim and wavery, with guttering torches sending off a greasy smoke. There were little scratching and squeaking noises coming from the moving shadows produced by the light.
Shelves were lined with books marked with strange witch's symbols—red scorpions, fanged snakes and pinched monster's faces. Glass jars filled with preserved animals and human body parts added to the grave-like feeling of the chilly room. And there was the heavy scent of sorcerous ozone, mixed with the torch smoke and heady incense that left the metallic taste of old blood in her mouth.
But she put a brave face on it, going eagerly to her grandmother's chambers every time she was called. Doing her best to ignore the fearsome atmosphere. Paying close attention to all her grandmother taught her.
Although Clayre was a cold, unfeeling woman, the child simply thought this was merely her grandmother's way and believed in her heart that she was loved. Why else would the Queen Mother pay so much attention to her?
Jooli was thrilled by the gradual exploration of her magical side. Her grandmother said she had talents no one else in Hunan had—other than Clayre, of course. And she boasted that there were few people in all Syrapis who could perform any magic—and most of them were very weak.
Only Clayre and Jooli were so blessed, the queen mother said. She said it was a talent passed by blood through the women of their family, but always skipping a generation. Clayre's own daughter—dead many years now—never displayed magical abilities. And neither Clayre's mother. It was Clayre's own grandmother who had introduced her to the witching arts.
She said that although there were years between them, she and Jooli were like sisters. “Sisters of the Oath,” as she put it. Exactly what oath, she didn't explain. Then one day her grandmother summoned her and put her to the test.
Clayre placed a small doll on the table. It was dressed in the clothes of a courtier and had a pinched little face carved from an apple that had then been dried in an oven, painted and lacquered.
Jooli giggled when she examined the face and realized it was modeled after her father's cranky old Grand Wazier. King Rhodes thought highly of the man—he was as parsimonious as the king and always looking for ways to add coin to the royal treasury. Lately, he'd complained of the “unwarranted expenditures” that went to pay for the Queen Mother's care.
Clayre loved her luxuries and was constantly adding to her collection of jewels and fine clothing. Goat's milk and expensive oils were used in her bath. The purest henna and rarest powders for her make-up. These things, along with the high prices for her witch's potions, had caused the Wazier to question the money she spent. Her son fervently supported the old man.
"Why, I could pay for a month's rations for a battalion with what it costs to keep you, mother,” he'd said.
Jooli'd heard her grandmother complain about the Wazier, but hadn't thought about the controversy very much. She only knew the old courtier didn't seem to like children and complained bitterly when she got underfoot. Once she'd dropped a sweetmeat on the floor, getting it grimy. So she'd thrown it away. The Wazier had seen this and had berated her for wasting food. He'd lectured her for a half-turn of the glass, making her cry.
And so when she saw the doll with the Wazier's funny face and her grandmother had said they were going to play a little joke on him, she'd giggled and eagerly agreed to help.
"We're going to try something very special together, dear,” Clayre said, drawing the child to her magical table. “But I'll need you to concentrate with me, ever so hard. Can you do that for your grandmother, my sweet?"
Jooli agreed without hesitation. Her grandmother's vo
ice was so gentle, so loving, she thought she'd never been so happy since her mother died.
On the table was a toy executioner's platform, complete with a masked doll bearing an ax, and a little bench for the victim to kneel over and expose his neck.
This didn't bother Jooli very much. Executions were quite common in Hunan and there was always a fantastic party atmosphere at them, with treats for the children and puppet shows and all sorts of wondrous things to get the crowds in the mood to witness the evildoer receiving his just punishment.
Jooli clapped her hands in delight. “We're going to give him a pain in the neck!” she crowed. “That's perfect, because that's what he's always calling me."
She frowned. “Although once he said a bad word, instead of ‘neck.’”
Clayre smiled and Jooli noticed an odd glitter in her eyes. “That's exactly what we're going to do, my sweet,” she said. “Give him a pain in the neck!"
Jooli frowned, suddenly concerned. “But it won't hurt too much, will it?” she asked. “He is pretty old, after all, and maybe that's why he gets so cranky. Maybe his bones hurt or something."
"Don't worry, dear,” Clayre said, “it'll only hurt a little bit. And after that—why, he'll never suffer again.” She chuckled. “You won't find him so cranky after we play our little trick on him."
Mollified, Jooli helped her grandmother prepare the spell. Following Clayre's directions, she set four gray candles, pebbled with black, around the toy platform. When Jooli lit them with a taper, they gave off a purplish, sweet-smelling smoke.
She sprinkled a white powder up the little steps that led to the executioner's bench. More powder was dribbled on the bench, then smeared on the tiny ax held by the toy executioner. Finally, using a pen dipped in glistening black ink, Clayre had Jooli draw a circle around the Grand Wazier doll's neck.
She got a little of the ink on her fingers and Clayre made her stop and wash them carefully with vinegar before they proceeded.
"Otherwise it will make your fingers burn when we cast the spell,” her grandmother explained.
Jooli's eyes widened. “Will it make his neck burn too?” she wanted to know. “I wouldn't want to really, really hurt him, or anything."
"No more than a sunburn, dear,” Clayre replied. But she said it a little quickly, although Jooli didn't think about that until later.
When all was ready, Clayre gave Jooli the doll. She told her to pretend it was the real Grand Wazier and to make the doll walk up the steps, then bend over the executioner's bench. Four tiny cuffs fixed to the bench were locked around the doll's hands and feet.
Jooli did as she was told, but after she arranged the doll, Clayre wasn't satisfied, saying, “We need to stretch his neck a bit, dear."
As she spoke, she tugged on the doll's dried apple head, drawing out more of the cloth neck and tucking in the collar of the robe so the inky mark Jooli had made was fully exposed. She told Jooli to focus all her attention on the task at hand. And to repeat everything Clayre said.
Then she sang:
"We are the sisters of Asper,
Sweet Lady, Lady, Lady ... “
In her high, piping voice, Jooli chanted:
"We are the sisters of Asper,
Sweet Lady, Lady, Lady ... “
Then Clayre sang:
We guard his tomb, we guard his tomb,
Holy One ... “
And Jooli repeated:
We guard his tomb, we guard his tomb,
Holy One ... “
Then the chamber's dim light faded even more until it became quite dark. The golden tiles glowed into life, bathing the executioner's platform in an eerie light. A ghastly face formed on the tiles, floating there as if caught in a watery mirror.
"Welcome, Sister Charize,” Queen Clayre intoned.
Jooli was frightened and started to draw away. But Clayre pulled her back.
"Speak with me, child!” she commanded. “Repeat all I say!"
Then Clayre said again, “Welcome, Sister Charize.” And she tugged at Jooli's arm to do the same.
Jooli quavered, “Welcome, Sister Charize."
Although she certainly didn't mean it! This horrible creature with its long glistening fangs and scaly face was certainly not welcome anywhere near her, as far as she was concerned.
"We have a boon to ask, dear Sister,” Clayre said, tugging once again at Jooli's arm to prompt her.
And so, against her will, Jooli repeated, “We have a boon to ask, dear Sister."
The beast's jaws opened and a voice like rough sand on a washboard said, “Is this the girl we spoke of, Sister Clayre?"
Jooli's racing heart skipped a beat. Was this ... this ... Thing! ... speaking of her?
Then she knew the answer, because her grandmother said, “None other, Sister. She goes by the human name of Jooli."
Red eyes turned on little Jooli, who felt as if they were boring holes into her soul. “And is she ready to take the oath, Sister?” Charize asked in that terrible voice.
"Indeed she is,” Clayre replied. “And the boon I ask is her initiation into the Sisterhood.” Clayre indicated the toy platform and dolls. “All is prepared. We only need your assistance to complete the spell."
There was a silence as the face floated over the scene. Then Charize chuckled. It was an awful sound.
She said, “Ah, I see. The king's Grand Wazier. What a nasty little man. I'd be pleased to grant your boon and welcome the girl into the Sisterhood. Proceed."
"Thank you, Sister Charize,” Clayre said. Then to Jooli: “Concentrate, my sweet. And we'll all cast the spell together."
And she sang:
"O, join us together who now are apart.
Make us an arrow aimed for his heart.
We are his pain, we are his hot blood.
Spilled on the ground in a great raging flood!"
Charize joined in, rasping:
” ... O, join us together who now are apart.
Make us an arrow aimed for his heart ... “
Trembling, Jooli piped in her clear voice:
” ... We are his pain, we are his hot blood.
Spilled on the ground in a great raging flood!"
To Jooli's horror the dolls on the bench suddenly came alive. The wazier doll screaming and struggling against his bonds. The executioner doll running forward, lifting his blade high to strike. And whack!, the head came off! And the white powder was transformed into a torrent of blood flowing across the platform and down the steps.
Jooli shrieked in horror. She broke away from her grandmother and bolted from the room, Clayre angrily calling after her to come back. But Jooli closed her ears to her grandmother's commands and ran to her room where she hid under her bed all day and all night.
The next morning, Clayre sent a burly slave to fetch her. Jooli protested, but it was no use. The slave grabbed her by the feet and dragged her out from under the bed. On the way to Clayre's chambers they passed the Grand Wazier's room. To Jooli's relief, she heard him groaning in pain. At least he was alive! She got a peek into the room and saw him sprawled on his bed, a bloody bandage around his throat. Puzzled doctors were in attendance.
As she was rushed down the stairs to her grandmother's sanctum, the ghastly murals on the walls took on new meaning to Jooli and she was even more terrified when she entered the chambers. Thankfully, her grandmother was absent—off on some errand. The slave told her to sit and wait Clayre's return. He disappeared up the stairs, leaving her alone. Suddenly, she gripped her neck—wondering if her grandmother was making a Jooli doll. Was her head about to be lopped off?
Just then, a soft, sweet voice called to her: “Joo-lii! Joo-lii!"
Startled, she looked around. But there was no one else in the room.
Again: “Joo-lii! Joo-lii!"
There! It came from behind her. She turned, but all she could see was the beautiful mural of the King and his warrior daughters. Then a light glittered in the armor of one of the princesses. It was the dark-skinned
woman on the black mare! Jooli leaned closer. Her eyes widened and she saw the woman's hand move. The princess of the mural was waving to her! Beckoning?
And she saw the lips move and heard: “Come to us, Jooli!"
The child stretched out her hand. There was a gentle tingling sensation and suddenly there was a roaring in her ears. The ground heaved under her, but she wasn't afraid. And then she was flying through the air, her arms around the narrow waist of the Sprit Rider. The wind blasting in her face as they rode the black mare through a starry sky.
She peered around the Spirit Rider's shoulder. Far away she saw a glorious golden city. The city of the mural: The ancient Kingdom of Hunan!
Jooli lived there for a year. It was the happiest year of her life.
She paused in the telling of her tale. A mischievous smile graced her lips.
"While I was there,” she said, “they taught me a song. They called it the ‘Song of Safar Timura.’ Would you like to hear it?"
Everyone said they would. And this was the song she sang, in a high clear voice that made her audience laugh and cry and sigh:
Colored lights play, smoky mist swirling low;
Two indistinct figures catch spotlight's glow,
Bow in the center as breathless crowd waits
For the fates to decree, On with the Show!
On gyring wheel ‘neath Kyranian sky
Vessels take shape under artisan's eye.
Master's young son laughs to magic the clay;
'Cross Black Land afar spins circle awry.
In wizard's den on high mountain tor,
Protarus unveiled, mighty conqueror.
Demon-fang casting the perils disclose
That brothers of spirit must stand before.
The road divides, leads to glory or doom
Writ by silver stars and the crimson moon.
One to Walaria, wizardly school'd
By generous caravan master's boon.
