Heart of Flame

by Janine Ashbless

  She had never imagined that there was such power in giving. A pulse throbbed in the crease of her thigh.

  “Harder,” he whispered, “please.”

  She tightened her grip until the muscles in her forearm protested and he gasped. Then she let go altogether. His eyes flew open, torment in his pale gaze. With a faint smile, she reached down to cup him, finding his purse of stones clenched. She trailed fingertips over the creases and slid her hot fingers back up his length, delighted at its response, its eager jerks and nudges.

  “Ahleme,” he groaned, as if in terror.

  Pushing herself up on her elbow, she watched the work of her hand, her dark fingers and her gilded nails. The contrast with what they held was shocking. His helpless need for release mocked his power and his strength. The djinni’s flesh wept a milky tear in shame.

  Without a word—she had yet to learn the words for this—and without thinking—her reactions were instinctive—Ahleme stooped upon him, moist lips parting, to offer the comfort of her kiss.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In which a king makes confession and an angel sings.

  Tarampara-rampara-ram.

  Within a circle described by a silk rope and inscribed with Greek letters, Taqla stood in the sand before the Tower of Silence on the hill above the ruined palace of Firuzabad. If she chose to look down that way, she could see that building huddled on the bank of a green pool, and a little farther off, more ruins surrounded by a round ditch, and the clustered buildings of an inhabited village among the fields of the plain. A bowl of myrrh burned at her feet. The sun was dipping toward the horizon. Rafiq sat cross-legged, his bare sword lying across his knees, flipping a pebble from one hand to the other and back again. His mouth was set in a thin line.

  They were both anxious, not just because they were there to commit necromancy, though that was reason enough, but because they were almost certainly visible from the village to any sharp pair of eyes. Taqla didn’t know if the local people were still fire-worshippers—there were still enclaves of them in the caliphate because their religion was tolerated to a degree. That would mean that she and Rafiq were trespassing upon their sacred funerary site. But equally, if these villagers were of the Faithful they were unlikely to approve of strangers messing about in the half-crumbled tower of the infidel dead.

  Necromancy was on no one’s list of approved activities.

  The arched gateway to the Tower of Silence gaped. Inside could be glimpsed brick stairs ascending. Taqla had a theoretical knowledge of what they ascended to—an open platform on which were laid the bodies of the dead for the birds to pick clean and the sun to desiccate, a pit of jumbled bones in the centre. If the old ways had died out when the palace and city were sacked, then those bones would be splinters and dust. If the locals were still infidels then… Then she did not want to picture the contents of the platform. Fire-worshippers did not bury or burn their dead for fear of polluting the elements. They marked no graves with inscriptions, kept no individual space in death. It made it that much more difficult to locate a body to talk to.

  Theoretically, her chances of success would have been improved with the blood of a black ram, but she hadn’t even bothered suggesting that to Rafiq.

  The skin on the back of her neck creeping, Taqla chanted, “I call forth Banebshenan Banebshenan Adhur-Anahid to speak with me,” for the seventy-fifth time. If this didn’t work, then they would have to return to Taysafun and try there but, regardless, she wanted to be out of here before dark. Necromancy after nightfall was far more dangerous. It had a tendency to attract the attention of entities neither desired nor amiably inclined.

  Maybe, she thought, her lips and hands still moving in the prescribed patterns, this Adhur-Anahid was older than the empire of the fire-worshippers. Maybe they would have to search back farther into Persia’s past, to the empires of Cyrus or Xerxes.

  “I call forth Banebshenan Banebshenan Adhur-Anahid to speak with me.” The seventy-seventh repetition. Taqla fell silent, holding her breath. The afternoon sun was turning the hills orange. For a moment there was only the sound of insects faintly droning. Then a breeze blew up. It stirred the grass and it blew through the stones of the Tower of Silence and it brought to Taqla’s nostrils the rank smell of death even through the incense smoke. Then even the breeze was gone.

  From the gate of the tower came flies, a swarm of them. They swept out in a cloud, motes of darkness gathering into a spiral, a cluster, a cloud so dense it almost had solid form. She watched it glide across from the door toward her, swirling and shifting shape, and then gather itself into a pillar that stood between her and the sun. Her eyes watered as she tried to look at it without staring into the light. It seemed to coalesce into the form of a man.

  “She is not here.” It spoke with the tormented buzz of countless carrion flies. “She never was.”

  Taqla was half aware of Rafiq rising to his feet, sword readied, but she was trying to concentrate on the thing that hovered before her.

  “I see. Then…who are you?” She’d never heard that the dead were eager to rise to a summons. They didn’t consort with necromancers out of choice.

  “I am Ardashir. I was Shahanshah of all this realm.” It might have been an auditory trick that loaned the buzz a bitter tone. “I built the palace you see below, and the city and the fire-temple. I raised up my people against our Parthian overlords and gave them freedom. I conquered an empire. I sired sons. I am Ardashir, the first in centuries to wear the crown of King of Kings.”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she whispered.

  “And Adhur-Anahid was my Queen of Queens. But she is not here. You seek in vain.”

  “My apologies, father of the Persians.” Taqla pressed her hand to her breast.

  “She is not dead.”

  “What?” Surprise robbed her of courtesy.

  “She did not die. I died, after the fullness of years. But I cannot rest. And that is because of Adhur-Anahid.”

  “Please…I don’t understand.”

  “Centuries before your people conquered mine, I laid upon my people the laws of the Prophet of Ahura Mazda. Great was the empire, and in all its lands I did righteously oppress the unbelievers, the Christians and the Jews and the worshippers of the old gods. But there was a hole in my mantle of righteousness. I left a place for the followers of one of the gods of stone. I let the cult of the daeva Yaghuth go free and unharmed because I had made a bargain with him. I had made it before I took the throne, and the bargain was instigated by Adhur-Anahid, may her bones be consumed, may Ahura Mazda turn his face from her on the Day of Judgment, may the earth refuse to bear her up.”

  Taqla’s heart was clattering like the hooves of a spooked horse. “You bargained with him in exchange for…for an empire, did you?”

  “I was the younger son. My brother Shipur was our father’s heir.” The buzzing tone was emotionless except for that bitter edge. “I listened to Adhur-Anahid, and she gave to me a stone to eat and words to say, and then the roof fell upon Shipur. How could a falling roof be the fault of a man? I took a vassal kingdom and made it an empire. I bathed in piety and cloaked myself in righteousness all my days. But now I cannot rest, I cannot leave these bones.”

  Taqla couldn’t quite bring herself to feel any sympathy for Ardashir—or for any emperor, come to that. “Then you made a poor bargain,” she said.

  “I will make another.”

  “Oh?”

  “With you.”

  “Oh no…”

  “I will tell you where to find my Queen of Queens, if you will help me rest.”

  Taqla bent forward as if bowing, braced her hands upon her knees and shut her eyes. It must have looked strange to Rafiq, but it was all she could do not to slop to the floor in exhaustion, wrenching at her hair. She straightened with painful effort. “And how would I do that?”

  The cloud of flies belled out, whirling, then recoalesced to a form man-shaped and man-sized, but made up of points of living
jet. “The bitter stone stayed in my belly until the day of my death. It was laid down with my bones. Take the stone to the sea—the daeva Yaghuth has no power over the sea. Cast the stone into the waves. The sea will wash his taint from my bones and free me for Judgment.”

  “And where is this stone?” she whispered.

  “Within the Tower of Silence.”

  She winced, but even as she did so knew that it could have been much worse. “Give me your word that you will do neither me nor my companion harm.”

  “I pledge by the Almighty, by Ahura Mazda.”

  The oath wasn’t really necessary, she thought. The dead didn’t lie. It was one of their better points. Grimly, she nodded. Then she turned from Ardashir to meet Rafiq’s gaze. “All right. I have to go…” She pointed at the tower gateway. “In there.”

  He looked pale, and he pulled a face, but he nodded and took a step that way.

  “No.” She flinched. “Rafiq, can you wait out here?” She didn’t want him to be part of whatever filthy grubbing about she would have to do in there. Certain aspects of sorcery were distasteful, even barbaric. She didn’t want him to see her like that.

  “And leave you on your own with…that?” His glance lanced the dead Emperor.

  “Please…you know I’m good at finding things.”

  He frowned, his eyes pools of doubt. “Then call me if you need me. And listen for my voice too. I think I saw movement at the bottom of the hill. Be quick.”

  She nodded. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped from the circle and followed the dead man into the charnel house.

  By the time she emerged, Rafiq had called her three or four times, his voice winding faintly through the thick stone walls of the Tower of Silence. She ran down the last few crumbled steps, her right fist clenched tight about her prize, and out into golden sunset light. One glance across the hilltop revealed their predicament. Rafiq stood defensively between her gateway and the men who had emerged upon the hilltop, a group about a dozen strong. They were dressed like farmers and carried spears, the sort used for driving off leopards and jackals. Not sophisticated weapons by any means, but it gave them the reach over Rafiq’s curved sword. They looked angry, and when she emerged, they were shouting in Persian at Rafiq—“What are you doing here? What are you doing?” As soon as Taqla emerged into view, the cry went up—“Look—there’s the other one!”

  “Get on the Horse,” Rafiq ordered, not daring to look round at her. It was doubtful if the farmers understood him, but as Taqla scurried to the side where the Horse Most Swift waited, a couple of them broke from the group and ran to intercept her. Rafiq however, moved quicker, running in on the first spearman, grabbing the shaft just behind the crude point and thrusting it aside as he smacked the wielder hard in the face with the pommel of his sword. Taqla was half aware of the first farmer falling to the ground as Rafiq wrested the spear from his fingers and whipped the butt end round into the side of the next man’s head, felling him too. But she was too busy to see anything else as she scrambled into the saddle, leaned into the Horse’s neck and gasped the words that animated it.

  The Horse Most Swift leaped forward from a standing start and Taqla wrestled it in a circle, groping desperately for the stirrups with her feet, stuffing a fold of her veil between her teeth. The farmers cried out at the sorcery, scattering as she bore down on them, their faces sallow circles framing their open mouths. Taqla skidded the Horse into a turn then sent it ramping toward Rafiq, who stood fending off an opponent with his sword and the stolen spear.

  “Go! Go!” he shouted as she drew level with him, nearly knocking his opponent aside bodily. The silver Horse shied beneath her as she tried to hold it steady for one more moment. Flinging aside the spear, Rafiq jumped, grabbed her round the waist hard enough to nearly unseat her, and clung on like the Old Man of the Sea as they surged into a gallop. He only just had time to get his legs astride the saddle before they were right on the cliff edge.

  It hadn’t looked like a cliff on the way up; it had looked like a steep, barren hillside. From this angle, teetering on the edge, it looked sheer. Taqla held the Horse on the crumbling edge for one desperate moment, then as it jerked forward and began to drop, she pitched facedown with it, hanging on to the handgrips for her life as she stared into the throat of the drop. Rafiq threw himself backward instead. He was practically sitting on her as the Horse began to slide stiff-legged down the hillside in a plume of dust. There was one horrible moment when Taqla thought that Rafiq’s weight was going to force her off over the Horse’s head. She saw his legs kicking wildly for purchase against its shoulders, but he must have grabbed the back of the saddle or the Horse’s tail because he just—just—managed to hold his weight and keep his balance. Taqla clung on, her thumbs nearly dislocated by the pressure, until the gradient suddenly levelled out once more, and with a thump the Horse was back on all fours. Taqla barely avoided getting her nose broken on its metal neck as it righted itself and bolted off like a startled hare into the plain, hooves beating a triumphant tattoo—tarampara-rampara-ram. She sat back hard, nearly smacking Rafiq in the face in turn, and he grabbed her roughly in his efforts to keep from being unhorsed.

  “In the name of God!” he shouted, and she couldn’t tell whether it was elation or horror or both. “You rode off the edge of the cliff!”

  She had a fold of cloth clenched between her teeth so she didn’t shout back. But she heard him break into laughter.

  “Taqla the crazy!” he shouted. “The witch with no fear! See her ride upside down! See her ride on the dust!”

  Eyes blurring, she pointed the Horse at the open land and gave it its head. They raced onward.

  She should have stopped, really. She should have given them a chance to swap places in the saddle, because Rafiq was sitting tight up against her, holding her waist, his thighs embracing hers. But the sun was setting over the green plain and she didn’t know how much longer they had left. Already the golden orb was slipping behind the line of the hills and the shadows were long. So they rode and rode, until their panting had calmed, until their hearts had stopped pounding, until the light turned to faintest blue and suddenly the Horse slowed to an amble, set its feet and stood motionless.

  They were stranded in a wide valley of sparse grasses.

  Taqla waited for Rafiq to dismount. His hand was resting right over the delta beneath her ribs, above her navel. When he didn’t move, she twitched her shoulders uncomfortably, and only then did her release her. She ignored the unexpected sensation of loss, threw her leg over the Horse’s neck and jumped to earth, irritated and anxious. Rafiq sat still for a moment more then slid down on the other side. They stared at each other over the saddle. Rafiq’s wild mood had vanished. He looked troubled, a thoughtful line between his black brows, unspoken words in his eyes.

  “Taqla,” he said, then bit the inside of his cheek.

  Why? she thought, suddenly wretched and hurt. Every time I use sorcery he goes like this on me. Haven’t I done it for his sake too? If I’m so offensive then why does he accept my help? Avoiding his eyes, she bowed her head over her open palm and blew out the fold of her veil from between her lips. The little pebble landed in her hand.

  “I’ve got it,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “The token Ardashir wants rid of.”

  Rafiq blinked, for all the world as if he had forgotten. “Right. Let’s see.”

  She held it out, a slip of jade, about the size of a thumbnail, perfectly polished. It would be easy enough to swallow, if one had to. That was one reason Taqla hadn’t put it in her unshielded mouth when she’d needed both hands to ride. “Have you got a pouch?” she asked. “I don’t want to hold it.”

  “Uh? Oh, yes, of course.” He began to unknot the flap of the saddle bag. “Is it…?”

  “It’s horrible.” Just holding it made her skin creep. “Tomorrow we’ll throw it into the sea.” From the corner of her eye she could see a couple of flies circling the Horse’s ear
s, just as if it were a real animal.

  Between them they deposited the little pebble into an empty cloth bag that had once held milled grain. Taqla then tucked it into Zahir’s magical travelling purse.

  “Taqla…” That dark look was back in Rafiq’s eyes. She knew what he was about to say and she cringed. He wanted to ask her about finding it, about what had happened in the Tower of Silence.

  “I don’t feel like talking,” she growled.

  He dropped his gaze. “Fair enough, then.”

  “We should walk on until we can get out of sight. Those farmers…”

  “I doubt they’ll try and follow us on foot.”

  “They might raise the local amir and his men.”

  “They might.”

  In near silence they repacked and shouldered their bags, and Taqla ravelled up the Horse Most Swift. Then they walked on toward the far range of hills. But every time she paused to look back behind them at the valley under the rising moon, she caught Rafiq watching her, his expression somber and charged with unease.

  Yazid appeared out of the air, clearly flustered, blue shadows chasing across his skin. “Get up,” he ordered.

  “What? What’s happening?” Ahleme dropped the book she’d been reading but didn’t rise from her cushion.

  “I have to take you away from here.” He scooped her up under the arms and pulled her to her feet. “We have to go.”

  “Go?” She was so surprised she just hung limply in his grip. “Where?”

  Yazid clenched his teeth. “Away. You have to consent.”

  Ahleme stared. “I don’t—”

  “Just consent!” His eyes flashed.