Sabazel

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Declan leaned closer to Chryse and dropped his voice to a low mutter. “His Eminence spies on the king, plotting with Mardoc against him. Last night I saw His Eminence making black sorcery; I saw blood on his hands. I heard …”

  Chryse had to almost touch him to hear him. She listened, started back, clasped her hands over her breast as if protecting herself. Her cheeks went pale. “That old lie? How, how can it be true?”

  “Is our lord a demon? Has he done ill for Sardis? Has he showed any less than the utmost respect for us his people and for the god Harus?”

  “No, but …”

  Declan kept on talking, not loudly, but with an intensity that had Chryse thrust tight against the back of her chair. “Would you repudiate your lord for the fact of his birth? He could not help his birth; indeed, he is stronger for it. Surely he is more than noble, to live his life caught between man and god and yet to live it so well.”

  “True, true….”

  Declan grimaced, as if finding his own words distasteful. “The queen of Sabazel, my lady, bears the king a child.”

  “Oh,” said Chryse, pierced through the heart. Her eyes filled with tears and she covered her face with her hands, trying to block out his voice.

  But he continued, kindly, insistently. “Hear me, lady. Tomorrow Sardis and the Empire will be joined, bringing an end to war. Is not this child also a symbol of peace, binding Sabazel to Sardis, joining the gods themselves and cleansing the evil done by such as—”

  “Do not say it,” Chryse ordered. She looked up, tears streaking the softness of her cheeks. Heedlessly she took her embroidery and dabbed at her face. “Declan, I am only a woman, I do not understand the will of the gods. I do not know what to think. My own father, a traitor … Why burden me with this?”

  “We are not animals. We must know what forces govern our lives. And the king has need of us at this moment, for the forces of his life close on him like circling wolves.”

  She waited cautiously, but he said nothing more. He leaned back in his chair and allowed his head to loll wearily, his eyes to close.

  “I shall think on it,” Chryse said after a time. She sniffed, raising her chin, tightening her mouth. “I wish only to serve my lord, and if His Eminence wishes instead to hurt him, if my respected father turns against him …”

  Declan watched her, a small pained smile on his lips.

  Chryse exhaled, deflating. “I will think on it.”

  “My thanks, my lady. Such is all I ask.” Declan stood, bowing over her hand.

  The tent flap opened. The serving-woman bobbed in the doorway. “His Eminence, the talon of Harus, to see you, my lady.”

  Chryse squeaked, turning terror-filled eyes to Declan. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder and set his finger against his lips. “Be strong, my lady,” he whispered. “I go now to the king.” He slipped away.

  She gulped, folded her hands in her lap, looked appealingly at the shrine. The falcon’s eyes gazed at her, adamant, yet not without understanding.

  Adrastes entered the tent, a swagger in his walk that had not been there before. “My lady Chryse,” he said, sweeping his cloak into a bow.

  “Your Eminence,” she returned, and swallowed again, gathering her wits.

  “You are upset, my lady,” he said softly, as if chiding her for feeling. “What is the matter?”

  Chryse told the first lie she had ever told. “I—I am concerned about the battle tomorrow.” Then, truthfully, “I am concerned for my lord’s safety.”

  “Charming,” said Adrastes, seating himself and taking one of her hands. “Your devotion to your lord is an inspiration to us all.”

  “My thanks,” she said politely, even as she drew away from him. His robes emanated an odd scent, musky herbs and stale blood. “If you will excuse me, please, Your Eminence, I am weary …”

  “Of course. I wished only to pay you my respects.” His talon-like hand caressed hers, his eyes probed her eyes as intimately as if they were exploring fingertips on her body. No longer the kindly avuncular prelate—with an effort she reclaimed her hand.

  “Good night, then.” Another bow, another stare, and the tent flap dangled listlessly behind him.

  Chryse stumbled from her chair to the shrine, fell to her knees, and sobbed out her dilemma. The falcon listened.

  At last she fell asleep, a tired child, on the carpet before the shrine. The lamp continued burning, a pinprick of light in the eyes of the image, a blush on Chryse’s cheeks. Outside the tent the wind sang a wordless song, and somewhere in her troubled dreams she heard.

  *

  Danica and Bellasteros stood side by side, just outside the encampment, gazing toward the horizon. The rim of the plateau was a dark knife-edge against the stars. The moon was almost round, flattened a little on one side; its silvery light spilled over the camp, blending each tent, each horse, each sentry into a pale unity.

  “Listen to the wind,” said Danica. “Look at the sky.”

  Bellasteros lifted his eyes. The starlight touched them, polishing them into rich, dark gems. “I hear, I see … peace to come, and these abandoned fields flourishing again. The gods contented, and men no longer killing men—and women—in their names.”

  “May your dreams be prophetic,” Danica told him. But even as she spoke a shiver caught her neck. Foolish, she thought, to glance around as if eyes watched me…. She looked around. The young priest Declan hesitated a few steps away, trading polite salutations with Lyris.

  Bellasteros turned to see what she was looking at. “Declan?” he called. “The message was received, I hear; the terms agreed on. Surely you can rest this night, after such service.”

  At Danica’s nod Lyris let him pass. He joined the king and queen on the slight prominence where they stood, and he, too, lifted his eyes to the sky, opened his ears to the wind. “I have yet another service to give you, my lord—and lady. And a confession to make.”

  Danica’s brows arched up her forehead and she glanced at Bellasteros. He shrugged imperceptibly. “Speak.”

  “I listened through the fabric of your tent, my lord, last night. I watched through a rent in Patros’s tent. I heard, I saw, everything.”

  Bellasteros vented a short laugh. “I had thought,” he said to Danica, “that we were figures on a game board. Now it seems as if we are also actors in a play.”

  “One written by a major tragedian, at the least,” she responded.

  “My apologies, my lord, my lady. I meant no harm. I had to know… the truth.”

  “And which truth is that?” asked Bellasteros.

  Declan frowned a moment, glancing from face to face, choosing his words carefully. But neither face held more than a fey amusement. Inhaling, he said, “The truth that there is no battle between Ashtar and Harus. That … some people are too quick to hate, when your—forgive me—when your love and your compassion are what the gods intend.”

  “I shall surely be damned,” said Danica in amazement. “A man who would not condemn for who I am?”

  “No, my lady. I have come to admire you and your goddess as well. But there is one who works evil against you, and who would like to see you damned.”

  “You need name no names,” said Bellasteros quickly.

  “No, my lord. I wish only to warn you. He, who will be nameless, but whose pride is limitless, he and your general last night worked the blackest of sorcery, calling the spirit of your old nurse.”

  A gasp in Bellasteros’s throat, pain and dismay. “And she thought that she would have nothing to fear after death.”

  “I sensed her lost spirit,” said Danica. “The goddess protects her own; fear not for her soul. But for you …”

  “They know?” Bellasteros croaked. His cheeks paled, and he stiffened as if he expected Declan, with this admission, to turn on him.

  “They know. As do I. They condemn you for it. I do not. I—would serve you, my lord, and not them.”

  Bellasteros said nothing, turning away, gazing intently i
nto the darkness. His fate come upon him at last. Oh, my love, Danica thought, aching for him, but she managed to summon a smile for Declan. “Our thanks,” she said. “We shall need such courage in our service.” And, with a sidelong glance at the conqueror, “Go now. Pray to Harus for our victory.”

  Declan bowed. With one tentative hand he touched the star-shield. It murmured gently—remote, muffled chimes. “I brought this matter to the lady Chryse,” he said. “Just … to let you know.”

  No placid cow, she—this should be most interesting. “My thanks,” Danica said again. Declan hurried away, disappearing among the ghostly shapes of the tents. Danica turned to Bellasteros. “So that was Mardoc’s game this evening. Pitiful man; his deepest certainties betrayed, and his love for you turned to hate.”

  “Adrastes has much to pay for,” murmured Bellasteros. “The day after the morrow, when I have a moment to deal with him. When I shall no longer need him.”

  “We might all be dead by then, and so it will no longer matter.”

  “You cannot cheer me that easily, my lady.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments, not looking at each other, sharing their private thoughts without words. The camp was so quiet that a passing sentry’s footsteps sounded like a cavalry charge. At last Bellasteros stirred, drawing himself up. But he was still pale. “So it has happened, that which has hung over me for so long, that which I feared when I first fell under your spell …”

  He was jesting, releasing a grim humor, and she did not bridle; she touched him.

  “But it was your spell that delivered me from fear.” He smiled tightly. “I must be strong. I must feel not dismay but relief. That accursed priest has made his discovery too late; he cannot denounce me now, the day before the battle. If he moves against me, we can move against him, for his word will no longer be credited.”

  “Indeed,” Danica said. “Let his own pride destroy him.” The shield whirled in quick motes of light. “But we must watch our backs, my lord. Such as Adrastes do not fight honorably.”

  Bellasteros’s reply was direct, explicit. Danica had to nod agreement. They shared a long look, denying their fear; then they turned and walked down the gentle slope into the camp. Lyris followed, her usual few paces behind. “Declan,” Bellasteros said thoughtfully. “I thought I liked his face.”

  Danica did not quite hear him. Eyes on the back of her neck—really, this was becoming tiresome. She raised her shield. It swirled again, growing brighter.

  Bellasteros watched her. “A cup of wine, a stirrup cup?” he asked.

  “Unwatered Sardian wine?” she responded.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps, then, no stirrup cup. Sleep.”

  “And gentle dreams. Good night, my lord.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  Their fingertips touched. So quickly, she thought, do you become my friend. She let her smile linger on his back as he directed his steps to his own tent.

  The moonlight cast strange, distorted shadows on the ground, and it was hard to tell where shadow ended and substance began. Her smile faded, her shoulder blades crawled. Nothing, nothing but the unease …

  Bellasteros walked hesitantly, looking back again and again to where she still stood, soft-silvered by the moon, her shield a luminescent glow at her side. Uneasy …

  A solitary figure leaped from the shadows at her back, sword upraised and glinting with cold light. Bellasteros shouted, spun about, ran. Danica whirled and the sword stroke landed with a peal of sound on the shield’s rim.

  Danica, her footing unsure, staggered back. Her assailant’s sword fell again, slicing her cloak and glancing off the chain mail beneath. Solifrax lit the night, lightning called from heaven, and the attacker quailed.

  But Lyris was there first. Her attack was clumsy, but her heart was in it. She beat the dim figure away from Danica, stroke after stroke falling so quickly that the assailant could barely fend them off. Danica recovered herself; her slender blade turned and cut, and the man fell hamstrung into the dirt.

  Bellasteros threw himself on the man, his knee grinding into his back, his hand tearing the sword from the other’s grasp. “Are you injured?” the king asked. The corners of his eyes cast upward in a frenzy of anger and dread.

  Danica caught her breath and leaned easily on her sword. “I am uninjured, but my cloak will surely not survive this night.” She exaggerated; a shining streak across her corselet showed the force of the blow, and her ribs still shivered. But the noise had waked several Sardian soldiers, including Patros, from their sleep; now they gathered about the scene with lamps held high. On their heels came Atalia, Ilanit, and Shandir, weapons drawn.

  “Are you injured?” Atalia asked.

  Danica waved away Shandir’s inspection. “No, thanks to Lyris, and to your training of her, my weapons master.”

  Atalia beamed on Lyris, and the woman looked down at her feet in confusion. “This much I owe you all. Would that I had killed the wretch.”

  “No,” said Bellasteros, hauling the miscreant to his feet and shaking him like a lion shakes its prey. “No, I have a question or two for him.”

  And in the gathered light of lamp, of shield and sword, Danica for the first time saw her attacker’s face. “You!” she exclaimed, and then she bit her tongue. The dark face of the man who had killed Theara, sullen now, underlip outthrust, but bestial still. Mardoc and Adrastes were behind this—she dared not speak.

  Bellasteros read her hesitation well. “Patros!” he ordered. “Have the centurions form up these men at the edge of the camp.” And, spying Aveyron hovering uncertainly at the back of the crowd, “You! Take the prisoner.”

  Aveyron looked right and left, as if for an escape; with a deep sigh he seized the other man’s arms. Atalia, too, stepped forward to guard him. The lamps disappeared, one by one, as the soldiers moved away, and again moonlight bathed the camp in cool anonymity.

  “Hern,” Shandir said, naming the attacker to Bellasteros and Danica both. And, under her breath, “Mardoc’s spy in Sabazel this autumn.”

  “The man who killed Theara,” said Danica. “See, the half-healed wound where Lyris cut him.”

  Bellasteros bent, picking up several coins scattered on the ground where Hern had lain. “Who was meant to kill you. Paid well for his efforts, I see. By whom?” His jaw twitched, his eyes burned brighter than Solifrax itself.

  “My lord,” said Aveyron suddenly, as if ridding himself of some distasteful potion. Hern looked around at him, struggled, and spat curses. Atalia’s sword brushed the stubble on his chin, silencing him.

  “Yes, soldier?”

  “I—I saw him, too,” Aveyron grimaced, “leading the attack on the Sabazian camp …” That was not all he had meant to say; Danica glanced, one brow arched, at Bellasteros, and his nod agreed with her intuition. If he knows more, she thought, his knowledge terrifies him. Not that I blame him. No use questioning him, tracking such an elusive scent; they would only frighten him further.

  “Who paid you?” Bellasteros demanded of Hern.

  Hern saw his fate in the king’s eye; he set his jaw and remained silent.

  “By all the gods!” exclaimed Bellasteros, out of patience. “I shall not stand for this! Take him, there, before the troops.” Atalia lowered her sword; Aveyron dragged Hern beyond the ring of tents.

  “Treachery,” Danica said, in a chill resignation.

  Bellasteros shuddered with fury. “I fear—Harus alone knows my fear. I cannot name it. It seems as if we must walk into the trap, Danica; we shall not know what it is until it is sprung.”

  “Yes.” She sheathed her sword and turned a brief smile to Ilanit’s worried frown. “It will be good to know, at last …”

  “Indeed.” Bellasteros jingled the coins in his hand and turned decisively toward the edge of the camp. “You will come?”

  “No. Let Sardis take its vengeance. I shall sleep; and hope more than ever for gentle dreams.”

  “Then sleep, my lady …”
He was gone, Solifrax a glimmer of gold beside him.

  The shield sighed into quiescence. “Come,” Danica said, leading her warriors toward their own camp. She sensed, with one brief quiver of her consciousness, that Mardoc watched silently from a distant shadow. You strike, but your aim is bad, she thought. And now one whom you have corrupted dies in your stead … Shameful, Mardoc, a shameful coil for Sardis’s great general.

  Behind them Bellasteros’s voice, caught by a fitful breeze, rang out: “… such lawlessness—murder—disgrace to the honor of a Sardian …”

  Patros’s voice, equally intent.

  “No, I would not sully Solifrax with his blood. Centurion …”

  A cry, short and sharp, rending the sky. And the wind, pouring in great waves from the vault of night, cleansing starlight and moonlight of the acrid scent of death.

  *

  Adrastes was unperturbed. “So Bellasteros has killed the only man who knows of our message to Bogazkar. How subtly the gods work.”

  “But the witch-queen yet lives.”

  The priest regarded Mardoc’s florid face impatiently. “So, a minor setback. Let her enjoy her few remaining hours of life. Tomorrow I shall pit my powers against hers.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” said the general grudgingly. And, as he turned from the tent, “Tomorrow, then, death.” His face was hollow-eyed and thin-lipped, the bones of cheek and jaw standing out in great shadowed ridges.

  Adrastes chuckled quietly. “An honor, Mardoc, to die in the name of Harus. An honor indeed.” But whether he spoke of Danica or of Mardoc himself was hard to tell.

  *

  Atalia stood guard over Danica as she tossed and mumbled in the grip of one nightmare after another. Atalia prayed, affirming her devotion to Ashtar, affirming her devotion to Danica, sending the agony of her faith skyward like the smoke of a burnt offering. “Your will, Mother, not my will but yours, and the life of this your daughter …”

  At last Danica’s furrowed brow smoothed, and she slept, dreaming of peace and a world where peace was possible.

  Chapter Fifteen