The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Where are they taking him? Will he recover?” and “What will become of him?”

  Kiber glanced at the woman curiously. She certainly didn’t sound the wife inquiring about the fate of a beloved husband. Kiber had seen many such in this hall, clinging to their men, being dragged away screaming and weeping. Of course, they had known or guessed what fate awaited their men. Perhaps this woman didn’t. . . or perhaps she did and didn’t care. Kiber suspected that it might not make much difference; she would never give way to weakness, no matter what she felt. Kiber had never met a woman like her, and he began to envy Auda ibn Jad.

  “They are taking him to the Black Sorceress. She is skilled in healing the touch of the ghuls. If she chooses, he will recover. Beyond that his fate is up to my master,” said Kiber gravely, “and will undoubtedly be determined at the Vestry,”—he stumbled over the word, the only term comparable in her language was “conclave,” but this did not give quite the correct nuance.

  Her face did not change expression, and he doubted if she understood. Now she will ask about her fate or that of the other redheaded woman. . . man. . . whatever it was.

  But she didn’t; she didn’t say a word. From the expression on her proud face it soon became clear to Kiber that the woman understood; she was simply refusing to speak to someone she obviously considered far beneath her.

  This irritated Kiber, who could have gone into detail concerning what would happen to this Zohrawoman, at least. The imagining of it excited him, and he considered telling her anyway, hoping to see her pride punctured by despair’s sharp knife. But it wasn’t his place to speak. The women brought to Castle Zhakrin either captive or voluntarily were the province of the Black Sorceress, and she would take it adversely if Kiber were to meddle in her affairs. Kiber—as did everyone else in the Castle—went out of his way to avoid offending the Black Sorceress.

  Without saying anything further to Zohra, he led her up winding stairs to a spire known as the Tower of Women. There was no guard at the door; fear of the Black Sorceress was guard enough—the man who entered the Tower of Women at any other time except the scheduled hours would rue the day he had been born. So powerful was this influence that even though he was here on business, Kiber still felt uncomfortable. He opened the door and took a cautious step inside.

  Silent figures shrouded in black robes glided away at his coming, melting into the shadows of the dark and gloomy hallway, their eyes darting frightened or curious glances at his prisoner. The air was heavy with perfume. The only sounds that broke the silence were the occasional cry of a baby or, far away, the scream of a woman giving birth.

  Kiber hurried Zohra to a small room that stood just opposite the main entryway. Opening the door, he shoved her roughly inside.

  “Wait here,” he said. “Someone will come.”

  Hastily he shut the door, locking it with a silver key that hung from a black ribbon wrapped around a nail in the shining black wall. He returned the key to its place and started to leave, but his eyes were drawn to an archway that stood to his right. A curtain of heavy red velvet blocked the arch; he could not see beyond it. But from it wafted the scent of the perfume that hung in the air. The smell and the knowledge of what went on behind that curtain made his heart beat, his loins ache. Every night at midnight, the Black Paladins mounted the stairs and entered the Tower of Women. They and they alone had the right to pass beyond the red velvet curtain.

  The sound of a door opening down the hall to his left made Kiber start. Wrenching his gaze from the curtain, he yanked open the door leading out of the Tower with such haste that he very nearly hit himself in the head.

  “Kiber?” said a dried, rasping voice.

  Palefaced and sweating, Kiber turned around, his hand still on the wrought iron handle of the door.

  “Madam,” he said faintly.

  Facing him was a woman of such small stature she might have been mistaken for a frail girl of twelve years. In reality, she counted seven times that number, though no sign of those years could be seen upon her face. What arcane art she used to cheat age none could tell, although it was whispered she drank the blood of stillborn babes. Her beauty was undeniable, but it did not foster desire. The cheeks were free of wrinkles, but their smoothness—on close observation—was not the tender firmness of youth but that of the taut, stretched skin of a drum. The eyes were lustrous, it was the glow of power’s flame that brightened them. The breasts, rising and falling beneath black velvet, were soft and ripe, yet no man sought to pillow his head there, for the heart that beat beneath them was ruthless and cold. The white hands that beckoned Kiber so gracefully were stained with the blood of countless innocents.

  “You have brought another one?” the woman inquired in a low, sweet voice whose dread music stilled the heart.

  “Yes, Madam,” Kiber answered.

  “Come into my room and give me your report.” The woman vanished back into the fragrant shadows without waiting to see if her command was obeyed.

  There was no question that it would be. Kiber, with a quivering sigh, entered the chambers of the Black Sorceress, wishing devoutly he was anywhere else, even setting foot upon the ghuls’ ship instead. Far better his flesh be devoured than his soul, doomed to Sul’s abyss—if the Sorceress chose—where not even his God would be able to find him.

  Alone in the room, Zohra stood staring at nothing. There was no one to see her now. Pride, because it feeds on others, began to starve and waste away quickly, and hysteria was there to take its place. Zohra lifted her face to the Heavens, a cry burning in her throat.

  “Free me, Akhran!” she screamed furiously, flailing her arms. “Free me from this prison!”

  The frenzied excitement lasted only moments, draining her remaining strength. Zohra sank down to the floor and lay there in a kind of stupor, eventually slipping into exhausted sleep.

  The cold woke her. Shivering, Zohra sat up. The nap had done her some good. She felt strong enough to blush with shame over the memory of her outburst. Anger returned, too, anger at Mathew for involving her in this and then abandoning her, anger at Khardan for his failures, anger at the God for refusing to answer her prayers.

  “I am alone, as I have always been alone,” Zohra said to herself. “I must do what I can to leave this horrible place and return to my people.”

  Rising to her feet, she walked over and tried to open the door. It was locked. She jerked on the handle several times, but it refused to give. Biting her lip in frustration, she turned and looked around the room, examining it for a way out.

  An iron brazier standing on a tripod in a corner lighted the chamber, which was small and square and highceilinged. It had no windows and no other door except the one against which Zohra leaned. A handwoven carpet of extraordinarily beautiful design covered the floor, several black lacquer chairs were placed about the rug, small tables stood beside them.

  Shivering in her wet clothes, Zohra walked the length and width of the room, searching for even the smallest crack. There was none, she realized, and the thought came to her, then, that she was trapped within these four walls. Never before had she been in any walled place. The yurts in which her people lived were temporary dwellings, made to let in air and light. They adapted to nature, permitted it entry. They did not shut it out and deny it.

  The cold stone walls seemed to grow thicker the longer Zohra stared at them. Their solid structure and permanence weighted her down. The air was smoky and filled with dust that covered the furniture and the floor. She felt an increasing sensation of being unable to catch her breath and sank down into one of the chairs. The room was smaller than she’d noticed. What would happen when she used up all the air? She shrank back in the chair, panting, nervously twisting the rings on her fingers.

  “Princess!” cried a distraught voice.

  A puff of white smoke issued from a ring and hovered on the floor before her, swelling like a ball of flabby white dough. A turban, a pair of yellow silk pantalons, pointed shoes, and a fat fac
e, squinched up in misery, gradually took form.

  “Usti!” gasped Zohra.

  Throwing himself at Zohra’s feet, the djinn wrapped his fat arms around her legs and burst into tears.

  “Save me, Princess!” he wailed. “Save me!”

  Chapter 6

  “Save you?” repeated Zohra angrily, trying without success to free herself from the grip of the clinging, blubbering djinn. “I’ll save you—in a goatskin!”

  “Goatskin!” Usti hastily released his hold on Zohra. Sitting back on his heels, he groaned and mopped his eyes with the cloth of his turban that had come partially unwound and dangled down the side of his head. The djinn’s clothes were torn and bedraggled, his face was grimy—now streaked with slobber, its expression woeful.

  “I beg your pardon, Princess,” whimpered the djinn. Every chin aquiver, he hiccuped. “But my life has been one of unendurable torment!”

  “Your—!” Zohra began.

  “For months,” wailed Usti, placing his hands on his fat knees and rocking back and forth, “I’ve been sealed up inside . . . inside—”

  He couldn’t even say the word but pointed a trembling finger at the ring of smoky quartz on Zohra’s hand.

  “It was awful! When the ‘efreet, Kaug, attacked the camp, my dwelling was destroyed. Fortunately I was outside of it at the time. I sought shelter in the first place I could find! That ring! And now, all these months, I’ve been trapped there! Nothing to eat and drink!” he sobbed wretchedly. “Nothing to do and no room to do it in. I’ve lost weight!” He gestured at his rotund stomach. “I’m skin and bones. And—”

  Usti caught his breath in a gulp. Zohra had risen to her feet and was staring down at him with the formidable expression he knew so well.

  “Skin and bones! You’ll wish you were skin and bones, you bloated, oversized pig’s bladder! I’ve been taken prisoner, brought to a sea that doesn’t exist, carried across it on a ship filled with demons, and dragged to this awful place! Trapped in a ring!”

  Glaring at the djinn, who was trying desperately to appear impressed and failing utterly, Zohra drew in a seething breath. Her hands flexed, her nails gleamed in the dim light. Usti’s eyes flared wide in alarm, his visage began to waver.

  The djinn was leaving!

  She would be alone again!

  “No! Don’t go!” Zohra calmed herself. Sinking back into the chair, she held out a placating hand. “I didn’t mean what I said. I—I’m frightened. I don’t like this place or these people. You must free me! Get me out of here! You can do that, can’t you, Usti?”

  “Immortals, Princess, can do anything,” said Usti loftily.

  “You will take me back to my brazier?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “You won’t make me return to that ring?”

  “No!” Zohra snapped, exasperated, keeping a tight hold on the arms of the chair to prevent herself from grabbing hold of the djinn by the collar of his ripped silken shirt and shaking him until the remainder of his turban unrolled. “Hurry! Someone might come!”

  “Very well,” said Usti placidly. “First, I must know where we are.”

  “We’re here!” Zohra cried, waving her hands.

  “Unless the walls deign to speak, this tells me nothing,” said the djinn coldly.

  “Surely you were listening!” Zohra said accusingly. “You must know where we are!”

  “Princess, how can you possibly have expected me, in my state of mental agony, to pay attention to the generally trite and uninteresting prattlings of mortals?” Usti was aggrieved.

  Zohra’s words came out strained through tightly clenched teeth. “We are being held captive by those who call themselves Black Paladins. They serve a God named Shakran or something—”

  “Zhakrin, Princess?”

  “Yes, that seems right. And we are on an island in the—”

  “—middle of the Kurdin Sea,” finished Usti crisply. “An island known as Galos. This, then, must be Castle Zhakrin.” He glanced about with interest. “I have heard of this place.”

  “Good!” Zohra sighed in relief. “Now, hurry. You must take me”—she hesitated, thinking rapidly—”us out of here.” Khardan would be forever in her debt. This would make twice she had saved his life.

  “Impossible,” said Usti. “Us? Who’s us?”

  “What do you mean—impossible!” Zohra’s hands curled over the arms of the chair, her eyes glittered feverishly.

  Usti blanched but did not quail before his mistress’s anger. An expression of selfrighteousness illumined his fat face. Clasping his fingers over his stomach, he said importantly, “I swore an oath.”

  “Yes, to serve your mistress, you—!”

  “Begging your pardon, Princess, but this oath takes precedence and would be so adjudged in the Immortals’ Court. It is a rather long story—”

  “But one I am eager to hear!” Zohra’s lip curled dangerously.

  Usti gulped, but he had right on his side and so proceeded. “It involved my former master two masters ago, one Abu Kir, a man exceedingly fond of his food. It was he, the blessed Abu Kir, may Akhran himself have the pleasure of dining with him in heaven, who taught me the delights of the palate.” Usti gave a moist hiccup. “And to think I should be forced to talk about him, I—who have not dined in months! Be still, poor shriveled thing”—he patted his stomach—”we shall dine soon, if there is anything fit to eat in this wretched place. Yes,” he continued hastily, “begging your pardon, Princess. We were speaking of Abu Kir. One night, Abu Kir summoned me forth.

  “‘Usti, my noble friend, I have a taste this evening for kumquats.’

  “‘Nothing easier, My Master,’ I said, being, of course, always willing to serve. ‘I will send for the slave to run to the market.’

  “‘Ah, it is not that easy, Usti,’ said Abu Kir. ‘The kumquats I fancy grow only in one place—the garden of the immortal Quar. I have heard that one taste of their sweet, thick lusciousness, and a human will forget all trouble and care.’

  “‘Truly, Master, you have heard correctly. I myself have tasted them, and that is no exaggeration. But acquiring the fruits of that garden is more difficult than inducing the mother of a beautiful young virgin to let her daughter spend the night in your bed. In fact, Master, if you but command it, I have a virgin in mind that will make you forget all about kumquats.”

  “‘Women!’ said Abu Kir in scorn. ‘What are they compared to food! Fetch me the kumquats of Quar’s garden, Usti, and I will—in turn—grant you your freedom!’

  “I could not refuse such a generous offer; besides, I am—as you know, Princess—most devoted to those I serve and do my best to please them. A djinn of Akhran could not very well walk into the garden of Quar, however, and beg for kumquats, especially when Kaug—may his snout suck up sea water—is the gardener.

  “Therefore I went to an immortal of Quar’s and asked him if he would be so kind as to fetch me several kumquats from the garden of his master.

  “‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Quar’s djinn. ‘And I would fly to do so right now except that my mistress has had her favorite jadeandcoral necklace stolen by one of the followers of Benario. I was currently on my way to try to persuade one of the God’s lightfingered immortals to persuade his master to return it. Otherwise, dear Usti, I would bring you the kumquats.’

  “He looked at me out of the corner of his slanted eye as he spoke, and I knew what I must do to obtain the kumquats.

  “Off I went to the immortal of Benario, first taking care, as you might imagine, that I had left my purse safely in my charcoal brazier.”

  Zohra leaned her head on her hand.

  “I told you it was a long story,” Usti said deprecatingly.

  “How long until we get to Zhakrin and your ‘oath’?”

  “Just coming to that, Princess. You see, the immortal of Benario promised to return the jadeandcoral necklace in exchange for an assassin’s dagger made by the followers of Zhakrin.
Therefore I went—”

  “Shhh!” Sitting up, Zohra stared at the door. The sound of rustling could be heard outside, a strong scent of perfume drifted into the room.

  “Musk,” said Usti, sneezing.

  “Shhh!” Zohra hissed.

  A key rattled in the lock.

  “Get back into the ring!” Zohra whispered.

  “Princess!” Usti stared at her in horror.

  “Do as I command!” Zohra said fiercely, holding out her left hand, the smoky quartz sparkling on her finger.

  The lock on the door clicked. Usti cast a despairing glance at the ring. The door began to open. The djinn gasped, as though struck a physical blow. He gave the door a terrified glance. His eyeballs bulging in his head, he changed instantly into smoke, spiraled up to the ceiling, and dove headlong into the ring.

  Zohra took a moment to glance at the ring as the djinn disappeared inside. It was a plain silver ring with its darkish gem. It was ugly, and it wasn’t hers. Hurriedly, she clapped her hand over it and turned to face her visitor.

  A woman stood in the doorway, delicately sniffing the air. Her face was not veiled; she wore no covering over her head. Thick hair, chestnut brown, was pulled back into a tight, intricately twisted coil worn on the back of her head. Her robes of black velvet swept the floor as she walked; the symbol of the severed snake that Zohra had seen both on Khardan’s armor and fluttering from the mast of the ghuls’ ship adorned her left breast. Her face was remarkable for its clearcut beauty, but—in the light of the brazier standing near the door—the white skin took on a grayish cast, reminding Zohra of the ivory jars the goums had loaded aboard the ship.