Jazirah did not flinch, although Melandra felt sure an invisible shudder had passed through his body. For the fleetest of moments, his pupils might have widened a fraction. ‘Who is this Shemyaza?’
The question had given her power. It was not a good question, and revealed more than Jazirah intended: his uncertainty, perhaps even fear. ‘He is one of the Grigori, from whom your king claims descent. I am surprised you have not heard the name before.’ She risked a small, if polite, smile. ‘Is he here?’
Jazirah shook his head and smiled indulgently. ‘No.’
‘He is on his way here. I know this.’
Jazirah raised his brows, but made no comment to her revelation. ‘What business have you with such a… person?’
‘I represent a body of men in the West who are eager to meet Shemyaza. He is a difficult person to locate and once he has arrived here, might prove difficult to negotiate with. Babylon and my organisation can be of help to one another.’
‘We do not need your help,’ Jazirah said. ‘Whatever plans our great king has, he is quite capable of realising them by himself.’
‘Of this I am sure,’ Melandra said carefully. ‘However, no-one upon this earth but your people and mine are aware of the fallen race — the Grigori, who walk among us. This is a shared secret. My people have watched the Grigori, in every land, for a long time. King Nimnezzar might be interested in our intelligence.’
Jazirah stroked his chin, his eyes never leaving the gaze of Melandra. She could tell she had surprised him, and thought that perhaps the Babylonians, for all their worship of the fallen ones, were not aware just how great was their influence or how far their numbers extended.
‘What exactly do you want from us?’ Jazirah asked her.
Melandra lowered her eyes. ‘Something happened to me in Istanbul,’ she said. ‘Shemyaza touched my soul. I am drawn to follow him, and where else will he want to be, but here with his people. I come here as Shemyaza’s hand-maiden, and as the servant of his king on earth.’
Jazirah regarded her with scepticism. ‘And what of your masters? Are they all this Shemyaza’s followers?’
Melandra nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And they send you to us; a woman alone in a dangerous country. It is strange. Why has there been no official communication concerning this matter?’
‘I am chosen,’ Melandra answered simply.
Jazirah exhaled through his nose. ‘We shall see,’ he said.
At least it seemed she was to be given some hospitality. Jazirah summoned servants, who escorted Melandra to a salon nearby — a woman’s room of drapes and tinkling chimes. Here sweet cakes were brought to her, as well as a selection of nuts, a salad and fruit tea for refreshment. These foods were like nectar to her eager mouth, their flavours delicate and somehow antique. But for the telephone extension on a nearby filigreed table and the electric lights, she could believe she had somehow been transported back to ancient Babylon.
A young girl, dressed in flowing green veils, stood silently beside the door. Melandra felt drawn to communicate with her in some way, if only by a smile, but her instincts warned she should not. It was important that the Babylonians realised her words were for the king and his courtiers alone.
A thought intruded stealthily into her mind. But what if they should find me out? She dismissed it firmly. It was vital that she banned from her heart all thoughts of death and bitterness. She must act her role.
After she had eaten, Melandra lay down on the cushions that smelled of incense, and dozed for a while. She was exhausted. Warm breezes came in through the swaying diaphanous drapes at the window and fanned her softly. She was awoken later by a contained commotion at the door.
Rising, she saw an old woman come into the room. Her eyes were milky-white; blind. She wore layers of diaphanous robes of different shades of grey. Around her neck; a golden necklace fashioned like a serpent biting its tail. Her carriage was erect, her step firm. Perhaps she was the mother of the king.
The old woman put her head on one side as if in appraisal. Melandra found this unnerving. She could not help feeling that the woman could see inside her perfectly well. The woman inhaled, seeming to draw in the scent of Melandra. She nodded and smiled, extending gnarled yet elegant hands. ‘Welcome, my child.’
Melandra was unnerved by this familiar address. She composed herself on the cushions, straight-backed. ‘When shall I see the king?’
The old woman glided towards her, the blind eyes staring out above Melandra’s head. ‘That I cannot say. I would like you to tell me what you can about the one they call Shemyaza. You know him, don’t you?’
Melandra shook her head. ‘I can speak only to the king.’
The old woman sighed. ‘Ah, my child, there are some things you most certainly must not tell the king, but you can unburden yourself to me. I am Tiy, the king’s seeress.’
Melandra went cold inside. A witch! Perhaps this hag already knew Melandra’s purpose. ‘There is nothing to tell,’ she said, ‘that I cannot tell the king.’
Tiy smiled. ‘Not even that you surrendered your maidenhood to the fallen one?’
Despite herself, Melandra felt her face redden. She turned away from the old woman, even though she could not possibly witness the blush. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I can smell it on you — his spirit, his fire.’ Tiy sat down. ‘You can speak to me, Melandra Maynard, for I understand your purpose. You are here to kill Shemyaza.’
Melandra uttered a surprised cry. ‘No!’
Tiy raised a hand, shrugged. ‘It is of no consequence to me. I would hear your story. Tell it to me.’
Melandra was aware of a strong sense of support and empathy emanating from the old woman, but wasn’t this simply the sorcery of a witch? She must surely resist it. ‘I can’t.’
Tiy reached out and touched Melandra’s hand. ‘But you can, my child. You can. You think me a witch, yet learn one universal truth. We women, all of us are witches. Every one. No matter what we call ourselves.’
Melandra rubbed her forehead with one hand. ‘I don’t know…’
Tiy pushed her back into the cushions with one firm hand. Melandra could not fight it, and felt as if it took an eternity for her body to hit the embroidered silk. Perhaps she fell a thousand times. A headache was beginning behind her eyes. She could smell burning. ‘So long ago…’ she began in a small, slurred voice. ‘It started before I was born…’
Tiy sat beside her, idly caressing Melandra’s hair as she talked. Her heart beat strong within her. She too could smell the fire.
Chapter Fourteen
The Cave of Treasures
The Mountains of Babylonia
Qimir knew of the Cave of Treasures, although he had not visited it in person. ‘Its location is known to the adepts of my people, and some have travelled there to connect with the spirit of our ancestors. But the journey is long and arduous.’
‘How far?’ Shem asked.
Qimir shrugged. ‘Days, at least. You must head south-east. Most of the journey is impassable for trucks, so you will have to travel on horseback.’
It was decided that they would take an escort of half a dozen Yarasadi, for the route was sometimes hazardous, and rival Kurdish factions prowled the shadowed passes, as well as agents of Babylon. Qimir summoned an old woman of the tribe, Tahira, to his dwelling, explaining to his guests that she had visited the cave fifteen years previously and would make an excellent guide.
Tahira was tall and unbent by age, although her advanced years showed in the weathering of her face. Long, grey hair, that looked as strong as steel wire, coiled down over her shoulders. She wore heavy jewellery of malachite-inlaid silver at her throat and wrists, and around her spare shoulders hung a large, fringed shawl of red and yellow silk. She listened without expression as Qimir explained what he required of her. Once he’d finished speaking she spent several minutes arguing with him in Kurmanji. It was clear she did not welcome the suggestion of acting as Shemyaza’s guid
e.
Gadreel translated her words quietly for the others. ‘She says she’s too old to risk such a journey. And she’s demanding to know why we want to go there. She says there’s nothing left there but bones.’
While Gadreel was whispering, Tahira turned to her and uttered a question in accurate English. ‘Why are you making this journey? Do you seek guidance from heaven and will visit the Cave to find it?’
Gadreel shook her head. ‘Not exactly. We are looking for an artefact.’
‘No artefacts there!’ Tahira snapped, waving her hands. ‘Many bones, old memories, but no artefacts. Barren place, home of the vulture spirits.’
Gadreel smiled patiently. ‘Perhaps the artefact we’re looking for doesn’t look like much. It could be a stone or even one of the bones. We don’t know yet what it is. It is very important, Tahira. The future of our people might depend on us finding this thing.’
Tahira considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Did not want to be called upon this late in life, but if the journey must be made again, then so be it. But finding artefacts — that is up to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Gadreel said, in obvious relief. ‘We could not do this without your help.’
Tahira asked Qimir if she might take her grandson, Jalal, with her, for she claimed the boy had a sensible head on his shoulders and she’d feel safer with him there. ‘And you know, Qimir,’ she added, in English for the benefit of the visitors, ‘what you must do before they leave.’
Qimir regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. He rose from his cushions and went over to what looked like a pile of rugs in the corner of the room. These he threw aside to reveal an old wooden chest, covered in intricate carvings. ‘Come here,’ he said to Shem.
Shem joined him and watched as Qimir reverently lifted the lid with both hands. Inside, lay an article wrapped in layers of multi-coloured silk and bound with seven ribbons of the different colours of the rainbow. Qimir reached in and lifted out the bundle. Shem heard something clank inside it; metal. Qimir gestured for Shem to hold out his arms and laid the bundle into them. Then, he unwrapped the coverings to reveal a collection of ancient, blackened short swords.
Shem looked down at them steadily, although his instinct was to wince away from the blaze of power they emitted. He could sense their great age, and also that they had been used in ritual for centuries, if not millennia. He realised he was looking at treasured artefacts of Qimir’s clan.
‘These swords have been passed down my family since our blood-line began,’ Qimir said. ‘They have great power. In the distant past, they may have tasted blood, but now we use them in our most important rites.’
‘They have tasted blood,’ Shem said, almost absently.
Qimir nodded. ‘Before you begin your journey, we will join in a ritual to ask for the protection of the highest god. You must be confirmed as divine avatars of the last epoch.’
Shem nodded. ‘Whatever you think best.’
The ritual would take place at daybreak, when the first rays of the rising sun slanted over the mountains and touched the valley. In the dim pre-dawn, Shirin and two of her sisters came to Shem and his companions in Qimir’s dwelling. Here, they offered robes of bright colours; gold for Shem; green for Daniel; red for Salamiel and violet for Gadreel. The robes were embroidered with gold wire and when Daniel held the cloth to his nose, he could smell a faint aroma of flowers.
After they’d dressed themselves in the robes, the Yarasadi women wove fresh blooms into their hair and circled their necks, wrists and ankles with bracelets of flowers. Then they were led out into the central area of the camp. Qimir and his personal guard were already waiting, adorned in multi-coloured robes and similarly decorated with flowers. The air was filled with their heady scent, and the green smell of cut stems.
Qimir bade the avatars stand in a circle around him; his personal guard forming a wider ring around them. Then, quietly, every other member of the tribe gathered beyond them.
The crowd waited in silence until the blue-grey twilight turned rose and the sun lifted between two mountains, sending a golden-pink road of dawn light down into the valley. Along such a road, the angels might once have walked to enter the ancient settlements of humanity.
Qimir bowed three times to the rising sun and gestured for Shemyaza and his three companions to follow his movements. Then Qimir began to chant in quick, lilting tones, his voice rising and falling rapidly, his tongue flicking around complex sounds. Beyond the circle, in lower voices, his guard echoed responses, pausing to bow at regular intervals.
Qimir fell silent and made a gesture with his hands. A young girl entered the circle, carrying the sacred swords. They seemed to weigh heavily in her thin arms. Qimir lifted the first of the swords, kissed it and held its blade up to the light. Now, he spoke in English, presumably for the benefit of the avatars. ‘Let all present bear witness upon these oaths I swear today. You with eyes aloft, behold the splendour of haq, the universal spirit, shine forth through my will.’
Everyone’s eyes focused upon the sword Qimir held high. He turned round slowly. ‘I, Qimir, create baba ba and open the gate through which all holy avatars may pass from dun ba dun, from oblivion to oblivion.’ He bowed and then plunged the sword into the earth at his feet. This ritual was repeated with five more of the swords, which he positioned in a tight circle. Projecting his voice across the valley, he held the final sword above his head for several minutes.
Standing at the edge of the circle, between Salamiel and Gadreel and opposite Shem, Daniel felt the hairs rise on his arms. Qimir was attracting the attention of powerful forces, who now hovered invisibly around them, observing the proceedings. Power was gathering, swirling above them; a maelstrom of memories, emotion and purpose.
For a moment, Qimir fell silent and lowered his head. A bird cawed from the cliff-face; the only sound. The sun-light burned a furrow of light across the grass. Then, with a great cry, Qimir drew himself to his full height and thrust the final sword into the earth, spearing the centre of the circle of blades. Sparks flew up as hard metal bit into the ground, grinding against stone. Qimir fell to his knees, collapsing upon the pommel of the seventh sword. Daniel saw the energy from Qimir’s own body, the strength of his beliefs, cascading into the vibrating metal. Radiant lines of power emanated from the central sword to each of its companions; they rang like tuning forks, filled with Qimir’s light and energy.
The circle of guards began to chant rapidly and made complicated gestures with their hands, augmenting their leader’s ritual actions. The tribe swayed beyond them, all hands extended with fingers splayed, towards the swords.
Daniel gazed at Shem. His eyes were wide, his head thrown back, as if he could see something coiling up from the ground that was readying itself to strike him. Daniel sensed it as another layer of responsibility preparing to enshroud Shemyaza. Part of him is fighting this, Daniel thought.
Qimir rose slowly from the ground and, after a few moments’ silent contemplation, drew in a deep breath and straightened his spine. He turned to Shem and strode up to him, placing his hands upon Shem’s shoulders. Daniel saw Shem wince, very slightly. Qimir chanted a repetitive phrase, which Daniel could tell meant he was calling down the power of Malak Tawus into Shemyaza’s body. It was ironic really, for wasn’t Shem, in his original incarnation, the prototype of the Peacock Angel? After a few moments, Qimir fell silent and hugged Shem, then kissed him on both cheeks. Shem bowed his head, as if in respect, and Qimir nodded approvingly.
The tribe leader returned to the centre of the circle and repeated the whole process with Gadreel, before moving on to Salamiel. When Daniel’s turn came, Qimir paused. Daniel wondered whether it was because he had only recently risen to the state of Grigori, but when Qimir met his eyes, he realised this was not so. Qimir seemed moved almost to tears. When he came to place his hands upon Daniel’s shoulders, he spoke in English before beginning the formal chant. ‘Son of the mountains, who recognised you,’ he murmured. ‘Yo
ur soul is old, Daniel, yet irrepressibly young. Stay by your master, for he needs you.’
Daniel bowed his head, unable to speak. His throat felt constricted and he closed his eyes. Then Qimir’s voice rang out and over him, like a stream of crystal clear liquid. He felt something move through his flesh, his bones, and realised that Qimir was actually giving something to all of them, part of his soul and the soul of his family. Before Qimir moved away, Daniel whispered, ‘I will treasure the gift.’ Qimir met his eyes and smiled. Then, with a brisk turn, he positioned himself at the centre of the circle once more.
Raising his arms, Qimir uttered the final lines of the ritual and once it was concluded, the whole tribe raised their voices in a great cheer. The air became thick with petals that were thrown from baskets carried by the children. The tense, solemn atmosphere broke up, and someone began to play a merry tune on the zurna.
The party set off later in the morning, amid a din of cheering and shouting. As they prepared their animals to leave, Qimir pulled the seven sacred swords from the ground and presented them to Gadreel. ‘Take these divine weapons with you,’ he said. ‘Do not use them to take life, but to preserve it. Use them only in a time of dire need, for away from their home, my heart, their power diminishes and you will have no means to restore it.’
Gadreel nodded and carefully stowed the swords, safely wrapped in several yards of cloth, onto her pack horse. ‘I will return them to you,’ she said, and Qimir nodded once, clearly trusting her word.
Leaving the camp in style, Gadreel led the way by urging her horse into a gallop. Everyone followed; the horses kicked up clods of earth, the tassels on their bridles swinging wildly. Cooking utensils clanked and clanged on the pack animals. The whole tribe uttered a haunting ululation as Gadreel’s company careered off towards the mountain path.
Before long, the riders left the wider path-ways and headed off up narrower trails, where the cliffs seemed to lean towards one another, until they virtually met overhead. Birds arced over the high rocks, uttering occasional mournful cries. There was no sound of gun-fire, but what seemed like an eternal silence beyond the natural noise of wild-life. Daniel felt that he and his companions could be the only creatures on earth.
Stealing Sacred Fire Page 21