Kallia stared at the dark wizard for a moment, unable to believe that she had allowed this man into her presence. She didn’t know the extent of his power, only that it was sufficient to kill everyone in the room.
“You have chosen wisely, khalifa,” Cragyn said. He breathed more heavily than a moment before, but he quickly brought this under control. “Both for yourself and for Balsalom. Even now, wights haunt the catacombs beneath the palace. Should Balsalom resist further, they will pour out tonight and murder every infant in his bed, while giants tear down the Great Gates and my men burn the city until nothing remains but a bed of cold ash.”
Kallia hesitated for a moment, thinking of a hundred and fifty years of Saffa sovereigns. The line would continue after her, if only through her traitorous brother Omar. And even wizards didn’t live forever; someday Balsalom might regain her power.
Kallia stood up and walked to the wizard, scepter cradled in her hands. She handed it to him, then waited for his judgment. He would kill her immediately, she guessed, rather than risk an uprising. And yet, she was strangely calm as she faced death. If she’d had more time she could have questioned her decisions, schemed out ways she could have defeated the wizard if only she’d been a better queen. As it was, she had no time for such thoughts.
“And now,” Cragyn said, handing the scepter to one of his pashas. “There is only one thing left to seal our alliance. We must be married.”
A stunned silence filled the air. Even Omar and Cragyn’s pashas looked shocked. “Never!” Saldibar snarled, fighting at the men who held his arms.
Cragyn pointed a finger at the grand vizier and said, “Silence!”
Saldibar’s mouth clamped shut and he blinked in surprise.
Cragyn lowered his hand and turned back to Kallia. “Khalifa?”
“What kind of man are you?” she asked, dumbfounded by his request. No woman of the Saffa family had ever been forced into marriage, and she swore by the Brothers she would not be the first. These fawning men around her—her own brother!—might obey this monster, but she never would.
“What kind of man am I? I am the man you will grow to love.”
Kallia laughed, not daring to show the fear that tore at her bosom. She’d seen that awful thing twisting inside the dark wizard and it scared her more than death. “You can take my city, but you cannot take my love by force.”
If the wizard was dismayed by her refusal, he didn’t show it. Instead, a slight smile played at his lips. “We will see. Will you marry me, khalifa, and join me on the iron throne?”
“I will not.”
The wizard sighed in an overly dramatic way. “I’m afraid that my men will be disappointed at your refusal. I only hope that they aren’t too disappointed.”
Kallia paled. “What do you mean?”
“My dear, you know how armies are. You march them for weeks, promising pillage, rape, and murder, and then … nothing?” He frowned. “I’d hoped to turn their energy instead to a joyous celebration of marriage. Please, for the sake of your people, reconsider.”
The meaning was clear. Marry me or I’ll turn your city to dust. I’ll murder your men, rape your women, and sell your children on the slave blocks in Veyre. Cragyn needed the marriage, or Balsalom might remain the center of intrigue for years to come. Marriage solidified the legality of Cragyn’s control.
Kallia’s world had become a box, with walls closing tighter every time the wizard opened his mouth. She could throw herself at him, perhaps snatch up one of the guard’s swords and impale herself. But no, then he would simply turn his armies loose in rage. The time to kill herself was later, after the ceremony but before the dark wizard came to consummate the alliance. Let Cragyn claim victory and the rightful control of Balsalom but give him nothing else.
“Will you marry me, then?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“What? What did you say? I don’t think your men could hear you.”
She looked up and met his gaze. “Yes, I will marry you.”
“Good!” he said, clapping his hands. “I am so happy. We marry tomorrow, then.”
Kallia felt weak inside. She returned to the throne where she sat heavily, forgetting until she sat that by naming Cragyn as her master, she had no right to sit on the throne in his presence. He overlooked this error.
Cragyn said, “Watch the khalifa. Perhaps she is not as pleased about her betrothal as I would hope. Search her apartments, and make sure that all food and drink is tasted before she sees it. She is not to leave her rooms.”
“But wait,” Omar said. “I can’t believe you’re going to marry her. Why?” His voice wavered at first, but gained strength as he spoke. “She’s the ugliest sister I have. You could have any of them. And your promise? Why marry Kallia unless you lied to me?”
The wizard contemplated for a moment. “Omar, I had forgotten. I promised you would rule over Balsalom, did I not?”
“Yes, my master,” Omar said. Rage burned on his face, and Kallia saw Cragyn lose whatever ally he’d held in the khalif of Ter. “You promised I would hold the scepter.” He looked at Kallia. “It’s mine. Rightfully mine. She stole it from me.”
“And so you will. Let it not be said that I break promises.” Cragyn took the scepter from his pasha, considered it for a moment, then handed it to Omar, who grabbed it eagerly, triumph on his face.
But the dark wizard didn’t release his hold. Omar cried in pain and tried to hurl the thing away, but his grip remained fixed. Smoke rose from his hands and the smell of charred flesh. The black metal glowed like a horse shoe in the blacksmith’s forge, and still Omar couldn’t let go. He screamed and thrashed his arms, trying to free them. At last, Cragyn released his hold. Omar fell to the ground, the scepter clattering next to him where it continued to smoke.
Cragyn said, “There, now you have held the scepter in your hands. And you will rule over Balsalom, as well. By tonight, your head will sit on a pike atop the tallest tower in the city. For thirty days nobody shall pass your head without bowing to the ground and praising your name to the Brothers.”
“No,” Omar said, shaking his head. “No, you can’t do this. I gave her to you, I delivered the city like I promised. I did everything you wanted. You can’t do this to me. You promised!” he shrieked, scrambling forward on knees and bloodied hands to grovel in front of the wizard. One of Cragyn’s pashas held him away with a boot.
“I can’t have a traitor in my midst,” Cragyn explained. “Forever plotting and scheming.” He shook his head. “A king should surround himself with servants he can trust. Isn’t that so, my queen?” He waved his hands. “Kallia, dismiss your guards. We have much to discuss.”
Kallia obeyed.
Saldibar pulled himself from Cragyn’s pashas, and made his way to the throne, then removed the amulet from around his neck and put it in her hand.
Saldibar said, “Lamaran is the best of your subministers, but many others would do just as well. I trust you will accept my resignation. I can no longer serve you.”
She rubbed her thumb over the smooth opal and let the chain dangle from her palm. The pendant had been in his family for generations. She started to protest, but caught a significant glance from the grand vizier. Kallia looked back at the pendant and remembered.
Saldibar had hollowed the back of the pendant to hold a small quantity of dragon’s breath, an herb that could deaden a wound, when boiled. Before cooking, however, it could be ground into a poisonous powder. Saldibar insisted that his spies carry the means to kill themselves if captured and had taken the same obligation upon himself.
She placed the pendant around her neck. “You have served me well, Saldibar. May your days end in peace.”
Kallia doubted this. Within a few days, perhaps sooner, the grand vizier would be killed or sold into slavery as Cragyn brought his own ministers to run the city. But she wouldn’t be alive to see this happen. Tomorrow morning, after the wedding, she would retire to her rooms and inhale the dragon’s b
reath.
She looked down at her brother, still simpering on the ground. She felt no anger, only sorrow. Yes, her heart ached for him. He’d sold everything he held dear, and for what? His last moments would not be pleasant. Death itself would be no release. When the people learned how he’d betrayed Balsalom his very name would become a curse word.
She turned to the wizard. “Now, high khalif—may you live forever—what would you like to discuss?”
5
Darik, Whelan and Markal hurried through the Tombs of the Kings, eager to reach the Tothian Way. Obelisks rose from the sand like the skeletal fingers of giants, while mastabas loomed overhead, the rising sun casting long, grasping shadows that caught the three interlopers in a chill grasp. One mastaba lay in a pile of rubble, each of its broken stones twenty feet long and taller than Whelan. The broken bones of an old wall cut a western-stretching line as far as Darik could see, past the sand and into a tangle of scrubby brush. The Tothian Way lay beyond that brush, Markal said.
Just as well. Darik had no wish to linger.
They had to reach the Way before the dark wizard secured the roads all the way to the mountains. If Cragyn captured the Way before King Daniel moved, half the war would be lost already. They didn’t know how much time they had, but Markal feared that it might already be too late to slip through undetected. The sun rose high, burning away the fog.
They had camels waiting up the road, Markal said. But what did camels mean to Darik’s pursuit of Sanctuary? He knew the rules, or thought he did: arrive under his own power with no possessions. If he rode to the Citadel, he would remain a slave in name if not in fact. Or had that been a lie like everything else the two men told him? He’d ask about Sanctuary when he thought he could trust them again.
They stopped to rest in the shade of a broken granite slab at the edge of the Tombs of the Kings. They’d passed a single obelisk a hundred yards back and Darik had assumed that was the end of the tombs until they reached this last monument that rose from a drift of sand like an upright hand, certainly man-made now that he looked at it more closely.
Darik rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth. It was thick with sand and dried spit. “No water anywhere, is there?”
Whelan shook his head. “None left. Another two hours. There’s food, too. Come, hurry.”
Suddenly Whelan dropped to the ground. He emerged in a crouch and looked around him. “Get down!” he said. He pulled his sword from its sheath in a single, smooth motion.
Markal grabbed Darik and pulled him to the ground. “What is it? Wights?”
“Something,” Whelan said. “Soultrup is ready to fight.” He held the two-handed sword nimbly between two hands and looked about him with the deadly grace of a cobra. “But what?”
“I don’t see anything,” Darik started to say.
But just as he did, the sword flew from Whelan’s hand, even as the man let out a gasp. Darik ducked as the sword flew directly at him. It soared over his shoulder and struck the broken slab of rock with a terrific shower of sparks. They cringed away from the light and only slowly rose to look at the sword.
Whelan whistled low. “By the Brothers. Look at that.”
The sword had thrust directly into the stone as if it were a firkin of cheese. Only the hilt stuck out. Darik ran his hand along the granite. It was solid under his hand.
Whelan grabbed the sword and pulled it out of the stone with a grunt, his muscles tensing in his shoulders and arms. It closed behind the sword, leaving no mark on the stone. “What do you think, wizard?”
“I don’t like it,” Darik said. “Let’s go. Hurry.”
“Wait just a minute,” Markal said. He looked back at the rock. Markal rubbed his hand against the stone, brushing away the sand to reveal words in the old script, eroded by time and the elements. He examined the words for a minute. “Interesting.”
“What is it?” Darik asked, still nervous, but the wizard ignored him.
Markal’s left hand no longer looked dead, but its flesh remained pink and tender, and it trembled when he unflexed it. He examined his right hand—his good hand—wistfully before lifting it and placing it against the standing stone. Now Whelan looked nervous, and opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.
“Et horgach katoth!”
The stone groaned and rocked on its foundations. They jumped back to avoid being crushed. The stone fell with a heavy thud on the ground. A small hole, just wide enough for a man to crawl through, opened where the stone had once stood.
Markal groaned, clutching his right hand, which shriveled and blackened. He looked up with watering eyes. “So much energy for such simple magic.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest of wizards.” He flexed his left hand, now his strongest, wincing. “This hand will have to do.”
Whelan drew his sword. “I’ll come with you. There might be scuttlings down there.”
“You’ll be worse than me. Blind. Stay and watch for trackers.”
Markal went head-first down the hole, sandaled-feet pausing in the sunlight for a moment before disappearing. A scraping sound came from the hole, then nothing.
Darik looked anxiously back toward the tombs, half-expecting to see mounted pursuit at their backs. “What’s he doing down there?”
Whelan shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a wizard. If you haven’t guessed yet, a wizard’s not the best traveling companion.”
Markal was gone for about ten minutes, then they heard the scraping sound again as he maneuvered his way back through the hole. He pushed out a bundle wrapped in worm-eaten leather, battered by time and its journey out of the tomb. Markal’s head and shoulders appeared a moment later. Whelan reached and dragged the wizard into the light, where he sat blinking.
“What a miserable hole.” Markal unwrapped the bundle. It was some kind of book, built of steel sheets bound by metal rings. He thumbed through a couple of the leaves. “Time enough later, I suppose. Darik, will you carry it?”
“How did you know it was down there?” Darik asked, lifting the tome with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked.
Whelan said, “I told you, he’s a wizard. Best not to ask too many questions.”
But Markal answered anyway. “I didn’t know. But the tome whispered in my mind while I was standing in the shade, saying, ‘Come find me, if you can.’” He sighed. “Alas, I ignored it. I’m somewhat deaf to such things. No, that’s not right. I can hear well enough when I’m awake, but I’m half asleep most of the time.”
“The book talked to you?” Darik said, wondering how this was possible.
Markal shrugged. “It wanted to be found, I suppose. Badly enough that it called Soultrup to wake me up. I once knew a wizard named Memnet the Great who had a glass sphere that was the focal point of his magic. But Memnet didn’t make the sphere, it simply appeared on his table one day while he studied in the library. He never figured out where it came from.”
Markal continued, “Whelan found his sword in much the same way. The sword chose him.” He caught Darik looking at the sword. “Yes, it’s a magical blade—how do you suppose we drove off the wights?”
Whelan reached a hand over his shoulder and placed it on the hilt, but didn’t offer any further details. Darik wondered if Markal had touched a sore spot in the man.
Never mind, since Markal was perfectly willing to tell the story for him. “Once, when he fought in battle, his adversary had beat him down and was about to kill Whelan, when the enemy’s sword flung itself free from his grip and landed in Whelan’s hand.” He paused. “There’s more, of course, but I guess Whelan can share those details if he wishes.”
Whelan turned his back. “Why should I, when you are perfectly willing to tell the tale?”
But Markal had apparently tired of the story. He said, “In any event, I have no idea what’s in the tome but there will be time enough for that later. Just don’t try to read it until I find out what it is. Come.”
“Yes, let’s go,” Whelan s
aid. “Enough talk.” He looked anxious, anticipating something. And not merely fear of pursuit, Darik decided.
“What is it?” Darik asked. “What is the matter?”
“The Desolation of Toth. We’ll reach it tonight after we replenish our supplies,” Whelan said.
The Desolation of Toth marked the boundary between the Western Khalifates and the mountains. If not for the Tothian Way dividing the dead lands, the Desolation would be impassable. As it was, men passed through quickly without looking to either side. Many a trader had stepped from the road and been driven mad by what he’d seen. Darik’s father had despised the place.
Darik caught a glance between Markal and Whelan. It wasn’t just the Desolation, he decided. What new secret were they hiding?
“What?” he asked. “What is it? Tell me.”
Whelan sighed. “My own personal burden, Darik. Come, all this talk will rouse the dead. Look! I can see the Way.”
Darik didn’t press further. As he followed the two men, Darik noticed that the tome had a curious property. It was back-breakingly heavy at first, but the more he carried it, the lighter it became. He liked carrying it, could hear the book whispering in his mind. Whelan asked later if Darik wanted him to carry it for a stretch, but he said he was all right. Indeed, he didn’t want to let the book out of his hands.
* * *
They passed onto the Tothian Way. The road was wide and well-drained, with bricks so smoothly cut that they might have been laid four days ago instead of four centuries; the three companions made excellent time even on foot. They passed a number of small yeoman farms, irrigated fields of wheat waving in the wind.
Several times Markal took them into the fields as small groups of riders came and went along the Way. The riders were Veyrians, in crimson and black. Whelan found a well in one of these fields, and they took the opportunity to wash away the filth of the sewage aqueduct and rinse their clothes. In the dry heat of the day, their clothing dried quickly. They kept walking.
The Tothian Way stretched like a flat ribbon on the plain. There was no sign of the western mountains that they called the Dragon’s Spine. For now, the plain was all, dry and dusty.
Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 111