Kieran flew to the open chest, keeping his eyes averted from the fatal dagger gleaming within and retrieved the second vial, which ai’Jihaar received from his shaking fingers. She opened it herself and tasted a few drops.
“See if they are ready outside,” ai’Jihaar commanded softly, her eyes closed. Kieran left her reluctantly to peer through the tent flaps. Already the little hai’r looked different—ai’Daileh had taken charge.
One of the servants who had arrived with the small caravan was reverently unwrapping the great black drums, the Rab’bat Rah’honim. One was already free, standing upright in the sand, polished black wood drinking in the clear golden light of a desert afternoon and wrapping it in the mystery of impending darkness. The smooth, tanned skin stretched taut upon it had once been a white ki’thar. The great drum’s mate, still only half divested of its wrappings of soft wool and red and gold jin’aaz silks, showed black where the other showed white. Black ki’thar’en were even rarer than white; this second skin had been a gift from the Gods. Beside the drums, each almost the height of the sen’en’thari who were to play them, stood one of the gray sisters, her small hands dwarfed by two massive drumsticks made of the same black wood as the drums.
Two more of the grays were busy with what looked like housekeeping duties around three black desert tents which had mushroomed on the other side of ai’Jihaar’s pool. A third, at the doorway of one of the tents, was folding up a large piece of scarlet silk while keeping up a soft conversation with somebody within.
And ai’Daileh herself presided over the preparation of a crude altar within the shelter of the palm trees. It was still early for the ceremony. She was explaining something to a companion out of Kieran’s line of vision, and stood with her arms raised, the sleeves of her golden robe baring her arms almost to the elbow in what looked too much like an invocation for Kieran’s taste. He drew back.
“I don’t think they’re ready,” he said, glancing back to answer ai’Jihaar’s question. The old an’sen’thar’s eyes were drooping. “Soon though,” he hastened to add, “ai’Daileh looks as if she is almost done. The drums are still…”
But even as he spoke a deep, reverberating boom echoed through the hai’r. Kieran’s head snapped around. The two drums were both standing free, the servant scurrying away with the neatly folded cloths, silk and wools that had been their travel garb. There was something elemental about the black drums, a feeling enhanced by the two gray sisters who stood behind them, each armed with a single great drumstick. It was the one at the white drum who had struck first; even as Kieran watched, the other brought her stick down on the black ki’thar skin. The drum responded, its tone a shade deeper and darker than its twin. The white drumstick descended again; the black; the white; the black…the rhythm was almost too slow to bear, slumberous, lulling.
“She won’t start till nightfall now,” said ai’Jihaar distantly, startling Kieran into remembering she was there. “Call ai’Fatmah; I need her to brew me something potent…khaf, black, sweet, strong. I have to stay awake until the ceremony begins.”
Obeying her meant leaving the tent, going out into the full sight of those strangers who had yet to see him. Kieran gave himself no time to think about it. He pushed the flap and stepped outside.
He was the immediate focus of at least three pairs of eyes. Four. He turned at the doorway of the smaller tent which ai’Jihaar’s servant occupied to meet again the smoldering golden gaze of ai’Daileh, watchful, calculating. Kieran held it for a moment, and then slowly and deliberately offered her a courtly bow springing from the centuries of tradition that were part of old Roisinan, before turning his back on her and slipping inside ai’Fatmah’s tent. He could sense a ripple of the golden priestess’s amusement follow him inside. The black drums were still beating slow time.
The hours are slow to pass when watched. The minutes of those still to elapse before nightfall dripped with agonizing deliberation; each one might have been a perfect replica of the hour of which it was a part, carved in miniature by a master craftsman. Drinking khaf in quantities that would have kept a ki’thar awake for a month, ai’Jihaar waited, hoping the lais she had swallowed wouldn’t slow her too much, that the khaf would neutralize it quickly enough for her to be able to watch over ai’Daileh’s ritual. Anghara seemed to have been pushed deeper than ever into a trance by the relentless boom of the black drums, and sat dreaming. Kieran simply waited. For nightfall. For truth. For salvation.
It was fully dark when ai’Daileh finally came for them, but three great fires had been lit and the hai’r glowed with ruddy light. It pushed past ai’Daileh into the tent, making of her a dark silhouette, the night lurid behind her.
“We are ready to begin, an’sen’thar. Come. Bring the daughter of Sheriha’drin.”
“She is Anghara ma’Hariff in this land,” ai’Jihaar said as Kieran helped her rise to her feet. Her voice was steadier, more absolute, than her physical body. Kieran could feel her sway as she leaned on his arm.
“Of course. May I be of assistance?”
“Thank you. There is no need.” Kieran had raised Anghara also to her feet and now stood between them, ai’Jihaar on one arm, Anghara on the other, as if in some bizarre courtly dance, waiting for instructions. Now ai’Jihaar turned her head in his direction and smiled, dropping into Roisinani. “If you will conduct us to the altar…”
“Wait,” said ai’Daileh quickly. “For her who chose the Hariff and who raised the oracle in Kheldrin…but to allow a true fram’man to witness sen’en’thari ceremonies…”
All Kieran understood was an implacable challenge to his presence; his hands tightened involuntarily on both Anghara’s arm and ai’Jihaar’s. The old an’sen’thar had turned away from him to gaze steadily on ai’Daileh’s face; reassurance came only in a gentle return of pressure. As the drums beat inexorably outside, ai’Jihaar did not flinch. “Perhaps, afterward,” she said to ai’Daileh as she urged Kieran forward, “I will tell you just how much this particular fram’man already knows. Lead the way, ai’Daileh.”
The younger priestess hesitated for a long moment, eyes on Kieran, and then whirled, a quick, almost angry motion. Kieran, leading the two remaining gold-robed women, followed in silence, far from certain if ai’Jihaar had successfully defended his right to stand with Anghara, or signed his death warrant.
The drums seemed to speed up as they emerged and followed ai’Daileh along the edge of the hai’r’s small pool toward an altar raised amongst the palm trees. Kieran saw the remaining five grays ranged around this; one held a plaited leather leash, on the other end of which stood a quiescent white ki’thar lamb. At the feet of another rested a small cage with two white and gold birds, both of whom seemed to have one broken wing.
“Take us to the altar,” ai’Jihaar said softly, “and then step back beyond the palms.”
“Are you all right?” Kieran asked—ai’Jihaar felt curiously insubstantial underneath his supporting arm, as though she was no more than an illusion, or a spirit.
“I will be,” the old an’sen’thar said.
Kieran halted a bare pace away from the stone plinth ai’Daileh had raised for an altar and pressed ai’Jihaar’s fingers again. “We’re there,” he said.
“Give me Anghara’s hand,” ai’Jihaar said. Kieran relinquished it, with sudden misgivings; ai’Jihaar felt his fingers tremble and sensed his hesitation. She spared a final smile for him. “It will be all right. Go.”
Suddenly ai’Daileh’s strong voice rose in a strange chant, and Kieran retreated hastily until he felt the rough bole of one of the palm trees behind his back. He saw the young priestess raise a black dagger, eerily similar to the one he had himself held in his hands; so many things were coming clear now, as he watched for the first time the ritual in which the blade belonged. He watched the young gray lift the white lamb onto the altar; he saw ai’Daileh’s grimly gleaming blade descend, and rise gory from the sacrificial altar, the priestess’s golden robe bearing no mark from
the Gods’ blood.
There is blood on my sleeve…
He saw Anghara flinch, heard her cry out something, stretch out a hand toward the altar, and then stagger, almost fall; it was all ai’Jihaar could do to keep her standing. There was no letup in the drums and ai’Daileh went across to Anghara, lifted her head and stared intently into her eyes—what she saw didn’t appear to please her. She went into a huddle with ai’Jihaar, bracing Anghara upright between them. Kieran’s head ached fiercely; the drums throbbed in a cloud of pungent, muddled scents of khaf, lais and exotic incense they had begun burning. The resulting ferment found a dark and quiet place just behind his temples and hissed there like a nest of adders. His eyes had begun to water; he closed them for a moment, drawing deep breaths, leaning the back of his head against the rough bark.
When he looked again, Anghara had been passed to two of the grays to support her, and both the golds, the old and the young, had gone to the altar. The gray with the birdcage had gone with them. The birds within were oddly quiet, sitting still, as though understanding their fate and resigned to it. They made no protest as each an’sen’thar reached out and chose one to hold between her hands.
Kieran didn’t understand the words being spoken. He didn’t have to. All around him the air was growing still and solid, much as he remembered it from the Shaymir desert. There was power here—but it was dark, and none of it belonged to Anghara, who stood swaying imperceptibly to the beat of the black drums, oblivious…except inasmuch as she appeared to have shaken off the support of the gray sisters and stood unaided beside the altar stone.
Was it working, then? Was her strength beginning to be restored to her?
At the altar, the two broken-winged birds were brought together upon the stone, breast to breast. First ai’Daileh spoke over them, voice low and smoky, then ai’Jihaar responded, slowly, softly; holding their birds with one hand, both lifted a black dagger high in the other, and then both daggers came flashing down in concert, piercing both birds. Blood, looking black and viscous in the firelight, welled out through the white and gold feathers; the daggers pinned the two birds together, touching at the place where the blade entered the hilt, like a cross.
The fires exploded into sparks. A smile crept onto Anghara’s face, but her eyes were still empty, glassy, and the smile was unpleasant. The air thickened unbearably; Kieran thought he could see it coalescing into long white streamers before his eyes, like mist, or the ragged remnants of ghosts. He was breathing in gasps; something heavy crushed down on his shoulders, bowing them, buckling his knees. He resisted, clenching his fists, lifting his head defiantly to stare up at the star-strewn sky. You are not my Gods. I do not bend my knees to you.
But others had. One of the grays was down; another buckled to one knee even as Kieran’s eyes swept past her; and then, very slowly, ai’Jihaar seemed to crumple into herself as though her robe was suddenly hanging on empty air. She folded soundlessly, like a wraith; Kieran heard someone cry out in anguish, and was dimly aware that it had been himself. Anghara did not react.
But ai’Daileh did. She knelt beside the old sen’thar, a slim, long-fingered hand coming to rest upon ai’Jihaar’s closed eyes. Then she rose. A step across to Anghara, who seemed to turn and laugh; and then, slow motion, in time to the driving beat of the drums and through the slow, thick air, came the sound of ai’Daileh’s voice.
Once again Kieran couldn’t understand her words, but the darkness of her voice woke the knowledge of death that slept within him and he felt the coldness of it freeze his bones. He could read it in ai’Daileh’s eyes, across the space which divided them, as she turned to face him. She had offered sacrifice to the Kheldrini Gods, but it was death itself she had called into this circle, not al’Khur, its Lord.
Kieran’s death.
10
“She means to kill you.”
The words were so precisely an echo of Kieran’s own thought he believed for a moment he had himself uttered aloud what was in his mind. But then the real identity of the soft, urgent voice was gradually borne in upon him—al’Tamar. He had the presence of mind not to turn. He remainedstill, eyes locked with the Kheldrini priestess; only his lips moved, all the shock of the moment in his voice.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came when I saw who was to lead the caravan,” said the other swiftly from the deeper shadow of the lais bushes just beyond the palm trees. “Kieran…”
“I won’t lie down and die,” Kieran whispered fiercely. “Not easily. Kerun and Avanna! I am no ki’thar lamb to feed the Kheldrini Gods’ bloodlust!”
A stray thought returned to taunt him—he remembered vowing to himself, not so long ago, that he would be willing to lay down his life for Anghara, who was his queen, whom he loved. Was this not, in fact, what ai’Daileh would ask from him?
No. Not like this. Fighting for her, yes, gladly, offering his strength and power, all that he was, to what she could become. Not this. Not this useless spending of a life not yet done, a meaningless spilling of blood into an empty wilderness. There was still so much to do…
And yet…if he could be sure her life would be bought back for Roisinan…
No.
It had all taken a fraction of a second, all the arguments, counter-arguments, justification, denial—it all streamed through his mind, fell into place, and was locked in. No.
A fraction of a second was all ai’Daileh needed. When Kieran looked toward the altar again, it was to see two of the remaining gray sisters, attended by two of the servants who had accompanied the caravan, making their way steadily toward him. He straightened, loosening his blade.
Am I to fight women? he thought, appalled at the prospect.
“I will stand with you,” came the desperate, whispered voice of al’Tamar.
“No,” Kieran said quickly. “Don’t throw your own life away here tonight. What of your Rami?”
And there was no time for more, for they were upon him, and he saw that one of the two women carried, rather gingerly, a large pottery jar and the other bore a thin, night-colored net. The servants came empty-handed, and were somehow all the more menacing for that.
“Beware of the pot!” hissed the disembodied voice from behind Kieran, and then it was too late for anything except fighting for his life. The one with the pot had opened it and hurled its contents in Kieran’s direction even as al’Tamar had uttered his warning. The two large yellow scorpions that had been inside, each almost the length of Kieran’s forearm, were not pleased; their temper was dangerous, and they were poised to strike at the first thing that stood in their path.
Kieran twisted out of the way. One of the scorpions landed softly beside his foot. It righted itself quickly, planting all its feet squarely in the sand, and paused for a moment, its venomous tail lifted and waving slowly over its back as it waited to get its bearings. The gray sen’thar with the net was flanking Kieran dangerously, with the servant at her heels, but even as he turned to glance around, the scuffle of his foot on the sand decided the scorpion and it lunged in his direction.
Kieran had his dagger out, stalking the killer who was stalking him. As the scorpion moved so did he, leaping aside and turning to stab the dagger, with a wet sucking noise, into the sand at his feet squarely through the scorpion’s broad yellow back, snatching his hand away as the poisonous tail whipped back and forth in its frenzied death throes.
He felt the net fall about him like a whisper of night even as he straightened, looking around frantically for the second scorpion.
The net was thin, but inhumanly strong, made of material which looked uncannily like jin’aaz silk. If this was so, then this was the stuff of a spider’s web, turned back to serve its original function—catching prey. His hands were tangled in it, and it twisted around him even as he struggled to free himself, biting into his skin with unexpected viciousness. But it seemed to be a weapon of capture, not captivity; having served its purpose, it was removed once the servant had pinioned Kieran�
�s arms behind his back with a more conventional cord. There were plenty of hands lent to this work; if some of them were soft and female that didn’t mean they lacked strength or power, and Kieran’s struggles went for naught. Someone had also removed his sword-belt; he felt curiously naked without it. He had been quite successfully distracted; now, the struggle done, Kieran took a moment to wonder dispassionately what had become of the second scorpion.
Now that her prey was safely confined, ai’Daileh, who had taken no part in his capture, approached him, a sardonic smile on her face.
“You gave your word to ai’Jihaar,” Kieran muttered in his own tongue, not expecting her to understand, but it was not in him to go in acquiescent silence into the darkness.
“I swore not to harm her,” said ai’Daileh softly and quickly, in Roisinani. She nodded her head in Anghara’s direction, without allowing her eyes to leave Kieran’s face. “I also swore to do my utmost to help restore a lost sister to the Way from which she had strayed—or been pushed. So far, the Gods have not responded to our offerings. We need more.”
For a moment Kieran was too stunned to reply, and then recovered with a sense of bleak inevitability. “I am not,” he said, “o serpent of the desert, a wandering interloper who is fitting fodder for your Gods. I came with a queen who is also of your an’sen’en’thari, to seek help in your land. I am friend and servant to the very one in whose name you would kill me. And while I would willingly give my life for her, I will not let you spend it like this. Anghara would not will it and ai’Jihaar would not have permitted what you intend.”
“She is an empty vessel waiting for the Gods to fill her,” said ai’Daileh, her voice dark and mystic.
“And I am what is left of her power!” Kieran said.
“You do not know of what you speak,” she said loftily, from the full height of the pride and the arrogance of her lineage and calling.
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