by Allan Cole
He peered down at the page that had presented itself. And, just as it had seven times before, the same poem showed him its face:
There is a portal,
Through which only I can see.
There is a secret,
I dare not breathe.
Under the Demon Moon there
Is thee and me.
And then there is no more
Of me and thee.
Frustrated, Palimak snapped the book shut. The eighth appearance of the poem in as many attempts was certainly no accident. But what in the hells was that damned Asper getting at? And how could he have conjured such a reoccurrence from the distance of a thousand years or more?
If only his father would awaken and explain to him what the poem meant. A wave of self-pity swept over him. He thought, It's not fair! I'm only thirteen years old. Other children my age spend most of the day at school, or at play. Or doing minor chores, like tending the animals. He brushed away a tear. Then steadied himself. It just was, that's all.
Fate had decreed it long ago when the parents he'd never known had met and had fallen in love. A human father and a demon mother. Both dead now. Mercifully, perhaps, all things considered. At least they wouldn't be forced to witness the end of the world.
And then he thought, And they don't have a chance to save it, either.
He felt a tingling sensation and his gaze was drawn to the window which framed the evil face of the Demon Moon.
It seemed to be summoning him. Calling him. He heard a harsh voice whisper, “Pa-li-mak! Pa-li-mak! Pa-li-mak!"
The moon's pull grew stronger. So strong it felt like his scalp was being lifted from his skull.
His head ached with a rhythmic pounding hammering from within. And with each drumbeat—for that is what the hammering seemed like—the pain intensified until he thought he could bear it no longer.
Then once again he heard his father moan, “Khysmet!"
Safar shifted in his bed. There was a metallic ring as the silver witch's knife fell to the stone floor. To Palimak's pain-intensified senses it sounded like a sword clashing against a shield.
Joints aching, he retrieved the knife, then found his gaze drawn to the red moon-glitter reflecting off the blade.
They'd found the knife while undressing him and had placed it under his pillow. It was Safar's most prized possession—given to him by Coralean for saving the caravan master's life. Palimak started to slip it back under the pillow, then hesitated when an image caught his eye.
Once again he peered at the shiny surface of the blade. He saw eyes staring back in the dagger-shaped reflection. For some reason they didn't appear like his own. Still, they seemed familiar.
The pain in his head was so intense it was difficult to think. His emotions were as dull as his thoughts. The rhythmic pounding made everything seem distant, unreal. He turned the blade and saw other portions of the reflection. A slash of a wide forehead. Another of what seemed to be a square, bearded chin.
How strange!
He blinked and the reflection seemed to shift and then became a mirror image of himself.
The pain vanished. It was as if all the agony had been contained in a cask of water and then someone had knocked out the plug and it had quickly drained away.
Now the knife shone silver instead of red. Palimak looked up and saw the Demon Moon had risen above the top of the window frame. The soft glow of the morning sun gleamed through.
Palimak was surprised he hadn't noticed the passing of so many hours. One moment it had been late night. Then he'd stared into the knife's surface and all that time had collapsed.
He didn't remember falling asleep. How could he have, with all that pain—and its sudden, blissful release? But it seemed to be the simplest and therefore the most logical explanation. It also accounted for the strange image he'd thought he'd seen reflected in the knife blade.
Yes, that was the answer. He'd fallen asleep.
* * * *
With dawn's arrival, Palimak started putting his plan into action.
First he got out the little stone idol and summoned the Favorites. The boys were usually cranky in the morning, but he had some sweets ready for Gundara and some very old cheese for Gundaree. They munched on the treats, quarreling with one another between bites, but he kept pulling tasty bits from his pockets until they were more or less settled down.
Palimak turned his attention to the task at hand, fishing various magical items from a leather purse: six tiny pots filled with special oils; small packets of sorcerous powders, each of a different color; a jar of an alcohol-based elixir, in which he'd dissolved powder made from ground ferret bones; and finally, a little mirror.
He drew magical symbols on the floor, using a quick-drying paint for ink. While he worked, Gundara and Gundaree hopped up on Safar's bed.
"The old master looks pretty sick,” Gundara observed in cheerful tones.
"Maybe he'll die,” Gundaree put in, partly stifling a yawn with his hand.
"You two are such ungrateful wretches,” Palimak said. “Three weeks ago he saved your worthless lives. Now you're all but getting ready to bury him."
"I only said he looked sick,” Gundara protested. “Gundaree was the one who talked about dying."
Gundaree put hands on his slender hips. “What's wrong with that?” he demanded. “Death happens, you know. When you get to the bottom of the Scroll of Life, that's it!"
He made a cutting motion across his throat. “Finished. End of story. It's the same for everything that lives. Fish do it. Sheep do it. People do it. And demons do it. Although I suppose fish and sheep don't have very interesting stories on their Scrolls."
Gundara leaned against Safar, relaxing. “I don't know about that,” he said. “I met a fish once who had a pretty interesting life. It was maybe six or seven hundred years ago, not long after we were stolen by that witch."
Gundaree shuddered. “Why do you have to bring her up?” he protested. “That witch was a terrible mistress. Maybe the worst ever. You're going to spoil my whole day by making me think about her."
"I was talking about a fish, not the witch,” Gundara said. “That great big fish they served up at her birthday banquet. It was still alive, remember? And they were cutting off strips to make fish bacon."
Gundaree grinned. “That was great bacon,” he said, licking his chops as he fondly recalled those fishy snacks.
"I wish you'd stop interrupting my story,” Gundara grumped. “While you were eating that poor fish, I was talking to him. About how he used to live at the bottom of the sea and had more female fishes than you could shake a fin at. And all the adventures he had fooling the sharks and the sea snakes."
He shook his head, marveling at the memory. “What a fish he was!” he said. “A fish above all fishes."
"You ate him too,” Gundaree said. “After you made friends with him and promised you'd free him. You got in there too and ate the fish bacon as fast as the cooks could fry it up."
"It seemed like the polite thing to do at the time,” Gundara said. “I didn't want to insult him. Let him think he didn't taste good."
Gundaree hopped up on the bed with Gundara. He studied Safar's face for a moment. “I still think he looks like he might die,” he said. Another yawn. “If I weren't so sleepy, I'd feel bad about it."
Palimak did his best to ignore them. They were what they were and there was no way anyone would ever change them, much less warm up their cold little hearts. Usually they didn't bother him that much. In fact, their dark humor appealed to the demon side of him.
He couldn't help but smile at his own hypocrisy. The truth was, if they hadn't been talking about his own father, he might have found their conversation pretty damned funny.
The rueful smile made him relax. He arranged the pots on the floor, making a six-pointed star with the mirror in the center. He sprinkled powder from each of the packets into the oil pots, then lit them with a candle.
Multi-colored smoke hissed up, filli
ng the chamber with a sweet, heady odor. Gundara and Gundaree made gagging sounds of protest, but he paid them no mind.
Next, he took out his father's dagger, reversed it, and rapped the mirror with the butt. The mirror shattered. He rapped again, breaking it into smaller pieces. Then he stirred the glass bits with the tip of the knife, mixing them up.
Palimak squatted back on his haunches. “All right, boys,” he said. “I'm ready for you now."
Grumbling, Gundara and Gundaree hopped back down on the floor.
"This isn't going to work,” Gundara said. “He's too sick."
"You might kill him,” Gundaree added. “Did you ever think of that?"
"Besides,” Gundara said, patting his little belly, “I'm too full to work."
"Enough!” Palimak barked, finally letting his weariness get the better of him. “I've fed you, pampered you, and listened patiently to your mewling."
His eyes glowed demon yellow. “If you don't want to work, then by the gods I'll seal you in your stone house and throw it into the deepest part of the sea I can find. And you can argue with each other and the damned fishes for a thousand years, for all I care!"
The two Favorites went through an instant change in attitude.
"We were only jesting, young master,” Gundara said, flashing his white fangs.
"Yes, yes, only a joke,” Gundaree put in. “We'll help you all we can."
"And, I must say,” Gundara added, “the old master really is looking much better."
Palimak motioned, and the Favorites leaped up on his shoulder and shrank to flea-size specks.
He concentrated on the bits of shattered glass, breathing deeply, taking the incense smoke deep into his lungs. The spell he'd chosen came from a poem of Asper's his father had recited to him long ago.
Palimak chanted:
"Wherein my heart abides
This dark-horsed destiny I ride?
Hooves of steel, breath of fire—
Soul's revenge, or heart's desire?"
Suddenly, the shattered glass reformed into a mirror. A swirling image appeared on its surface.
Palimak felt dizzy and he gripped his knees as if he were about to fall.
He heard his father whisper, “Khysmet! Where is Khysmet?"
There came a thunder of hooves.
And Palimak was swept away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DEADLY BARGAIN
Rhodes was in an ugly mood when he tromped down the stairs leading to Queen Clayre's chamber. Who in the Hells was king here, anyway? So what if she was a witch? So what if she was his mother? How dared she think she could summon him with an imperious snap of the fingers. Didn't she know he was busy?
The earthquake had done extensive damage and he'd spent half the previous day and the entire night, plus most of today, overseeing the clean-up and rescue work. Twenty-two dead. Fifty-three more buried in rubble and possibly dead. No matter that they were only slaves. They were valuable, dammit! Brawny workers and comely women all; plus half the women were pregnant, and therefore worth double.
Rhodes did not deem himself fortunate because there had been no deaths among the citizenry. They'd only suffered injuries—two hundred minor, forty-six, serious. Pity some of his courtiers hadn't been killed instead of the slaves. In his estimation they were all a needless drain on the kingdom's treasury.
He would tell his mother all this, then give her a good piece of his mind for interrupting his labors digging out the collapsed slave quarters.
But when he came to the closed door leading into his mother's rooms, the king paused, stricken first by doubt, then by weakening resolve. Feared by thousands—no, tens of thousands—Rhodes always found himself undergoing a transformation in Clayre's presence. He was a brave man. A king who always led his troops from the front even in the fiercest battle. But when his mother spoke his nerve fled like kitchen beetles when a torch was lit.
Adding tension to this particular visit was the knowledge that his mother had been working on the plan they both had agreed would turn the tables on Palimak Timura and the Kyranians. He thought it was a good plan. Fortuitous circumstances had delivered the means into their hands. Three powerful devils who had appeared the moment after Queen Charize was killed by Palimak. Devils they could enslave and use against the Kyranians.
Still, he had grave doubts about the part he was supposed to play. Then Rhodes thought, be damned to magic! Why can't we just do things the old, honest way? Such as slipping a spy into Palimak's quarters and slitting his throat?
His mother, sensing his presence, called out: “Come in, my son. We're waiting for you.” Cursing under his breath, Rhodes entered.
Across the room—looking more beautiful than ever—his mother was regally ensconced in her wide-backed, pillowed throne. Standing in front of her was a tall man, who turned as Rhodes entered. The man had features as pale as death and he was so thin that his long face looked like a skull. His eyes were flat black—giving away nothing. He smiled when he saw Rhodes and the king thought he'd never seen such a terrible smile. Thin lips made a long red gash in the pale face.
The man nodded his head in what could have been taken for a slight and oh, so imperious bow.
"Good afternoon, majesty,” the man said in deep tones. “It's a great honor to finally meet you.” He held out his hand.
Rhodes was furious at this gesture. How dare this ... this ... common creature ... offer such an intimate exchange as touching hands with the King of Hanadu!?
"Go ahead, son,” his mother said. “Take his hand."
Rhodes was not only going to refuse, but his hand instantly went to the hilt of his sword. By the gods he'd cut this swine's heart out and have it roasted for supper! But, strangely, his hand swept past the hilt, rising of its own accord to find the stranger's.
"My name is Kalasariz, majesty,” the spymaster said as their fingers touched. “And I understand we're about to have a great deal in common."
And then he laughed. Rhodes nearly balled up his fist to smash that laugh out of the man's head, when a shock ran up his fingers—lanced along his arm, then burst into his heart.
The king clutched his chest, but then the pain was gone. And he found himself staring into empty air.
Kalasariz had vanished!
The astonished king scanned the room. “What in the hells!” he exclaimed. “What happened to that son of a whoremaster?"
Clayre smiled gently. “Don't you remember our plan, my son?” she asked. “He's inside you now. A supremely powerful force at your instant command."
Kalasariz stared out at the queen through Rhodes’ startled eyes. He could feel the king's throat constrict in fear. His heart trip hammering, his veins and nerves running with ice.
The spymaster experienced the king's shudder of agony. The licking of dry lips, then an embarrassing stutter, as Rhodes said, “I ... I ... You didn't warn me, mother!"
"I thought it would be less of a shock, my dear,” Kalasariz heard Clayre reply through the king's ears.
This is a good body, the spymaster thought. And he quite liked the mind. Although it was filled with confusion now—shot with more fears than a brutally violated maiden. But he sensed the sharpness of the king's brain, and the cunning, oh, the cunning, it was like finding a honeycomb in a bitter wilderness. It wasn't so cunning as the thinking organ that Kalasariz had himself been blessed with. But it would do. It would do.
He whispered to Rhodes, Do not trouble yourself, majesty. I am a very discreet fellow. I will do nothing to interfere with your natural functions. I'm only here to advise. And to add to your already inestimable powers.
To his surprise, the heart he shared with Rhodes went from trip-hammer to hysterical pounding. The ice in the king's veins switched to shocking fire. And he realized that his “voice” had unnerved Rhodes, coming from within as it did. Funny, came a thought as an aside. Funny, how Kalasariz had imagined his own lips moving, his vocal apparatus making words, but the entire process had been mental. M
uch faster than real speech.
So fast, in fact, that he could react and suggest new things with a speed that outpaced the sudden relaxed feeling growing in Rhodes’ bladder. There was no way Kalasariz would permit the shared embarrassment of Rhodes pissing their pants.
So he said, When the time comes, majesty, I'll help you kill your mother. Various of Rhodes’ organs became calmer. Kalasariz went on: She's been telling you what to do for far too long now. Using her magic to keep you under her thumb. It's not fair, you know. A mother should allow her child to be the man he truly is. I saw it right off. The instant I entered your body.
There was a tremble when he mentioned the part about body entering so Kalasariz hastened to add, This is a temporary solution for both our problems, majesty. Your mother forced me into this situation. But rest assured, as soon as we accomplish our common goals, I have a plan to properly separate us into two delightful human beings again.
Unconsciously, Rhodes opened his mouth to reply. Kalasariz quickly jumped in. Say nothing to me now, he advised. Wait until we are in private and we can learn to communicate together without giving our conversations away.
Rhodes nodded. He got the message. His heartbeat calmed and his breathing became more gentle.
Queen Clayre glared at Rhodes. “Why are you nodding your head like a fool?” she demanded. “Are you listening to me? Have you heard a word I've said?"
And to Kalasariz’ immense satisfaction, Rhodes replied with the utmost calmness:
"Yes, mother. I hear."
Then Kalasariz internal “sight” was jarred as the king's eyes moved to the side and focused on a large mural. The spymaster saw an army marching out of a mountaintop castle. And at the head of that army was a mounted warrior armored like a king. On either side of him were women warriors—princess generals, Kalasariz guessed by the banners they flew. One of the princesses was dark-skinned and rode the most magnificent black mare Kalasariz had ever seen.
It's just a painting, he thought. Why is the king so interested? Is he a lover of fine art? Or horseflesh? Or both? He quickly became bored with Rhodes’ attention to the mural and attempted to turn his thoughts away to some proper planning. Maybe he'd snoop around this new body a bit to see just how well things worked. Maybe he'd talk the king into visiting his harem tonight. It had been a long time since Kalasariz had enjoyed the embrace of a woman.