“You must do as you’re told,” Giv said irritably. He pointed a finger at me. “Tonight.”
“Ramin. Ramin, wake up!”
I opened my eyes. Lamplight flared before me, making it hard to see. A face—Pacorus’s—behind it. “Where is Babak?” he asked. “Where did he go?”
I sat bolt upright, instantly awake. I yanked up the blanket spread across the brazier, picked up the blankets on the floor.
There lay Shirak, curled up in a tight ball, one paw covering his face.
But Babak was gone.
“Perhaps he just wandered off,” Pacorus said. “We’ll find him.”
I was already out the door.
Which way? The hall was long and dim and full of moving shadows cast by fretted lamps in niches.
“Look.” Pacorus pointed at a length of white cloth crumpled on the floor a little way down the hall. I picked it up and kept going, Pacorus right behind.
All quiet in the fortress. I breathed in a whiff of incense, felt the cold stone floor against my hurrying feet. Ahead, more niche lamps—and now two lights moving. A whisper of footsteps against the stone floor, a cluster of robed figures.
“Wait!” Pacorus whispered. He grabbed my tunic and pulled me back.
I stilled myself—though not my heart—until the moving figures had vanished. We crept forward along the hall. A little way on, it opened out into a wide, high-roofed, circular court. In the center stood a stone altar, where burned the holy fire. Beyond that rose a narrow flight of gleaming white stairs. The fire flickered, stirred by a draft.
“There!” Pacorus whispered.
Something moving near the top of the stairs.
Babak.
He slipped between two carven doors, which stood slightly ajar. And I was running—running across the circular court, running up the stairs.
Pacorus plucked at the back of my tunic before I slipped between the doors; he hardly slowed me down.
Starlight burnished the surfaces of things with a milky radiance: the great, wide tiled floor of this terrace; the sphere that sat atop a copper pedestal; the charts and maps that ruffled in the wind, anchored to a low table by a host of smooth, round stones. And Babak—there he was—making his way slowly toward a far curved edge of floor where stood a man I did not recognize, a man dressed in the tall cap and white robes of a Magus.
I ran to Babak and scooped him up, silent as an owl on the wing. He did not stiffen, nor cry out, nor even seem surprised, but only gazed at me, blank eyed, and rowed a little with his legs. And now Pacorus was there, leading us toward the back edge of floor to a low wall, behind which we might secrete ourselves.
I set Babak down and, kneeling, turned him to face me. “Babak,” I breathed, “don’t you ever—”
Pacorus set a finger to his lips. He put his two hands together and leaned his head against them, as if to say, He sleeps.
Sleepwalking.
Babak leaned against me; I wrapped my arms about him. I could feel him sag against me, and his breathing seemed to come slower, calmer. I looked down and saw that his eyes had drifted shut.
Pacorus tapped my shoulder. He nodded toward the outthrust apron of terrace, where the man stood, unsheltered by the fortress walls, his cloak snapping and billowing in the wind. This man was not tall, I saw, but his bearing put me in mind of my father—straight as a taut bowstring. His dark hair glistened with oil; his beard was neatly trimmed and squared off at the bottom. He seemed to be holding something—a chain or a string—from which suspended a flat metal disc like the one Melchior owned, the one I had seen with Pacorus. The man seemed to be sighting along some meridian toward the stars.
Stars. This journey of ours seemed full of them. Babak’s dreams of stars for Melchior. And Melchior with his star-taker. What had Pacorus told me that first day? I never saw him use it until the night before we left Rhagae, he had said. And later: For so long we’d been told we were heading for Margiana, and then one night he turns his gaze to the stars and suddenly it’s Sava.
Shivering in an icy wind gust, I looked up at the sky. The stars were bright and moist and clear.
What, I wondered, had Babak’s dream told Melchior? What secret, embedded in the stars, would move him to turn from Margiana and journey to this forbidding place?
CHAPTER 24
THE WANDERERS
The next morning, after the devout had said their prayers, Melchior summoned us to his chamber. It was only the three of us: Babak, Melchior, and I.
I had not asked Babak about his dream. He was weary upon awakening, wearier than I had ever seen him. The flesh about his eyes had gone purplish and bruised looking, and some lightness of his spirit seemed to have gone dim. Even so, he seemed less cowed by Melchior this time. He wished to tell his dream himself, and not through me. He stood as he spoke, and moved his hands to better show what he had seen.
It was another dream of stars. Stars, Babak told us in his way, moving east to west across the dome of the nighttime sky. But very, very rapidly—all ablur—circling and circling as in many nights, many months, many years, many thousands of years. And as they moved through the years, they shifted. If you watched the rising of a single constellation—the fish, for instance—it would come up first in the east, and drift over time along the horizon until it was rising in the south, and then west, and then north. And as it approached an eastern rising again—full circle—everything slowed and slowed and slowed, until each individual star, and not just the patterns of stars, became clear. Two stars, then—two of the wandering stars—drew very near to each other, then apart, then near again, then apart, and a third time near.
When he had finished, no one spoke. Not Melchior, who simply stared at Babak, nor I.
Babak leaned against me, spent.
At last Melchior stirred. He furrowed his great, shaggy brows and leveled his gaze at Babak. “Who has been talking to you about the stars?” he demanded.
“No one,” he said.
“You?” Melchior asked me.
“No, my lord. I know nothing of stars, save for what everyone knows.”
“Does everyone know about the precession of equinoxes? Does everyone know about Great Years?”
I opened my palms in an expression of bewilderment; he harrumphed and turned back to Babak. “What are the wanderers?”
Babak ducked his head, his former high spirits quenched. “He—,” I began.
“I am asking you, Babak—not your brother. You said ‘two of the wandering stars.’ What are they?”
“How is he to know this?” I asked, impatience welling up within me. “He dreams for you, he—”
“I saw them,” Babak piped up. “In the dream. There are stars that wander through the others. They are not”—he hooked two fingers together—“not fixed to the other stars, but wander.”
Melchior combed through his beard, in which were lodged a collection of bread crumbs and a small scrap of cheese. “Have you heard of these?” he asked me, more mildly.
I shrugged. “Who has not, my lord? Except young children.”
“Can you name them, the wanderers?”
It was so long since anyone had spoken to me of stars. Back in Susa, Suren used to point them out to me. He often showed me the wanderer Venus, star of Anahita, and the red star, the wanderer Mars. “Venus,” I said. “And Mars.” I couldn’t recall the rest.
The Magus murmured something; I thought he said, “Not those.” He sat brooding awhile, and no one dared to interrupt him.
But something was pricking my memory. Babak had behaved strangely when we gave him the new sash. He had seemed puzzled. And I knew from the gossip that Pacorus had told me late last night, that Gaspar—the Magus we had seen on the roof, Pacorus thought—that Gaspar was the one reputed to know everything about the stars, or everything that might be known.
Had Babak dreamed again for Melchior?
Or might Melchior have slipped us Gaspar’s sash, and tricked Babak into dreaming for him?
Over the next several days I bided my time, impatient to depart the fortress and rejoin those we’d left below. I feared that they might leave and that Pirouz—and my chance of finding news of Suren—might vanish along with them.
Pacorus, freed from menial duties while here, was eager to explore. Babak and I tagged along behind him, through streams of servants bustling to and fro in the hallways; between the walls of high stone chambers that smelled of incense and echoed with the chants of unseen priests; to the guarded doors of the rooms of the various priests’ wives. I cared little about the mystery and intrigue of the fortress. But my interest quickened when we came upon a heap of chests and baskets mounting up in the lower courtyard. Preparations for a journey?
“Whose are those?” I asked a group of whiteclad priests who hurried past the piled goods.
None stopped, save for one, who favored us with a friendly smile. “For Gaspar and his party,” he said. “He’s joining your caravan.”
“When?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But soon.”
“Going where?”
“Ecbatana,” he tossed over his shoulder, hurrying to catch up to the others.
Ecbatana! The summer fastness of the king. Surely Phraates would have left by now, with autumn newly upon us. But it was worrisome.
“Why Ecbatana?” I asked Pacorus. “Do you know?”
Pacorus shrugged. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it, and I’ve kept my ear well to the ground. Perhaps Melchior’s only just decided.”
“Where is Ecbatana from here?”
“I’ll show you.”
We returned to the high, windy rooftop, the one where Babak had walked in his sleep. By daylight I could see far back along the caravan road we had taken—nearly all the way, it seemed, to Rhagae. At the base of the winding road that led up to the fortress I made out the tiny tents of the encampment we had left behind. “Ecbatana is there,” Pacorus said. To my relief, he pointed due west. But when I gazed in that direction, I saw only mountains and mountains—the near ones sharp and dark, fading in more and more distant, craggy ridgelines to a pale and shimmery blue.
How far, I wondered, to Palmyra? Across all of those many ridges to Ecbatana. And then there would be more mountains, and the land of two rivers, and a vast desert after that.
Was Suren in Palmyra? Or somewhere nearer? And Mother. How had she managed to cross all of those ridges before us?
A heaviness settled over me, a weariness I could not dispel.
And still Pacorus wanted to explore! He wanted to see everything—every niche and passage, every fire chalice and barsom rod. He tapped his foot in the hubbub of the stables as Babak and I slathered butter on Ziba’s sores. He paced the floor as Babak slept. More and more Babak craved sleep, and between sleeps he grew listless. At last I snapped at Pacorus, “If you can’t bear to wait as he rests, just go!”
Pacorus sighed, grinned sheepishly. He was charged with our protection and likely not permitted to leave us. In a while he turned to rummage through a bundle of his things on the floor. He drew out an ink cake and began to grind it on a stone. The acrid, smoky tang of ink filled my nose. When he had done, Pacorus took out two sharpened reeds and a scrap of parchment and began to write.
I watched in the flickering lamplight as the characters flowed beneath his pen—mysterious points and arches, flourishes like flags. Though I could not properly read, I found I recognized what he was writing. The alphabet.
I leaped back in memory to the times when Suren had shown it to me, patiently tracing out, for my edification, the rudimentary signs by which meanings might be known. Suren, I used to think, knew everything. Each morning he used to meet with his tutor, because learning was important to my father. For sons, at any rate. I was content to be out on my pony, or wading in the cool stream that ran through our estate, or watching a nest of birds in a nearby tree, until Suren was released from study and could join me.
I studied Pacorus as he wrote. Half noble, he was, and perhaps one day a priest. In time I closed my eyes and drifted off to the sound of reed scratching on parchment, to the bitter smell of ink.
CHAPTER 25
HE WAITS for YOU
When the time came, we left the fortress, rode horseback down the steep, winding track, and came into the encampment below. Catching a glimpse of Pirouz, I sagged with relief. Still here. But we met with much dissatisfaction among those left behind, as it had been harshly cold at night even with braziers inside the tents, and many of the company were little used to hardship. Melchior disappeared into the women’s quarters and emerged not long after, short tempered and disgruntled. He bellowed out a rebuke to a passing musician, who blatted a rude sound on his horn, then ran to hide himself somewhere among the clustered tents.
I could not help but remark the wry smile of the Magus Gaspar, who, though he added a small cadre of horse archers to our company, brought no women, no musicians, no birds in gilded cages, no amphorae filled with rose water, no stacks of silk-embroidered cushions, and far fewer attendants than his colleague.
And so we set off again.
The air warmed as we came down out of the mountains. We shed our caps and cloaks. Though the months of summer were past, the clime in the flat plateau had not yet robbed the sun of warmth. Babak seemed to draw strength from the heat, or perhaps it was from the few days of respite from dreaming. He spoke more often, and the dark flesh beneath his eyes paled a bit. Yet he did not come fully back to his old self. He had lost his joy in food; I had to coax him to eat, and still he grew thinner. There was less joy of any sort about him, even when he dandled Shirak in his lap. Shirak, I noticed, was no longer “brave” and no longer roared. More and more often Babak stared off into the distance, eyes vacant, and hummed.
Things that I had pushed aside in my mind now began to nag at me again. This latest dream of the stars seemed much grander than the ones before. Not just two stars together and apart, but the whole of the sky, over ages beyond imagining. Might it have been for Gaspar, with his great knowledge of the heavens? I had asked Babak whose dream it was, but he’d shrugged and turned from me, not wanting to be pressed. I worried, though. If Melchior were going to parcel out dreams as favors to powerful men—or use dreams to spy on them—what would become of Babak?
And then there was Ecbatana. Despite the season, might the king still be there? Might his Eyes and Ears?
Phraates, Pacorus told me when I asked, would be well away to his winter residence in Ctesiphon by now. Before too long the mountain roads to Ecbatana would be blocked by snow.
“Will we stay in Ecbatana until Phraates returns?”
Pacorus shrugged. “This, no one knows for certain. But they say Gaspar wishes to consult with another priest in Ecbatana, one more powerful still.”
I felt these new priests crowding in on us. If they knew of Babak’s dreams, surely they would seek to make use of them. All the more reason to flee with Pirouz. To Suren! More and more I felt certain we would see him again. I looked about for Pirouz and found him in a cluster of riders ahead. There had still been no chance to speak with him. Although Pacorus no longer stayed with us—Giv required him for other chores—another man sat just outside our quarters at night. But I must find a way to speak with Pirouz, and soon.
We reached the main road to Ecbatana late on the second day after leaving the fortress. I had thought that we would travel through the night until we came to a caravansary, but at sunset we stopped near a stream for devotions. Afterward there was a convocation among Melchior, Gaspar, and Giv. The two Magi, I had noticed, did not seem to have much to do with each other, except for brief consultations like this one. Gaspar refused the rich food Melchior offered him, and shunned his entertainments, preferring to gaze at the stars, sighting along that disc of his, or to retreat to his quarters, alone.
Soon the call went out to set up our tents. The animals were weary, Pacorus told me; it was best to give them a rest and start fresh in the morning. He handed me an armful
of camel gear—girths and cruppers, nose lines, a headdress, a torn leather pad. “Word of your nimble fingers has reached Giv. He would like you to repair the gear of other people’s animals, as well as your own.”
I groaned, but couldn’t suppress a little glow. Word of my nimble fingers. Nimble not in stealing now, but in respected work.
I had fed and watered our animals and was dressing Ziba’s hide with butter when I heard a footstep behind me. I turned to look.
Pirouz.
At last! “What do you know of Suren?” I asked.
“Shh.” He peered furtively about. “He waits for you. Tonight, after midnight prayers, I’ll come for you. Be ready.”
“But—”
“Shh. I’ve a sleeping potion for your guard, and …” He nodded significantly toward the camp. Giv was striding our way, scowling more deeply than ever.
“Tonight!” Pirouz said. And he was gone.
“What did he want?” Giv demanded.
“Nothing. He still thinks he knows us. I tried to tell him no, but—”
“Stay away from him—I told you!” Giv growled. “Don’t talk to him again. Do you hear me? Do you?”
Mutely I nodded, taken aback by his outburst. Men had turned round to gawk at us. Giv stared after Pirouz. “If the Magus weren’t so fond of his useless juggling tricks, I’d get rid of him today,” he muttered. Then, to me, he snapped, “Get back to your tent. Go!”
I turned away. Giv would be livid if we escaped. But Pirouz’s words echoed in my ears:
He waits for you.
What should I do?
Darkness fell. I tucked Babak in for the night; Shirak tiptoed across the carpet and over Babak’s shoulder, then curled up against his chest. I lay beside them, listened to the night sounds: the quiet rumblings of men’s talk, the scattered snores, the shifting and groaning of camels, the whickering of a horse. From the distance came the eerie howling of jackals, or wolves. Nearby, someone began to strum a soft tune on a lute. Just outside our tent I heard liquid pouring into a cup and the rough, mumbled thanks of the man Giv had stationed there.
Susan Fletcher - Alphabet of Dreams Page 11