Wings of Power

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  “An offering to Vaiswanara!”

  “Let the Apsuri ride asses!”

  Squeals of merriment. The horse’s hooves clopped upon the pavement. Deva’s bones cascaded down upon the marble floor. The cadences did not match, and clashed in Gard’s head so that he caught his breath in a moan.

  “That horse,” said Srivastava.

  Something about that horse. Menelik must have ordered it drugged, any normal beast would have been terrified in that grasping crowd. The dragonet’s tail flicked from side to side like a whip. Gray horse. Tarek had a gray horse. But his animal was a spirited one. Surely Gard’s own head was set upon a pike, the weapon’s point driven deep into his senses so that they bled slow rivulets of stupidity.

  Someone was standing upon a balcony of the palace. Gard, his hands pressed to his temples, peered blearily upward. It was Vijay, dressed in a robe and an unhealthy flush. He emptied a jeweled goblet down his throat and then to drunken acclamation hurled it into the crowd.

  The soldiers turned the horse so that he could see it. “Ah, very fine,” he called. “Giremoni. Only the best for the Ferangi, eh?” Cheers and catcalls both. “Take it to the palace stables. I shall saddle it tomorrow, and ride it to clean the soil contaminated by the Allianzi!”

  With a slightly off-balance bow he turned back to the doorway. Srivastava started forward and almost fell over a step. Gard grasped her arm. “Vijay!” she called, shrill and urgent. “Vijay, keep the horse outside, do not accept it—Vijay!”

  He was gone. “Why?” Gard’s eyes were puckered from pain, and he peered at her like a mole at daylight. “Why should he not accept the horse?”

  She looked back at him equally uncertain. “Why—I do not know. You are the wizard, can you not sense anything—wrong . . .?” Her voice choked and died. Gard released her and she stumbled blindly away.

  Everything is wrong, he wanted to shout. Beginning with my inability to sense just what, and why, and how! He was overextended, had tried too much, succeeded at too much . . . Deva’s bones clattered across the floor, striking his senses like hail. If he went to her for enlightenment, she would preach at him and continue playing with her idiotic dice. The dragonet hunkered back down in his gut, eyes like shields of adamant, revealing nothing.

  He trudged up the stairs to the deserted gardens, placing each foot carefully so that the stone steps would not throw him down. He found a rope bed deserted by a mali, and eased himself down upon it. Not fair. He was not drunk. A hangover, and no pleasure from it at all. Black sky. Black storm clouds. Clouds black and gray charcoal sketches. Charcoal burning in yellow and red flame. Red and bronze marigold. Gold making a pentacle.

  He clutched his pouch in his fist. The pentacle skreeled to his touch. The sound lanced his mind and with a cry of pain he fell unconscious.

  * * * * *

  Gard sat on the edge of the cot, rubbing the skin of his face down to the ache in his bones. A faint twinge in his temples was all that remained of the fearsome headache. The netted scars on his arm, old and new, ached in the chill. Now his perceptions were not inert but stretched thin as gauze. Annoying perceptions, but they were his.

  It was dawn. A deathly hush lay over the city. Vapor writhed from the chill of the battlements toward a lowering sky. Dew like cold tears glistened on every stalk, on every stone, on Gard’s hair and beard. His red hair was the only note of color in a featureless world. A solitary winged creature drifted far, far away, like a black hieroglyph upon the false message of heaven.

  Gard stretched, groaning, limbs stiff. The dragonet used his ribs as a ladder to pull itself erect. He would have hoped acidly that Deva had enjoyed sleeping by herself, if he could have remembered why he had been angry with her. Her religious certainty? Her fortune-telling bones? Whatever it was, it had no doubt been quite petty, as befit someone of his power and pride.

  His own bones twinged painfully. He saw Deva and Ladhani picking their way through the deserted streets, edging around a few sleeping bodies, toward Hurmazi’s shrine. So she had found another devout simpleton to go with her. He hoped they would throw their offerings in the faces of Ranithra, Pallias and Kyphasia. But no. The women bowed gravely, laid down prettily wrapped bundles of food and flowers, moved on. Even their saris were ash-gray.

  Deva could have come looking for him. But she preferred the gods.

  Gard spat bile onto the pavement. He placed one foot before the other. He reached the parapet and gazed over the walls of Ferangipur toward the Mohan. What odd peripheral vision he had; he saw the shadows of mountains looming to the north, and the slick, nauseous billows of the sea to the south, and the river like an obsidian ribbon, barely discernible amid mist that thickened rather than dissipated. The sun was a stain on the horizon, the air echoed with a hollow metallic murmur.

  A glistening mist coagulated, crept from the river, passed the black upright of the pike, engulfed it. The mist oozed over the field, stirring with quick surreptitious glints like spectral weapons. Death’s minions, Gard mused. Somewhere in the distance a cock’s crow split the silence.

  The dragonet lurched forward, slamming him against the clammy stone of the parapet. Its wings fluttered, flogging his chest. Death’s minions indeed. There were soldiers inside that mist. His nostrils flared at a quick whiff of burning hemp. Smudge pots held on the spears of the first rank—Bhai’s idea, of course. And Tarek, the Storm Lord, prepared a storm.

  A sudden gust of wind spattered the smooth surface of the river into whitecaps. Thunder grumbled in the depths of the mist—chariot wheels, hooves, marching feet.

  Tarek. In four strides Gard was overlooking the gateway. Several soldiers lay sprawled drunkenly—no, they lay in pools of blood. The gray horse stood stamping, shaking its head, flicking its tail, just inside the gates. The rich odor of hazelnuts filled the air. Something invisible and silent exploded, pushed Gard back and flung him into the dirt.

  He rolled and leaped, his blood fizzing in his veins. The pentacle rang like a gong, wings flapping for purchase.

  The horse. Its mane was mist, its tail was cloud, its flanks were fog rolling over the sea. It was not a horse at all. Tarek stepped out of the garlands of marigold heaped at his feet, his naked body as clean-limbed as the idol of a god. He threw open the gates. Horned helmets poured inside.

  For a moment Gard stood paralyzed. Damn, damn—he should have sensed this last night, but had spent too much—Raj, I am sorry, I saved you for this . . . The dragonet spun, teeth glinting, eyes bulging, wings fluttering. Gard catapulted into a run, skimmed the ruined garden, hurtled into the palace. He seized the first sentry he found and shook him. “To arms, man, to arms!”

  The soldier lumbered into action. Gard dropped him and ran on, hoarsely shouting the alarm. His mind fractured—Deva and Ladhani on the maidan, exposed—Rajinder too weak to fight—Tarek would sense any protective spells—if Tarek thinks Raj is dead he will not look for him . . .

  Gard skidded to a stop before the door of the audience chamber. The pentacle writhed against his chest, the dragonet leaped and danced. There, a warding spell. He turned toward another door—the kitchens? Whatever. There, a concealing spell.

  Senmut stood in the corridor before him, hair sprouting crazily as a haymow. “Gard? By Hurmazi’s teeth, what is happening?”

  “What do you think? The horse was a trick, the Apsuri are inside the walls. You have to hide Rajinder and Narayan.”

  “Place a spell on the door of the bedchamber.”

  “No! If they are hidden with spells, Tarek will be drawn to them like a moth to the flame. And I must stay away from them, or he will be drawn to me.”

  Senmut did not argue. His sleet-gray eyes fired. He turned and ran.

  Gard threw a quick shape-changing spell over a chest of arrows, and the weapons chest shivered into a cushion-covered bench. If Tarek did look for Raj, if he had to wade through a flotsam of spells, maybe he would never realize that Rajinder was not concealed by magic. That was his own tactic with th
e saltcellar. Poetic justice, please—gods, chance, fate—just once . . .

  And if Tarek looks for me—Gard’s teeth gnawed his lower lip. Well, let him look, if it distracts him from Raj. Gard ran into a marble column and leaned his face against the cold surface. The dragonet’s dancing paws struck sparks from his viscera. One spark illuminated Senmut, supporting Raj’s faltering steps, the child Narayan clinging to the hem of his robes, leading the way down a narrow staircase. Cellars, by Harus’s beak, Senmut had his workshop in the cellars.

  Another spark. Deva and Ladhani ran, their garments billowing behind them, into Hurmazi’s shrine. Hurmazi, the god of the Apsuri—would Menelik care, would Menelik dare? Deva!

  She heard his call. She glanced up, shaking her head; all is well, it is written thus, all will be clarified in the end.

  Gard smashed his fist into the column. Deva, you simpleminded fool, how can you have power and still trust?

  She took Ladhani’s hand and sat down next to Hurmazi’s stone, speaking soothingly about Raj and Narayan—offering self to save family . . . Gard stared incredulously as Ladhani nodded and composed herself. Women!

  Clouds clashed above the city. Thunder rolled. No, not thunder. A trumpet blast, a signal of some kind. The earth trembled. The column in Gard’s hands swayed and he leaped back. A crashing rumble reverberated through the city. Bhai’s sappers, blasting down the walls.

  Trumpets, thunder, earthquake—it was growing dark outside, dusk falling instead of dawn rising, black clouds gathering like carrion birds above the doomed city. Gard spun right and left—which way to go, what to do? Vijay? Jamshid? Srivastava?

  Armor clattered in the marble corridors. The dragonet jerked, propelling Gard away from the sound. A spell here, and a spell there, and one on a doorway, to make the lintel collapse atop the first horned helmet. Gard staggered out into the open and stopped, dizzy, sick to his stomach. The well of his power had not yet filled again and yet he was sloshing spells about as if he had a bucket full of them.

  The great tower shivered and fell with a stuttering crash. Clouds of dust and smoke obscured the shapes of people running through the maidan. Weapons glinted phosphorescent as they rose and fell. Screams tore the darkness. The sky swirled an evil blackish green. Yellow tongues of flame leaped from a dozen buildings—Allianzi fools, to destroy out of spite, out of the sheer pleasure of violence, what they had fought to win!

  Deva was out there. Deva and Rajinder’s wife. Gard sprinted through the open gates and into the maidan—I am coming, I am coming . . .

  An Apsuri soldier saw Gard and lunged toward him. Gard sprang to the side and froze for a fraction of a second stupidly wondering where he had last seen his legionary sword. The Apsuri came at him again. Gard parried with a blast of invisible fire. The man fell in a crumpled heap, armor smoking.

  No, the smoke came from the palace itself. Dark splotches crawled over the white walls, followed by gouts of flame. Gard dodged another soldier and dived for an alley.

  Sparks scorched his hair. Sparks seared his mind. Jamshid was in the maidan, his guard falling one by one around him as the Apsuri pressed forward. Menelik, that burly bellowing figure was Menelik himself . . . Jamshid stood, scimitar in hand, tall and proud. He spoke quietly, and the struggling men around him faltered. “Son of Allaudin, I curse you and yours. I curse Apsurakand. May you feel the fire and darkness you have brought upon us!”

  “I weary of your prattle, old man!” shouted Menelik. He surged forward. His sword rose. Jamshid fell beneath it and did not rise.

  The dragonet’s tail thrashed. A weight crushed Gard’s shoulders. Poor old man—at least he was no longer feeble—too late, too late . . . Jamshid is gone. The Rajah is dead, long live the Rajah. Rajinder. Narayan. Gard scurried along a narrow street parallel to the maidan. Must lead pursuit away from the palace—assuming anyone was pursuing him. Tarek? Where was Tarek?

  He saw Senmut, Raj, and the child, huddling together in a dark musty passage—a cave, a labyrinth beneath the fetid temple of Tenebrio. Gard gasped for breath. It was a root cellar beneath the palace, behind the stacked barrels and crates and shelves of Senmut’s workroom. Another entrance opened into the kitchen gardens providing a draft of smoky but fresh air. Apsuri buffoons, by burning the palace you destroy all evidence of Raj’s hiding place!

  The sky lowered. A wind howled, fanning the flames. The delicate plaster pastry of the palace crumbled into charred flakes. Tarek stood in the durbar chamber, hands upraised, frowning. Spells, too many spells, hiding something or nothing. Gard clung to a hitching post and laughed, high and shrill. Fooled him, by Ashtar’s blue eyes, fooled him!

  Blue eyes. Deva’s eyes were flat black as she eyed the Apsuri officer standing above her. Ladhani spoke to him with a calm assurance—family in Apsurakand, wife of Ferangi, take me and my maidservant to Menelik.

  Sparks swirled. The palace dome broke like an eggshell and flames leaped upward until smoke and cloud became one choking pall over the city. Gard strangled on his laughter. The dragonet caromed through his chest and the pentacle dragged him forward, staggering—tired, so tired. A little brick building was ahead of him. It was the shrine of Harus, where his turban had fallen off, an early kink in this impenetrable plot.

  He bolted through the door and fell sprawling onto the gritty pavement. The stone eyes of the idol glared at him.

  Distant screams and explosions. Firelight dancing upon the walls of the shrine. The reek of burning wood and cloth and flesh eddying along the floor and nibbling at Gard’s ankles. “Deva,” he whispered. “Deva.”

  Like a bucket of cold water, Tarek’s thought penetrated the smoke and cloud in his mind. Fire demon! Come out, come out wherever you are . . . Gard’s senses stretched too fine and thin. They snapped. His cry of terror trailed away. He was a cockroach perched upon Harus’s shoulder. For a moment he expected the stone beak to turn and brush him away, but it did not.

  Hurrying figures passed the doorway. Someone ran inside and with many pitiful cries was dragged back by an armored figure. Another helmeted behemoth peered into each corner, saw nothing worth stealing, clanked out.

  The dragonet huddled sullenly in Gard’s gut, compressed almost to nothingness, a flea in the intestines of a cockroach. More honorable to go out and fight? More honorable to go out and die? Too late, too late for anything but revenge. Must survive to serve Raj, only Raj is left . . .

  The Allianzi were dragging Ferangi soldiers from Vaiswanara’s altar and slitting their throats. A protesting priest was struck down as impassively as a bullock before dinner. Sparks showered through the dim interior of the shrine. The wilted petals of the asphodel in the wall niche stirred.

  Menelik looked at Ladhani standing before him, Deva at her elbow. “You were once an Apsuri. If you renounce Ferangipur—what there is left to renounce—you may return to Apsurakand. But stay out of my sight.”

  Ladhani’s certainty was somewhat more rancid than Deva’s. “My husband is dead,” she stated. “My son was lost in the flames of the palace. I am yours to dispose of, Nazib-ji.”

  Menelik shrugged. Srivastava was thrown into the churned and bloody dirt at his feet. She crawled toward the body of her father. His eyes stared upward, glossed with lucidity, finding sanity at last in death. Srivastava closed Jamshid’s eyes, sealing in the courage and strength of his last moment.

  Menelik gestured. Soldiers jerked her to her feet. She met his gaze with head thrown back. “So,” he said. “You are the one who wrote to my son Jofar. We found your letter tucked in his breastplate, girl!”

  Srivastava said nothing. Her eyes looked through and beyond him.

  “Take her away,” the Shah ordered. “Throw her in with the other women. She shall make me more sons before this winter is over—she owes me that.”

  Srivastava spat at his face. But many hands were already pulling her away, and the spittle sprayed harmlessly over Menelik’s breastplate, smearing the dust and soot that dimmed its shine. That blot for Jofar.
That for Zoe.

  Smoke thickened the air of the shrine. Shapes danced in the smoke, mocking shapes with attenuated hands, beckoning, beckoning . . . No! The cockroach on the god’s shoulder hiccupped. No!

  Shikar stood, sword ready, as his men used a bench to ram a wide carved door. With a splintering crack, the wood broke and the door swung open. Growling, he thrust his men away and strode into the room.

  A sword glinted in the haze of smoke and perfume. Vijay, naked, thrust again and again at the burly form confronting him. Shikar parried, his teeth gleaming in a snarl. Muktari soldiers swarmed into the room, surrounded the handsome body, closed in. “Yasmine,” Vijay shouted. “Yas—.” Her name was abruptly truncated.

  Yasmine sat up in the bed, her hands clasped to her face as if doubting it was still there. Her blue eyes widened and spilled from the sockets in tears. Shikar wiped his sword on the coverlet, leaving a smear of crimson before her eyes. “And you,” he said. “Go ahead and cry, woman. Go ahead. Let me see you cry.” He raised the sword again.

  Gulping, shaking back the tangled blond curls on her brow, Yasmine threw the coverlet away from her. Her ivory skin glinted pink in the red guttering light from the window. Her breasts rose and fell, caressed by shadow. Her frail hands reached upward toward the bloodstained warrior who stood above her. Her amazing blue eyes gleamed amid lush fluttering lashes. “My husband,” she crooned. “I am so pleased you have come for me.”

  Shikar’s eyes focused upon her bosom. He opened his mouth, shut it again. With an incoherent oath he sheathed his sword, seized a silk robe from a chair and thrust it at her. “Dress yourself. We are going home.”

  With limbs shaking like a willow in a wind, Yasmine slid from the bed and tied the robe about her waist. Even her clumsiness was appealing, like that of a helpless kitten. Shikar grasped her arms, pulled her close to him, devoured her face in a slavering kiss and thrust her away again, leaving her robe streaked with blood and dirt. “Come,” he said. Mutely she padded a suitable two paces behind him, averting her eyes from the hacked and mutilated body of Vijay lying on the floor of the bedchamber.