Sabazel

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Aveyron and Mardoc bore the falcons behind the emperor, and the Sardians and Sabazians followed through the streets. If the people of Iksandarun did not cheer, they at least accepted their new ruler with the equanimity born of long misrule. The buildings the victors passed were ill kept, mortar flaking from between bricks, paint peeling; the public squares held only stunted fruit trees and dry fountains. Many houses seemed to be empty, their shutters banging on blank windows like the staring eyes of the dead.

  Danica shivered. The city was, if possible, even more decayed then when she made her disastrous visit over a decade ago. And yet she could sense some ghost of its former glory; columns and carvings on the public buildings, tangled gardens spilling sere, withered vines over intricate brickwork. Bellasteros would restore it; he had energy even for that. He had drawn the wind with him into the city and it played with the short-cropped tendrils of his hair.

  The baby shifted again, pressing on the nerve that branched into Danica’s right leg; a sharp pain shot down her thigh and her step faltered. Bellasteros glanced back at her, even as he continued expounding to the imperial officer about some point of law.

  She smoothed her grimace, waving away his concern. The wind—-the wind, a playful cat, its purr growing louder, jangling … That chill in the back of her neck, and her shoulders tightening.

  They passed the brightly enameled walls of the palace, the only building in the city the recent emperors had cared to maintain. Guard posts were spaced at intervals along the walls, and the gates were those of a fortress. Obviously Bogazkar, and Kallidar before him, kept treasures inside that were well worth protecting. Bellasteros’s own personal guard took over the posts.

  The imperial officer led the company up a series of steps to the gates of the temple precinct. Several priests and priestesses—none of whom seemed to serve any particular deity—bowed a welcome. Bellasteros bowed in return, whispered an order to the officer, passed inside.

  The officer stationed himself at the gates, allowing only a few people, Sardian and Sabazian, to follow the emperor. Then it is to be here, Danica thought. As much privacy as can be found at this moment …

  It was an ancient holy place, stirring with the ghosts of forgotten gods. Various stone and mud-brick temples were jumbled together around an irregular open space, few seeming in better repair than any other; the Empire had always been fickle in its allegiance, choosing whichever deity the moment made expedient. It was no accident, Danica told herself, that the shrine of Harus was freshly swept and garlanded. The image of the god, though only carved wood, gleamed with paint so fresh it was still wet.

  Bellasteros bowed gravely before Harus and allowed Solifrax to lie for a moment on the great slab of an altar. The stone glistened, still damp from its cleaning, but no amount of scrubbing could remove the rusty stains that seemed bound inseparably to the ageless rock.

  Danica turned aside, gathering her own people, and walked across the uneven pavement to the house of Ashtar. Its doors had not been opened since her mother’s hand had shut them years before; Kallidar’s seals still clung, weathered and faded, to the latch.

  Danica drew her sword and sliced the seals cleanly in two. With the shield she shoved at the doors; creaking, they opened. The interior, a tiny columned chamber, a cobwebbed atrium, rustled with shadow. Ah, Mother, she sighed, not knowing if she called upon the goddess or her own mortal parent. The shield flared and the shadows for a moment fled.

  A shout echoed from across the courtyard. A breeze whispered through the abandoned temple, stirring dust and dried leaves into almost discernible shapes. Danica pulled the doors shut again and turned. Her nerves snapped, plucked like the shortest string of a lyre. The unease dissipated into certainty.

  Mardoc confronted Bellasteros, Adrastes at his side, speaking low and urgently. Patros ran across the bricks. “My lady, the emperor’s respects, and would you please come?”

  A plump red sun hung low over the flat roofs of the city. The temple courtyard was filled with light like thick, fluid amber. Danica seemed to swim, slowly, painfully, toward Bellasteros where he stood on a dais with Declan and Chryse at his back. Aveyron held both standards now; the bronze falcons seemed to sit stolidly on their perches, waiting for what was to happen.

  Danica halted, Lyris and Ilanit just behind her, Shandir to the side. A few other Companions stood with a handful of Sardian officers just inside the gates. “I am here,” Danica said to Bellasteros.

  The diadem was a row of flame across his brow, his eyes twin brands burning in a pale, stern face. Danica, said his thought, I would have prevented this; forgive me for laying this burden upon you … His clear voice said, “Danica, queen of Sabazel, you stand accused of treason.”

  So we play the game to the end. She let her eyes widen in amused surprise. “I am Sabazel; how could I betray it?”

  “Not Sabazel, lady; Sardis.”

  “And if you are Sardis, lord, I stand accused of betraying you?”

  “You said it.” Bellasteros’s mouth crimped and straightened. “General Mardoc testifies that you bargained with Bogazkar to aid the troops flanking the pass. Is this true?”

  She turned, swinging her gaze and her shield toward Mardoc. She might as well have confronted an ice-rimmed stone. “Those troops I was to aid,” she said acidly, “killed my weapons master and others of my Companions. This general himself told the archers following me to stay back, knowing we would be ambushed; it is he who commits treason.”

  “You return the charge,” stated Bellasteros, flat. “According to Sardian law, opposing charges must be settled with a trial by combat. To the death.”

  Adrastes stepped forward with swirl of his cloak. “You would listen to her, a heretic, a witch?”

  “My bravest ally,” Bellasteros told him. “Yes, I would listen to her.”

  Adrastes turned his glittering eyes on the emperor. The emperor did not blink. Not a muscle in his face tightened, but the high priest dropped his eyes, turning, drawing his cloak around himself like a shield.

  Danica wanted to shout, to laugh, to cry. Every sinew in her body tensed; she considered the bricks where she stood, what kind of footing they offered. But her voice, calm, cool, said, “I am Sabazian. I am not bound by Sardian law. Only out of respect to you, lord, do I accede.”

  “And you?” Bellasteros said to Mardoc.

  The general drew his sword and pointed at Danica with it. “She may not use her shield,” he said hoarsely. “The shield carries sorcery; she may not use it in trial.”

  Gods! Danica turned an outraged glance on Bellasteros. He winced. “If she cannot use her shield,” he said, “then your master Adrastes may not use his sorcery.”

  Adrastes drew himself up indignantly and turned a black look on Declan.

  Declan returned his look evenly. “If you had not committed black sorcery, you would have no reason to fear its exposure.”

  Very good, Danica thought. She flexed her knees, rotated her shoulders.

  Again Adrastes turned to Bellasteros. He opened his mouth, but the king forestalled him. “Declan is the model of righteousness. You should be grooming him as your successor, Your Eminence.”

  Adrastes shut his mouth with a snap. He stalked away to stand in regal aloofness at the side of the dais. Patros, not at all unobtrusively, went to stand beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  Wearily Danica slipped the shield from her arm and handed it to Ilanit. “I shall hold it gladly,” the girl hissed under her breath, “but I shall not take it as you did from your mother; if he downs you, we shall strike.”

  “No,” returned Danica. “Let it be played to the end. Let the emperor decide.” Ilanit lifted the shield to her own arm, glanced from Danica’s smoldering eyes to their reflection in Bellasteros’s face, finally nodded and stepped aside.

  The gathered officers muttered among themselves. Aveyron closed his eyes as if in pain, the knuckles of his hands standing white and sharp against the poles of the standa
rds. Chryse turned away, hiding her face. “My own father,” she breathed. “Dishonor to his name, to the name of the god.” Declan set his hand firmly on her shoulder; his lips moved in prayer. The sunlight flickered, rippled like the surface of a pond by the wind.

  Bellasteros wore the wind and the light like a numinous garment. He raised Solifrax, pure gold in the sunset, and formally, stiffly, he saluted Danica. But his thought was an impassioned cry: Mardoc, my mentor, no…. My queen, my strength is yours, I am yours, you shall not lose this trial…. He did not look at the general, abandoning him to his fate.

  Mardoc, with a desperate curse, leaped from the dais.

  Danica surprised herself with the cool clarity of her thought. She was remote, above the scene, watching herself like an impersonal participant in some exotic tableau. This place, an ancient place of sacrifice, bloodthirsty gods demanding payment for the gift of the Empire—for just a moment she faltered, knowing with a godlike certainty that Mardoc’s death alone would not be enough, that Adrastes’s coming fate would not be sufficient … Then I shall fight the gods themselves!

  Mardoc sliced at her and she danced back, spinning to the side, carrying her bulk as lightly as she could. But she was clumsy, oddly lopsided without her shield, and the pavement beneath her feet was rough—their blades met with a clang. Their eyes met, her fiery green gaze striking him. He spat at her.

  Danica thrust his sword away and spun again. He was slightly taller, she thought; his reach was slightly longer. But he carried a short Sardian stabbing sword, and she a saber. And he was old and mad and weary of his madness, and she bore the brightness of the emperor’s eyes like a golden luminescence flowing through her body.

  Mardoc struck, too fast, leaving little time between thrusts to gauge his moves. Danica beat back his attack, looking for an opening—there! She drew him to her left with a feint, leaped, struck. Her blade glanced down his cuirass and bit into his abdomen just below the edge of the metal.

  A minor wound—her hand was weak, she told herself scornfully. He hardly even hesitated but pressed his attack. And his sword traced a bloody path down her left arm, slicing shirt and skin alike.

  Danica saw rather than felt the wound. Counting on a shield that is not there, she thought. Encumbered by this damned cloak, I can do better …

  The courtyard spun around her, Ilanit’s flushed face, Adrastes jostling Patros aside. Declan’s cool stare bent on his superior—Bellasteros, unmoving, unblinking, glowing perceptibly with sunlight and majesty and anguish.

  Again she feinted, boldly to the right this time, and again he followed. She ducked, danced—clumsy! her nerves shrieked as she realized she had not moved quickly enough. But Mardoc’s wound was beginning to slow him; it must be deeper than she had thought—blood stained his tunic and flowed in scarlet runnels down his leg … Even as she felt his sword puncture the side of her corselet, driving the mail through her shirt and into her flesh, her own sword stabbed through the seam of his cuirass, stabbed between his ribs, and buried itself to half its length in his body.

  With a gasp she wrenched her weapon free and spun away. But he was not pursuing her. He crumpled to his knees beside the great stone of Harus’s altar, amazement on his face, his eyes melting, running in great tears down his gray-stubbled cheeks.

  Danica stood upright. Another muscle spasm gripped her abdomen. Her arm burned, as if her blood was searing hot, and each metal crescent of mail seemed branded on her side. She could not quite catch her breath, and she trembled—Adrastes’s eyes were on her … She knew without seeing that Ilanit raised the shield before the high priest’s gaze and blocked it. He retreated and bumped into Patros. He stepped to the side, and Chryse edged away from him.

  “Whore,” Mardoc said, quite calmly. “Kill me, whore.”

  She looked at him, for a moment not quite remembering who he was. Theara, Atalia dead, the borders of Sabazel—the world fluttered around her, and a numbing weakness crept up her limbs.

  “Kill me!” Ah, yes … She gathered her strength, stepped forward, ripped his helmet from his head, and sent it bouncing across the bricks; she seized his hair in her fingers and set her blade at his throat.

  The sunlight poured across her, red, amber, gold. Bellasteros watched, creases of pain setting themselves deep into his face. His thought struck her: Mercy, I beg of you; leave him some dignity …

  She lowered her sword, turned her back on the general, paced across the bricks to stand at Ilanit’s side. “Why?” the girl asked, but Danica hushed her.

  Mardoc grasped the edge of the altar and raised himself to his feet. “Marcos,” he gasped, “you are bewitched, turning away from me …” A bloody froth spilled from his lips.

  “It is you who are bewitched,” Bellasteros returned, his voice grating his throat. “You who would not see.”

  Mardoc stood to attention, pulling the shreds of his honor about him. With a shaky hand he raised his sword in a salute. “My respect, my emperor.” Solifrax glinted in reply.

  “Father,” Chryse moaned, her hand pressing her veil into her mouth.

  Mardoc reversed his sword, setting the hilt against the edge of the altar. For a long, silent moment he did not move, and no one in the gathered company drew breath. Then, “Harus!” he cried, and threw his body against the blade. Slowly, his body unbending even in its final throes, he toppled across the stone; his face smoothed, his eyes closed peacefully, and he lay dead in the ancient place of sacrifice. His blood flowed over the rusty stains, obliterating them, pooling on the weathered bricks beneath.

  A murmur passed through the Sardians, not of protest but of sorrow. Bellasteros bowed his head and shuddered so violently his armor creaked. Chryse bent against Declan, weeping. Danica drew a quavering breath against a wave of nausea. No, it is not yet over; Mother, leave me the power a few more moments, I beg of you …

  The sun touched the horizon and cast flares of crimson across the sky. The air was thick with motes of gold dust, stirred in slow circles by the wind. A faint gleam rose up the eastern sky. An imperial official opened the gates and ushered in several servants bearing great brass trays filled with cups and bowls. He saw Mardoc’s body, started, quickly recovered himself, and bowed, smiling, before Bellasteros.

  Bellasteros straightened, seizing his composure. He hardly seemed to see the man, waving him away casually; the official began to distribute the cups. “My lord,” said Aveyron, jerking his own voice from his throat. Bellasteros’s eye fell on him, lighting with thought; he beckoned the young soldier forward.

  Adrastes’s eyes flicked to every face in the courtyard, black flies disturbed from the carrion on which they fed. When they fell on Bellasteros they swirled, opening onto black nothingness. He reached into his robe and pulled out a tiny vial. Chryse, Declan, Patros took cups, leaving two on the tray. The vial snicked against the rim of one, and Adrastes lifted the other.

  Danica winced as Shandir ripped her shirt and tied it tightly around her upper arm. But the pain was not from that; something struck her, fluttering blackly across her vision, pricking at her consciousness … Aveyron conferred with Bellasteros; he was quivering with terror, but each quiet, precise word of the emperor’s drew a responding word from him.

  The official passed the remaining cup to Bellasteros; the emperor hardly noticed it in his hand as he continued to speak to Aveyron. Chryse swallowed her tears and sipped at her wine. Declan gulped. Lyris and Ilanit burnished the shield with their cloaks, and it hissed, spitting rays of quicksilver into the dusk.

  Gods, does his corruption have no limit! Danica shoved Shandir away and reached for the shield. Adrastes emanated an evil purpose; a dark miasma gathered about him as he leaned over to offer a mockery of comfort to Chryse … Chryse shrank away from him with a faint cry.

  Bellasteros dismissed Aveyron. He turned. His face was livid, his eyes burned, the diadem glittered across his brow. “Your Eminence,” he said, his voice vibrating as tautly as the fibers of his body.

  The s
un set, drawing the light of day with it. A cool breeze sifted the twilight, laying translucent shadow over the precinct. But Solifrax, and Bellasteros’s eyes, still held the light of the sun.

  Adrastes drew folds of hauteur about him. “May I serve you, my lord?”

  “Tell my councilors how you corrupted my general. Tell them how you and he sent a message to Bogazkar, revealing the disposition of the Sardian army.”

  The gathered officers gasped.

  “What?” demanded the priest, as if his ears deceived him. “How can you say such a thing, my lord?”

  “This soldier,” said Bellasteros, “heard the boasts of your messenger. The man showed him the parchment, sealed with your seal and Mardoc’s.”

  Adrastes snapped about like a snake, and the force of his gaze sent Aveyron reeling backward. The falcons staggered in midair. “You,” he hissed. “You lie, your tongue should shrivel and you should burn—”

  “You condemn yourself, priest,” scowled the emperor. At last he was revealing his fury, searing the air around him with his rage.

  Danica stepped forward, into the luminescence shed by his form. She lifted the untouched cup from Bellasteros’s fingers and held it out to Adrastes. “Drink. Your sorcery has made you thirsty; drink.”

  The star-shield flared, leaving Adrastes standing alone in a pool of pale light. The color drained from his skin and beard, as if they were the decayed remnants of mortality on a week-old corpse. But his eyes still lived, black, pitiless, rejecting the light. He struck out and dashed the cup from Danica’s hand. The wine splashed across the bricks, each drop leaving a sizzling scar.

  The Sardian officers muttered angrily and moved forward. The official’s sharp intake of breath was louder. “I gave it to you, forgive me, my lord …”

  Chryse choked, coughing, and threw her own cup away.

  “He knew,” Bellasteros growled, “that I would accept nothing from his hand.” He stepped off the dais and stood an arm’s length from Adrastes, at Danica’s side. Solifrax shed sparks onto the pavement, and the shield sang in reply. “But you would not murder my first wife, would you? You would take her, and my diadem, and the Empire I have won—you would steal them from my dead hands.”