Dark Enchantment

by Janine Ashbless

  The young woman’s dark hand clenched around the stick and the muscles in her forearm knotted visibly. Her hand was slender and scarred, the nails rather tattered. The nails of the ghoul, of course, were hooked like a cat’s claws.

  ‘But while she was in the stable,’ she continued in a low voice, ‘she heard the sound of many people in loud boots, and when she looked out through a crack in the plank door she saw soldiers pushing into the inn, all carrying weapons. In a few minutes they were back down, shoving the girl’s father in front of them. He had blood on his face. They had the little yellow dog on a piece of rope too, and it was barking and trying to run round in circles. The whole group hurried out of the inn, shouting and pushing aside the innkeeper and his servants who had rushed out to see what was happening. The maid did not know what to do, so she ran and hid in the hayloft over the stables, where she could see the mules when she looked down. She stayed there all day, frightened to come out, hoping that her father would come back, crying to herself in the dusty hay. Nobody found her. Then late in the afternoon the soldiers came back, and they pulled the wagon out into the yard, and then they led the mules out and hitched them up to it. The girl was terrified that she would never see her father or her home again if she let them out of her sight so, greatly daring, she put a piece of sacking around her dark head and she sneaked down out of the hayloft when they had left the yard and followed them through the city.

  ‘It was easy to follow them. A big crowd was moving with the soldiers, whistling and shouting, and the mules moved slowly. They processed through the narrow cobbled streets to the marketplace where her father had first announced himself to the populace, and there he was again, waiting, but this time with a retinue of soldiers and a line of priests, and in the centre of it all a heap of kindling as big as a cart. The Baron was dead, you see, just like her father had feared.’

  The girl paused in her tale. The yellow orb of the sun had disappeared now except for the brightness it left on the horizon, and the sky was a pale eggshell blue, streaked with pink clouds. She let the stick fall into the dust, and slipped her arms about her knees instead. Her head drooped.

  ‘The maiden had to watch from between the shoulders of everyone else in the crowd, as the priests made their formal condemnation of her father for sorcery and the late Baron’s murder. The crowd spat on him and threw stones, until the soldiers got nervous and stopped that. He looked very small, and old, and he kept shaking his head. They didn’t let him say anything. They had her dog there, and when the crowd started booing and getting really loud they cut its throat and dropped it on the kindling, which they lit. And a big man with a butcher’s axe stepped out and hit both the mules between the eyes with the spiked end, and they dropped in their traces. And they cut the mules loose and tore the wagon to pieces and heaped the flames with all those bits of wood. The fire rushed up high. She thought she could hear the bird shrieking as it burned. Then … ah,’ she faltered, her voice breaking up into a croak, ‘they took the maid’s father and tied him to a cartwheel and broke his arms and legs with a big hammer, and then they threw him onto the fire too. The maiden did not watch him burn, because she was crying.’

  The ghoul paused in its gnawing and regarded her solemnly.

  ‘They heard her.’ The girl cleared her throat with a growl. ‘They heard her crying, and someone looked at her and started shouting, “Look, here is another one!” And suddenly they were all trying to grab her and she had to run through the crowd. Hands caught at her but she bit her way free and tore loose from her shawl and dodged from them, and because the crowd was so noisy most people did not know what it was that they were supposed to do when they saw her, so that she got to the edge of the marketplace and ran down a street. She could hear feet pounding behind her. She saw a big wall in front of her with a gate open in it, and people coming out of that gate. She thought it must be the city wall, it was so tall and so long, so she dashed through into the open space beyond. But there were houses there too, though much smaller and further apart than before. She dodged down the wide lanes between the white houses, turning left and right, and finally hid in a porch because she was too breathless to run further. She heard the noise of the people following her, but they were grumbling and uncertain. She crouched down low behind a great urn full of sand and rosemary as they came near, and she saw their feet pass close to her head, leather boots with bright nail heads, and heard them say – though she could hardly understand their accents – “It’s nearly sunset; leave her for the dead.” Then they went away, leaving only their footprints on the sandy path.’

  The ghoul resumed its repast, but its eyes were fixed upon the storyteller and its pointed, slightly mobile ears turned in her direction. She paused to run her hand slowly through her hair and look about her.

  ‘When the maiden came out of hiding, she saw the mistake she had made. She was not outside Krisilith. She was standing at the base of a rocky hill, and all over the hillside wound the neat lanes of small white buildings and little sandy paths, while below her, circling the base of the slope, was a wall behind which crouched the darker houses of the city. There was no other person in sight. These buildings here were low and clean, with spaces in between where there were almond trees and cork oaks and tamarisks growing among long pale grasses. It was very dry and very silent. When she looked back cautiously towards the wall, she saw that the distant gate was now closed. She realised that she must be in the inner city of Krisilith, the town of the dead. She was a little afraid, but not so much afraid as she was of the living city. She began to walk about, wondering if there was some way beyond the buildings to the open country, but mostly with no idea in her head except pain and thirst. She was hungry and exhausted, and her father was dead. She had no home and no family. She was starting to feel cold now that the sweat of her running had dried and the sunset breeze was picking up.

  ‘She walked past the basin of a fountain in which there was no water, and crossed in front of a columned building on which pigeons were starting to roost. It was growing dark now. The birds were the only living things she had seen in the city of the dead, until she passed a square tomb with blind stone windows, just like any of the others, and she heard the sound of rock scraping on rock. She turned in time to see the door of the tomb swing open and a face look out at her.

  ‘It wasn’t a human face. There were too many big teeth in it that had pushed the mouth forwards into a muzzle. The creature looked at her, stepped forwards into the dusk and showed her all those teeth in a big hungry grin. There were other creatures like it behind the first. When she saw the whole animal, the maiden thought at first it was a big hairless baboon, and then she realised it was a ghûl, such as she had heard of in her father’s stories. They live in her home country too.’

  The ghoul meeped enthusiastically. A shadow of a smile crossed the girl’s face for a moment.

  ‘The maiden ran again – though she was tired, though she really did not think her shaking legs could drive her onwards more than a few paces. The path led her uphill, and with the creatures only yards behind her she floundered up the rise. On the crest was the tall figure of a man in grey robes, almost blending into the dusk. She ran towards him, and he did not move, and as she reached him she flung herself forwards to snatch at the hem of his robe and call, “Save me, kind sir!”’

  The ghoul gave a kind of shudder and dropped the remnants of the chewed hand.

  ‘She thought,’ said the young woman slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘that if he stood there unafraid of the ghûls then he must be a sorcerer. Her hands grabbed the robe, which was very dusty, and for a moment it felt like there was nothing underneath it, just empty cloth, and then the man jerked round to look at her and threw his hand out at the creatures behind and said, “Stop.” And the ghûls stopped as if they had run into a wall, crouched to the ground in front of him and fawned like dogs. The maid didn’t look up, she didn’t dare move, she thought she was going to be sick. And she was thinking, Even if
he is a necromancer, what is he likely to do to me that the ghûls will not surely do?’

  The ghoul before her shook its head nervously.

  ‘The man said to the maiden, “You can see me?” – which seemed to her to make no sense at all. She repeated, “Kind sir, save me, please! Send them away!”

  ‘The man asked her name then. He had a soft voice and an accent that worried her somehow. “Zulkais en Taherin,” she told him, and to this he replied, “Ah, you are the daughter of Taherin Ahmin Multire, the astrologer, who died today on the fire.” This was a surprise to her and she asked miserably, “You know what happened to him?”, to which he said, “I was there.” And at that point she realised that in her distress she had implored him entirely in her own language, and what was troubling her about his tones was that he had replied in the same tongue.

  ‘She had to look up at him then, and did so fearfully. At first it struck her that he had no eyes, but she blinked and saw that she was mistaken, though they were rather dark. He did not look like one of her people, nor like the inhabitants of Krisilith. He was, she thought, very sallow, the hue of old bone, and had long hair the colour of charred wood, white and black. She saw these things despite the dusk.’

  At this point the ghoul broke into a rapid glibbering. The young woman listened, inclined her head gravely and raised one bare shoulder in a shrug. The dying light around them was staining earth and sky blue. She continued with the same caution.

  ‘The man was watching the maid curiously. “I am surprised that you saw me,” he said after a little time. “It is unusual. I have met only one other recently: an old man who lived alone and prayed a great deal, and was accounted quite mad by his relatives.” And the maiden, who had swiftly learnt that it was better to look straight at him or not at all, because if she turned her head away – to look at the grovelling ghûls, for example – his appearance would shift at the edge of her vision in a manner that was not pleasant, well, she asked humbly, “Are you dead, sir?” because it seemed perfectly likely that he was one of the inhabitants of the tombs around them. But she saw him smile, or thought he did so, and he replied, “No.”

  ‘Then he held out his hand to her, and she took it after a moment’s hesitation. The sensation was … disquieting, but only for a moment. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way and he had to pick her up and carry her. He took her to one of the tombs, leaving the ghûls waiting in the dust, and when he laid his hand upon the door it swung open before him. They entered the small building, all the lamps in the wall niches flaring into life as they crossed the threshold, and the girl saw that they were in a room with a table laid for a feast, with chairs and fine linen. The man let her sink into one of the chairs and seated himself opposite. The funeral must have been that very day, for the food on the table was untainted, the flowers still fresh, and there was no stink discernible from the corpse that reclined on the bed, visible through the doorway to the inner room. Nevertheless the girl shivered in that cold presence, and at a glance from her host the inner door swung shut.

  ‘“Eat,” the sorcerer suggested, and watched as the maiden fell to, slowly at first, then with desperation. He waited while she devoured pomegranates and spiced lamb, sheep’s cheese and figs and sweet white bread, and washed them down with a bright red wine. The maiden’s head was spinning by the time she had finished. Her companion at the table said nothing, neither did he eat, but only watched her gravely. When her hands fell still at last he said to her, “You may stay here in the city, Zulkais. It is a refuge from your enemies at night, though you must be wary during the day. I will give my hounds instruction that they are to care for you. But you should eat from these votary gifts, and not from the meat they may offer to share with you. I will return from time to time to see how you are.” With those last words he rose and left the room, and the maiden’s head slipped onto the table and she slept until dawn.’

  The young woman stopped talking. Twilight was creeping upon them. The trees sighed in the light wind. ‘That is the first part my story,’ she said. ‘The maiden lived in the necropolis for some years, just as he had suggested. She learnt to wake by night and sleep lightly in empty tombs by day. She stole her clothes from the dead people and ate the meals left for them by their living families, and when those offerings were scarce she pulled fruit from the trees and trapped small birds. She learnt the speech of the ghûls and their dances in the moonlight and their strange lore, though she never shared their meals and she never followed them through the secret doors that each tomb has. She kept away from the living, always beyond their reach and out of their sight. She nearly forgot the speech of humans, and she grew odd and wild and unsightly, so that anyone who met her by chance would take one look and back away. Sometimes her host would call by on his travels. She grew to like that.

  ‘Then one summer’s evening she had bathed in the spring by the eastern foot of the hill, where the water of the dead runs through the culvert under the wall into the city of the living, and she was sitting upon the pool’s edge in the last light, combing out her wet hair. She had wrapped a pall-cloth from a bier about her damp body. It was an evening very like this. And she looked around at a small noise to see that her host had arrived unannounced and was sitting just behind her in his robe of grey. He did that, you see. She would never know when he was coming, or see him arrive. He would simply be there. Then her host, whose name she knew by now was Mor –’

  The ghoul cut her off with a hiss, revealing teeth designed to break open thigh bones.

  The woman looked at it without fear. ‘Whose name is not spoken except during holy rites,’ she amended.

  The ghoul glibbered.

  ‘The sorcerer? I will call him the sorcerer if you prefer. The sorcerer gave the maiden a comb made of ivory and gold that day. He often brought her presents, strange things that she kept simply out of delight: a lyre made of a tortoise shell; a pair of silver trefoil brooches; a mask of beaten gold; a necklace of jade so heavy that it crushed her breasts; a cloak of feathers as brightly coloured and iridescent as the wings of butterflies. She had no use for of any them, except for one that was clearly the tip of an ivory tusk, curiously carved, for which instinct and need had tutored her inexperienced hands, and which she had grown greatly fond of. But the comb was of use to her that moment, better than her fingers. She began to work it through the tangles of her long hair.

  ‘“Let me comb your hair for you,” said the sorcerer. It was something he had never suggested before.

  ‘So, sitting between his knees with her back to him and holding the pall-cloth closed over her breast, she let him work the fragile ivory teeth through her locks. His hands were unhurried and careful. She liked the feel of them on her hair, the soft tugs of her scalp, the shivers that worked down her spine as an accidental brush of a finger tickled the nape of her neck. She could see his pale foot, as bare as the feet of the dead, which emerged from under the hem of his robe and rested on the step next to her. She could feel the solidity of his thigh and knee as she leant against him. They did not talk. He never spoke very much around her, though he seemed to seek her company. His quiet hands, his dark eyes, the hint of a hooded smile now and then, were all she had from him to think on through her days alone.

  ‘She watched him twine her dark locks about his pale fingers, as if appreciating the contrast in colour. When he began to stroke her neck she shivered with pleasure and made no protest. After a moment’s hesitation he moved again, his fingertips caressing her skin, tracing the lines of her vertebrae, the curve of her shoulder, the hidden paths of her veins. The pleasure of the sensation was pure and elemental. She wanted to arch like a cat and purr, but she forced herself not to wriggle out of terror that he would stop. She was not used to being touched. No human had hugged her or patted her hair or held her hand in years, and her reaction to this now was almost too intense to bear. Her lips parted and her breath came quicker between them. Her eyelids fluttered, suddenly heavy, her eyes unable to focus.


  ‘“Do you like this?” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. The question was too ingenuous; it did not do justice to the riot of sensation his fingers were evoking, so she only murmured agreement. In response his fingers slipped around to the front of her throat and stroked her down to her collarbones and up to her chin, which she raised for him. Her pulse was beating harder, faster, and she knew he could feel it. “Yes. You like it,” he said, and “Yes,” she replied.

  ‘“Your skin is so warm.” His voice was low. “Life burns under it, like sunlight.” His fingers descended to her breastbone and at his touch there she spasmed with shock, unable to help herself, and he cupped his other hand about the swell of her shoulder to still her. Then gently he drew the cloth from her grasp and let it drop, baring her breasts. She made a little noise then in her throat, her hands curved uselessly in mid-air, neither defending her modesty nor knowing where to go. Making up for the loss of the garment, a blush warmed her from top to toe. Long pale fingers swept down, tracing the curve and swell of her flesh, circling a nipple which tingled to aching. “You have grown and changed, yet you are still Zulkais, my necropolis child. I hardly know what to do with you.”

  ‘“Do this!” she told him, and heard him smile. “And this?” he asked. His cool fingers found their target and closed upon the little bud of flesh, teasing with little circular caresses. Her nipple stirred to his touch, stiffening at once, her areola dimpling. She felt suddenly as if her skin, too alive with sensation, did not belong to her at all, that it was as strange as a new garment. She leant back into him, moaning a little, as he tugged at her. “So soft,” he murmured: “So tender. You are too young, Zulkais.” The maiden protested at that. He sighed then and his fingers played on her one after another like a harpist striking rippling chords. “Not too young for love. But too young to love me.”