The Necromancer's Grimoire

by Annmarie Banks

  She saw a wide portal, images and light moved within. Vicious sharp-toothed demons and glorious shining angels peered out at her from the rip in the world. She frowned, trying to understand. Kemal did not know more than this, so his mind could not provide her with an answer to her question.

  What does he want with me? The portal closed and she felt rather than saw the answer. The Hermetica had done something to her that it had not done to the others who had read that book.

  She turned her eyes inward to see herself. Yes. I can enter the hearts and minds of others. This is the gift of the Hermetica. But others have acquired this ability. The others desired it. It is not unique. The necromancer possesses this skill already.

  A ghostly hand appeared and touched her chest. It insisted she spread her mind further. She opened it and left it empty, waiting for the answer to appear on the blank surface.

  She saw a temple, beautiful marble columns. Men and women in white robes moved about, deep in conversation. In other rooms scholars bent over long scrolls lovingly spread out over tables laden with lamps.

  Not remarkable. Halls of learning have always existed. The necromancer possesses vast amounts of learning. She asked for more.

  The scene shifted slightly and now the temple was in ruins, the lamps gone out, and the scrolls were now clumps of ash floating in the Alexandria harbor.

  She felt the pain of their loss. More than books were lost at Alexandria. Nadira blinked up at the necromancer who was staring hard at her. In a flash of light, Nadira understood.

  When she had read the Hermetica, when she had put the book in her mouth and absorbed the page of knowing, she had been stamped with this thing he desired. Because there was a blank space available inside her, the Hermetica planted the seed in that spot. It had been growing these past few months among fertile ideas and intense emotions.

  Her love for Montrose had nurtured the seed and her lack of rigid dogma had given it a clear space to grow. She blinked as a door closed gently on her thoughts. No. Open, please! I am not finished looking! But the fruit was not yet ripe. Even she could not see its true form before its completion. But he could see it. He knew what it was. The necromancer would be there to pluck it when it is ready. He cannot grow it in his own barren heart, but will use mine to steal this wonder. We thought we travelled here to raise the dead. We have been deceived. The necromancer has been calling me here since the night I placed the speckled paper in my mouth. I have been obeying his commands. The Priestess of Elysium was not the only one who saw me enter the netherworlds on that day.

  Then she felt the necromancer’s contempt for her body, and saw the images he sent her.

  You are a woman. You are a slave. It is not for you to taste these treasures of the mind. Your purpose is to lie on your back and receive the seed of your master. You are to grow strong sons inside your body and then writhe as they are wrung from your womb. You are to do this until you are worn out and replaced by another.

  No. She sent her denial to him. You are wrong. She showed him the priestess.

  He countered with an argument against her mind.

  You have not been to the universities or the academies. You have not apprenticed under the high priests of Persia, nor practiced with the adepts of Asia. You have not opened the world beyond and brought forth demons and angels, nor have you forced them to your will. You are ignorant, like the animals, as are all women before and after you.

  No. She let him see the fragment of the Hermetica that contained the wisdom of the ancients. She made him watch her eat the endpapers. She created the image of a glorious Eve holding the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge in her hand and then forced it into his head with a powerful thrust. It is woman who has freed mankind from the slavery of a god. A woman who raised men from the mindless rambling of an animal to the heights of self-determination. A woman. Only women bring life to the world. Men bring only death. She put a hand over her abdomen. What I grow inside me is not a child, but an idea, and you shall not wring it from me.

  She touched the image of the necromancer and his dark eyes widened with her presence. He raised an eyebrow and then raised his staff of Death and Life.

  “Nadira the Reader,” he said. “I see you are now reading more than books.”

  Nadira collected herself. She had not anticipated direct communication, had not believed it was possible to do so from within the mind of another. She blinked, quickly clearing the thoughts and images. She realized she had not protected herself from intrusion, and now she had endangered Kemal.

  The necromancer laughed as she felt his fiery red tendrils snake over her, looking for an opening to break her, as she had broken Kemal. She slammed shut.

  She opened her eyes and looked down at Kemal in her arms, his face was haggard with the agony of her abuse. I will erase this experience. He will never remember. She felt around his mind, asking forgiveness and looking for the place to wipe away the memory of this meeting. She felt him resist. She saw that he did not want to forget. She felt his pain, but also his wonder, for he had learned what she had learned and seen what she had seen. Erasing his experience would be more of a violation than her intrusion. He felt he had earned this knowledge with his suffering. She backed away. Keep it then, and remember.

  She bent to kiss his forehead where the golden cord spread open his memories. She felt his despair at the necromancer’s power. She saw Kemal wonder at her abilities and his admiration for her knowledge. His mind was slowly bending around the ideas she had placed inside him. She felt his shame that she had conquered his mind, as Eve had conquered Adam’s. No Kemal, you did not fail. You triumph. All men are free once they have tasted that fruit. She withdrew the cord and closed the wound in his brow.

  He opened his eyes, blinked at her. She smiled sadly as she watched a single tear spill over the lower lid of one eye and drip into the dark hair over his ear.

  “Kemaleddin. You have saved your sultan, your city, and your honor.”

  His throat worked beneath his beard. His lips were dry and cracked from his labored breathing and his body remained limp in her arms. She felt his exhaustion.

  She continued, knowing he was too weak to ask her. “You told me what I needed to know. He is even more dangerous than you suspected. All men fear him as they fear the unknown. He has the power to ruin them utterly and with his knowledge he controls everything in all the lands the Padishah governs. He came to court as a servant and is now their master; none know how to stop him and all are afraid to try.” She brushed the waves of hair from his forehead with light fingers. “Kemaleddin,” she whispered. “You have given them the one weapon that can.” She smiled at him. “Me.”

  She heard footsteps climbing the stairs. A tendril informed her it was a messenger coming to tell them the courtiers from the palace had arrived. She felt him hesitate in the hall. He had an urgent message, yet something nagged at him like he had something else to do first. She extended her sympathy to him and released the ward on the door. But it would not do to have the servant see her sitting on the floor with his master draped in her arms.

  “Can you stand? Your man is coming to tell you that your guests have arrived.”

  Kemal moved to get up but fell back against her body. He tried again to gather his arms and legs beneath him, but failed. She steadied him by the shoulders as he tried once more, and was able to roll from her lap to lie on his back on the rich carpet. She picked up his turban, now a limp pile of white cloth, and offered it to him. “I can tell him you are not here.”

  Kemal pushed himself against the floor until he was sitting with his legs crossed. He took the cloth with shaking hands and began to unwind it. His voice was weak and hoarse when he answered her. “The servants know everything that happens in this house. A lie will only propel the gossip faster.” His eyes met hers briefly and she saw the accusation in them. She permitted herself the luxury of feeling some remorse as she watched him slowly wind the turban around his head and tame his wild hair inside it. At the door,
the servant cleared his voice politely. She stood.

  Kemal refused to take her hand when she offered to help him up. He shook his head as he staggered to his feet, bracing his hands against the wall. “I am not permitted to touch you, Hanim-effendi, Sultana.” He glanced at her, still wary of looking at her eyes directly. “You know this.” To the servant he called out something in Turkish and Nadira heard the man’s footsteps fade away. Kemal turned to her with lowered eyes. “Yet you held me in your arms and put your mouth on mine.”

  Nadira made a little sigh of understanding and sympathy. “Ahmed Kemaleddin Reis. Have you learned nothing?”

  He straightened his clothing and retied his sash, still unsteady on his feet. His arms shook as he tied the knot. “I have learned a great deal, Sultana.” He glanced up at her again; his eyes were dark and luminous. He limped to the door, braced a hand on the wall as he opened it. “Your lips are sweet, but your touch is like the kick of a cannon.” He closed the door behind him.

  Two servant women dressed in simple belted tunics and long skirts came to escort her to the ground floor atrium. They stopped at double doors and their nervousness at touching the handles told Nadira that they would not be entering with her.

  The doors opened into a large room carpeted with an enormous tapestry rug. At the end of the room her inquisitors waited on large cushions. They sat straight with their legs tucked under them. She walked slowly to give herself more time to examine them before she must sit politely with her eyes on the floor.

  There were three. The necromancer she recognized immediately. He made no sign he had ever seen her before in his life. Kemal had told her the other two men would be the Padishah’s great vizier and admiral of the sultan’s navy, Daud Pasha, and the captain of the janissaries, Murad Agha. The agha wore the tall distinctive headgear of the janissaries, so she assumed the other man was the Grand Vizier, Daud.

  She stopped at at a polite distance and lowered her eyes. The vizier spoke to her in Arabic. “Please be seated.” He gestured to the red cushion positioned in front of the three men. She lowered herself to the floor and arranged her clothing as elegantly as possible, careful to keep her slippers out of sight among the silks.

  There was a long silence as each man examined her curiously. She waited behind her veils. Finally the vizier spoke.

  “Nadira Khanum Sultana,” he said gravely. She had been promoted again. “Welcome.”

  Nadira raised her eyebrows at her new name. “Indeed, Azam,” she answered politely. The vizier had addressed her as though she were the sultan’s daughter, not cousin. She tilted her head. “I am greatly surprised to find myself exalted to such a degree.”

  She could see that the necromancer and the agha agreed. She continued, “It is my pleasure to serve the great Padishah in any way he desires.” She lowered her eyes to the floor.

  “The great and just Bayezid has graciously permitted Evren Farshad Munejim-bashi to meet with you. He has expressed an intense desire to see you.” The vizier’s face suggested he could not fathom why.

  Nadira looked up and met the necromancer’s eyes directly. They held each other for so long the agha began to shift about on his cushion.

  One corner of the necromancer’s mouth turned up. He dipped his staff toward her and she saw the sinews of red light begin to spiral upwards from the horns of the golden calf. She narrowed her eyes, anticipating that those strands were on their way to enter her body. She whirled a shield of threads into the circle of light she kept suspended in front of her heart. He raised an eyebrow.

  The vizier cleared his throat. “Please tell us, Sultana, how it is you have come to us from over the sea accompanied by several frenki guards and this book.” He nodded to the agha who held up the Hermetica for her to see.

  Nadira spread her hands in her lap, “Azam, I am far removed from my father’s house. In the years since my birth in the great city of Marrakech, I have been witness to many wonders as well as many unfortunate accidents of fate.”

  She touched the vizier with a filament. He was uncomfortable with her new status, and that she had been in the company of the European foreigners. She touched the agha. He was bored and annoyed that he had been required to attend. The book meant nothing to him. The necromancer had closed off all touch. He smiled at her knowingly. She withdrew her tendrils.

  “It has come to my attention,” the vizier drew a small scroll from his belt, “That you had an audience with the leader of the Christians in Rome and read this book.”

  Nadira nodded. “I spoke with him. I read for him.”

  The astonishment in the vizier’s eyes was not masked. “You spoke with him…”

  “Yes.”

  The vizier turned to the agha and the necromancer. “Do you have a question for this woman?” he asked them as he unrolled the scroll.

  The agha cleared his throat. “Sultana. The Padishah has told me you are a great scholar and scribe. Perhaps he wishes you to teach poetry and calligraphy in the harem?”

  The vizier raised his head from his document. “Is that all?” he asked. “A teacher?”

  The necromancer stood and both ministers raised their eyes to look up at him. “No. She is not to teach in the harem. She is not a poet. This book is not a book of poetry.”

  Nadira kept her eyes in her lap and increased the energy she was sending to her shield.

  The necromancer continued silently for her ears only. I know you are a sorceress.

  The vizier put down his scroll. “It is possible the Padishah would have her as ambassador to the frenki. She speaks the languages.”

  “We have many men who speak the languages of the foreigners,” the agha countered. “It must be something else.”

  “I am afraid the great and wise Bayezid has not made clear what he hopes to accomplish with you, Sultana.” The vizier read the sultan’s words from the scroll, “’Speak to her of her family and of her journeys in frenki lands. Ask her why she has come to the Great City and what favors she intends to ask. Ask her who she has brought with her and why.’”

  The vizier looked at her. “Sultana? And do you not bring a gift? It says here that you possess a great gift. Is it this book?”

  The necromancer laughed aloud. “It is not what you think, Azam. Return the book to them. It is not something we want, it is filled with heresies, and it is the property of the frenki nobleman.” Nadira met his eyes. “Sultana,” the necromancer’s use of the honorific held only biting sarcasm and an almost insulting twist. “Tell them of your ‘journeys’.”

  Nadira raised both her hands and slapped golden tendrils into the hearts of the Padishah’s ministers. She froze them there while she locked eyes with the necromancer. “They will not remember what I say to you at this time, Munajim-bashi,” she told him in a soft voice. “But you shall remember. These men have much to fear from you.”

  “And they do.”

  “You shall not have me.”

  He gave her a nasty smile. “You are puffed with the confidence of youth and the arrogance of your new abilities. But you have no idea of mine.”

  “I think you will be unpleasantly surprised,” she glared at him.

  “You think the Hermetica has made you invincible. It is but a primer. Your confidence is laughable.”

  He tipped his staff at her and spilled the red sinews from the bull’s head in a stream that flowed in waves that sparked the air between them. Nadira strengthened her shield before it reached her.

  She felt his presence before her ears heard the shattering glass that was the sound of her shield disintegrating. He felt hot, like the steaming kettles that boiled the water for the laundry. He opened her mind like she had opened Kemal’s, but quicker and with ease. Like the reis, she threw out defenses, she put up a fence, then a wall, then brass cannon the size of houses. She heard the necromancer’s amusement as the sinews of red light snaked through her heart, searching, unimpeded by her attempts to stop him. She swept through her mind for a larger weapon. He had her in a v
ice, squeezed her harder and harder, waiting for what he wanted to pop from her like one squeezes a lemon for the juice. She seized up her limbs with the effort of resisting him, imagined herself a lioness all tooth and claw. She kicked and screamed and ripped at him with her talons and when he began to twist her open, in desperation she threw Montrose at him.

  Whirling steel blades sliced through the necromancer and he drew back, releasing her. The freedom from his grip caused her body to fall forward on the carpet, gasping.

  “Unexpected,” he said. “Who is this?” She looked up from the ground and saw him looking outward, casting for the source of the blades.

  “No,” she breathed, “I am here. I am the one who slashed at you.”

  He shifted his eyes to her. “No one can lie to me, Nadira the Reader. You feel like the smooth coolness of glass and the soft fur of a cat, but those sharp cuts were not from your claws. This other…” his eyes unfocused again. Nadira threw a skein of thread at him. He looked at her again and laughed. “Feeble. Not even a good effort. I saw him. This other feels like oak and fire. He tastes like smoke and salt and leather. You did not slash at me. Who is he?”

  Nadira felt a thick muscular band of red light enter her heart and rip it apart looking for Montrose. She squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed at it with both hands, pulling it, twisting it, blocking its progress. He was so strong. None had resisted him for decades. He had total freedom to do as he pleased with every person he encountered. His success had weakened him in a way that continued conflict would have strengthened him, and yet she was not his match.

  It could all be over right now. She felt him agreeing with her. Her heart broke open with an audible crack and he poured himself inside her exactly as she had penetrated Kemal.