The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “I demand that you release me.” The words were on Zohra’s lips, but they were never uttered.

  The woman said nothing. She simply stood in the doorway, her hand on the handle, looking at Zohra intently with eyes whose color was indistinguishable. Zohra met and returned the gaze haughtily at first. Then she noticed that her eyes began to sting and water. She might have been looking directly into the sun. The sensation became painful. The woman had neither moved nor spoken; she stared straight at Zohra. But Zohra could no longer look at her. Tears blurred her vision; the pain grew, spreading from her eyes to her head. She averted her gaze, and instantly the pain ceased. Breathing hard, she stared at the floor, not daring to look back at the strange woman.

  “Who has been here?” the woman asked.

  Zohra heard the door shut, the rustle of black robes whisper across the floor. The odor of musk was overpowering, choking.

  “No one,” said Zohra, her hand covering the ring, her eyes on the carpet at her feet.

  “Look at me when you speak. Or do you fear me?”

  “I do not fear anyone!” Zohra proudly lifted her head and glanced at the woman, but the pain returned and she started to turn away. Reaching out, the woman caught hold of Zohra’s chin in her hand and held it firmly. Her grip was unusually strong.

  “Look at me!” she said again, softly.

  Zohra had no choice but to stare straight into the woman’s eyes. The pain became excruciating. Zohra cried out, shutting her eyelids and struggling to free herself. The woman held her fast.

  “Who was here?” she asked again.

  “No one!” Zohra cried thickly, the pain throbbing in her head.

  The woman held her long seconds. Blood beat in Zohra’s temples, she felt nauseous and faint, then, suddenly, the hand released its hold, the woman turned away.

  Gasping, Zohra slumped over in her chair. The pain was gone.

  “Kiber said you were brave.” The woman’s voice touched her now like cool water, soothing her. Zohra heard the robes rustle, the soft sound of a chair being moved across the carpeting. The woman settled herself directly across from Zohra, within arm’s reach. Cautiously Zohra lifted her eyes and looked at the woman once more. The pain did not return. The woman smiled at her approvingly, and Zohra relaxed.

  “Kiber is quite an admirer of yours, my dear,” said the woman. “As is Auda ibn Jad, from what I hear. I congratulate you. Ibn Jad is an extraordinary man. He has never before requested a specific woman.”

  Zohra tossed her head contemptuously. The subject of Auda ibn Jad was not worthy of being discussed. “I have been brought here by mistake,” she said. “The one called Mathew is the one you want. You have him, therefore you must—”

  “—let you go?” The woman’s smile widened, a mother being forced to refuse a child some absurd demand. “No, my dear. Nothing ever happens by mischance. All is as the God desires it. You were brought here for a purpose. Perhaps it may be the very great honor of increasing the God’s followers. Perhaps”—the woman hesitated, studying Zohra more intently—”perhaps there is another reason. But, no, you were not brought here by mistake, and you will not be released.”

  “Then I will go of my own accord!” Zohra rose to her feet.

  “The Guardians of our Castle are called nesnas,” said the woman conversationally. “Have you ever heard of them, my dear? They have the shape of a man—a man that has been divided in half vertically, possessing half a head, one arm, half a trunk, one leg, one foot. They are forced to hop on that one leg, but they can do so quite swiftly, as fast as a human can run on two. There have been one or two women who have managed to escape the Castle. We do not know what happened to them, for they were never seen again, although we heard their screams several nights running. We do know, however”—the woman smoothed a fold of her velvet robes—”that the nesnas’ population increases, and we can only assume that, though they are half men in almost all aspects, there must be one aspect, at least, in which they are whole.”

  Slowly, Zohra sank back into her seat.

  “I did not think you would want to leave us quite this soon.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am called the Black Sorceress. My husband is the Lord of the Black Paladins. He and I have ruled our people over seventy years.”

  Zohra stared at the woman in astonishment.

  “My age? Yes, I see you find that remarkable. I can promise you the same eternal youth, my dear, if you prove tractable.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “Now you are being reasonable. We want your body. That and the fruit it will bear. Have you ever borne children?”

  Zohra shook her head disdainfully.

  “Yes, you are wife to the one who was attacked by the ghuls.”

  Zohra’s face burned. Pressing her lips together, she stared into the flickering light of the brazier. She could feel the eyes of the sorceress on her and she had the uncomfortable sensation that the woman could see into the very depths of her soul.

  “Extraordinary,” the sorceress murmured. “Let me tell you, my dear, how the God chooses to honor women brought into this Castle. Those who are found worthy are selected to be the Breeders. It is they who are increasing the followers of Zhakrin so that our great God can return to us in strength and in might. Every night these women are placed into special rooms, and each midnight the Black Paladins enter this tower and go to the rooms. Here, each man honors the chosen woman by depositing his seed within her womb. When that seed takes, and the woman becomes pregnant, she is removed from the rooms and is well cared for until the babe is delivered. Then she is returned to the rooms to conceive another—”

  “I would die first,” stated Zohra calmly.

  “Yes,” remarked the sorceress, smiling. “I believe you would. Many say that, in the early days, and a few have attempted it. But we cannot afford to allow such waste, and I have means by which I make the most obdurate eager to obey my will.”

  Zohra’s lip curled in scorn.

  The sorceress rose to her feet. “I will have dry clothing brought to you, as well as food and drink. A room is being prepared for you. When it is ready, you will be taken there.”

  “You are wasting your time. No man will touch me!” Zohra said, speaking slowly and distinctly.

  The sorceress raised an eyebrow, smiled, and glided toward the door, which opened at her approach. Two women, dressed in black robes similar to those of the sorceress, slipped noiselessly inside the room. One bore a bundle of black velvet in her arms, the other carried a tray of food. Neither woman spoke to Zohra or even looked at her, but kept their eyes lowered. Under the watchful gaze of the sorceress, they deposited the clothes upon a chair and set the tray of food upon a table. Then they silently departed. The sorceress, giving Zohra one final glance, followed them.

  Zohra listened for the key but did not hear it. Swiftly, she ran to the door and pressed her ear against it. When all sounds had ceased in the corridor, she pulled on the handle. The door remained sealed fast. From far away, Zohra thought she heard a soft tinkle of laughter. Angrily, she whirled around.

  “Usti!” she whispered.

  Nothing happened.

  “Usti!” she repeated furiously, shaking the ring.

  Smoke drizzled out, coalescing into the form of a pale and shaken djinn.

  “That woman is a witch!”

  “To say the least. Oath or no oath, you must get me out of here!”

  “No, Mistress!” Usti licked his lips. “She is a witch! A true witch! In all my lifetimes, I have never met such a powerful human. She knew I was here!”

  “Impossible!” Zohra scoffed. “Quit making excuses and return Khardan and me to our desert this instant!” She stamped her foot.

  “She spoke to me!” Usti began to tremble. “She told me what she would do to me if I crossed her. Princess”—he began to blubber—”I do not want to spend my eternal life sealed up in an iron box, wrapped round with iron chains! Farewell, Princess!�
�

  The djinn leaped back into the ring with such alacrity that Zohra was momentarily blinded by the swirl of smoke. Enraged, she grabbed hold of the circlet of silver, and tried to yank it from her finger. It was stuck fast. She tugged and twisted, but the ring would not come off, and finally, her finger swollen and aching, she gave up.

  She was shaking with cold. The smell of food made her mouth water.

  “I must keep up my strength,” she said to herself. “Since it seems I must fight this alone, it won’t do to fall sick from a chill or hunger.”

  Her mind searching for some way out of this situation, Zohra stripped off her wet gown and replaced it with the black robes on the chair. Clothed and warm again, she sat down to dine. As she lifted the cover from the tray, her eyes caught the glimmer of steel.

  “Ah!” Zohra breathed and swiftly picking up the knife, she tucked it into a pocket of her gown.

  The food was delicious. All her favorites were on the various plates—stripes of shiskhlick grilled to her exact taste, succulent fruit, honey cakes, and candied almonds. A carafe as filled to the brim with clear, cold water, and she drank thirstily. Her strength returned and with it hope. The knife pressed reassuringly against her flesh. She could use it to force the door lock, then make her way out of the Castle. Dressed like all the others, she would simply be taken for one of the other women, and surely they must go about the castle on some errand or other. Once outside—Zohra thought of the nesnas.

  Half men who hop on one leg! The sorceress must take her for a child to believe such stories. Zohra had a momentary regret in leaving Khardan; she recalled him lying in the litter, shivering and moaning in agony; she saw the bluishpurplish scratches on his arm and body, and she remembered guiltily that he had been willing to give his life to defend her.

  Well, she told herself, it was all for his own honor, anyway. He cares nothing for me. He hates me for what Mathew and I did to him; humiliating him by taking him from the battlefield. I shouldn’t have done it. That vision was stupid. Undoubtedly it was some trick of Mathew’s to . . . to . . .

  How hot it was! Zohra loosened the neck of the robe, unbuttoning the tiny buttons that held it together. It was growing unbearably warm. She seemed to smell again the stifling odor of musk. She was becoming sleepy, too. She should not have eaten so much. Blinking her heavy eyelids, Zohra struggled to her feet.

  “I must keep awake!” she said aloud, tossing some of the cool water on her face. Standing up, she began to walk around the room, only to feel the floor slip away beneath her feet. She staggered into a chair and grabbed hold of it for support. The light coming from the brazier was surrounded, suddenly, by a rainbow of color. The walls of the room began to breathe in and out. Her tongue seemed dry, and there was an odd taste in her mouth.

  Zohra stumbled back to the table, clinging to chairs, and grabbed hold of the water carafe. She lifted it to her lips. . .

  “I have means by which I can make the most obdurate eager to obey my will.”

  The carafe fell to the floor with a crash.

  Two women, clothed in black, carried Zohra from the antechamber. Zohra’s eyes were open, she stared at them dreamily, a vacant, vacuous smile on her lips.

  “What do we do with her?”

  The Black Sorceress looked down at the nomad woman, then raised her eyes to the red velvet curtain covering the archway. The two women holding Zohra by her arms and legs exchanged swift glances; one lowered her eyes to her own swelling belly, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

  “No,” said the Black Sorceress after a moment’s profound thought. “I am not clear in my mind about this one. The God’s message is to wait. Take her to the chamber next to mine.”

  The women nodded silently and moved down the hall, carrying their burden between them.

  The sonorous clanging of an iron bell, sounding from a tower high above them, caused the Black Sorceress to lift her head. Her eyes gleamed.

  “Vestry,” she murmured, and wrapping her fingers around an amulet she wore at her neck, she disappeared.

  Chapter 7

  Auda ibn Jad had been at Mathew’s side, step for step and almost heartbeat for heartbeat, as they made their way up from the beach to Castle Zhakrin. Mathew’s sodden wet clothes clung to him. The mournful wind cut through his flesh like slivers of ice, but was nothing compared to the cold, glittering sideways glances of the Black Paladin. Always the focus of that piercing gaze—even when ibn Jad was talking to a fellow knight—Mathew had a difficult time maintaining his composure when faced with the horrors of the Castle. A follower of Astafas, he was certain, would not stare fearfully at the gruesome heads that guarded the bridge, or shrink away from the human skeletons on the walls.

  By the time ibn Jad had escorted him to an antechamber located on the ground level of the palace, and left him there alone with a flask of wine to ease the chill, Mathew thought that he had performed adequately. No credit to himself. After the long walk to the Castle in the company of the Black Paladin, the young wizard was so miserable and cold that he doubted if any emotion other than terror was left inside him.

  Shivering so he could barely keep hold of the glass, Mathew drank a little wine, hoping to lift his spirits and warm his blood. All the wine squeezed from every grape in the world could not obliterate reality, however.

  I may have deceived ibn Jad, he thought, but I can never hope to deceive the Black Sorceress. A skilled Archmagus would see through me as if I were crystal. Mathew had little doubt—from the obviously high regard in which this woman was held—that this Black Sorceress was, indeed, very skilled.

  Hoping to distract himself from his mounting fear, Mathew listlessly examined his surroundings. The room was bleak and comfortless. A huge fireplace dominated almost one entire wall, but no fire burned there. Fuel must be difficult to obtain on this barren isle, Mathew realized, peering wistfully at the cold ashes upon the hearth. He knew now why everyone dressed in such heavy clothing and began to think with longing of soft black velvet draping him with warmth. Drawing back thick red curtains, he found a window. Made of large panes of leaded, stained glass bearing the design of the severed snake, it had no bars and looked as if it could be easily opened. Mathew had no wish to try it, however. Though he could not see them, he sensed the dark and evil beings that lurked outside. His life would not be worth a copper’s purchase if he set foot beyond the Castle walls.

  Turning back, leaning upon the mantelpiece above the chill fireplace, Mathew saw no hope for them—for any of them. Auda ibn Jad had described in a cold, dispassionate voice what fate awaited Zohra in the Tower of Women. The Black Paladin made it clear that he admired the nomad woman for the strong and spirited followers she would deliver to the God, adding that he planned to request her for his own private use, at least to father her first few children. Ibn Jad’s talk of his intentions sickened Mathew more then the sight of the polished skulls adorning the stair railings. If the man had spoken with lust or desire, he would at least have demonstrated some human feeling, if only of the basest nature. Instead, Auda ibn Jad spoke as if he were discussing the breeding of sheep or cattle.

  “What will happen to Khardan?” Mathew had asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Ah, that I cannot say,” was Auda’s reply. “It will be up to the members of the Vestry this night. I can only make my recommendation.”

  Alone in the bitterly cold room, sipping the wine that tasted like blood in his mouth, Mathew wondered what this meant. Recalling the human heads mounted on the Dead March, he shuddered. But surely if they were intent only upon murdering Khardan they would not go through such ceremony. Ibn Jad had been ready to toss the Calif to the ghuls, but that had been done in anger or . . .

  Mathew stared into the flame of a candle burning on the mantelpiece. Perhaps it had been a test. Perhaps ibn Jad had never intended to give Khardan to the ghuls.

  A soft knock upon the door made Mathew start; his hand shook so that he sloshed wine on his wet clothes. He tried t
o bid the person enter, but his voice couldn’t escape past the choking sensation in his throat. Not that it mattered; the door opened and a woman stepped inside.

  She smote Mathew with the heat of the blazing desert sun, blinding him, burning him. Her evil was deep and dark and ancient as the Well of Sul. Her majesty overawed, her power overwhelmed, and Mathew bowed before her as he would have bowed to the head of his own Order. He was conscious of eyes studying him, eyes that had studied countless others before him, eyes that were old and wise in the knowledge of the terrible depths of the human soul.

  There could be no lying to those eyes.

  “You come from Tirish Aranth,” said the Black Sorceress. The door shut silently behind her.

  “Yes, Madam,” answered Mathew inaudibly.

  “That facet of the Jewel of Sul shared by Promenthas and your God, Astafas.”

  “Yes, Madam.” Did she know he lied? How could she not? She must know everything.

  “I have heard that in this part of the world men have the gift of magic. I have never met a male sorcerer before. You are man and not eunuch?”

  “I am a man,” Mathew murmured, his face flushing.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  He was conscious of the eyes staring at him intently, and then suddenly he was enveloped by a fragrance of heady musk. The walls around him changed to water and began to slide down into some vast ocean that was rising up around him. Soft lips touched his, skillful hands caressed his body. The smell, the touch aroused almost instantaneous desire. . . . And then he heard a laugh.

  The water disappeared, the walls surrounded him again, the fragrance was blown away by a cold wind. Gasping, he caught his breath.

  “I am sorry,” said the sorceress, amused, “but I had to make certain you were telling the truth. A man your age with no beard, features and skin any woman might envy. I have heard it said that men gained magic at the price of their manhood, but I see that is not so.”

  Breathing heavily, his body burning with shame and embarrassment, disgust twisting his stomach, Mathew could not reply nor even look at the woman.