The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Male children born to you will acquire this gift?”

  “They may or may not,” answered Mathew, wondering at this unexpected question. Then Auda ibn Jad’s description of the Tower of Women came to his mind. He lifted his head and stared at her.

  “Yes.” She answered his thought. “You will prove quite valuable to us. Male magi!” The sorceress drew in a deep breath of pleasure. “Warriors trained to kill with arcane weapons! We could well become invincible. It is a pity”—she regarded him coolly— “that there aren’t more of you. Perhaps Astafas could be persuaded to lend us others?”

  “I—I’m certain. . . he would be honored, as would I, t—to serve you,” stammered Mathew, not knowing what else to say. The suggestion appalled him, he felt again the touch of the woman’s hands on his body, and he hastily averted his face, hoping to hide his repugnance.

  It obviously didn’t work. “Perhaps a bit more manly than you,” the sorceress said wryly. “And now tell me, how did one as young and obviously inexperienced as yourself manage to summon and control an imp of Sul?”

  Mathew stared at her helplessly. He was a wet rag in this woman’s hands. She had wrung him and wrenched him. He had no dignity, no humanity left. She had reduced him to the level of a beast.

  “I don’t know!” He hung his head. “I don’t know!”

  “I thought as much,” the sorceress said gently. A hand patted him, an arm stole around his shoulder. It was now a mother’s touch—soothing and comforting. She led him back to his chair and he sank down, unnerved and sobbing—a child in her arms.

  “Forgive me, my son,” said the soft voice, and Mathew raised his head and saw the sorceress clearly for the first time. He saw the beauty, the cruelty, the evil, and that strange compassion he had seen on the face of Auda ibn Jad and the other worshipers of Zhakrin. “Poor boy,” she murmured and his own mother could not have grieved for him more. “I had to do this to you. I had to make certain.” She stroked his face with her hand. “You are new to the paths of the shadow and you find the walking difficult. So do all who come to us from the light, but in time you will grow accustomed to and even revel in the darkness.” The sorceress cupped his face in her hands, staring deeply into his eyes.

  “And you are fortunate!” she whispered passionately, a thrill in her voice transmitting itself to Mathew’s flesh. “Fortunate above all men for Astafas has obviously chosen you to do his bidding! He is granting you power you would otherwise not have! And that means he is aware of us and watching us and supporting our struggle!”

  Mathew began to shake uncontrollably as the import of her words and their truth tore open his soul.

  “The transition will be painful,” said the sorceress, holding him close, pitying his fear, “but so is every birth.” She drew his head to her breast, smoothing his hair. “Long I mourned that I could bring only daughters of magic into this world. Long I dreamed of giving birth to a son born to the talent. And now you have come—the Bearer, chosen to guard, to carry our most precious treasure! It is a sign! I take you for my own, from this moment.” Her lips pressed against his flesh, stabbing like a knife at his heart. He cringed and cried out with the pain.

  “It hurts,” she said softly, brushing away a tear that had fallen from her eye onto Mathew’s cheek. “I know it hurts, my little one, but the agony will soon end, and then you will find peace. And now I must leave you. The man, Khardan, waits for my ministration so that he may be fit to receive the honor that is going to be bestowed upon him. Here is clothing. Food will be brought to you. Is there anything else you desire— What is your name?”

  “Mathew!” The word seemed squeezed out of his chest by his bursting heart.

  “Mathew. Nothing else you want? Then make yourself ready. The Vestry convenes at ten this evening, four hours from now. Ah, poor boy.” Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. “Fainted dead away. His mind can accept this, but not his heart. It fights me, it fights the darkness. I will win, though. I will win!

  “Astafas has given me a son!”

  Chapter 8

  In Castle Zhakrin was a great hall made entirely of black marble—perfectly circular in shape. Black columns surrounded a large center floorspace in which the signet of the severed serpent, done in gold, had been inlaid in the marble. There was only one piece of furniture in the room at this time, and that was a small table on which stood an object covered with black velvet. The chamber was rarely opened and then only for ceremonial purposes, for the hall was known as the Vestry and it was here that the followers of Zhakrin met once monthly or, as on this occasion, whenever there was something of special significance to be brought before the people.

  Having stored up winter’s chill in its stone walls, the cold in the hall froze the heart. The black marble, gleaming in the light of innumerable torches that had been placed in sconces fashioned from the bones of human hands, might have been ice for the freezing breath it gave off. Mathew huddled thankfully within the warm, thick velvet of his new black robes, his hands folded in the sleeves.

  At ten o’clock an iron bell rang through the Castle. The people of Zhakrin, with solemn mien, began to arrive in the hall. Swiftly and without confusion each took his or her place in the large circle that was forming around the severed serpent. There were fewer women than men. The women were dressed in black robes similar to those of the sorceress, and many were pregnant. Each woman stood beside a Black Paladin, and Mathew realized that these must be their wives. He sensed within almost all the women a powerful gift for magic, and no longer did he have to wonder how these people managed to survive under such harsh and hostile conditions.

  Sometimes, standing respectfully a few steps outside the circle of adults, was a young person of about sixteen years, this being the age required to first begin attending Vestry. From the comments made by those on entering and from the proud and fond looks given these young people, Mathew guessed that they were children of the Paladins. Again he marveled at the strange dichotomy of these people—the love and warmth extended to family members and friends; the heartless cruelty extended to the rest of the world.

  The Black Sorceress appeared suddenly next to him, materializing out of the chill air. Remembering what had occurred between them in the room, Mathew lowered his head, a burning flush spreading over his skin. He knew he had fainted, he knew someone had dressed him and warmed him like a child, and he suspected who that person had been. The Black Sorceress gave no sign, either by word or look, that she was aware of his confusion. Standing beside him, she watched calmly and proudly as her people took their places in the circle. It was almost complete, with the exception of several gaps, and these were apparently left deliberately vacant.

  “In time, you will be able to take your place with us in the Holy Circle,” said the sorceress. “But for now you may not. Wait here and do not stir until you are summoned forth. “

  “How is Khardan?” Mathew asked softly.

  In answer, the Black Sorceress turned her head slightly. Mathew followed her gaze and saw Kiber and another goum leading Khardan into the room. The Calif was pale and obviously confused and amazed by what he saw. But he walked firmly and steadily and there was no trace of pain on his face.

  “And Zohra?” Mathew continued, swallowing, wondering at his daring.

  “Zohra?” The sorceress was only half attending to his words; her eyes were on the gathering assembly.

  “The woman who was with us?” Mathew pursued.

  The sorceress glanced at him and shook her head, her eyes darkening. “Do not hold onto any interest in her, my son. There are many other women here as beautiful as that wild desert flower. That one is not for you. She has been chosen by another.”

  The Black Sorceress’s voice was reverent and hushed. Thinking she meant Auda ibn Jad, Mathew was startled to see her look at the Black Paladin with a slight frown and a creased brow. “No, and not for him, either. I hope he does not take that ill.” Shaking her head to prevent the young wizard from sp
eaking further, the sorceress gave Mathew a reassuring smile, then left him, walking over to take her place in the circle beside the Lord of the Black Paladins.

  A solemn hush fell over the assembly. All bowed their heads and clasped their hands before them. The Lord took a step forward.

  “Zhakrin, God of Evil, we gather in your name to do you honor this night. We thank you for the safe return of our brother, Auda ibn Jad, and for the fulfillment, at last, of all that we have worked to achieve these many years.”

  “We thank you, Zhakrin,” came the response from around the circle.

  “And now, according to ancient tradition, we do honor to the fallen.”

  The Lord of Black Paladins turned to his wife, who drew near the black velvetcovered table. Removing the cloth, she lifted in her hand a golden chalice. Its foot was the body of a coiled snake, bearing a cup wrapped in its coils. Placing her hand over the chalice, the Black Sorceress whispered arcane words and sprinkled a powder from inside a golden ring she wore on her finger. Entering the circle, she walked slowly across the black marble floor and handed the chalice to Auda ibn Jad. He accepted it from her reverently, bowing his head. Turning to the empty place beside him in the circle, Auda raised the chalice.

  “To our brother, Catalus.”

  “To Catalus,” came the response.

  Ibn Jad put the chalice to his lips, sipped at whatever was inside, then solemnly moved across the circle to present the chalice to a woman dressed in black.

  She spoke in a language Mathew did not understand, but there was an empty place in the circle beside her, as well. The chalice went from hand to hand. Mathew gathered from those words he could understand that many of those being remembered here had died in the city of Meda. Several of the Black Paladins wept openly. A man put his arm around the shoulders of a woman; they drank out of the chalice together, and Mathew understood that a beloved son had been among those who killed themselves in the Temple rather than permit their souls to be offered up to Quar. The grief of these people moved Mathew deeply. Tears came to his eyes and might have fallen had not the chalice passed again to the Lord of the Black Paladins. He handed it to his wife, who held it reverently.

  “Now it is the time to put grief aside and prepare for joy,” said the Lord of the Black Paladins. “Our brother, Auda ibn Jad, will now relate to us what he has done on his journeys in the name of Zhakrin.”

  Auda ibn Jad stepped forward and began to speak. There followed a tale of such atrocities that Mathew’s tears were burned out of his eyes and he grit his teeth in order to keep from crying out. Villages burned, the elderly and very young slaughtered without mercy, the fit and strong captured and sold into slavery. Ibn Jad spoke proudly of the murder of the priests and magi of Promenthas who had been so unlucky as to set foot upon the shores of Tarakan. He described their deaths in detail and went on to relate the sparing of the life of the young sorcerer who—as it turned out—had been sent to them by Astafas.

  Cringing, Mathew kept his head lowered, chills shaking his body. He was aware of eyes upon him—eyes of those standing in the circle, the eyes of the Black Sorceress, the eyes of ibn Jad. Mathew was acutely aware, too, of another pair of eyes watching him, and he felt a swift, secret thrill of sweet pain. It was the first time Khardan had ever heard Mathew’s story, and he could sense the Calif regarding him with sympathy and dawning understanding.

  Auda ibn Jad continued his story, relating how Khardan and his nomads had wrecked the bazaars of Kich, how they had stolen Mathew from ibn Jad, and had then ravaged the Temple of Quar. Ibn Jad did not seem to mind telling tales against himself and related Khardan’s bravery and valor in terms that won the Calif murmurs of approval and a grim smile from the Lord of the Black Paladins.

  Auda went on to relate how the Amir had taken out his wrath at this effrontery to Quar by attacking the nomads, taking their women and children and young men prisoner, and scattering the tribes. The people of Zhakrin regarded Khardan with the shared compassion of those who have suffered a similar fate. Mathew saw now that ibn Jad was purposefully establishing Khardan as a hero in the eyes of Zhakrin’s followers. The words the Black Sorceress had spoken, the “honor to be bestowed upon him” came to Mathew’s mind. It all sounded well, as if Khardan were out of danger. But Mathew’s uneasiness grew, particularly as he listened to what had occurred during their tourney from the desert of Pagrah north—the coldblooded butchering of innocent people in the city of Idrith. Now he knew it was their blood—drained from the bodies—contained in those ivory jars, and his soul recoiled in horror as he remembered leaning against the jars on board the ship.

  Khardan, too, must be wondering at the Black Paladin’s intent. His face dark and suspicious, the Calif watched ibn Jad warily. There was a saying among the nomads that Mathew had heard, and he knew Khardan must be thinking of it now.

  “Beware the honeyed tongue. It oft drips poison.”

  Ibn Jad finished his tale. It was applauded with soft murmurs from the women, deepervoiced approval from the men. The Lord of the Paladins spoke of his pleasure and the Black Sorceress rewarded Auda with a nod and a smile and another drink from the chalice. Mathew had no idea what the cup contained, but he saw a rising flush come to Auda ibn Jad’s pale, stern cheek; the cruel eyes glowed with increasing ferocity. The chalice was then passed from one person in the circle to the next, each taking a drink. It never, apparently, ran dry, and as the cup passed from hand to hand, Mathew saw that each person began to burn with an inner flame.

  Ibn Jad returned to his place within the circle, and the Lord stepped forward.

  “Now we will speak our recent history, that each may hear it once again so that it echoes forever in the heart. To those who are new to us and hearing this for the first time” his eyes went to Mathew and Khardan—”this will help you to better understand us.

  “Long ago, Zhakrin was a rising power in this world. And as is often the way of Sul, when the Facet of Evil began to glow more brightly in the heavens, the Facet of Good gleamed brilliantly as well. Many and glorious were the encounters between the Black Paladins of Zhakrin and the White Knights of Evren, the Good Goddess.” The Lord’s voice softened, his aged eyes looked far away. “Just barely do I remember that time. I was no more than a boy, squire to my knight. Brave deeds were done in the name of both the Dark and the Light, each striving for supremacy with honor, as becomes knights.

  “And then there came a time when the price of honor was too dear.” The Lord sighed. “Immortal beings who had long served us no longer answered our prayers. The power of our God Himself was weakened. The people sickened and died, women grew barren. Some turned, then, to other Gods and Zhakrin grew weaker still. And it was in this hour that the followers of Evren began to persecute us—so it seemed—and, in anger and desperation, we fought back. Like dogs, we hunted each other down, expending our dwindling energies in savage hatred. Our numbers lessened, as did theirs, and we were forced to withdraw from the world, to hide in places dark and secret, and then we spent our days and nights searching each other out.” The Lord’s face grew grim. “No longer were the contests glorious and brave. We could not afford that. We struck by night, by stealth, as did they. Knives in the back replaced swords facetoface.

  “And then came the time when the fire in our hearts turned to black ash, and we knew our God was defeated. All but the most faithful left us then, for we were weak and had only the power within us with which to fight the battle that is this life. We fled here, to this place. With the strength we had remaining, we built this Castle. We cursed the name of Evren and plotted to destroy her followers if it cost us every last drop of our blood.

  “Then a God came to us. It was not our God. It was a strange God we had never before seen. He appeared before us, standing in that very place.” The Lord gestured at the head of the snake in the floor. “We asked his name. He said he was known only as the Wandering God”—Mathew glanced at Khardan in astonishment; the Calif ‘s mouth sagged open—”and that he b
rought urgent news. It was not Evren who caused our Zhakrin’s downfall. She herself was gone as well, and all her immortals. Her followers hid away as did we.

  “ ‘Your fight is not with each other,’ “ said this Wandering God. ‘You have been duped by one called Quar, who tricked you into nearly destroying each other, and while you were fighting, he took the field and claimed the victory. He seeks to become the One, True God; to make all men bow down and worship him.’

  “The strange God disappeared, and we discussed this long among ourselves. We sent our knights to investigate. They found that the Wandering God had spoken the truth. Quar was the rising power in the world. It seemed that there were few who could stop him. Then it was that Auda ibn Jad—at great peril to his life—disguised himself as a priest of Quar and penetrated the very inner circles of the God’s Temple in the Emperor’s court of Khandar. Here he discovered the essences of Zhakrin and Evren, held prisoner by Quar. Auda ibn Jad summoned my wife to his aid. Together and in secret they succeeded in snatching the souls of the Gods from Quar, who even now, perhaps, is not yet aware that they are gone.

  “Last time we met, you heard my wife’s story of this daring theft. You heard her relate their final triumph. She and her knights traveled back here, drawing off pursuit, leaving Auda ibn Jad and his brave soldiers to slip unobserved into Ravenchai with the precious treasure they guarded. This night you have heard him relate his adventures in returning home to us. And now you—”

  Mathew heard no more. The sound of pounding waves, the roar of rushing wind throbbed in his head. Pressing his hand over his breast, he felt the crystal globe cold and smooth against his skin.

  The Bearer.

  He knew now what he carried. Two fish—one dark, one light. . .

  Mathew stared at the knights aghast, saw them all turn to look at him. The Lord’s mouth was moving, he was saying something but his words were obliterated by the throbbing in Mathew’s head and he couldn’t hear. The Black Sorceress stepped into his line of vision and into his heart and his mind. She was all he could see, could think about. Her words alone he could understand, and when she raised her hand and beckoned, he responded.