by Alison Baird
“Companion?”
“The little creature, there, was a pet of hers,” said Mag, pointing through the open door to the courtyard. “You likely won’t have seen one like it before. It’s an amphisbaena, from the jungle.”
Auron stared. The creature she was indicating was unlike any living thing he had ever seen: neither mammalian, reptilian, nor avian, with a head at each end of its bipedal body. It seemed impossible that such an oddity could exist in nature, but he had seen nothing like it in any listing of the Archons’ creations. It huddled in a corner of the yard, eating a lettuce leaf with its larger head while the hind head swiveled to and fro. Keeping watch, he guessed. The rear head was, perhaps, also intended as a decoy to draw attention away from the true head—just like the dark eye-spots some fishes wore on their tails, to fool larger fish into attacking the wrong end of their prey.
“They are the shyest creatures alive, amphisbaenas,” Mag told him. “It’s rare even to see one, for they usually flee at the sight of a human, or so I’m told. This one attached itself to Lia—why I don’t know, but it must have suspected she had a tender heart. I protect and feed it,” said Mag, “for Lia’s sake, to repay her for her own kindness to me and Mai.”
Auron, remembering her gentle words to him when he was in dog form, was certain she would have done so anyway. He approached the creature, which dropped the leaf and backed away trembling.
“No! I mean no harm,” said Auron, reaching out with his mind. He knelt, to make himself look smaller and less threatening. “I only want to ask you about the girl Lia.”
“We don’t know, we don’t know!” it chittered, its thought-pulses coming in frightened bursts.
“There now, I do not accuse you of anything.”
“Can you understand it?” Mag asked in surprise.
He nodded. “I am a friend of hers,” he continued. “Please, where did you and Lia meet?”
“In jungle,” said the thing’s front head. “Deep, deep in jungle. We chased by manyhead.”
“A hydra?” he guessed.
“Yes, yes! We thought we die then. But then she came, kind lady, walking out of trees.”
“In the jungle? Alone?” exclaimed Mag when Auron had translated for her.
“She save us—make big monster appear, frighten off manyhead. Then make monster go away again. Magic, she is, Nemerei woman.”
Auron urged, “Can you tell us anything else of her?”
“She look different, then. Slenderer, longer hair. Purple-color eyes, hair bright—like light from lamp. She change her looks with magic, later, when we go to city.”
Auron’s heart leaped. “It was she!”
Joy briefly blossomed and then withered in him, replaced once more by dread. Ailia was here in this city; but she had gone to confront the enemy, and she had not returned. What had become of her?
AILIA WALKED THROUGH an unfamiliar landscape, dun-colored with drought: her path wound among hills clad in parched grasses and a few thorny bushes, under a sky bleached to the hue of bone. A crowd of people in plain dusty garments had gathered about the mouth of a cave in the sun-browned side of the nearest hill. In their hands were sticks and stones, and sickles that they wielded like swords; and they were shouting together in anger and fear: “Kill it, kill it! The monster is there!”
Curious, Ailia left the path and ascended the hill, approaching the dark cave. Something moved within its mouth—
“I see it!” screamed a shawled woman behind her. “Beware!” She flung a fist-sized stone into the dark opening, and the others brandished their weapons and yelled. Ignoring them, Ailia went and peered into the dark opening, and then recoiled in shock at what she saw.
“Get back!” a man shouted at her. “It is the monster—the monster!”
“No!” Ailia cried. “Are you all mad? That’s a child!”
The little boy crouching at the back of the cave was thin and pale, with long hair all matted and tangled. Ailia knelt and held out her arms to the ragged figure, but he made no move in response. “There—do not be afraid!” She spoke gently as she rose and moved closer, stooping beneath the cave’s earthen roof. He trembled, but did not try to attack her or escape. His eyes were shut. Kneeling again, she put her arms about him, feeling the tension in his small body. “Let him alone,” she told the villagers, who were crowding around the entrance and blocking the light.
She looked down at the child she held: despite his pallor and thinness and the dirt that blotched his face, he was delicately beautiful. Then as she watched he stirred, and his eyes opened. And she saw that they were inhuman reptile eyes, golden in color; and as he opened his mouth to cry out his teeth showed, sharp as fangs.
“Monster!” screamed the shawled woman in terror and disgust. Behind her a man raised a sickle, ready to strike. Ailia gave a cry, releasing the boy to hold her hands out protectively—and woke.
Golden afternoon light flowed in through her curtained windows. It had only been a dream. But she still felt Mandrake’s presence, as close as though he were in the room with her. Suddenly she realized what had just happened. He had been having a nightmare, a recurring one no doubt, of his early childhood in Zimboura. It had temporarily reversed his mind to a childish state, and in it he must have sent forth a mental cry to which her own sleeping mind had responded, becoming incorporated into his dream. Now he too was awake, and aware of her, and she felt the brief comfort she had brought him turn to dismay as he realized how vulnerable he had proven to be. He was on the defensive now. What would his next move be?
She rose, and dressed with a heavy heart. Tonight: the duel would be tonight, if she could not stop it. And evening was already drawing near.
There was a knock on her door. “Who is it?” Ailia asked warily.
“It is only I, Highness.” The old serving woman peered around the door. “I have brought you these, from the prince.” She held out a crystal vase full of roses—the dark-red flowers from the palace garden. Ailia took them in reluctant hands, and the woman bowed and retreated, shutting the door.
Left alone with the roses, Ailia began to pace the floor. The heavy, opulent scent of them, which had been strong even in the open air of the garden, soon filled all the bedchamber.
“What if I were to go to him?” she murmured to herself. “What if I told him that I will stay, and join with him as he asked? Perhaps he is right after all, and good will come of it.” Was she merely seeking desperately to avoid the fateful duel? But what if another’s soul could be saved, and a war averted, if she surrendered and remained here? Such alliances had been made before: the offspring of rival royal houses had been joined in marriage to forge bonds of peace between their kingdoms. “He is not truly evil, and in many ways he and I are much alike. I never wished to harm him, and now that I understand him better I cannot bear the thought. But I must fight him, or else give in to him. Could it save him—and the Celestial Empire—if I gave in, and stayed here with him? Or would it only doom us both, make us renegades—despised and hunted by both sides?”
She reached for a rose. A thorn, sharp as any adder’s tooth, sank into her finger and a red drop of blood welled up. Tears came to her eyes. She looked at her dagger lying on the nightstand. Even a rose needs thorns, Damion had told her.
She had dreamed about him also, a nightmare in which he struggled against a dark and hideous serpent. It was wound about him, and try as she might she was unable to free him: she had wakened from the dream with her hands still clenching in the effort to pull the black coils away from him. For some time afterward she had lain sleepless, convinced that he truly was in some terrible danger. Then she considered whether it might not be a manifestation of guilt. Was she not betraying him and all her friends by even thinking of accepting Mandrake’s offer? The perfidy of Lady Syndra, a magus of the Nemerei, had been base enough. Was what she was doing not worse by far? And she was aware of another disturbing betrayal, from a still more unexpected quarter: her own body seemed to have grown an indep
endent will in this place, and turned against her mind.
To the Nemerei the physical body was a beast, ruled from birth by the mortal realm of which it was a part, ruled by its appetites. The mind had to learn over time to control it, even as a rider had to rein in a horse lest it bring itself to harm. As a child Ailia had once seen a young boy whose pony would not obey his commands, but meandered over to eat the vegetables in a farmer’s field. She could still recall the boy’s flushed, humiliated face as he sought in vain to master his mount, and the jeering laughter of the passersby. When the body wars with the will, the Nemerei had taught her, the latter must guide the former, or a necessary balance has been lost. When she loved Damion, all parts of her being were in accord. But she had begun to feel only the deeper urge that was seated in the flesh: and against it her thoughts rebelled, until she felt torn in two opposing directions, for she sensed this longing not when she thought of Damion, but when she thought of the prince. Ashamed, she had forced the feelings into a far recess of her mind, refusing to acknowledge them even to herself. Only now, in the wake of the Mandrake dream and her own strong reaction to it, had she at last admitted the truth with great reluctance. It was no mere passing attraction, such as any girl might feel for a comely man, but something more. Her treachery against Damion was twofold.
Treachery—nonsense! said an inner voice. Damion does not love you and he never will. You owe him no loyalty in that regard. You are free to seek for love elsewhere.
She fled the room, unable to bear its heavy perfumed air any longer, and hastened down the stairs. There were still very few Loänei about, and when she paused by the ballroom door and peered in she saw it was still and empty but for one figure. Her heart gave a little jolt and began to race. Mandrake was there, pouring out a glass of some red liquor from a crystal decanter on the refreshment table. At the sound of her soft footsteps he looked up.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand and she remained silent. “I was going to call on you. I want you to know,” he said, “that I have come to a decision. I will go back with you—to Temendri Alfaran. You still have not convinced me. But I will not fight you, now that I have had a chance to know you—truly know you. I cannot find it in me to do you any sort of harm.”
He had relented! She need not surrender herself, after all. Relief filled her, along with a small troubling tinge of disappointment that she was quick to quell. He would come with her, leave behind the Loänei and the servants of Valdur and submit to the true Loänan. Her friends would be safe, and there would be no more war . . . “I am glad—so glad,” she said, entering the room, and she joined him by the table. “You won’t regret this, Mandrake, I promise you.”
“Will you join me in a drink?” He motioned to the decanter. “I know you don’t care for wine, but this calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”
Not wishing to refuse his hospitality in the face of his great concession, she took the crystal goblet he offered. In the light of the candelabra the dark red liquid had a fiery heart, like a ruby’s, and its smell was rich and fragrant as the scent of the roses. She took a sip of it. The taste was sweet and strong, but it left a bitterness on the tongue. Still fearing to seem rude, she forced another mouthful down. Why was he not drinking, too? He had not once put his own cup to his lips, but only stood there watching her. A horrible suspicion seized her.
“No,” she choked.
A wave of dizziness passed over her: the room seemed to spin slowly before her eyes. Had he poisoned her? She turned away from him, and the giddiness worsened. Mandrake took her arm. His face blurred and faded as she looked up at him. “I am sorry,” his voice said, sounding strangely distant. “But it is for the best . . .”
“No—no!” She freed herself, took a lurching step away from him, and blundered into a chair, almost falling. She tried to run for the doorway. But it seemed to move, shifting about before her eyes and then changing into two doors. Which was the real one? She wavered. Then her vision clouded over completely, and she felt the floor come up to hit her.
DAMION STOOD LOOKING out through the bars of his cell. “What is it you want of me, Majesty?” he asked.
Khalazar paced to and fro before the cell, as though it were he and not Damion who was confined. His hands clutched great folds of his golden robe. He halted, and glared at Damion.
“I have had enough of your insolence!” he rasped. “I need nothing from you or anyone! I am the God-king, divine as well as royal. You must call me by my rightful title, or die. You must worship me!”
“But why, Majesty?” the young man asked. “You have a whole priesthood to venerate you, and many subjects. You say you need nothing from me. You certainly do not need my worship.” His blue gaze was steady.
“I tell you, I am a god!” shouted the other.
Damion nodded slowly. “You are divine, Khalazar: that is no more than the truth. Your only error is in believing that the divine resides only in you, and not in all men and women, all things in earth and Heaven.”
The king gripped two cell bars, peering in. His breathing was loud and labored, as though he were running. “They call you divine, do they not? A spirit, an angel. It is a lie. I will put you to the test, and expose that lie to all. For a divine being cannot be killed. I will send you to the arena, to be the fodder of bears and lions. The people will see you torn to pieces and devoured, and the beasts quarreling over your bones. Then they will know that you were never more than mortal.” He released the bars and drew back, as another thought came to him. “Or . . . you could go to the temple. Yes, to the temple and the altar: for so it was done in ancient times to prisoners of war. A human sacrifice, the first in many an age—and not the last, now that I am king and god. You will be led to my altar for all to see—and they will fear me. I, who wield power even over spirits.” The king swung away from the cell, and stormed down the corridor.
And I will show Mandrake who is the master! he raged to himself. He dared order me to preserve this man’s life—order me! Shall I obey my own servant? I will kill this Damion if I choose! And the Zayim also. Mandrake will come back to find his precious prisoners dead. As for his goblin-men, his spies, they will not prevent me because I will slay them also. I know now that a mere iron blade can defeat their sorceries.
THE SOLDIERS CAME FOR DAMION a few hours later along with the jail keeper. He was taken from his cell and stripped, and clad in a plain white robe.
“To the temple of Valdur,” said the keeper to the guards. “It is the king’s order.”
“The streets are not safe,” one of the soldiers said. “The people have been restless ever since Gemala was slain. And the Mohara prophet is to die tomorrow too, in the arena. They remember that he saved the lives of Zimbourans, and they are angry.”
The shabby old keeper shrugged. “That is none of my concern,” said he, and returned to his bench and his wine flagon. “Do as you are bid.”
Damion went with the guards, still not resisting. In the castle’s outer courtyard a white horse with garlands of white chrysanthemums stood waiting with its handlers. Damion gazed at the horse in wonder. Was this not Artagon, Mandrake’s white palfrey? He recognized a scar upon the horse’s near hind leg, left there by the lash of a Zimbouran whip. The soldiers who had captured Damion and the others in Maurainia had also taken the white palfrey as a sacrificial mount for the Tryna Lia, and so Artagon had come to Trynisia along with their human prisoners. But how did the horse come to be here? Why had they brought him to Zimboura? Was it some sort of fate at work? The horse knew him: it whickered and nuzzled his face as he stood beside it. Yes: this was no coincidence, but yet another sign to him that his path was predestined. The Elei horse had been brought here not to bear Ailia to the altar of death, as they had no doubt originally planned, but to bear him there instead. He was going in her place.
“Artagon,” he murmured, holding up his hand to rub the horse’s nose.
They put garlands around his neck, too, and forced him u
p onto the horse’s back. Then the two guards tied his hands, and mounted their own horses. Leading the white sacrificial mount on a long tether, they rode out through the mighty gates and into the city.
People in the streets murmured when Damion was led past, but he knew that their barely suppressed fury was not at him. The sight of a human sacrifice in ritual garb agitated them: no doubt they were once more afraid that this was only the beginning, that such sacrifices would soon not be limited to prisoners or captives of war. On through the streets he rode with his guards, and the crowds pressed closer to the flanks of the horses until the guards threatened them with their swords. At that their noise increased, until at the temple plaza it swelled to a roaring sound like a wind off a rising sea.
The guards pulled Damion roughly off the horse and led him up the vast central aisle of the temple, right to the very feet of the towering stone colossus. One man held the prisoner while the other knocked on the door of the sanctum with his sword-hilt.
“Let us in!” he shouted. “We come in the name of the God-king Khalazar!”
The door creaked open and a young acolyte in a dirty black robe looked out. His eyes were blank, uncomprehending: the eyes of a simpleton. The soldier shoved the gaping boy aside and strode in, followed by Damion and the other guard.
The chamber was dark, low-roofed, and reeked of blood both old and freshly spilt. There was a palpable atmosphere in it, too, of terror and despair, causing Damion to pause as he entered. His guards grinned, imagining that the sight had at last filled their strange unemotional charge with fear. They could not know that it was pity that moved him so deeply, grief not for himself but for all those human victims who had come here before him. This terrible room resonated with their anguish: traces of previous ordeals lingered on the very air. Then Damion calmed once more. These were not ghosts he was sensing. They were but echoes of the past—those ancient victims’ spirits were long since fled, at peace, their sufferings over.