Dragons on the Sea of Night (16 page)

Pain-racked days passed and he pressed on, into the Mu'ad, into the teeth of the Duk Fadat, measuring out rations of water and meat until both were gone. Still, he put one unsteady foot in front of another, his eyes all but plastered shut against the stinging sand.

But, at length, even his mind and iron will gave out and he collapsed upon the breast of the Mu'ad. Soon, in the height of the Duk Fadat, his form was layered with whispering sand until only a creature indigenous to the vast, shifting wasteland would recognize the cairn upon the dune as something alive.

EIGHT

R
ED
V
EIL

One bright spark in the darkness danced
, its gyrations expanding into a recognizable pattern that was speech: ‘The Black Angel is shut away. Evil is as evil does. Darkness is as Darkness will. The living testament of Zarathus, of He Who Walks Alone, shall be done.'

Scrims of sand resolved themselves into swirling arcs of brightly patterned fabrics. Blue, green, yellow, the turquoise of a bay, the jade of a storm-tossed ocean, the amber of the sea at sunset, all these shades and more spun by him like wheels on fantastic vehicles.

He opened eyes which seemed to him to have been glued shut for weeks and saw the robes and skirts billowing and whirling past him. At once, he grew dizzy and he shifted his gaze overhead. He was in an enormous tent of some thick natural muslin. Tentpoles of polished wood rose up like a copse of trees wherever he looked. He became aware of odors next: the strong scents of broiling meat and stewing fruit, rich and astringent all at once. Now and again, through these mouth-watering smells came the acrid stench of unwashed bodies.

Moichi closed his eyes. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he was dead, having been buried in the Duk Fadat and this was some afterlife the Iskamen had not imagined. Then the swirl of color, motion and fabric became recognizable for what they were: dancing. He was among the Catechist dervishes.

He groaned a little as he tried to rise up from the pallet of soft goatskins upon which he lay and immediately a heavy woman was at his side, squatting, smiling down at him benevolently. She looked oddly familiar despite the fact that he had never before met a Catechist. She was quite beautiful.

‘You have healed magnificently,' she said in a heavily accented voice that was nonetheless pleasant. ‘Your warrior spirit has impressed the Fianarantsoa.'

‘The what?' he managed through cracked lips.

She laughed, her jowls shaking, her long earrings swinging, her myriad bracelets clacking together. Her bosom heaved with her laughter. ‘The elders, dear one. The religious teachers. The word, literally translated, means seeker after truth.' Her clear blue eyes regarded him with some mirth. ‘Yes, you are truly back from the dead. You were but a burial mound in the Duk Fadat when we found you.'

Moichi licked his lips and she gave him liquid to drink from a hollow gourd. It was sweet and citrusy and he drank it all down.

‘What were you doing out in this weather?' he asked, gingerly feeling his lips with his fingertips.

‘Keep them clean,' she said, taking his hand in hers. ‘They were infected, but the salve I have been using is taking care of that.'

‘My name is Moichi Annai-Nin,' he said.

‘And mine is Ambositra. I am a healer.'

Moichi struggled to sit up, grateful that she made no move to help him. ‘I must thank you for your kindness. I would be dead without you and your people. But what
were
you doing out in the Duk Fadat?'

‘Why, looking for you, dear one. The dervishes dance in order to follow Zarathus's living testament and we divined your presence in the Mu'ad.' She smiled. ‘We found the saddlebags with the remnants of the co'chyn's innards. You are an ingenious man.'

‘All my ingenuity would not have stopped me from dying.' Moichi held his head. ‘Where am I? In Mas'jahan?'

Ambositra shook her head. ‘Still the desert. But our band is on its way there. We will reach the citadel tomorrow evening.'

Moichi stared at the dervishes, whirling and spinning, faster and faster in concert to an inner rhythm old as time.

‘They are synchronizing themselves to the cosmic pulse of Zarathus.'

‘Entering into a mystic state,' Moichi said, fascinated.

‘Exactly. In this way they can hear the words of his living testament and carry them out.'

Was it his imagination or did he feel a kind of heavy pulse in the air timed with the dervishes' movements? He was very conscious of Ambositra's proximity: her heat, the scents of her that were not all displeasing. She jangled as she moved closer, hunkering next to him. She leaned over so that her sun-streaked hair brushed his cheek. ‘I am your nurse, dear one. I have seen your body. I have put my hands upon it, lovingly healing your flayed flesh.' He saw her smile broaden and she squeezed his arm. ‘While the Fianarantsoa were impressed with your spirit I was impressed with your warrior's body.'

‘Ambositra,' he said softly, ‘I am grateful to you for all you have done, but …'

She cast down her eyes. ‘It is my size. Like most infidels you find me too fat, too gross.'

‘On the contrary, I find you desirable, but the truth is my heart belongs to a woman who has been abducted by a criminal, an Adenese named Dujuk'kan. I was told he was headed to Mas'jahan. A terrible murderous beast called a Makkon is also on its way there – I can tell from its spoor.' He looked at her. ‘Now that I am feeling better I would speak to the members of the Fianarantsoa to determine if they know anything of the criminal or the beast.'

‘In time,' Ambositra said gently. ‘The elders dance now, and later they will rest. Tomorrow morning, before we set out for Mas'jahan, I will arrange an interview.' She turned, brought bowls into his lap. ‘Now you must eat. Build up your strength for the journey tomorrow. We travel very fast.' She rose with a soft jangling of jewelry. ‘When it is time for sleep I will return to check your wounds.'

It was quiet and deserted by the time he saw her re-enter the tent. He had been staring at the thousands of footprints left in the sand by the dervishes. Like clouds, he thought he could make out the shapes of fantastic buildings and beasts, one flowing into another. All the gourd bowls had been scrubbed with sand and packed away in preparation for the morning's journey. The tent was filled with shifting shadows, the lone light source a torch that had been left flickering near the tent flap. He could hear the occasional snort and pawing of the band's co'chyn that had been tethered somewhere outside. And, once or twice, he heard soft voices as the guards passed each other. He had had a glimpse of the Catechist weapons: wicked double-bladed push-daggers which, when held properly, were magnificent for hand-to-hand combat. The blades seemed to emanate from between the second and third fingers so that the entire force of wrist, arm and shoulder could be brought to bear in the strike. He assumed they possessed long-range weapons as well.

‘How do you feel?' Ambositra asked as she knelt beside him. ‘I thought you would be drowsing by now.'

‘I am tired but sleep will not come,' Moichi admitted. He winced slightly as she peeled bandages off still tender skin. The Duk Fadat had done an admirable job in almost flaying him alive, but whatever was in the salve she was applying was healing him with astonishing speed. ‘I am anxious to continue my search.'

‘You are healing more quickly than I had anticipated.' Her clear blue eyes met his and again he was struck by a profound sense of déjà vu. Had he met this woman before? Impossible, and yet …

Ambositra smiled. ‘I am happy you are attracted to me despite my size.' She wrapped fresh bandages around his wounds. ‘It proves a point I have been longing to make.'

Moichi looked at her. ‘And what is that?'

He gasped, his heart turning over heavily as he saw the outline of her body flicker like the flame of the torch, then begin to melt like hot wax. And as it did so, her face began to change ever so subtly. Only the eyes remained constant, regarding him covetously through this transformation.

And when it was over, he understood everything: Aufeya's strange behavior, her remarking on the moon, her knowledge of the Mu'ad, her use of the phrase
The God of the Iskamen – How I envy you that
. Everything. His mind was whirling with ten thousand questions, but only one escaped his lips.

‘Where is she?' His voice was dry and harsh.

‘Aufeya, dear one?' the sorceress Sardonyx said softly. She moistened her lips. ‘She never came with us on our journey to Iskael. It was always me.'

‘God of my fathers!' he cried in anguish. ‘How could I have been so duped?'

‘You weren't duped, dear one.'

‘Stop calling me that!' he shouted so violently that the tent flap parted and a guard peered in.

Sardonyx, in her guise as the Catechist Ambositra, put her finger to her lips. ‘It is his wounds,' she said. ‘They pain him.'

When the guard nodded and disappeared, she returned to her form as Sardonyx. She appeared as she had the first time he had encountered her in her castle in the land of the Opal Moon, all glittering metallic skin, heavy-lidded eyes, hair of twisted platinum strands. She lay down beside him, stroked his chest softly. ‘I lied a little when I told you that Zarathus had revealed your existence to the dervishes. I put you in their minds while they danced. How they interpreted the vision was up to them.' Her stroking continued. ‘I couldn't let you die, dear one.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because you love me. You are the only one who ever has.'

‘You are out of your mind.'

‘Am I? Who was it you made love to all across the ocean?'

‘It was Aufeya, chill take you! I thought – '

‘That I was your betrothed? Truthfully? But wasn't there something in the back of your mind, some sure knowledge you chose to ignore?'

‘No, I–'

‘And in Ala'arat? Tell me you did not suspect. Tell me the doubt did not come crowding home. No, no, dear one, you ignored them all because … Because you loved me from the moment we first met.'

‘I admit I was intrigued, like a moth to a flame, but–'

‘Yes, you were all that, but there was something more. I felt it and so did you.'

He felt rage trembling his muscles, but he lay back, staring at the star-shaped top of the tent. ‘How did you escape from Dujuk'kan?'

‘He came upon some of his former cronies – flesh peddlers unafraid of the Duk Fadat. While they sat at camp eating, drinking and fornicating I slipped away. The fat Adenese was lucky. Were he alone I would have turned him into a co'chyn so I could ride him into Mas'jahan.'

It was an amusing thought but Moichi was in no mood for wit or levity. ‘Tell me about Aufeya. Is she alive?'

‘The story is complex and goes far back in time.'

‘I will have no more of your lies, Sardonyx.'

‘No lies,' she said softly. ‘I promise.'

He rose up on one elbow. ‘What is the worth of the promise of a pirate, a freebooter and a murderess?'

‘Perhaps we should both stop lying to one another.'

‘This isn't about me,' he hissed, doubly angry at her cleverness. ‘It's about you!'

She stared at him for some time, her clear blue eyes searching every millimeter of his face as if trying to memorize a long-cherished possession. ‘What would you demand as proof?'

‘I want the truth,' Moichi said firmly. ‘I want to know what you really look like. No more masks, animations or transformations. Forget the sorceress.'

‘You once called me a prestidigitator, a highly accomplished illusionist. Do you believe that now?'

He ignored that. ‘Show me the woman.'

‘I don't know.' She looked away for a moment. ‘She has been in hiding for so long even I have forgotten what she looks like.'

‘No you haven't,' Moichi said. ‘Not by a long shot.'

‘I am afraid.'

He said nothing.

‘You
do
love me, don't you. Just a little bit.'

Moichi, ready with a sharp rebuke, found that he did not want to look inside himself, and in a sense that was answer enough.

Her head bent so that the platinum strands fell across her face. Then they began to run together, pulsing and shifting, flowing like a stream gathering speed as it runs downhill. Her body shimmered, becoming less slender than it had been but not as heavy as it had been when she was Ambositra. The metallic arms and legs became flesh and blood, garbed in ebon leggings, suede waistcoat over a silk shirt open at the collar. The outfit accentuated the swell of her full breasts while hiding the flare of her hips, the roundness of her belly. The hollow of her throat was filled with an oval star sapphire that emitted an eerie, milky light. Her hair was the color of cinnamon, streaked by the sun. She wore it as short as a man. And when she lifted her head he saw revealed, at last, the woman Sardonyx.

She had been born beautiful, with a heart-shaped face, finely sculpted cheekbones, a strong nose and wide full lips, but then life had intervened. There was a scar running down the left side of her face from just beneath one blue eye to the point of her chin. It had been a deep cut; worse, it had not been taken care of and so had healed badly.

‘So now you know.' There was a kind of defiance in her voice, born of vulnerability. ‘And now you will never acknowledge your love for me. The truth!' She almost spat out the words. ‘How I despise the truth. I have lost you for ever.'

He lay for a long time, staring at her face which she thought of as ruined. It was like looking at a lifetime, the ebb and flow of each year etched upon her countenance, the sorrow and the suffering; he could not deny recognizing them there. She reminded him of Licah, the woman written of in the Tablets of the Iskamen, who had borne the scorn of her people for her faith in God. They had taken her children from her, had stoned her unto death, but still she would not renounce her faith in God. And God had lifted her up, had healed all her wounds, had restored to her her children, and had taken her to dwell on the wooded slopes of the Mountain Sin'hai, where she lived for 999 years. And on the eve of her thousandth year God had summoned her to the summit, welcoming her into His House.