The Dark Lord (44 page)

"A wasted trip," she heard, ears pricking up in recognition. A cultured voice, a smooth, powerful baritone—
I know that voice,
Shirin realized with a start—growled close by. Two men—one tall, broad shouldered, narrow-waisted; the other short and graying, with a square head cocked in an attitude of listening. "A week digging in the dust—for nothing! Some chipped pieces of stone, a broken bowl..."

"My lord," answered the shorter man, his back to the stairs, "we know the weapon is no longer in Abydos. The tomb of Nemathapi was looted long ago..." He sighed, shoulders rising in despair. "But I marked some scratching on the wall, inside the great chamber. Did you see the marks?"

"I saw dust and spiderwebs and crumbling plaster," answered the taller man. Again, Shirin felt a start, hearing long-familiar tones in the voice.
He sounds,
she realized with a chill,
like my husband.
"No more. What did you see, Artabanus?"

"Let me show you," the shorter man said, moving towards the window and an empty table. Paper rustled and Shirin, bending down a little to peer into the room, saw him unroll a scrap of paper covered with markings. Then the little man and the big Persian were between her and the scroll.

Cursing softly, Shirin backed up, arranged herself, the hood down over most of her face, the rest veiled, then stepped down into the room, head raised. The soldiers were drinking and peering out the windows at a bevy of maids drawing water from the public fountain. Shirin drifted across the room, as if looking for the innkeeper, until she could see between the hands and arms of the two men bending over the table by the window.

The papyrus was covered with angular letters, drawn in black charcoal.

"My lady?" The man with the bull amulet hurried up, wiping beer foam from his hands with a cloth. "You're not disturbed by the racket, are you?"

"No," she said, voice low, meeting his eyes with her own, crinkled in a smile. "I am greatly refreshed, sir. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, smiling back. "You bless my house with your presence."

Shirin made a half bow, her fingertips pressing his wrist. "You are very generous. Tell me, is there somewhere I might find a room for the night?"

"Oh, yes," the innkeeper nodded, turning and pointing across the square. "There is..."

Shirin took a step back, her head bent as if listening to the innkeeper. She caught a few words—the shorter, grayer man was speaking.

"...protect us from... Kleopatra... snake..."

Then she stepped forward again, seeing the innkeeper turning toward her again. "Thank you."

The man nodded and she slipped out, turning left as soon as she passed through the door. Taking care not to walk between the soldiers and the fountain, Shirin disappeared into the streets, the corner of her jaw working as if she chewed a piece of heavy bread.

That was the great prince Shahin,
she realized, chilled by the discovery,
and a Persian mage. Looking for a weapon... Kleopatra's weapon.
A block from the inn, where the road turned away, she stopped, sliding into a doorway. She looked back, able to see the front of the inn and its arbor and little tables. The tip of a pink tongue ran over her lips and she realized she was thirsty again.

Persian agents. She should inform the authorities. Immediately. Shirin's hand—hidden by the cloak—drifted to the jewel between her breasts. The smooth, cold touch of the stone steadied her, gave her hurrying thoughts focus, drew them into orderly fashion, halted their wild scrambling.
What do I owe Rome? How much trouble would I buy myself by approaching the city prefect with a story of Persian spies?
One dark eyebrow arched up and she glared at the inn.
Do I care what the Great Prince does? Rome is my enemy too!

Resolved, the Khazar woman spun on her heel, flipped her hair over one shoulder and strode off into the city streets. She was sure a suitable hostelry or inn would present itself in due time. Then she could see about finding a ship to Cilicia and then home.

At the end of the street, she looked back over her shoulder, dark brown eyes troubled.

Kleopatra's weapon?
Shirin shook her head, trying to dispel an uneasy feeling.

"Begone! You are no protector, no friend!" Mohammed, strength returning to his limbs, pushed Mōha away. The beautiful man leapt up, shocked, glorious eyes wide in surprise. The Quraysh drew himself up, leaning heavily against the trunk of the fig. The wood was rumpled and creased, coarse under his fingers. The sensation lifted his spirit.

"My lord! You wound me! I have watched over you while you slept, offered you food, drink, every hospitality... you are very weak, you should take your ease." Mōha gestured to the city, where lutes were singing and people danced in the streets. Another festival was underway and the citizens were carrying young women, wreathed in flowers, saffron and silk on their shoulders. The maidens' faces were bright with ecstatic joy.

"No," Mohammed said, standing at last. Now he could see the extent of the city, for the fig grew upon a height, and the metropolis was vast—sprawling away over rumpled hills, crowned with towers and minarets and domes. Enormous statues rose over the buildings—noble men, with long beards and wise faces—and everything shone with gold and silver. The Quraysh squinted, keen eyes reaching for the horizon. He realized there was no smoke, no fumes, no heat haze rising over all those close-packed buildings. There were no birds in flight over the rooftops. "You are a guardian set here, to trap me, to keep me imprisoned, like the poor spirits in the forest."

Mōha looked stricken. "My lord! Illness clouds your mind. The shades among the trees are the fearful; those men and women of the world who refuse to enter the city." The beautiful man knelt on the ground at Mohammed's feet, chiseled features slowly contorting, filling with despair. "Listen, my lord, do you remember how you came to be here?"

Mohammed blinked. He tried to reach back into memory, but could only grasp a fragment of sound—thunder rolling endlessly, booming and crashing over a plain. Before that moment, he could only barely remember standing in a tent with Zoë, eating a hasty breakfast. Everything else was shadow, fog, indeterminate. "No..." he said, grudgingly. The admission felt dangerous.

"I understand," Mōha said, in a soft, companionable voice. "Let me show you." He raised his hands, cupped, as if he caught water spilling from a pitcher. Color and light pooled between his fingers. "Observe, my lord..."

Mohammed tried not to look, but a horrible fascination came over him and he gazed down into the swirling bright color.

A towering figure clenched his fist, will pressing against the sky, the clouds, the earth. A rolling series of blasts shook the ground, a howling cauldron of fire and lightning and hail converging on a distant sphere of orange light. Abruptly, like a wick being pinched, the light went out. Across the distance, a struggling, fierce will suddenly failed. There was a wink of orange flame and then only rain and darkness. The fires burning across the field sizzled down to smoke and ash, drenched by towering thunderheads sweeping across the sky.

"You are finished!" roared a voice of thunder. "I will crush the last breath..."

A man shouted: "Now! He's done it!" A tall, powerful figure swung a leaded sap fiercely against the towering, flame-shrouded figure. The apparition staggered at the blow, then crumpled to the ground, blood seeping from a fierce purplish bruise behind his left ear. The attacker, a Persian, loomed over his body. A thinner, leaner man crouched over Mohammed, hands upon his face.

"Khalid and his bodyguard." Mohammed breathed, transported by the vision. Memories of pain, of rain sluicing across his face, of men crying out in grief, flooded into his waking mind.
They carried me upon their spears,
he remembered.
A hero's death.
Everything seemed to be very clear. "I was murdered. Betrayed."

"Yet you did not die!" Mōha leaned forward, face eager. His fingers clutched at the hem of Mohammed's robe. "You stand in the land between death and life! My lord, please, you must enter the city. You cannot remain here."

The Quraysh stared fiercely at the man's perfect face. "There is no city. I saw a wasteland of dark stones and a broken arch. You are keeping the dead from their peace! You are trying to lure them into the city, far from the voice of the lord and the paradise that awaits the faithful!"

Mōha drew back, eyes narrowing. "A broken arch? A wasteland?"

"Yes," Mohammed said, drawing strength from the living tree under his hand. "You do not belong here! Your master has distorted this place, keeping the dead from their proper rest. You are his guardian and my jailer. So, I will take nothing from you and I will not enter the trap of your city! You are false, an abomination and a lure!"

For the first time, a flash of anger occluded Mōha's beautiful face and Mohammed saw fear and pain and enormous, unbridled anger shining in the man's visage. Clenching a fist, tendons standing stiff in his arm, Mōha loomed over Mohammed, growing enormous. His head blocked out the sky and even the round, unwavering sun seemed to dim. "I—an abomination? You are a reckless, arrogant creature—no more than a lump of clay given flesh and breath! You think yourself mighty, having heard a whisper of the wind that blew across the void at the beginning of the world!"

A harsh shout pealed out from the giant figure and the evenly spaced trees of the forest shuddered, spilling limbs, branches, leaves in the roar of wind. "I have seen the face of the sky," Mōha boomed, "and knelt at a blazing hand, to take the manna that sustains life!"

The figure looked down and Mohammed was blinded by a burning radiance, brighter than the pale sun, a coruscating flare of dizzying intertwined shapes. The trees burst into flame and the short-cropped grass withered. The Quraysh raised a hand, blocking out the terrible glare.

"You are blind, blind and ignorant, O Man!" The flare of light abated, guttering down to a shining radiance, etching every wrinkle, every bone in Mohammed's hand like glass. "Your pride swallows all thought, all reason. This is my place—for the lord of the heavens and the world set me here—to guide lost spirits, to protect the land of the living from that of the dead. And the sleep of the dead from the troubles of the living."

Now Mohammed could make out, through the shining, half-blinding light, a winged figure towering over the plain. The city was gone, leaving only the wasteland he had glimpsed before, and the broken arch and the tumbled ruins of some greater city, now desolate. Eyes of fire filled the sky and Mohammed crumpled to the ground, nerveless, unable to stand.

"You served as I have served." The voice rumbled and rolled in the heavens. "And your time has ended. You must pass on, into the city of the dead. Only by restoring the gate will the restless, lost spirits find their way to peace."

"Why?" Mohammed tried to shout, to make his voice strong and powerful, but the words were weak and faint. "Why is the arch broken? Why is the golden city in ruins?"

"A door was opened," Mōha said, his brilliant flame wicking down to a standing, leaping bar of fire. Nothing of humanity remained, only a twisting, rippling sheet of light pulsing in time with Mohammed's beating heart. "One that should have remained forever closed. The dead are disturbed. Corpses go about in the living world. The living walk in the land of the dead. The stars shift in their courses, bringing a terrible constellation into view."

Mohammed felt a chill rush through his limbs, his heart. "I am still alive," he said in wonder. His thin, parched fingers gripped the trunk of the tree. "How did I come to this place? What sent me here?"

"You did," Mōha growled, the sheet of living flame shrinking again, outlining limbs, a noble head, a face, powerful arms. "You chose to cling to life, even when death opened before you. Already the gate and the city were shaken, cracked and splintered. You refused to die and with your
arrogance
, your
sin
, your
pride
the arch was cast down." The beautiful man, corporeal once more, stabbed a finger at the blackened, ashy woods. "You keep them from the land of peace. You are the abomination here, not I! You are the one who has brought ruin upon this world!"

Mohammed flinched. He remembered the sadness, the agony in Khadijah's eyes. The tears of the dead as they knelt over him, watering him with their tears. "I? No... You are the deceiver. I cannot trust you!"

Mōha shook his head, long hair spilling over broad shoulders. "Can you hear the voice of the lord of the world? The voice that speaks from the clear air? The voice singing in the courts of the morning?"

"No." Mohammed gathered himself, rising up, back pressed against the trunk of the tree. "I cannot. I am captive in some realm where his will cannot enter, where his voice cannot be heard!"

"There is no such place." Mōha's eyes were filled with grief. "Is he not the maker of all that is? How can he be shut out? He is already in your heart—do you deny this? If so, and you are here, then you can hear him, hear his beloved voice..."

"Can you hear him, then?" Mohammed stood, shaky on weak legs, but on his own two feet at last. "Does his voice sing in your heart?"

The beautiful man blanched and an expression of terrible loss cut into his face, graven deep in his eyes and the set of his mouth. "No. No, I cannot."

"What escaped from the land of the dead?" The Quraysh's expression was grim. "Was it you?"

"No!" Mōha said in disgust. "I am not mortal flesh, not clay! I am eternal, the first one, the dawn star in the firmament of heaven! Death does not touch me, not as it burrows in your flesh like maggots..."

"Who then? Was it the dark power that destroyed Palmyra?"

Another shout of laughter boomed across the plain, sending burned trees cascading to the ground in plumes of ash. Mōha wept quicksilver tears, which smoked and burned on the ground where they fell. "That is not dead," the beautiful man said, in a pitying tone, "which can eternal lie... You
are
a fool if you think such a power as the Lord of Ten Serpents could perish! No,
you
have escaped death, by refusing to enter the city.
You
have set the balance awry, leading to chaos in the heavens and the earth.
You
must set the balance right. Accept your fate! There is an end to all things."