The Dark Lord (70 page)

Cloth rustled, then metal sang on metal. Patik managed to open his eyes and saw the shape raise something—
a curved blade?
—against the night sky. Frigid blue-white light played along the
athame
, sparking and sputtering.

"Uttish'tha,"
commanded the voice, harsh syllables echoing back from the standing stones.
"Ash'hrrada!"

Patik felt Artabanus flinch and the wizard moaned, one trembling hand trying to block out the sight of the sky. The big Persian narrowed his eyes—crawling blue light played across his face—briefly illuminating the sandstone wall towering above them. The light burned his skin and he turned away, suddenly afraid he might be blinded by the witch light.

"Uttish'THA!"
The sound boomed in the air, making the sand jump and quiver. Sharp, cold wind played in the avenues between the pinnacles, tugging at Patik's hair, swirling the cloaks of the dark shapes. Again, the earth groaned and shifted, then settled.

The dreadful bluish light died and slowly the stars reemerged from the encompassing dark. Patik shuddered, realizing something vast had obscured the winking, faint lights during the strange interlude. He was aware of darkness withdrawing into the sky, folding in upon itself.

Only the Shanzdah remained and the Captain turned to look upon Patik again, two faint points of radiance burning in the cowl of his hood. "We will follow the Romans. They will lead us to the prize, the
duradarshan
, the Gate unopened and unrevealed." An ironbound hand reached down and dragged the Persian to his feet, as effortlessly as a man might lift a child.

"You will run ahead, Great Prince, our hound." Something like laughter issued from cracked, withered lips. "And we will course behind, hunting with bright spears."

Thunder growled in the distance, though no flare of lightning lit the night. Shirin, laboriously climbing the slope of a dune at the edge of the plain of stones, turned. Penelope, still riding on her back, thin hands clutched at her breast, lifted her head. Both women looked back, seeing nothing but darkness in the shallow valley. The other Daughters continued on, climbing the dune ridge, keeping themselves below the unseen, night-shrouded summit.

"What was that?" Shirin whispered, though she was sure they had left the Romans and Persians miles behind. Gusts of night wind lapped around her ankles, sending individual grains of sand stinging against her skin.

"Keep moving," croaked the old woman. "Something foul is abroad on the plain. We should not wait for it to find us."

Shirin resumed her steady pace. The slope of the dune was long and there were many miles to cover before dawn. Haste in such soft sand would not be rewarded, save with useless weariness.

After a time, as they approached the crest, Shirin turned her head questioningly. "Mother," she said, using a term often heard on the Island during her abortive training, "in the tomb—the dead Queen bore a blazon—an eight-rayed star set in gold. Was that her personal crest?"

Soft, breathy laughter answered and the Khazar woman frowned, thinking the old Egyptian would not reply. But then Penelope said, in a sly voice: "Her family held the star of Vergina in high regard. From the first days of their house, the sunburst rode on their shields and banners."

"I've seen it before—the same star or rayed sun—in..." Shirin paused, swallowing the words...
in Ctesiphon, in the house of my husband, King of Kings, Khusro Anushirwan, or on the ruined buildings of old Babylon...
"...in the east."

"Many kings ape the guise of the Lord of Men," the old woman said. Shirin could feel Penelope's thin body shaking with laughter through her back. "Yet, Great Egypt had better claim than most to the Temeniad crest."

"What do you mean?" Shirin frowned, plowing step-by-step up over the dune crest and down the opposite slope. The moon was riding high in the sky, illuminating the long, rippled face of the ridge with gleaming silver. Ahead, the shapes of the other Daughters cast long shadows across pure, unblemished sand. "The sons of Temenos are the house of Royal Macedon. Why does—"

A spidery hand closed over Shirin's lips and she stopped.

"Hush," Penelope said, whispery old voice soft in the Khazar's ear. "Some things should not be said under such a baleful sky, certainly not aloud. Let us say not all roots were cut that black day in Amphipolis when Cassander hewed down the last saplings of the Agead oak. One seedling escaped, and found new, royal soil in Egypt where he grew and thrived under the Saviour Ptolemy's name. Our buried Queen was the last of a noble line..." Penelope's voice trailed away, lost in sadness.

Shirin made a face, shaking her head. The thin hand withdrew and she tramped on, under the thin moon, into the desert. Far ahead, the sky was hazed with mist and fog, for the delta sweltered in the summer heat, even at night. Shirin thought she could make out the waters of Mareotis, sparkling under the moon.

Encompassing pitchy darkness drew back, broken by green fire licking among gauze-wrapped limbs and fallen chunks of stone. The lip of the stone coffin holding Kleopatra had held back the falling slabs and shattered blocks. She lay, buried deep under the ruined ceiling, her golden mask undisturbed and the rayed sun on her breast hummed with emerald fire. Viridian tongues flickered and coursed around half-hidden rings and intersections of ancient bronze.

Far above, a booming voice died and a black knife lowered. The sky shuddered, darkness receding. Greenish flame wicked down, pooling into ancient glyphs etched in bronze, then faded into night's embrace.

The Queen slept, her treasures deeply buried, safe again from the grasping hands of men.

Mohammed sat under the fig, legs crossed, deep in thought. Ráha's visions had passed, leaving him with an unexpected clarity of vision and thought. The thirst once burning in his throat now seemed negligible, the weakness in his limbs a passing memory. The cerulean sky and white-barked trees revealed a queer flatness, as though they were painted on air. His own hands, scarred and weathered with age, stood proof of his own solidity. He looked within, seeking the singing note once perceived among the dizzying splendor of the world.

Assailed by sensation on all side, deafened by the beat of his heart, the whistle of air into his lungs, Mohammed groped for concentration. A frail voice emerged from unsure memory:
He causes the night to pass into day, and the day to pass into night...
He felt his mind settle, turning inward.

For a long time, he found nothing but violent, chaotic emptiness. At last, banishing all attention to the outer world, ignoring even the smooth sensation of the fig bark against his back, he found a delicate whisper of the glorious sound. Strangely, at first the trembling note was distant and faint, but as he focused and beheld, it grew in strength, a long, wavering tone, rising and falling, louder and fainter, drawn from a single source, yet infinite in its variety.

A great yearning to yield himself to dissolution came over him.
Why not join with the heavenly chorus,
wayward thoughts urged.
There is perfect harmony and peace within the celestial gate. Enter!

"Master?" A voice spoke, penetrating his consciousness. Mohammed opened his eyes and saw before him the creature Mōha. Perfect lips moved, saying: "You are emaciated, pale, near death. Please, you must pass on from this place. You must choose to go forward. Abandon this useless striving—"

"I will not," Mohammed said, his voice strong once more. Looking upon Mōha's face, he was struck by the pitiful nature of the creature's disguise. How could anything so false seem beautiful after looking upon the heart of the world? When he had seen the burning stone and the glory of the unbounded universe revealed? The guardian seemed small and weak, an ivory doll, doomed to wander in half-life, among these dead things, for all time. "Only the Great and Merciful Lord may set the length of my days. When he wills they end, then they will end. Until the day he summons me into his presence, to judge the deeds of my life and dispense perfect, immutable justice, I will never abandon the straight and righteous path."

Mōha's face contorted in frustration. "My lord, did you see nothing in glorious Ráha's eyes? You looked upon the heart of the world—such things leave no man unchanged! You cannot lie or dissemble to me—how can you cling to pitiful life, to this decaying shell and scrap of rotting flesh, in the face of such glories? Let go, yield the illusion of mortality and pass onward!"

Mohammed shook his head. "I will not abandon striving. I will endure."

The creature flinched away from Mohammed's commanding tone.

"Please..." Mōha begged. "You will suffer endless torments, you will grow old and die, weak and finally alone. How can the fleeting pleasures of a mortal life compare to what you have seen?" He stopped, groping for some convincing word.

Mohammed shook his head. Certainty burned in his heart and the sound of wind in the trees swelled, filling his limbs with strength. Hunger and thirst no longer touched him and his wizened arms and legs felt strong. "All you say is true, guardian, but I will
not
step aside from the straight and righteous path. I choose to live, even if I must suffer the torments of those doomed to the fiery pit."

"Foolish man!" Mōha shouted in anguish. "If you must choose slow corruption, then set aside your impossible task, cease this useless struggle. Live a meritorious life in quiet! Return to your home, set your grandchildren upon your knees, speak wisely in the city council, do no evil to men, weigh honestly and in full measure in all your dealings. But do not inflict these agonies upon yourself!"

The Quraysh started to speak, but paused. Something in Mōha's voice had changed and the creature now seemed smaller, wizened, reduced. The glamour of towering strength, of an undimmed flame, faded and Mohammed found his heart filled with pity for the creature trapped between life and death.

"The world," he said slowly, considering his words, "contrives against men who would follow the path of righteousness. On every side, enemies tempt and distract men from the blessing offered by the Compassionate One." Mōha started to speak again, but Mohammed raised his hand, quelling the outburst.

"Lust," Mohammed said, "is the first enemy; the second a dislike for higher life; the third is hunger and thirst; the fourth is craving; the fifth is torpor and sloth; the sixth doubt; the seventh falsehood; the eighth glory; the ninth exalting oneself and despising others, the last—the last is the fear of death."

Mōha flinched away from the ringing words, crouching against the ground and moaning softly.

"These are my enemies," Mohammed boomed. "No feeble man or woman can conquer them, yet only by overcoming them does one win bliss. Shame upon me if I am defeated! Better for me to die striving in battle than to live quietly in defeat!"

"You do not know the burden of such a life," Mōha whispered, unable to raise his head.

"I do," Mohammed said, sharp eyes glinting. "I choose to live. Regardless of what may come."

Pressing through a sullen, listless crowd, Thyatis turned into a narrow, shadowed alley. Even here between a pair of crumbling apartment buildings, ragged men, women and children squatted on the ground, watching bitterly as she passed. The Roman woman had not bothered to assume a pleasing guise or hide her armor beneath a matron's gown. Instead, she walked quickly, left hand riding on the hilt of her sword, grimy cloak fluttering behind her in the steaming air. The half-hidden fear percolating through the streets and offices of Alexandria had blossomed into open panic.

Thyatis tasted a heady, stomach-churning mixture of despair and anticipation in the air. No official news was posted in the city agora or on the walls of the temples, but the steady stream of families entering the city through the Nile Gate revealed the course of battle. Somewhere in the east, beyond the massive rampart and moat under construction at the edge of the suburbs, the Roman Legions were fighting a delaying action, hoping to buy time for the city. Their failure to halt the Persian advance burned in Thyatis' stomach like acid, making every grain precious, the relentless passage of the sun a goad lashing her impatience.

Heedless of who might see, Thyatis stomped down a flight of ancient steps and into a dark-walled alcove. Her fist, gloved in leather and iron chain, slammed on an age-blackened door. The portal rang hollowly, once, then twice. There was no answer.

Thyatis squinted from beneath the cowl of her hood, noting with interest the absence of anyone sleeping or sitting in the alcove. She smiled grimly.
The Hunter watches over all places, both the low and the high.

Time was short and the Roman woman turned back to the door. Her fist slammed against the ancient wood again, making a dull booming sound in the room beyond. She began to consider how to break down the portal.

"What are you doing here? You should leave!" Penelope, old wrinkled face twisted into a ferocious grimace, leaned on a reed cane in the doorway of the dining hall. Shirin rose from a bench, laying down a jeweled clasp on a neat bundle of her clothing. The pin was bent and she had been examining the fragile copper to see if the tip of her hand knife would do for repairs. The low-ceilinged hallway outside the hall was filled with women hurrying to and fro. Everyone was packing in great haste, loading wicker baskets and wooden trunks with the contents of the Temple.

"I wish to speak with the Priestess," Shirin said, a sharp tone in her voice. "Is she still in the temple?"

Penelope laughed, limping into the room. The Temple healer had poked and prodded the swollen, purplish bruises, eliciting a hissing gasp from the old woman. Shirin guessed the ankle was broken, though she refrained from comment. She doubted Penelope would accept any advice.

"You'll see no one, now, dearie." Penelope pointed with her sharp chin to the east. "An old enemy rushes closer—and we'll soon be gone." The Egyptian woman laughed, deep-set wrinkles crinkling up around her eyes. "Like ghosts, into the sand and sea."