The Gate of Fire (68 page)

There
, whispered Dahak, crowding forward in Arad's mind until the man experienced a disorienting double vision as the loathsome touch of the sorcerer crawled in his own perception.

A city of circular walls, the Greek called it. Strong battlements, one within another, seven in all and within the innermost, the palace of the King of the Medes. The first, closest to the King, was gold, then silver for the great lords, then orange for the priests of the fire, then blue for the men who trade in goods, then red for the soldiers that raised such strong walls, then black. Black for those who till the fields and drive the lowing kine to the market. And finally, ringing all about, white and the abode of the foreigners that came to pay homage and obeisance to the King who is not to be seen.

Arad shook his head, trying to drive out the singsong chanting of the sorcerer. Arad was faintly aware that the tongue that Dahak used when in this incorporeal state was none that he had ever heard upon the lips of a living man.

The western door of royal Ecbatana rose up, strong and proud, out of the night. Torches blazed on the battlements, and fires had been set before the gate. The portal was flanked by two enormous stone lions done in an archaic style. Sturdy sandstone wings swept back from their shoulders, making their length from the proud nose to the curled tip of their tails twenty feet or more. They stood, trapped in stone, their grave faces staring west along the High Road. Countless years had weathered them, taking an ear from one and the tip of the wing from another, but nothing dulled their majesty. The firelight gleamed on them, making their old faces come alive.

Behind the lions, square brick towers loomed up, sixty feet high, their faces pierced by arrow slits and—high up—a fighting platform of wood covered with hides and iron plates. The gates stood open, the huge cypress doors swung wide. In the gate passage a hundred soldiers stood talking in low tones. Arad approached openly, staying to the center of the road. The soldiers were clad in mail of iron rings on long hauberks that reached below their knees. Surcoats of yellow and red lay over the armor, and each man bore a plume of peacock feathers at the crest of their conical helms.

Brash children!
Dahak's thought was filled with anger, and Arad staggered, nearly struck down by the ferocity of the emotion that flooded his mind. The sight of the peacock blazon lingered in Arad's mind.
Left too long without their elders to teach them manners and humility! Do they think that they play in the Garden of Kings, safe and sound, without a care in the world?

"Ho, the gate." Arad found it difficult to force words from his mouth, and he struggled to maintain enough control of his hand to cling to the staff. "May a pilgrim enter the City of the Kings of Old?"

A tall man with a long beard of tiny curls stepped out from the cluster of men loitering just within the gate. He had a noble visage and piercing eyes set around a strong nose. The gildwork on his armor and the jewel on the hilt of his saber said
noble
and
dihqan
to Arad.

"A pilgrim may enter the city," the man said, his voice strong and even, ready to carry loud and clear over the din of battle. "You are late on the road, Holy Father. Do you need a meal and a bed for the night?"

Arad inclined his head, leaning on his staff. The walk down the mountain-side would have been tiring for another—but it was best not to advertise his lack of exhaustion. "Yes," Arad said, surveying the wariness of the gate guards and the weapons they kept close to hand. "A roof and four walls would be a blessed change. Tell me, noble lord, you stand garbed for war, yet the gate is open after the fall of night... what transpires?"

The noble smiled, his teeth flashing white in the dark splendor of his beard and mustaches. "There is still trouble in the land, Holy One. Yet the hospitality of the Empresses knows no bounds. We wait for late arrivals. Come within and sup. If you make your way across the city, you will find that the magi are welcome in the court of the Queens of Persia."

Arad affected surprise. "The Birds of Paradise are in residence here? I had not known... surely every bed and nook in the city is filled."

The nobleman laughed and smoothed down his mustache with a habitual gesture. "Ahura-Madza bless them, yes, Empresses Azarmidukht and Purandokht grace the old citadel with their presence. That hoary old stone monster wakes with new life as the
spabahadan
of all Persia come to do them homage."

The
diquan
, for there was no mistaking the casual arrogance and accent of one of the hereditary landowners who made up the backbone of the Persian state and society, turned and pointed down the avenue that led from the gate. "Follow the main road," he said. "You will cross a pillared bridge and see to your left the hill of seven gates. Ascend and present yourself at the palace—you will find a warm welcome—for the Empresses love holy men above all others."

That is fitting
, laughed Dahak in the silence of Arad's mind.
You have some experience of that!

Arad felt numb, for the jibe awakened memories so painful, he thought he would faint. The sorcerer did not allow it, making his body bow to the
diquan
and pass through the tunnel. Within the walls, fine two- and three-story buildings clustered close to the road, and the streets were filled with people and lights.

Agamaátanu has changed of late
, mused the sorcerer.
Yet it is still the same city I walked in my youth. Move, beautiful Arad, make haste to this palace of the seven gates.

Whatever the nameless
diquan
at the gate thought of the palace, Arad was impressed. Driven by the desire of the sorcerer, he had hurried across the city, passing over the swift current of the Alusjerd and through the districts that lay below the hill of the palace. As Lord Dahak had said, seven battlements each overtopped by the one behind it rose up on a hill set square in the northeastern quarter of the city. Deep gates pierced each wall, and a road paved with broad stones switch-backed up the hill between the ramparts. It seemed a strong fortress to Arad as he walked up the road, looking up at the merlons frowning over him.

The sorcerer hiding behind his eyes was not impressed. In truth, in comparison to the stupendous fortifications of Damawand, it did seem paltry. At each gate and each turning of the road, a company of guardsmen stood, their armor burnished bright and their helms carrying the same peacock token. At each gate Arad bowed to the commander and begged entrance and at each gate he was allowed to pass. These men were watchful, but a single priest without so much as a wooden spoon to his name did not strike them as a danger. Arad at last came to the summit of the hill and the plaza before the palace itself. Temples crowded the edges of the square, and lanterns burned before their doors. Indeed, the whole of the palace hill was lit up with all imaginable kinds of lights, sconces, torches, and open fires.

How pious
, Dahak snickered, and Arad marked that as he passed, flames flickered and sometimes went out.
They feel the touch of night at the hem of their jeweled robes and they are rightly frightened.

The plaza itself was filled with people. Arad moved through them, marveling at the appearance of those who had come to this place. Merchants from a dozen lands, from India and Serica and Egypt, haggled among themselves. Tribesmen in colorful turbans and beaded headdresses squatted or stood. Many men in armor with peace-bonded weapons chatted among themselves beside the bonfires that lit the square. Slaves in light blue tunics moved through the throng, carrying wine and honey-mead and plates of roasted lamb. Arad realized that these were the followers or servants of the
spabahadan
who had come to pledge themselves to the Empresses. Those, or embassies from surrounding lands, or those seeking favors from the new power that was trying to rise from the ashes of the old.

They have not wasted the trip!
Dahak laughed again, a cruel, chill sound. Arad mounted the steps that led up into the palace itself. Here, too, the doors stood open, though now a band of massive men in surcoats of red with a yellow sign marked on their chests blocked the way. The guardsmen, mercenaries, and followers in the square seemed small beside these men. Too, they seemed alert and aware and their captain, when he stepped out to block Arad's advance, did not dismiss the priest before him. Here was a man who knew all too well that treachery and deceit came in every shape and size.

"What is your business here?" The man's voice was the growl of a dire wolf. Rings of gold were on his fingers and twisted into his beard. Scars marked his forearms in the small space between heavy leather gauntlets and armor of overlapping metal plates sewn to a linen backing. The other men were not distracted from their watch, either, though two of them observed Arad carefully with their hands on the hilts of bone-handled swords. These men wore long face masks of close-set iron links that exposed only their eyes. The masks gave them an ominous look.

Pushtigbhan
, muttered Dahak and Arad could feel the sorcerer recede, slipping away from the man's consciousness.
The Imperial bodyguards
.

Arad bowed deeply to the man and said, "The captain at the gate of lions said that I could find shelter here in the hospitality of the noble Empresses Azarmidukht and Purandokht. If I have come in error, I will take myself away."

The
Pushtigbhan
captain grunted noncommittally and looked the priest up and down like a merchant in the marketplace viewing a fine ram. Arad could feel the man's almost perfect balance and the readiness with which violence could erupt.

"Do you have a patron?" It impressed Arad that such a deep sound could come from a man, even a man with a chest as broad as this one's. "Other than the word of that popinjay at the western gate."

"No, noble lord. I have just come to the city from the west and I know no one within these walls."

The captain nodded, and a stubby finger scratched the side of his nose. He made to speak, but there was a sudden shout from within the palace.

Arad leapt back, down the steps, and barely missed having his throat cut by the lightning-quick draw of the
Pushtigbhan
captain's longsword. His men spun, blades half-drawn, a shout on their lips.

A man staggered through the doorway and fell heavily on the steps. Two more of the
Pushtigbhan
came through the portal, dusting their hands of him. Unlike those who stood without, these men's faces were bare, showing their curled beards.

"The gracious and merciful Empress Purandokht bids you a good night, my lord Faridoon. Pray, take her mercy and have done—no one here is interested in the ravings of a madman."

Arad rose and straightened his tunic, hearing the sarcasm dripping from the soldiers' words. The man on the ground rose stiffly, brushing back long, wild hair from his face. He was quite old, past fifty, and his face was deeply lined by starvation and the cruel hand of long days spent unsheltered among the elements. His clothes had once been fine and well made, but a seeming eternity upon the open road had worn them down, leaving them patched and mended and ill-used. For all this, there was a fire in his eye as he stood, picking up his cap. His beard was ragged and shot with white, but there was the remnant of a noble bearing.

"Shout all you will at the night," he boomed, for Faridoon's voice was deep, deeper even than the guard-captain's. "Those things that walk in it are not afraid of the cries of children. Rather, my lords, they sup at fear, growing fat in the darkness. I have been to the great temple at Ganzak, not a score of days ago, and there is nothing in that place but dust. Heed me! Do you know what this means for the children of man?"

The
Pushtigbhan
guard strode down the steps and struck Faridoon on the face. The old man buckled at the blow and fell to his knees. Blood streamed down from a cut on his forehead. The guard stood over him, glowering, his hand raised for another blow.

"The fire that lit the dawn of the world has gone out." Faridoon remained on one knee, his eyes hard as he looked up at the guard. "Beside that one, all other lights are dim. Hope, noble lords, flickers and goes out. Strike me, if you will, but listen. There is little time left to us."

"Bah!" The guard turned on his heel and walked up the steps. The captain of the guard watched the other
Pushtigbhan
go back inside the palace. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms across his chest. The man Faridoon picked himself up again, wincing at the pain in his head. With a last look at the soaring walls of the palace and the lamps of crystal and silver that lighted the doorway, he turned away.

This one, we follow
. Dahak inched forward into Arad's consciousness.
But carefully
...

Arad shrugged and turned away from the palace door. Where his master willed, so he would go.

Can this be the one who plagued me so?
Arad felt the sorcerer seize control of his limbs, pushing him to break into a trot. They had followed the man Faridoon down into the warren of the lower city, through alleys and dark passages between crumbling brick buildings. Now they paused in shadow, watching their quarry lean against the wall of a doss-house with a weary air. The street was foul with slops and refuse, but a reed taper guttered before the door of the boarding house, giving a wan light.
If it is he, he has fallen far in the world
.

Despite the apparent satisfaction in those words, the sorcerer was loath to approach the tired old man. Arad waited patiently in the darkness, his tireless body willing to remain until the snows came again. Finally the old man pushed himself away from the wall and dug in the coin purse at his belt. Even in the poor light, Arad could see that only one or two copper coins were yielded up.

"Master Faridoon?" Arad stepped out into the little circle of light. The old man started and raised a hand to ward his face, but then lowered it slowly as he took in the poor robes and sandals of the priest. "Fear not! I am a fellow traveler and I saw the poor way they treated you at the palace. I am Arad."