The Gate of Fire (70 page)

The magi drew himself up, puffing out his chest and rapped his staff on the floor with asperity.

"No one, not even another priest, may enter the presence of their Majesties without first passing me. These are dangerous times, and all precautions must be taken. If I say it, you may—perhaps—look upon the radiance of their Imperial presence."

Arad smiled faintly. The presence of the sorcerer had receded in the face of this new development, but the priest could feel mocking laughter at a great distance.

"Of course," Arad said, looking upon the little round man with interest. "What steps need be taken?"

The magi sniffed and frowned in concentration. Arad raised an eyebrow as he felt the patterns of force in the foyer shift and tremble. The little man commanded some power. The other man's breathing slowed, and a gelid sphere of pale white light sprang into being around the two men. For an instant, Arad felt the tendril of thought that tied him to the sorcerer weaken and bend, almost severed by the expansion of the ward. A burst of hope in his heart was stilled and then mercilessly crushed as the sorcerer wrenched the tendril of control out of phase with the ward that the little magi had established.

"I am not without powers..." the round-faced magi gasped for breath, and one hand drew a sign in the air—"I can ken threat and malice and falsehood."

The sign in the air hummed and buzzed, and Arad felt his skin crawl. The sign was the linchpin of an invocation of similarity. It was in the old language that the sorcerer spoke in his mind and called to harm and treachery and slaughter and betrayal. Arad stood silently, leaning on his staff. At last the magi huffed and puffed and let go of a long, shuddering breath. The sign faded away quickly, and the sphere of ward passed away as well. Arad blinked, seeing sweat beading the man's face.

"This is taxing to you," Arad stated. The man was strong, but his skills were poor and ill trained. Such effort as he had expended should have sufficed to lay low every miscreant within the palace and the grounds without. Yet it had found nothing, sliding aside from the sorcerer's skill like water over the surface of a granite boulder. "Are you well?"

The magi drew a rich-colored handkerchief out of his robe and dabbed at his forehead. "In the service of their Majesties, all men must give all that they can. You mean them no harm. I will announce you to their august presence. Do you have a letter or token?"

"Yes, Holy One." Arad gave over the sheet of parchment. "My name is Arad."

The little man nodded and took the sheet without looking at it, then opened the door. He did not think to introduce himself. The sound of flutes and lyres and people talking in overly loud voices spilled out for a moment before the panel closed with a click.

Harm?
Dahak settled into Arad's mind, radiating smug satisfaction. For a moment Arad glimpsed dark buildings passing and the swaying motion of a horse between his legs.
I have nothing but the most dear love for my nieces. It pains me, dear Arad, that we missed one of those puling maggots... later I will find how his marrow tastes
.

The door opened again, much quicker than Arad would have supposed, and the little magi poked his head out and beckoned. Arad entered, his staff making a soft
tinking
sound on the floor of polished sea-green marble. His eyebrows rose again, taking in the unfettered opulence that oozed and spilled from the walls.

Five walls bounded the room, rising up a double height, and they were covered in rich, alternating panels of polished wood—both dark and light. Clear lanterns of colored glass burned, casting a shifting elusive glow over the men and women seated at ease within. Two thrones of gold dominated the room, sitting on a raised pedestal. During the day, tall triangular windows would allow light to flood into the room, silhouetting the high seat. Arad paced forward to the edge of an ermine carpet that lay before the thrones and the two women sitting in them. He bowed, kneeling and touching his forehead to the sea-green floor.

You are quite the courtier, dear Arad,
the sorcerer thought, snickering, but his attention was elsewhere, on his horse, which was clattering up the rampart road on the palace hill. The gate captain had been easily swayed once Lord Dahak turned his attention upon him.

"Rise," came a languid voice, and Arad stood, looking upon the two young women who would rule this vast and strange land. To his left sat Princess Azarmidukht, a glittering creature draped in purple silk and jewels, and with long red fingernails. Like her mother, Imperial Princess Maria, she possessed a striking, strong face dominated by a fine Greek nose. She was not beautiful in a classic way, but the fervor in her dark brown eyes and the opulent display that her bosom made, glittering with amethyst and ruby and topaz, strove to overcome that lack. Her hair was invisible behind an elaborate crown of white gold and tiny pearls. Likewise, her face and eyes were carefully enhanced by artful paints. Arad bowed low again before her. "Glory to your name, Radiance of the World."

To his right sat Purandokht, her twin sister, though Arad marked that her eyes were a watery green. They did not match well with the floor, but he forbore mentioning this. Purandokht, too, was encrusted with finery and gold and gems of a thousand colors. Each sat at ease, though Arad could taste fear in the air from the courtiers and nobles who made up their court. To her, he bowed low again and then stood. "Glory to your name, Flame of the East."

A servant kneeling on the step below Azarmidukht held the parchment in his hands. The Princess made a small motion with her hand, barely moving a fingernail. "You bring us news of our uncle, priest?" Her voice was strong, but none would call it melodious. "We are puzzled, thinking him long dead, banished beyond the edge of the world."

"Yes," Purandokht said smoothly, following on her sister's words without a pause. "What favor does he seek of our Royal mercy?" The green-eyed Princess smiled, though it was hard to make out on her henna-etched lips.

"I beg your indulgence, Crowns of the Firmament of Heaven, your noble uncle had heard that some ignorant men disputed your claim to the throne of your father. He comes to lend you his arm in support of your rightful patrimony."

Arad bowed again, his forehead barely grazing the cool tile of the floor. It seemed appropriate. There was a rustling in the court—their neighbors had roused many who had fallen asleep during the revels. Arad had only glanced around for an instant as he had walked from the door up the long aisle among the couches and low tables, but he knew that none of the great
spabahadan
were present. The true powers in the land were waiting to see if the Empresses could gather any strength at all.

Azarmidukht's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward slightly, a movement that sent a trill of chiming metal and crystal across the room.

"How strong is this arm? Does he command more than a rabble? None have seen him for nearly twenty years, if my memory of ancient times does serve."

Arad, still facing the floor, smiled bitterly at the brash words. How could anyone not know the power of Lord Dahak, now that he moved in the world?

"Light of the Coming Sun, your uncle comes with a strength of twenty thousand men, all pledged to your cause."

All around the room was a titter of incredulity and some small hiss of fear. The disaster at Kerenos River and the failed campaigns of the dead King Chrosoes had beggared Persia for men and treasure. Once an army of twenty thousand would be the matter of mustering a great Prince's country estates, but now it was a force to be reckoned with and more. Purandokht had opened her mouth to make a scathing remark, but now she closed it with a snap and sought her sister's eye.

Azarmidukht remained composed and raised an eyebrow. "And when, priest, may we expect our uncle to attend us?"

Arad rose, leaving the staff lying on the floor, and met the eyes of the two Queens. "Within moments, Blessed of the Flame That Does Not Die. I hurried ahead to bring you this news, lest there be confusion, fear, or unwary words. Here, your uncle bade me bring you these tokens of the love that he holds for you."

Arad removed a package of cloth-of-gold from his robe and ascended the steps. The
Pushtigbhan
behind the thrones, a full score of them, tensed. Purandokht caught the eye of their captain and shook her head slightly. Arad knelt on the step at their feet, fighting hard to keep from sneezing. A slowly shifting cloud of myrrh and rose-attar surrounded the Princesses. He unwrapped the package, untying silk twine and showing first an inner covering of silver mesh and then, in his upraised hands, two slim black bracelets.

Purandokht started in utter surprise, her hand flying to her mouth, the rattle of her garments as she made to rise echoing loud in the expectant quiet of the court. Her sister's fingers tightened on the arms of the throne, and a thin hiss of rage escaped her lips.

"Where...?" Azarmidukht could barely speak.

Arad separated the cloths, taking one bracelet in cloth-of-gold and the other in silver mesh. He turned to his left, to Azarmidukht, and held the bracelet up to her.

"In the last days of her life your mother gave this into the keeping of your uncle. She commanded him to bring them to you when her husband, your father, at last lay dead. Rustam protested, knowing that these things should go to you straightaway, but she insisted. Now he sends them to you, a token of his love and hers. Pray, lady, take it as your mother intended."

Arad cursed himself for a coward, raging at himself in his mind. Still, he could not prevent his hands from slipping the thin black bracelet—its fine mesh of scales glinting in the light of the lanterns—around the pale white wrist of the Princess. Azarmidukht stared down at it as it closed on her wrist, sliding snug, and in her eyes the priest could see the reflection of a band of white gold blazing with emeralds. In that brief moment Arad saw into the heart of the Princess and felt the crushing weight of love long thought denied. The sorcerer's will kept him from tears at this betrayal, but he turned and slid the other onto the waiting arm of Purandokht, who was already crying, her tears cutting deep tracks in the arsenic paste makeup that kept her skin so pure and white.

"Your uncle bade me say this." Arad's voice sank to a whisper that did not reach beyond the ears of the two young women. "As she lay dying, your mother said to him that she loved you both very much and was so proud of you. She regretted the long coldness she had showed you, but it was necessary. To come to this day, as you stand Empresses of all Persia, it was vital that she make you strong. These tokens, things that were denied you in life, she passed on that you would know, today, that you were her most beloved."

Arad felt the doors to the hall open, and he stood, turning, and took the hands of the two Princesses. Even Azarmidukht was crying now, though she did not speak. Purandokht was gasping for breath, feeling the long years of bitter hatred she had held for her mother crumble and collapse. The rush of emotion washed over Arad like a shock of icy water, and his hatred for the sorcerer had never been greater. Even so, he helped them rise.

Lord Dahak entered the chamber. Khadames and a dozen
Pushtigbhan
were at his back. He strode across the marble; rich brown hair tied back behind his head, ruddy pink in his cheeks, and knelt with impeccable grace before the two princesses. "Beloved nieces, it has been too long. You were so small when I saw you last." His voice filled the room with a rich baritone, and every heart there leapt at the surety of command ringing in those words. Dahak raised his eyes, meeting each Princess in turn. Behind them, Arad stepped away behind the golden thrones, unleashed from his master's will for just a moment. Dahak brought the two young women into a close embrace, bending his head to speak softly to each. Azarmidukht was sobbing now, seeing love and acceptance and guileless welcome in the sorcerer's eyes.

In this light, under these lanterns, the face of the sorcerer was the very image of the dead king.

The wagon rattled through hills of debris rising higher than a villa roof. The road here was elevated on an embankment and sealed with close-fitted paving stones. Krista dozed lightly, leaning back on a frayed cushion wedged against the wooden back of the driver's seat. The little black cat was a warm presence on her chest, where it had curled up inside her cloak. This close to the city a haze of wood smoke clouded the sky and lent the air a bitter taste. The road ran straight as a die, coming out of the valley behind and running ahead to the rising wall of the city. A vast tumbled pile of broken pottery, wine jars, and amphorae rose up on the left. To their right, acres of discarded furniture, substandard building tile, cracked brick, and splintered barrels humped toward the horizon. Among the hills, curls of smoke rose up from funerary temples and the camps of rag pickers and vagrants.

Even with most of the debris of the city being carried down to Portus on barges returning to the great port to pick up new shipments of trade goods, the waste heap of the ancient capital was enormous. Clouds of tiny brown birds swept and dove over the hills, sometimes blocking the sun.

Krista had a bag on her lap as well, with her hand inside, riding on the hilt of a cheap iron knife. The wagoneer was a surly man with an evil black beard and a sullen disposition. He had taken her copper coin and let her ride with him, but he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye and, despite being exhausted, she did not sleep. Even this catnap seemed to have encouraged him, and she felt the wagon slow. She cracked an eyelid and measured the distance to the Via Appia gate. No more than a mile, she supposed.
I could get out and walk
, she thought.

She yawned, stretching, and sat up. The driver's hand snatched away from over her knee. Krista stared at him, and he looked away. Clouds were edging into the sky from the east, threatening to cut off the pale sunlight. Krista shivered and wished she had thought to bring a heavier cloak. It could be quite cold in Rome, even in summer. The wagon jounced and banged as it crossed a bad section of road. Krista slid the little cat into her bag, ignoring the plaintive
mew
of protest.