The Gate of Fire (91 page)

"You are a spirit," said the boy, his voice calm. He had seen too much, now, to be startled by apparitions and visions. "What brings you here?"

The old man turned away, stepping to the door. At the jamb, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes bright as a bird. Dwyrin felt a constriction in his chest, as if the air had become thin.

There is a fire that fills the heart, driving man to overcome. This is the flame that must be sheltered and given fuel, exalted and inspired. This is the spear of fire
.

Then he was gone. Dwyrin blinked. The plain wooden door remained closed, apparently untouched. The air was hot, now, and close. The Hibernian stood and shuffled outside, pulling a ratty old tunic with moth-eaten holes in it over his head.

The night sky was bright with stars and the moon. For an instant, as he stepped out of the building, Dwyrin could have sworn that a glowing white light touched the tops of the olive trees and cypresses that surrounded the encampment. But now it was dark and very quiet.

Somewhere, at one of the farmhouses in the valley, a dog was barking furiously.

Dawn was touching the walls of the city when Nicholas returned to the Legion camp. He was bone tired from the effort of wearing half-armor all night and quite irritable. Nestled in the corner of the city, the camp itself was still resting in darkness and it was cold enough for him to see his breath. The centurion stomped up to the gate and waited while the guards on duty opened the wooden barrier.

"
Ave
," he snarled at them as he stalked inside. The alarms and excursions of the night just past had produced nothing and he thought of his bed—even a hard Legion cot in a drafty room—with longing. The two stonemasons on the watch saluted smartly and refrained from comment. Even Nicholas' jaunty mustaches were drooping.

Once in his chamber, he unstrapped his armor and let it fall in an untidy pile by the door. He noted that Vladimir was not in the pile of blankets the Northerner preferred and wondered if the Walach had risen early or if he simply had not come in yet.

Despite the seeming peacefulness of the surrounding countryside, every dog in the city had begun raising a howl an hour or so before dawn. In response, the governor had sent a runner to request Nicholas' presence at his residence. After several hours of rooting about in the dark and questioning guardsmen and wayward youths who had been up far past their bedtimes, Nicholas had determined that some kind of light in the sky had started the whole thing. No one, however, had seen anything beyond that. There were no Persian spies or bandits or apparitions in evidence. He had discovered that the city was incredibly dark by night and had an unexpected number of stairs. The governor's guards had insisted that someone had been up on the temple platform, that they had heard voices shouting, but there was no sign that anyone had been there.

The squad of men that he had taken up into the city was still there, nosing about in the old ruins. Later in the day, when he had driven the headache away with sleep, he would roust out the engineers and set them to checking the walls for secret entrances or fallen-down sections. The guards at the city gates had not reported any entries after dark. He could not say why, but he knew that something was up. Some prickling on the back of his neck made him uneasy.

Arad sat in deep shade, his hands in his lap, wearing little more than a kilt of black cotton and a leather belt. He sat in a gazebo nestled in a garden behind the old palace. The hoary old granite pile of the palace itself and its halls and chambers lay just to the south. Here, encircled by the walls of the citadel and—on the east and north—by the outer rampart of the city, there was a tiny space filled with flowers and fruit trees and ornamentals of all kinds. In these later days, it had seen little use and many of the plants had gone to seed, or run wild, giving the garden an overgrown look.

The gazebo was old and many of the painted latticework boards were rotting away. Still, within its domed space, ringed about by flowering vines and rosebushes, there was as much privacy and solitude as could be found in the citadel. When the twin Empresses had taken up residence, they had filled half of the old palace with their servants and courtiers and hangers-on. Now that Lord Dahak had come with his army, every inch of the citadel was filled to bursting with his followers. Every nook and cranny and larder had someone sleeping in it.

Each day, now that the word had gone out that the Birds of Paradise had gained a patron of strength, more of the great lords of the land—the
spabahadan
and the
mobeds
—appeared at the gates. Each came with a strong guard and many servants, richly dressed and filled with surety of their own importance. Those men were forced to wait, for the twin Empresses had a sufficiency of things to do with their time now that Dahak had settled between them like a sheltering eagle. The idlers of the court had found little shrift in the new regime and all that remained were Dahak's men, or those who bowed before him.

In the late afternoon, as the sun settled in the west and the sky began to darken, the Empresses were wont to sit in the gazebo, surrounded by their maid-servants, in the company of their newly beloved uncle. In this time, the
spabahadan
were allowed an audience, one nobleman at a time, without any advisors or retainers. The Birds of Paradise would interview, it was understood, and choose those whom they would grace with favor.

This was such a time and Arad sat in the shadows at the rear of the gazebo, silent and still, watching with unwavering eyes.

Lord Dahak sat at ease on a chair of ivory at one side of the gazebo proper. It was draped with a cloth of black silk but bore no other cushion. As was his wont, the sorcerer was dressed in long robes of black and deep gray, with his hair tied back behind his head by a thin scarlet ribbon. Since he had come among the lowland peoples, his appearance had subtly changed, now the seeming of a nobleman lay upon him and his eyes were a dark brown that matched his hair. He wore little jewelry save a single ring on one hand and sometimes, like today, a brooch of worked gold to clasp his cloak at his shoulder. A glass of wine sat close by the chair on a four-legged table of simple wood. Arad had never seen him drink from it.

The change in the twin Empresses was more remarkable, more so that no one in the palace save Arad—and, one presumed, Dahak—had marked upon it. Today, sitting in the slatted sunlight, with a slight breeze passing through the gazebo, each sat at ease on wide chairs of gold and porphyry. They enjoyed silk cushions and glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade cooled by shaved ice. Each wore a simple high-necked traditional gown, finely cut from sheer pale yellow silk. Polished emeralds glittered at their ears and necks, accenting a simple necklace and earrings of beaten gold. Their hair was swept back, making a swan's wing over their shoulders and bound behind in a net of golden thread anchored by garnets. The thick makeup that had turned their faces into masks when Arad had first seen them was gone. A trace of color accented their dark eyes and almost invisible powders smoothed their cheeks, but no more.

Beyond this, each seemed to glow from within with an alluring beauty. Compared to the staggering wealth that they had displayed before, now they showed simple elegance. The plain appearance that they had fought against with overwrought display was gone, replaced by something that drew the hearts of men like a magnet. The scaled black bracelet that Dahak had brought rode like a scepter on Azarmidukht's wrist. So too did Purandokht wear hers as a beloved token. Not too much time passed when they did not, consciously or unconsciously, touch the slick dark metal. Their servants sat quietly, out of the way but ready for a motion or a word to summon them.

The
diquan
Piruz, who had watched the western gate when Arad first entered the city, knelt before the Birds of Paradise. Many great lords had passed this way before his turn had come, but their names and ranks and provinces were meaningless to Arad. Now, with this half-remembered face before the court, the man in the shadows roused himself to pay attention.

"Lord Piruz, welcome," Azarmidukht began, making a slight incline with her head. "Our regrets that we have not spoken with you before. Things have been so busy of late. Pray, tell us of yourself, your lands, and your dreams."

The nobleman blushed, unable to meet the liquid brown eyes of the Empress, and stared down at the worked
tesserae
of the gazebo floor. It was a hunting scene in green and brown and gold. Men on fine white horses plunged through hedgerows and brush, bows drawn, long-bodied hounds at their feet. Their prey, snarling and rampant, were lions. Arad could see sweat beading Piruz's neck, just above the collar of his ornately embroidered tunic. He was very nervous.

"Flame of the East," he bowed to Azarmidukht.

"Radiance of the World," he turned and bowed to Purandokht. "I come from the furthest eastern reach of your great Empire, from the frontier city of Balkh. We are far from your glorious court, but we are loyal Persians. We hold the fords of Oxus against the Huns and other barbarians of the north..." Arad turned his attention away. It was an old and sorry business—the young lord desired a wife and set his sights high. The Empresses sought husbands as well, but Arad did not think that this border chieftain held lands enough, men enough, or riches enough to entice them.

It was enough that Lord Dahak was watching the northerner closely, his mind and will intent on the man. Arad settled within himself, drawing back his attention and thought from the world without. The sun between the slats of the gazebo faded, as did the sound of singing birds and the smell of hyacinth and roses. He took it slowly, letting his connection with the outer world fade, releasing even conscious control over his limbs until his
ka
was distilled into an insignificant mote, deep within his corporeal form.

Here, in this black abyss, he was free of the sorcerer and his binding. There was nothing that he could control or touch or affect, but the chill presence of that reptilian mind was gone.
This was reward enough!
Arad felt sure that he could abandon his body and life entirely by retreating here forever. He considered it now, as he had done each day since he had found this refuge. If he ceased to exist, then a powerful weapon would be denied the malignant being.

Too, dreams and phantasms emerged from the darkness. A woman came to him, her black hair a cloud shot with a golden crown, smiling, bright blue eyes flashing. His heart soared to see her, though he could not touch her hand or cheek. The faces of men wavered in his thought—an Arab, his dark beard framing a smiling face—a boy with long red braids—these had been his friends, when his flesh was warm and his heart beat. Here, in memory, he could be with them always, free of pain and hurt.

But if he fled, then there would be no chance, no possibility that Arad could ever break the bonds upon his mind and avenge himself upon the dark power. If he abandoned the struggle and gave up the hope of escape, then the thing in the shape of a man would have won another kind of victory.

Arad did not choose annihilation. He chose to continue.

A pressure changed in the air and Arad swam back up out of the inky depths, restoring awareness of sight and sound and the world of physical forms. Lord Piruz was standing, holding a scarf the color of crushed onyx in his hand. The northerner bent his head over the slim white hand of Empress Purandokht, taking his leave. He seemed stunned, a beatific smile on his face. As he went out, the lean dark shape of Lord Dahak leaned close, whispering in his ear.

Arad paid no mind; it was the sorcerer's usual wicked business. The triangular shape of a leafy vine on the trellis, glowing with the last rays of the sun, held far more interest.

Bonfires spotted the plain before the lion-gates of the old city. Thousands of tents dotted the fields and ringed the walls. The encampments of the Lords of Persia, even reduced by the slaughter of the war against Rome, were still great. Clouds had covered the sky near sunset and now the night was as black as pitch. The gate passage stood open, flanked by its stone guardians, lit by lines of torches. General Khadames, the commander of the army of the Empresses of Persia, paced along the paved corridor, deep in thought.

No word had come from the north. C'hu-lo was late in sending a messenger. Lord Dahak had not confided the substance of the Hun's task to Khadames, but each day the sorcerer swept into the crowded rooms where the general was working long hours. Each day Lord Dahak leaned on his tall iron staff and raised an elegant black eyebrow to Khadames. All the general could do was shrug and return to the business at hand. Usually that business was settling some ancient dispute between the
diquans
, freshly renewed by proximity in the camps around the city.

A man on a massive black charger was waiting at the gate itself, shrouded in a midnight blue cloak and a disreputable felt hat. A leather bowcase was slung at the back of his saddle beside a hand-and-a-half sword wrapped in ragged cloth. The horse's withers were caked with mud and its coat was spotted and dull. Horse and rider had come a long way. Under the brim of the hat, cold eyes glittered.

Khadames halted at the edge of the light spilling from the gate, his thick arms crossed over his chest. He was tired and footsore from tramping around the barren floors of the palace. He could feel the presence of his bodyguards—a dozen men who had followed him from Damawand—behind him. As was his wont, he was wearing a heavy shirt of iron scale mail. It was like a second nature for him now, after so many years.

"You've news for me?" Khadames squinted at the dark figure. He was getting used to the odd comings and goings that seemed parcel in trade for the business of sorcerers. These days it would be startling if someone showed up not on a secret errand. "From whom?"

There was a muted laugh from the dark shape and white teeth flickered in the shadow under the hat. A hand, gloved in fine metal links over leather, emerged from the weather-stained cloak and tossed something to the general. Khadames plucked it easily from the air and then opened his fist. It was a commemorative, a specially struck coin, octagonal and of heavy gold. On one side it bore the eternal flame of Ahura-Mazda and on the other, along with a line of script, the profile of a man with fierce jutting mustaches. Khadames felt a chill pass over him. He held the coin up to the figure on the horse.