The Dark Lord

'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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Near Iblis

'Begone! You are no protector, no friend!' Mohammed, strength returning to his limbs, pushed Moha 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.' Moha 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.'

Moha 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 Zoe, eating a hasty breakfast. Everything else was shadow, fog, indeterminate. 'No...' he said, grudgingly. The admission felt dangerous.

'I understand,' Moha 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!' Moha 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!'

Moha 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!'