Devil's Bargain (33 page)

She did not like to be left here, but she had made her choice. “Wait for me,” she said to the jinni.

She paused briefly, gathering the last scraps of her courage. Without the jinni there was no escape: the slope of the mountain dropped away sheer. The garden glowed before her, illumining on a low and ominous sky.

To pass the wall and the wards, she must seem perfectly harmless: a waft of wind, a ray of light, a dust mote drifting innocuously into the garden. Her mind emptied of thought.
She felt nothing, knew nothing, was nothing but softly shifting air.

It was dangerous, that working. A spirit could lose its knowledge of self and become in truth what it seemed to be. Yet she could not cling to any part of her awareness, lest the wards find it and destroy her.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SEVEN

S
ioned drifted through the walls of air. They were like ice-cold fire. If she had had a self to know pain, she would have cried out in agony. But she was nothing, no one, no more than a breath wafting over the undying grass.

She fell to ground that, however supernal in its origins, was mortally hard. The walls rippled and shimmered behind her. She seemed as much herself as ever. The child was safe within wards and the womb. If some part of her had lost itself to the wall, she was not aware of it.

Slowly she rose. The garden was not precisely as Ahmad had recalled it. The unnatural green, the strange flowers, the dizzying sweetness, yes—he had remembered those rightly. But something was different. There had been no spirits in his memory, no powers but Sinan and the garden itself. Now, as she looked about, every leaf, every flower shimmered with the passage of beings who were not of earth nor yet of heaven.

They were thickest about the tree, which stood as in her vision, laden with leaves and flowers and fruit. Sweeter than roses, sweeter than jasmine, the scent was stunning, intoxicating, glorious.

She did not see the serpent until she was almost close enough to touch it. All the spirits leaped and swirled and spun, bound by the power of the thing that the serpent guarded, yet singing in their captivity. They made her think of Christian angels before their god, though no Christian would have approved of the thought.

The serpent was asleep, as far as she could tell. Its lidless eyes were open perpetually, but its head rested on the lumpen plainness of the Seal, its long body draped over bole and branches, its tail hanging down, limp and still. It was even more beautiful than in her vision: body of ebony, bands of ruby and citrine and pearl, and eyes like ruddy amber. Between those eyes shone a moonstone as large as a pullet’s egg, which glowed like the moon, the light of it waxing and waning as the serpent breathed.

Before she passed through the wall, without even thinking of what she did, she had picked up a stone the same size and color and shape as the Seal. It was still clutched in her hand, heavy as iron, and cold. Her warmth had not touched it. Yet as she held it up, near despair, for the serpent would know that this chill thing was not the Seal, warmth seeped through it. The power of the garden worked even on so mortal a thing.

The serpent’s eyes seemed to stare into hers, seeking the inner places of her soul. It was asleep, she told herself. She began a soft, winding song, a song of sleep, serpent-sleep: darkness shimmering with light, and dreams of small struggling prey.

The spirits slowed their dance about the tree, captured by the spell. The moonstone’s pulsing took the rhythm of waves in the sea, a long surge and sigh. Sioned reached up among the branches. The luminous fruit swayed, brushing against her lips, tempting her to bite into it, to discover if its taste was as sweet as its fragrance.

It was not wisdom that kept her from succumbing to temptation. She was so far gone in terror that she was perfectly calm. She could not think of anything but the serpent and the stone. If her singing faltered, if her spell failed, the serpent would wake with her hand among its coils.

The Seal was cold—as cold as the stone had been. Was she to be betrayed after all?

No doubts. No fears. The Seal was nested in a notch in the trunk. Wood had grown about it. She worked her fingers down as far as they would go, taking no notice of pain. The Seal was caught fast.

She drew the dagger she wore at her belt. It was Ahmad’s gift, lovely with its ivory hilt, and wickedly sharp. Its shimmering Indian steel sank easily into the wood of the tree and pried loose the Seal.

The serpent stirred, flexing its coils. She froze. The forked tongue flicked once, twice, thrice. The third time it did not withdraw; it lay as slack as the serpent’s tail.

Swiftly but not hastily—never hastily, lest she fail—she slipped the mortal stone into the gap where the Seal had been. It fit well enough. The Seal had a cord of plaited silver, black with age but still supple. It seemed perfectly natural to slip the cord about her neck and let the Seal slide down beneath her chemise to rest between her breasts.

It was only briefly cold. Its magic did not touch her—strange, but a great relief. She sheathed the dagger and drew back from the tree. The spell of sleep was still coiling through her. She turned toward the edge of the garden, where the walls rose, shimmering like the dance of spirit-lights in the northland sky.

Her singing had paused as she contemplated her escape from those walls. A hiss was her only warning. She dropped and rolled through pure instinct.

The serpent’s strike arched above her head. A drop of venom splashed her hand. The pain of it was beyond agony. It seared through her body.

The serpent snapped back into its coils. She could not stand; the poison had robbed her legs of strength. She crawled, hand over hand.

The serpent struck again. She had not known what strength she still had in her, until she found herself coiled in a ball out of the serpent’s reach.

Spirits swirled like water about her. The Seal—they were bound to it.

The Seal . . .

Somehow she managed to stand. How her knees held her, she did not know. Her hand clasped the Seal beneath coat and chemise. She looked into the serpent’s eyes and said, “Be still.”

The serpent stilled. Its eyes glittered, but its mind and volition were hers. “Guard the stone,” she said. “Protect it from all who come. Forget my face, my presence, but remember my voice. Remember my command. Guard the stone.”

Slowly the serpent’s head lowered to the stone, coming to rest on it. The moonstone’s light flared as if in a great sigh, then dimmed almost to nothing.

Sioned could not collapse, not yet, even with the serpent’s venom closing her throat and dimming her eyes. There was one last spell which she must raise, which would take everything she had. But she must do it.

She wrought an illusion. It was a simple thing, and shallow, but its surface gleamed convincingly. It declared to any who sought this place that the Seal was still there and its power still lay on the garden. It would, gods willing, persuade Sinan that the heart of his power was safe. Only if he came to the garden in his own flesh and person would the illusion fail. She had to pray that he would not do such a thing; that the affairs of the world so preoccupied him that he would not be moved to take a moment’s rest.

For one who wore the Seal, the walls of air were no barrier. She walked through them on feet that had gone numb, stumbling but keeping grimly erect.

The jinni was waiting just without. He caught her as she fell, and leaped into the air, clasping her close, not speaking a word.

Much too late and on the edge of nothingness, she understood. She had the Seal, that thing which the jinni loathed and feared above all else. She had the power to compel him and all his kind. The jinni, knowing it, hating the very thought of it, nevertheless kept his word. He had come back for her. He was taking her away to safety.

Master Judah barely blinked at the personage who brought the king’s sister to him for tending. It was wearing as human a form as it could bear, enough like a very large and very ruddy Frank to pass casual muster, but the master’s eye was never casual.

At the moment however he was far more concerned with Sioned than with her unearthly guard. “She’s burning alive,” he said. “What—”

“Poison,” said the jinni in its great organ chord of a voice. “Venom of the serpent that lives in the garden.”

The master started slightly, then shook his head. “I thought I heard—”

“You heard rightly,” the jinni said. “Be quick, mortal man. Heal her.”

“As you say,” the master said, “I am a mortal man. If this is what you say it is—”

“You know,” said the jinni. “Heal her.”

The master was never one to argue with the inarguable. He called for assistants, but the jinni would not let Sioned go. He shrugged and said, “Come.”

When there was no battle to fill the surgeons’ tents, or when the army was healthy enough not to overwhelm the physicians with a plethora of diseases, the most direly ill had the luxury of a separate and smaller tent. It was as airy as anything could be at Beit Nuba in the summer, and scrupulously clean: even as the master brought his new patient in, one of the apprentices finished spreading the beds with fresh linen.

There were soldiers in the beds, one just past the crisis for dysentery, the other wounded in a raid and uncertain yet as to whether he wanted to live or die. The master bade the jinni lay Sioned at some distance from these.

She was shuddering with the onslaught of the fever, but she had clawed her way to consciousness. As Judah bent over her, she clutched his hand. “My brother,” she said. “Fetch—”

The rest was lost in gagging and coughing, but Judah did not need to hear it. The assistant who was nearest did not need to be told; he turned and ran.

To the next nearest, Judah said, “See if the cooks have any snow left. Tell them sherbet can wait; this lady cannot. If they have none, we’ll sink her in the cistern. But—”

“Snow,” said the jinni, “we can fetch. The cooks should send strong broths and lees of wine.”

Judah’s brow went up. “So; you have some skill in healing.”

“I watch mortals,” said the jinni. “Heal her.”

“When I have the snow,” Judah said, “we can begin—”

The jinni did not stir, but Judah’s mouth had fallen open. What had been the corner of a tent in the hills of Judea, well along toward noon of a day in midsummer, was now the summit of a mountain, white and gleaming with snow.

Judah wasted no time in gawping. He got a grip on both of the assistants who stood as stunned as he had been, and flung them toward the patient. They at least had training enough to know what he wanted, and sense enough not to flinch for modesty’s sake. They stripped her to her chemise and packed her in snow, then fed her such medicines as there could be for such a poison: herbs to strengthen her heart, and a potion for the restoration of her humours, and leeches and a lancet for the hand that had taken the brunt of the poison. The leeches shriveled and died; the lancet released a gush of foulness. It was little enough, but even a little might make the difference between life and death.

Richard wasted very little time in coming at the master’s call. There was a flock of courtiers in his wake, which the assistants held back, by force if need be. Richard ignored them. He dropped down by Sioned’s side. “God’s bones! What have you done to her?”

“She’s poisoned,” Judah said. “We’re bringing the fever down. We’ve given her medicines, such as we have. The rest is for her to do.”

“Poisoned? Who—what—”

“She walked in the garden,” the jinni said, “and the serpent struck at her. She is fortunate: its venom merely touched her hand. If its fangs had sunk in her, she would have died where she stood.”

“What—” said Richard.

Sioned’s hand gripped his arm. Even Judah had thought her sunk in coma, but she had clung to the shreds of awareness. “I brought it back,” she said through chattering teeth. “I—brought—take it. It’s under my chemise. Take it!”

Richard frowned. Judah, suddenly emptied of patience, found the blackened silver chain about her neck. Her eyes were clouded, blind, but she smiled in his direction. He drew forth the thing that she had come near to killing herself to win.

It looked like a clay seal such as merchants might use to mark a jar of wine. There was no elegance or grace in it, nor any beauty of design, only letters in Hebrew of an ancient style.

He did not want to read them. If he did so, his world would change beyond retrieving. Yet as he held the seal by its chain, the letters burned through the mirror of his sight, deep into his mind.

This was not a Christian thing. It was not Muslim, either. It was of his people, from the days of Solomon the wise king, about whom so many legends were woven.

This one, it seemed, was true. He held the Seal of Solomon in his hand, the seal with which the great king bound the powers of earth and heaven. He looked from it to the face of the Christian king, and with no thought at all, gave it into Richard’s hand.

“Put it on,” Sioned gasped. “Promise you won’t take it off. Promise!”