The Dark Lord (31 page)

The Shanzdah vanished into the darkness beyond the campfires and Khalid followed more by hearing than sight. Thorny brush tugged at his clothes and spiked plants stabbed at his boots as they crossed the plain. Khalid's night vision slowly settled and he found himself approaching another camp, unlit by fires or lights. Even the stars seemed dim. The moon was down, making the land ghostly in faint starlight. The night grew colder with each step and Khalid steeled himself, recognizing their destination.

Your ally,
a girlish voice laughed in his head, making Khalid blink, trying to drive a vision of the Queen from his memory.
The... prince.

The messenger paused, raising a hand in the darkness. Starlight gleamed from a mailed fist. Patik stopped as well. After a moment, Khalid became aware of a soft noise—something like crickets or beetles rustling on the ground. A very faint sound of chirping flirted with the edge of his hearing. The messenger moved sideways and Patik followed. Khalid peered ahead in the gloom and made out a tall iron pole thrust into sandy ground. Black against black, the metal rose to head height.

Shaking his head again—the intermittent chirping grew louder—Khalid followed the others. The Shanzdah weaved off to the left, stepping around bushes and stones, then back to the right. They passed another metal pole, then two more. Khalid felt chilled and drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. Then the chirping stopped and the cold deepened.

A dozen yards away, a black wagon sat within a cluster of felt tents.

The T'u-chüeh,
Khalid thought, wrinkling up his nose. Even in this winter-like air, he smelled rancid butter and urine. He closed his nostrils, then put his head down as they walked swiftly through the encampment. Nothing stirred among the yurts, but Khalid caught glints of metal and lamplight out of the corner of his eye. He did not see any horses, which was puzzling.
But what animal could stand to exist within this dread circle? How can these barbarians? Yet more arrive each day... flies drawn to rotting meat.

The wagon loomed up, easily twice the height of a tall man, and Khalid saw wooden steps—ornately carved with spiky letters and coiling, eye-dizzying designs—leading up to a door. The Shanzdah stepped aside, his mailed arm raised.

"They are waiting," the creature said. The voice was very faint, rasping and scuttling inside the iron helmet.

Khalid tried to clear his throat, grimaced and mounted the steps two at a time. Patik followed, quiet as a shade. For the first time, the young Arab did not feel safer with the Persian at his back. Instead, his shoulder blades crawled with a prickling sensation.

"Lord al'Walid, come in!" A cheerful voice greeted the Arab as he stepped into warm, golden light. Inside the wagon was a spacious room, rich with bright carpets on the floor, the walls hung with heavy embroidered fabric. Lamps hung from the ceiling, burning bright with scented oil. The slim, elegant figure of Prince Rustam sat cross-legged behind a low writing desk. He had set aside his cloak, wearing only a slate-colored shirt. His hair was loose, falling behind his head in an ebon cloud. "Please, sit."

Khalid looked around, quietly calculating the cost of the golden lamps, the fine carpets, the polished wood paneling. Still in the doorway, he eased off his boots, as was polite, then knelt on a plush, deep-woven Samarkand. Long-bodied hounds intertwined with flowering trees on the carpet. The silk threads felt like fine glass under his fingers. "Good evening, my lord."

"Do you thirst? Do you hunger?" Rustam gestured to one side and Khalid almost hissed aloud in surprise. Zoë knelt against the wall, leaning on one hand, cheek resting on her shoulder, watching him with a smile. Her hair fell behind her shoulder and arm in a black wave. In this golden light, her skin seemed to have grown pale—almost alabaster—with a milky shine. For a moment, Khalid couldn't speak, then he seemed to come back to himself, from far away.

"No?" Prince Rustam nodded gravely. "Lord Shahin, please sit. It's you I've summoned, in truth. But since you have been so ably serving Master Khalid, I felt it best to speak with both of you at the same time."

"Who?" Khalid looked around again, but found only Patik kneeling beside him. The Persian's expression was bleak with unexpected despair. His high cheekbones were pronounced and Khalid realized the mercenary was gritting his teeth. "Who is... Patik? You... you
are
the Great Prince Shahin!"

"Yes," the big Persian said, deep baritone filling the room. He looked sideways at Khalid, then away. "Do not laugh."

"Why would I laugh?" Khalid put a hand over his mouth. He was trying not to guffaw. The man was his friend. They had shared wine, water, bread... thousands of miles in wretched desolation. Khalid did not want to offend Patik—
no, Shahin,
he reminded himself. "You've always been a mystery! So the secret of your so-extensive education is revealed. Well. Well, well."

Rustam coughed politely, and both men froze, then turned to face him. The prince's affable manner remained and Khalid breathed a little easier. Even Shahin relaxed minutely. "There is business to discuss," Rustam said. "You know the shahanshah intends to drive the Romans from Egypt."

Khalid nodded, darting a glance sideways at Shahin. The matter seemed very obvious now—Khalid had even been one of the Great Prince's couriers, during the Persian invasion of Syria three years previous. There had been trouble—the Persians had nearly blundered into a fatal trap at Lake Bahrat. Shahin's command was stripped away by the fortuitous arrival of the Royal Boar himself, arriving all unexpected in the middle of the night, in the company of... Khalid's eyes slid back to Prince Rustam, who was watching him with a slight smile. A peculiar pale light gleamed in the prince's eyes and the brief moment of comfort vanished. Khalid shuddered, meeting the burning light in the prince's pale, translucent gaze.

"Khalid... do not trouble your mind. True, Shahin was relieved of his command. True, he has lost his rank, his titles, his lands... even his family is sure he is dead. But—as you have seen—he has won back his honor." Rustam lifted a long fingered hand, his fingertips broad and flat, like some kind of a climbing lizard. Shahin stiffened, transfixed. "He may grow a proper beard again, and oil and curl his hair, as he once did. Perfumes, perhaps, will be made available, and pomades. My lord, do you desire such things?"

"No," Shahin growled, still meeting the prince's lambent stare. "I do not."

"You choose this life? Sand and dust, a rough bed among thorns? Only steel for comfort, not silk, not down pillows?" The prince's voice was soft, caressing. Khalid shuddered again, feeling his flesh crawl.

"I do choose this," Shahin said, narrowing his eyes. He seemed unaffected by the prince's glamour. "I will fight beside my friends. For my king. For Persia."

Rustam leaned back and Khalid could feel the heat of the lamps again. He could hear Shahin and Zoë breathing. "You surprise me, Prince Shahin. And I am glad."

Khalid thought his heart would stop, hearing—
seeing
—honest appreciation in the face of the prince.
How... how can...
He tried to stop from babbling, even in the privacy of his thoughts. The prince stared at Shahin and the odd, mottled quality of his flesh faded. The queer light in his eyes died, leaving them a pale amber color.

"You have become an honorable man, Shahin." Rustam managed a half-smile. "You were such a... fop, a dandy, a fool! Zenobia nearly trapped your whole army, because you could not be troubled to set watches, or pay your guides, or keep on the mercenary scouts Chrosoes King of Kings gave you! You prevaricated, you lied, you stole the wages of your troops... you were a coward."

Shahin's face grew colder and colder with each word, the tendons in his arms stiffening, his face slowly filling with a dark flush.

"Where is that man?" Rustam raised his hands, amazement clear on his face. "I do not see him now. I see a Persian
diquan
, a worthy man, a man the King of Kings can respect. That I can respect. Welcome, Shahin. Welcome."

The prince bowed his head in greeting, and silently Zoë walked forward on her knees, a wooden platter in her hands. Gracefully, she placed a simple bevel-rimmed bowl on the carpet between the two men. Beside it, she laid a loaf of flat, slightly burned bread. Salt trickled from her hand, making a small pile.

"Water from my wells," Rustam said, raising the bowl. He drank, then passed the cup to Shahin. The man drank. The bowl itself was turning dark with water oozing through the cheap clay. Khalid saw a vein at Shahin's throat throb, then settle. As the Arab watched, tension drained bit by bit from the nobleman.

"Bread from my fire," Rustam said, breaking the crumbling loaf in half. He chewed the heavy, unleavened bread, then swallowed. Shahin did likewise, his hands trembling for a moment. Then this too passed.

"Salt." The prince pressed the white grains against his teeth. Shahin did so as well. Rustam offered his hand and the Persian gripped his wrist, still tentative.

"This is your name: Eran-Spahbodh Shahin Suren-Pahlav." Rustam enunciated the words slowly and deliberately. "Son of Shapur and Erandokht, grandson of Soren-Nersi, scion of the house of Frataraka, let there be peace between us. Let all past wrongs be stricken from the tablets, all harsh words forgotten. Know, Prince Shahin, the King of Kings remembers you and accounts you a friend."

The big Persian blinked, then released Rustam's hand slowly, as if in a dream. "That is not my name... not anymore. I am only Patik."

"Yes, it is your name." Rustam drew a roll of fine parchment from his writing desk. A heavy wax seal and Tyrian purple string closed the document. "Here is your name, Shahin, and your family, returned to you by the grace of the King of Kings, Shahr-Baraz."

Rustam pressed the papers into Shahin's hand. The big Persian shook his head in disbelief. "But... why now?"

"Yes," Khalid said in a dry voice. "What do you need from him?"

Rustam's head turned slightly, fixing Khalid with a cold glare. "I did not give you leave to speak, Arab." The prince blinked and the angles of his face subtly changed, a pale gleam entering his eyes. Khalid recoiled, seeing something of the prince's true nature shining through. "But you too have served well. This is why I have summoned you both. Lord Khalid, this man Patik is no longer yours to command. He is, once more, the great Prince Shahin. I tell you this in courtesy, for you are a fine general, and tonight I rob you of an able captain."

Khalid's nostrils flared and he fought down a reckless urge to protest.
How do you deny the moon? Or a meteor?

Rustam's forehead furrowed and he pinched his lip. He began to speak, then fell silent. Khalid watched in slow, growing amazement. The sorcerer seemed to be at a loss for words. At last, the prince made a gesture with his hand, as if he threw something away.

"Lord Shahin, here is what you must do," Rustam said. "Gather a few men, no more than five or six. You will take a ship we have lately captured down to Egypt. The ship, and you, and your men, will be disguised as Tyreans. That island city is still in Roman hands—this will allow you to enter Roman territory without undue trouble." The prince grinned, showing long white teeth.

"Once you are in Alexandria, a man will find you. He is a servant of the king. You will know him, by certain signs, when you meet. He will lead you to a device." Rustam lifted a ragged bit of papyrus from his writing desk. Khalid saw part of a diagram on the ancient paper, some kind of interlocking mill wheel. "This device is buried in a secret place, perhaps a tomb, certainly somewhere desolate and remote. Be careful! In earlier times a rather dangerous order of priestesses watched over the
duradarshan
. They, or their degenerate cult, may still abide. Regardless, you will secure the device and return to Alexandria and the ship. You will bring me the mechanism as swiftly as you can."

Shahin looked down at the bit of papyrus, eyes narrowing. "How large is this?"

"Large." The ghost of a smile flitted across Rustam's lips. "Large and heavy."

"Can two men carry this... device?"

"No." Rustam was still smiling. "The
duradarshan
is made of bronze and gold, and likely affixed to a block of jadeite the size of a chest. You will need assistance."

Shahin placed the paper back on the edge of the desk. "How many of the Shanzdah will accompany me?"

"None. They are already busy." The prince grimaced. His thin hands rustled on the desk like large white spiders, finding two clay tablets, each the size of a palm. He lifted them gingerly, regarding them with an ambivalent expression. Then he made a queer half-smile and placed them in a metal box by his side. The lid closed with a snap, and he handed the box to Shahin. "When you reach the
duradarshan
, smash one of these tablets on the ground. A... servant... will come forth to carry the device."

"What kind of servant?" Shahin and Khalid spoke as one. The Arab felt a creeping sensation on the back of his neck and turned suddenly, looking behind him. There was nothing, only the door, now closed. He turned back, his gaze lingering on Zoë, who was still kneeling beside the wall. She smiled at him, eyes half-closed, white hands resting on silk-wrapped thighs.

"Nothing which need concern you," Rustam said. "As long as you hold the other tablet you will be quite safe. Once you reach the port, throw the box and the remaining tablet into the sea. The servant will depart."

"Very well." Shahin bowed. "I will do as the King of Kings commands."

Rustam's face darkened. Khalid tensed. "You will do as I command," the prince hissed.

Shahin regarded him levelly. "I am the king's man, my lord. Not yours."

"Wait," Khalid said, before Rustam could respond. "I will go in Lord Shahin's place."

"No," snapped Shahin and Rustam at the same time. The two men glared at one another. Shahin's jaw clenched, then released. "I will find the eye... the device, lord prince. For Persia."

"I see," Rustam said, but his voice was thick with anger. Khalid, watching the two men, thought the sorcerer might strike down the nobleman. But the creature controlled himself. "Leave tonight. One of the Shanzdah will show you the way to the boat."