The Divining (31 page)

     She stopped suddenly, her eyes wide. "Why, there he is!" She dropped her travel packs and ran ahead, her feet echoing on the floor of the limestone terrace. Iskander and Veeda followed until they came to stand before an enormous limestone wall.

     They gawked at the prince seated on a majestic throne. He was dressed in splendid robes with a tall round hat on his head, beneath which thick curls cascaded to his shoulders. His beard was thick and prodigious, covering his chest to his waist and coiled in tight ringlets. He held a staff in one hand and, curiously, a flower in the other. In front of him, a golden censer burned incense.

     It was a bas-relief. Not a living man after all, but a long dead emperor, carved in stone.

     "Hello?" came a voice on the wind.

     They turned to see a portly man puffing up the stones steps from the grassy plain. He wore a long coat made of goat felt, a rope-belt holding it closed. His gray hair was twisted into braids, while decorative beads and bells made noise in his bushy gray beard. "Greetings, strangers! I welcome you to my home." He held out his arms. "I am Zeroun the Armenian. That is my caravanserai, down there."

     They followed his pointing finger and saw the stone buildings, corrals, animals, vegetable gardens. "Come and eat, drink! Meet fellow travelers! I have comfortable rooms, and much news and gossip! You do not want to linger here for this is a haunted place, and many think it is unlucky!"

     "What is this place?" Ulrika asked.

     "The people who live in this valley call it the City of Ghosts. The great Alexander called it Persepolis. But long ago, another race of beings lived here, and they called their home Shalamandar."

     In shock, Ulrika looked around.
This
was Shalamandar? There were no pools, crystal or otherwise. Just ruins and dust.

     "Can you tell us, please," Iskander said, "where we can find the Magus?"

     "Magus?" Zeroun threw back his head and laughed. "Is that old myth still breathing? There is no Magus. He was invented long ago by a charlatan who collected fees from desperate people and then vanished."

     Ulrika stared at the Armenian in dismay. No crystal pools. No Magus. No man offering a key. And the prince she was supposed to save was a simple mountain tribesman who had already lost his people.

U
LRIKA'S DISMAY SOON TURNED
to excitement because she had, after all, found Shalamandar, the place where Wulf and Selene had come together in love. The point of her own beginning, and from where she would start her new, true path.

     The three made camp on the royal terrace where, centuries prior, emperors had received important dignitaries from foreign nations but where, now, only snakes and scorpions traversed the limestone floor. Iskander scavenged for dead wood and brush on the perimeter of the ruins to create a shelter for Ulrika and Veeda. Then he built the campfire, praying to Ahura Mazda, blessing the name of Zoroaster, asking the prophet to shed goodness and light into his humble servant's heart that he might find the strength to slay his enemies once and for all.

     Veeda prowled the ruins until the sun reached the western horizon, creating long shadows across the golden plain, and now she moved among the toppled walls and shattered columns, tracing with her fingertips the images
of long-dead people. She sang as she went, in a dialect her companions did not understand. She said she was singing to the angels who dwelt here.

     "What do you do now?" Iskander asked.

     Ulrika looked into black eyes that caught the fire's glow. She knew that Iskander had placed a great deal of hope in the Magus telling him if any of his people had survived. "I will meditate here," she said. "For even though we are among ruins, this is a special place and I believe answers will be revealed to me. I will begin tomorrow. I am too fatigued now to fast and cleanse my spirit. When I am refreshed and can concentrate, I will sit among these fallen pillars and crumbled walls and pray to the All Mother for revelations. Perhaps," she added with a reassuring smile, "I will learn where the rest of your tribe went."

     "Can you do that?" he asked, a hopeful tone in his voice.

     "I told you that I came seeking answers to a personal question. I see visions. Sometimes they are so powerful that I cannot distinguish them from memories or dreams."

     Iskander nodded. "When you picked up this horn," he said, touching the talisman on his belt.

     "I saw a bonfire on a mountain," Ulrika said, "and people dancing around it. Visions do not come all the time, but I am training myself in a special discipline that I hope will release my power." Drawing her cloak tighter about herself, she said, "What sort of horn is that? I do not recognize it."

     She heard pride and reverence in Iskander's voice as he spoke of a creature called a unicorn. "Unicorns lived long ago but have been extinct for centuries. When the prophet Zoroaster converted my people from heathen ways, when he abolished imagery and idolatry and created the first Fire Temple, my ancestors gathered that first pure ash and distributed it among the clan. They chose precious vessels to hold that ash, and I believe mine is the only one to still exist. It is very holy, and very powerful."

     He looked at her for a long moment, while Veeda danced among the dark ruins and sang her incomprehensible songs, and firelight flickered on centuries-old walls, making the graven images appear to move, and then Iskander said, "The vision that came to you when you touched this horn..."
His voice tightened. "What you saw was the First Fire. And although I have never doubted that this horn contained the true pure ash of that fire ... you have given me proof that what I carry, what my father and forefathers carried, is a true relic from the days of prophet Zoroaster himself." His smile was wistful and sweet as he added, "I thank you for that, Ulrika," speaking her name for the first time.

     When they saw Veeda come dancing out from behind a wall, arms over her head, pirouetting in the starlight—her leg either no longer hurting or she was oblivious to it—Ulrika said, "What is she singing about?"

     "Her people worship beings called angels."

     Ulrika recalled that Rachel had spoken of angels, explaining that, according to Jewish belief, they were messengers of God.

     Iskander said, "They are the Bountiful Immortals. And they are everywhere among us, Veeda says, unseen, helping, protecting. The angels have special names and live according to a complex hierarchy, but that is all I know. Veeda says it is taboo to speak of her religion, forbidden to speak the names of the angels. Angels are the reason why," Iskander added in a dark tone, "Veeda's people hold such a strong tradition of hospitality. They say that when a stranger enters their home, they might be entertaining an angel unaware."

     Ulrika saw eyes suddenly filled with pain and she realized: They believed Iskander was an angel but instead he brought death.

     "Tell me about your people," she said, as she watched Veeda dance on the royal terrace, her slender, limber form making Ulrika think of gazelles.

     "We are sheepherders. We graze thousands of them in the valleys of my land, and this makes us very prosperous." His gaze went inward and his face brightened with a pleasant memory. "Every man in my tribe must build his own house with his own hands. This is how he proves himself. It was my dream to build the largest and finest house in my village, to make my wife proud to be married to a prince, and to fill the rooms with many children."

     "You can still build that house."

     The brightness faded from his face. "Another destiny awaits me."

     "Revenge only begets revenge," Ulrika said gently. "In Rome we say that when a man plots revenge, he should dig two graves."

     Iskander shook his head, long black curls catching the firelight. "I must do this thing, for I will be held accountable."

     By whom? Ulrika wondered. If he was the last of his people, and he intended to eradicate the other tribe, who would be left to judge? And how, Ulrika wondered for the hundredth time, was she to save him, as Miriam had prophesied? Unless there was
another
prince ...

     Ulrika's attention was drawn back to Veeda, spinning on her toes, her arms framing her head. Her long black hair fell like a sparkling waterfall of ink. In her leggings and tight jacket, she was a vision of slender fluidness, feather-light, agile. Her voice rose in high octaves, her eyes glowed with love and joy. Ulrika watched as the girl danced along the terrace, visiting the walls, dancing away, sprinting here and there, until she realized that Veeda was drawing closer to large, fallen blocks of which she did not seem aware.

     "Veeda—" she began.

     The girl was up on her toes, with her eyes closed, a beatific smile on her lips as she sang to her angels.

     "Veeda," Ulrika said again, rising from the campfire. "Come away from there. You will hurt yourself."

     Iskander, too, shot to his feet. "Veeda," he said.

     She did not hear them. Her voice high and melodic, her eyes closed against reality as she pictured golden beings in another world, Veeda spun and twirled in the moonlight.

     And when she danced dangerously close to the fallen blocks, Iskander went after her.

     Veeda's shin caught the corner of one of the stones just as Iskander reached her. She cried out and tumbled. But Iskander caught her. He held her as she gazed at him with a startled expression.

     From her place by the fire, Ulrika witnessed something that she sensed not even Iskander and Veeda were aware of: the way their eyes locked, the way she breathlessly held onto him, the tightness of his grip and, most of all, the long moment in which the embrace lasted—Iskander and Veeda were in love.

W
HILE ISKANDER WAS UP
in the mountain pass to begin his vigil, watching the enemy camped below and waiting for his opportunity to take revenge, and while Veeda visited Zeroun's caravanserai which lay a mile from the ruins, Ulrika was alone among the broken columns and stairs that led to nowhere.

     Now she would meditate. If this place was indeed Shalamandar, then surely the answers would be revealed. Because this was where Wulf and Selene had stopped to rest. This was where her own existence began.

     She chose a place on the limestone terrace and sat, crossing her legs, attaining a relaxed posture. She had not eaten breakfast, having discovered that fasting did indeed sharpen her concentration and kept her awake. And now she closed her eyes, slowed her respirations, and began her whispered chant to the All Mother.

     As she prayed, she grew excited in anticipation of seeing the crystal pools. She imagined they would be beautiful—shimmering and sweet, cool, refreshing water that revived the spirit as well as the eye. How large would
they be, she wondered, and how many were there? Where did the water come from? Were the pools fed by waterfalls or streams or artesian wells?

     Ulrika opened her eyes. Nothing was happening.

     Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and began again, sending her thoughts out into the unknown, willing her soul to explore the cosmos while she held a vision of her inner soul flame. But after a while she was aware only of the hard stone beneath her and an aching back. Her mind wandered and she wanted to eat.

     She would try again tomorrow.