Chapter 5

Climbing the black stairs carved into the side of the mountain, Zohra continued to maintain her haughty dignity and composure. Pride was, after all, the only thing she had left. Led by Kiber, who kept glancing at her as though she were a ghul and might eat him at a bite, Zohra set her face into a rigid mask that effectively hid her fear and confusion. It wasn’t as difficult as might be expected. She seemed to have gone numb, as though she had been drinking gumiz or chewing the leaves of the plant that made city dwellers crazy.

She walked up the steep stairs without feeling the stone beneath her bare feet. At the top of the steps, a bridge known as the Dead March led the way across a deep ravine to the Castle. Made of wood and rope, the bridge swung between the sheer sides of the defile. Narrow, swaying dangerously whenever anyone stepped on it, the bridge could be crossed only by a few people at a time and was within easy arrow shot of the Castle’s battlements. A hostile army attempting to use it was doomed—easy targets for the Castle’s archers, who could also shoot flaming arrows that would set the ropes afire and send the entire structure plunging into the canyon below.

Human heads, mounted on poles, guarded the entrance to the Dead March. These were heads of prisoners, captured by the Black Paladins, and made to suffer the most dreadful tortures. By some arcane art, the flesh remained on the skulls and the agonized expressions on the dead faces served to warn all who looked on them what awaited an enemy of the Black Paladins in Castle Zhakrin.

Zohra glanced at the gruesome guardians with uncaring eyes. She navigated the perilously swinging bridge over the ravine with an appearance of calm that had Kiber shaking his head in admiration. Entering the gaping black archway of the Castle without faltering, she passed coolly beneath the redtipped iron spikes that could be sent crashing down from the ceiling, impaling those who stood beneath them. The skulls grinning at her from the granite walls, the bony hands that held the flaring torches, didn’t cause her cheeks to pale or her eyes to widen. Standing in the huge, torchlit hall, she watched the goums bear the litter on which Khardan shivered and moaned up a staircase. She had not spoken since they’d left the ship and asked only three questions upon entering the Castle.

“Where are they taking him? Will he recover?” and “What will become of him?”

Kiber glanced at the woman curiously. She certainly didn’t sound the wife inquiring about the fate of a beloved husband. Kiber had seen many such in this hall, clinging to their men, being dragged away screaming and weeping. Of course, they had known or guessed what fate awaited their men. Perhaps this woman didn’t. . . or perhaps she did and didn’t care. Kiber suspected that it might not make much difference; she would never give way to weakness, no matter what she felt. Kiber had never met a woman like her, and he began to envy Auda ibn Jad.

“They are taking him to the Black Sorceress. She is skilled in healing the touch of the ghuls. If she chooses, he will recover. Beyond that his fate is up to my master,” said Kiber gravely, “and will undoubtedly be determined at the Vestry,”—he stumbled over the word, the only term comparable in her language was “conclave,” but this did not give quite the correct nuance.

Her face did not change expression, and he doubted if she understood. Now she will ask about her fate or that of the other redheaded woman. . . man. . . whatever it was.

But she didn’t; she didn’t say a word. From the expression on her proud face it soon became clear to Kiber that the woman understood; she was simply refusing to speak to someone she obviously considered far beneath her.

This irritated Kiber, who could have gone into detail concerning what would happen to this Zohrawoman, at least. The imagining of it excited him, and he considered telling her anyway, hoping to see her pride punctured by despair’s sharp knife. But it wasn’t his place to speak. The women brought to Castle Zhakrin either captive or voluntarily were the province of the Black Sorceress, and she would take it adversely if Kiber were to meddle in her affairs. Kiber—as did everyone else in the Castle—went out of his way to avoid offending the Black Sorceress.

Without saying anything further to Zohra, he led her up winding stairs to a spire known as the Tower of Women. There was no guard at the door; fear of the Black Sorceress was guard enough—the man who entered the Tower of Women at any other time except the scheduled hours would rue the day he had been born. So powerful was this influence that even though he was here on business, Kiber still felt uncomfortable. He opened the door and took a cautious step inside.

Silent figures shrouded in black robes glided away at his coming, melting into the shadows of the dark and gloomy hallway, their eyes darting frightened or curious glances at his prisoner. The air was heavy with perfume. The only sounds that broke the silence were the occasional cry of a baby or, far away, the scream of a woman giving birth.

Kiber hurried Zohra to a small room that stood just opposite the main entryway. Opening the door, he shoved her roughly inside.

“Wait here,” he said. “Someone will come.”

Hastily he shut the door, locking it with a silver key that hung from a black ribbon wrapped around a nail in the shining black wall. He returned the key to its place and started to leave, but his eyes were drawn to an archway that stood to his right. A curtain of heavy red velvet blocked the arch; he could not see beyond it. But from it wafted the scent of the perfume that hung in the air. The smell and the knowledge of what went on behind that curtain made his heart beat, his loins ache. Every night at midnight, the Black Paladins mounted the stairs and entered the Tower of Women. They and they alone had the right to pass beyond the red velvet curtain.

The sound of a door opening down the hall to his left made Kiber start. Wrenching his gaze from the curtain, he yanked open the door leading out of the Tower with such haste that he very nearly hit himself in the head.

“Kiber?” said a dried, rasping voice.

Palefaced and sweating, Kiber turned around, his hand still on the wrought iron handle of the door.

“Madam,” he said faintly.

Facing him was a woman of such small stature she might have been mistaken for a frail girl of twelve years. In reality, she counted seven times that number, though no sign of those years could be seen upon her face. What arcane art she used to cheat age none could tell, although it was whispered she drank the blood of stillborn babes. Her beauty was undeniable, but it did not foster desire. The cheeks were free of wrinkles, but their smoothness—on close observation—was not the tender firmness of youth but that of the taut, stretched skin of a drum. The eyes were lustrous, it was the glow of power’s flame that brightened them. The breasts, rising and falling beneath black velvet, were soft and ripe, yet no man sought to pillow his head there, for the heart that beat beneath them was ruthless and cold. The white hands that beckoned Kiber so gracefully were stained with the blood of countless innocents.

“You have brought another one?” the woman inquired in a low, sweet voice whose dread music stilled the heart.

“Yes, Madam,” Kiber answered.

“Come into my room and give me your report.” The woman vanished back into the fragrant shadows without waiting to see if her command was obeyed.

There was no question that it would be. Kiber, with a quivering sigh, entered the chambers of the Black Sorceress, wishing devoutly he was anywhere else, even setting foot upon the ghuls’ ship instead. Far better his flesh be devoured than his soul, doomed to Sul’s abyss—if the Sorceress chose—where not even his God would be able to find him.

Alone in the room, Zohra stood staring at nothing. There was no one to see her now. Pride, because it feeds on others, began to starve and waste away quickly, and hysteria was there to take its place. Zohra lifted her face to the Heavens, a cry burning in her throat.

“Free me, Akhran!” she screamed furiously, flailing her arms. “Free me from this prison!”

The frenzied excitement lasted only moments, draining her remaining strength. Zohra sank down to the floor and lay there in a kind of stupor, eventually slipping into exhausted sleep.

The cold woke her. Shivering, Zohra sat up. The nap had done her some good. She felt strong enough to blush with shame over the memory of her outburst. Anger returned, too, anger at Mathew for involving her in this and then abandoning her, anger at Khardan for his failures, anger at the God for refusing to answer her prayers.

“I am alone, as I have always been alone,” Zohra said to herself. “I must do what I can to leave this horrible place and return to my people.”

Rising to her feet, she walked over and tried to open the door. It was locked. She jerked on the handle several times, but it refused to give. Biting her lip in frustration, she turned and looked around the room, examining it for a way out.

An iron brazier standing on a tripod in a corner lighted the chamber, which was small and square and highceilinged. It had no windows and no other door except the one against which Zohra leaned. A handwoven carpet of extraordinarily beautiful design covered the floor, several black lacquer chairs were placed about the rug, small tables stood beside them.

Shivering in her wet clothes, Zohra walked the length and width of the room, searching for even the smallest crack. There was none, she realized, and the thought came to her, then, that she was trapped within these four walls. Never before had she been in any walled place. The yurts in which her people lived were temporary dwellings, made to let in air and light. They adapted to nature, permitted it entry. They did not shut it out and deny it.

The cold stone walls seemed to grow thicker the longer Zohra stared at them. Their solid structure and permanence weighted her down. The air was smoky and filled with dust that covered the furniture and the floor. She felt an increasing sensation of being unable to catch her breath and sank down into one of the chairs. The room was smaller than she’d noticed. What would happen when she used up all the air? She shrank back in the chair, panting, nervously twisting the rings on her fingers.

“Princess!” cried a distraught voice.

A puff of white smoke issued from a ring and hovered on the floor before her, swelling like a ball of flabby white dough. A turban, a pair of yellow silk pantalons, pointed shoes, and a fat face, squinched up in misery, gradually took form.

“Usti!” gasped Zohra.

Throwing himself at Zohra’s feet, the djinn wrapped his fat arms around her legs and burst into tears.

“Save me, Princess!” he wailed. “Save me!”