Chapter 6

“Save you?” repeated Zohra angrily, trying without success to free herself from the grip of the clinging, blubbering djinn. “I’ll save you—in a goatskin!”

“Goatskin!” Usti hastily released his hold on Zohra. Sitting back on his heels, he groaned and mopped his eyes with the cloth of his turban that had come partially unwound and dangled down the side of his head. The djinn’s clothes were torn and bedraggled, his face was grimy—now streaked with slobber, its expression woeful.

“I beg your pardon, Princess,” whimpered the djinn. Every chin aquiver, he hiccuped. “But my life has been one of unendurable torment!”

“Your—!” Zohra began.

“For months,” wailed Usti, placing his hands on his fat knees and rocking back and forth, “I’ve been sealed up inside . . . inside—”

He couldn’t even say the word but pointed a trembling finger at the ring of smoky quartz on Zohra’s hand.

“It was awful! When the ‘efreet, Kaug, attacked the camp, my dwelling was destroyed. Fortunately I was outside of it at the time. I sought shelter in the first place I could find! That ring! And now, all these months, I’ve been trapped there! Nothing to eat and drink!” he sobbed wretchedly. “Nothing to do and no room to do it in. I’ve lost weight!” He gestured at his rotund stomach. “I’m skin and bones. And—”

Usti caught his breath in a gulp. Zohra had risen to her feet and was staring down at him with the formidable expression he knew so well.

“Skin and bones! You’ll wish you were skin and bones, you bloated, oversized pig’s bladder! I’ve been taken prisoner, brought to a sea that doesn’t exist, carried across it on a ship filled with demons, and dragged to this awful place! Trapped in a ring!”

Glaring at the djinn, who was trying desperately to appear impressed and failing utterly, Zohra drew in a seething breath. Her hands flexed, her nails gleamed in the dim light. Usti’s eyes flared wide in alarm, his visage began to waver.

The djinn was leaving!

She would be alone again!

“No! Don’t go!” Zohra calmed herself. Sinking back into the chair, she held out a placating hand. “I didn’t mean what I said. I—I’m frightened. I don’t like this place or these people. You must free me! Get me out of here! You can do that, can’t you, Usti?”

“Immortals, Princess, can do anything,” said Usti loftily.

“You will take me back to my brazier?”

“Yes, of course!”

“You won’t make me return to that ring?”

“No!” Zohra snapped, exasperated, keeping a tight hold on the arms of the chair to prevent herself from grabbing hold of the djinn by the collar of his ripped silken shirt and shaking him until the remainder of his turban unrolled. “Hurry! Someone might come!”

“Very well,” said Usti placidly. “First, I must know where we are.”

“We’re here!” Zohra cried, waving her hands.

“Unless the walls deign to speak, this tells me nothing,” said the djinn coldly.

“Surely you were listening!” Zohra said accusingly. “You must know where we are!”

“Princess, how can you possibly have expected me, in my state of mental agony, to pay attention to the generally trite and uninteresting prattlings of mortals?” Usti was aggrieved.

Zohra’s words came out strained through tightly clenched teeth. “We are being held captive by those who call themselves Black Paladins. They serve a God named Shakran or something—”

“Zhakrin, Princess?”

“Yes, that seems right. And we are on an island in the—”

“—middle of the Kurdin Sea,” finished Usti crisply. “An island known as Galos. This, then, must be Castle Zhakrin.” He glanced about with interest. “I have heard of this place.”

“Good!” Zohra sighed in relief. “Now, hurry. You must take me”—she hesitated, thinking rapidly—”us out of here.” Khardan would be forever in her debt. This would make twice she had saved his life.

“Impossible,” said Usti. “Us? Who’s us?”

“What do you mean—impossible!” Zohra’s hands curled over the arms of the chair, her eyes glittered feverishly.

Usti blanched but did not quail before his mistress’s anger. An expression of selfrighteousness illumined his fat face. Clasping his fingers over his stomach, he said importantly, “I swore an oath.”

“Yes, to serve your mistress, you—!”

“Begging your pardon, Princess, but this oath takes precedence and would be so adjudged in the Immortals’ Court. It is a rather long story—”

“But one I am eager to hear!” Zohra’s lip curled dangerously.

Usti gulped, but he had right on his side and so proceeded. “It involved my former master two masters ago, one Abu Kir, a man exceedingly fond of his food. It was he, the blessed Abu Kir, may Akhran himself have the pleasure of dining with him in heaven, who taught me the delights of the palate.” Usti gave a moist hiccup. “And to think I should be forced to talk about him, I—who have not dined in months! Be still, poor shriveled thing”—he patted his stomach—”we shall dine soon, if there is anything fit to eat in this wretched place. Yes,” he continued hastily, “begging your pardon, Princess. We were speaking of Abu Kir. One night, Abu Kir summoned me forth.

“‘Usti, my noble friend, I have a taste this evening for kumquats.’

“‘Nothing easier, My Master,’ I said, being, of course, always willing to serve. ‘I will send for the slave to run to the market.’

“‘Ah, it is not that easy, Usti,’ said Abu Kir. ‘The kumquats I fancy grow only in one place—the garden of the immortal Quar. I have heard that one taste of their sweet, thick lusciousness, and a human will forget all trouble and care.’

“‘Truly, Master, you have heard correctly. I myself have tasted them, and that is no exaggeration. But acquiring the fruits of that garden is more difficult than inducing the mother of a beautiful young virgin to let her daughter spend the night in your bed. In fact, Master, if you but command it, I have a virgin in mind that will make you forget all about kumquats.”

“‘Women!’ said Abu Kir in scorn. ‘What are they compared to food! Fetch me the kumquats of Quar’s garden, Usti, and I will—in turn—grant you your freedom!’

“I could not refuse such a generous offer; besides, I am—as you know, Princess—most devoted to those I serve and do my best to please them. A djinn of Akhran could not very well walk into the garden of Quar, however, and beg for kumquats, especially when Kaug—may his snout suck up sea water—is the gardener.

“Therefore I went to an immortal of Quar’s and asked him if he would be so kind as to fetch me several kumquats from the garden of his master.

“‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Quar’s djinn. ‘And I would fly to do so right now except that my mistress has had her favorite jadeandcoral necklace stolen by one of the followers of Benario. I was currently on my way to try to persuade one of the God’s lightfingered immortals to persuade his master to return it. Otherwise, dear Usti, I would bring you the kumquats.’

“He looked at me out of the corner of his slanted eye as he spoke, and I knew what I must do to obtain the kumquats.

“Off I went to the immortal of Benario, first taking care, as you might imagine, that I had left my purse safely in my charcoal brazier.”

Zohra leaned her head on her hand.

“I told you it was a long story,” Usti said deprecatingly.

“How long until we get to Zhakrin and your ‘oath’?”

“Just coming to that, Princess. You see, the immortal of Benario promised to return the jadeandcoral necklace in exchange for an assassin’s dagger made by the followers of Zhakrin. Therefore I went—”

“Shhh!” Sitting up, Zohra stared at the door. The sound of rustling could be heard outside, a strong scent of perfume drifted into the room.

“Musk,” said Usti, sneezing.

“Shhh!” Zohra hissed.

A key rattled in the lock.

“Get back into the ring!” Zohra whispered.

“Princess!” Usti stared at her in horror.

“Do as I command!” Zohra said fiercely, holding out her left hand, the smoky quartz sparkling on her finger.

The lock on the door clicked. Usti cast a despairing glance at the ring. The door began to open. The djinn gasped, as though struck a physical blow. He gave the door a terrified glance. His eyeballs bulging in his head, he changed instantly into smoke, spiraled up to the ceiling, and dove headlong into the ring.

Zohra took a moment to glance at the ring as the djinn disappeared inside. It was a plain silver ring with its darkish gem. It was ugly, and it wasn’t hers. Hurriedly, she clapped her hand over it and turned to face her visitor.

A woman stood in the doorway, delicately sniffing the air. Her face was not veiled; she wore no covering over her head. Thick hair, chestnut brown, was pulled back into a tight, intricately twisted coil worn on the back of her head. Her robes of black velvet swept the floor as she walked; the symbol of the severed snake that Zohra had seen both on Khardan’s armor and fluttering from the mast of the ghuls’ ship adorned her left breast. Her face was remarkable for its clearcut beauty, but—in the light of the brazier standing near the door—the white skin took on a grayish cast, reminding Zohra of the ivory jars the goums had loaded aboard the ship.

“I demand that you release me.” The words were on Zohra’s lips, but they were never uttered.

The woman said nothing. She simply stood in the doorway, her hand on the handle, looking at Zohra intently with eyes whose color was indistinguishable. Zohra met and returned the gaze haughtily at first. Then she noticed that her eyes began to sting and water. She might have been looking directly into the sun. The sensation became painful. The woman had neither moved nor spoken; she stared straight at Zohra. But Zohra could no longer look at her. Tears blurred her vision; the pain grew, spreading from her eyes to her head. She averted her gaze, and instantly the pain ceased. Breathing hard, she stared at the floor, not daring to look back at the strange woman.

“Who has been here?” the woman asked.

Zohra heard the door shut, the rustle of black robes whisper across the floor. The odor of musk was overpowering, choking.

“No one,” said Zohra, her hand covering the ring, her eyes on the carpet at her feet.

“Look at me when you speak. Or do you fear me?”

“I do not fear anyone!” Zohra proudly lifted her head and glanced at the woman, but the pain returned and she started to turn away. Reaching out, the woman caught hold of Zohra’s chin in her hand and held it firmly. Her grip was unusually strong.

“Look at me!” she said again, softly.

Zohra had no choice but to stare straight into the woman’s eyes. The pain became excruciating. Zohra cried out, shutting her eyelids and struggling to free herself. The woman held her fast.

“Who was here?” she asked again.

“No one!” Zohra cried thickly, the pain throbbing in her head.

The woman held her long seconds. Blood beat in Zohra’s temples, she felt nauseous and faint, then, suddenly, the hand released its hold, the woman turned away.

Gasping, Zohra slumped over in her chair. The pain was gone.

“Kiber said you were brave.” The woman’s voice touched her now like cool water, soothing her. Zohra heard the robes rustle, the soft sound of a chair being moved across the carpeting. The woman settled herself directly across from Zohra, within arm’s reach. Cautiously Zohra lifted her eyes and looked at the woman once more. The pain did not return. The woman smiled at her approvingly, and Zohra relaxed.

“Kiber is quite an admirer of yours, my dear,” said the woman. “As is Auda ibn Jad, from what I hear. I congratulate you. Ibn Jad is an extraordinary man. He has never before requested a specific woman.”

Zohra tossed her head contemptuously. The subject of Auda ibn Jad was not worthy of being discussed. “I have been brought here by mistake,” she said. “The one called Mathew is the one you want. You have him, therefore you must—”

“—let you go?” The woman’s smile widened, a mother being forced to refuse a child some absurd demand. “No, my dear. Nothing ever happens by mischance. All is as the God desires it. You were brought here for a purpose. Perhaps it may be the very great honor of increasing the God’s followers. Perhaps”—the woman hesitated, studying Zohra more intently—”perhaps there is another reason. But, no, you were not brought here by mistake, and you will not be released.”

“Then I will go of my own accord!” Zohra rose to her feet.

“The Guardians of our Castle are called nesnas,” said the woman conversationally. “Have you ever heard of them, my dear? They have the shape of a man—a man that has been divided in half vertically, possessing half a head, one arm, half a trunk, one leg, one foot. They are forced to hop on that one leg, but they can do so quite swiftly, as fast as a human can run on two. There have been one or two women who have managed to escape the Castle. We do not know what happened to them, for they were never seen again, although we heard their screams several nights running. We do know, however”—the woman smoothed a fold of her velvet robes—”that the nesnas’ population increases, and we can only assume that, though they are half men in almost all aspects, there must be one aspect, at least, in which they are whole.”

Slowly, Zohra sank back into her seat.

“I did not think you would want to leave us quite this soon.”

“Who are you?”

“I am called the Black Sorceress. My husband is the Lord of the Black Paladins. He and I have ruled our people over seventy years.”

Zohra stared at the woman in astonishment.

“My age? Yes, I see you find that remarkable. I can promise you the same eternal youth, my dear, if you prove tractable.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Now you are being reasonable. We want your body. That and the fruit it will bear. Have you ever borne children?”

Zohra shook her head disdainfully.

“Yes, you are wife to the one who was attacked by the ghuls.”

Zohra’s face burned. Pressing her lips together, she stared into the flickering light of the brazier. She could feel the eyes of the sorceress on her and she had the uncomfortable sensation that the woman could see into the very depths of her soul.

“Extraordinary,” the sorceress murmured. “Let me tell you, my dear, how the God chooses to honor women brought into this Castle. Those who are found worthy are selected to be the Breeders. It is they who are increasing the followers of Zhakrin so that our great God can return to us in strength and in might. Every night these women are placed into special rooms, and each midnight the Black Paladins enter this tower and go to the rooms. Here, each man honors the chosen woman by depositing his seed within her womb. When that seed takes, and the woman becomes pregnant, she is removed from the rooms and is well cared for until the babe is delivered. Then she is returned to the rooms to conceive another—”

“I would die first,” stated Zohra calmly.

“Yes,” remarked the sorceress, smiling. “I believe you would. Many say that, in the early days, and a few have attempted it. But we cannot afford to allow such waste, and I have means by which I make the most obdurate eager to obey my will.”

Zohra’s lip curled in scorn.

The sorceress rose to her feet. “I will have dry clothing brought to you, as well as food and drink. A room is being prepared for you. When it is ready, you will be taken there.”

“You are wasting your time. No man will touch me!” Zohra said, speaking slowly and distinctly.

The sorceress raised an eyebrow, smiled, and glided toward the door, which opened at her approach. Two women, dressed in black robes similar to those of the sorceress, slipped noiselessly inside the room. One bore a bundle of black velvet in her arms, the other carried a tray of food. Neither woman spoke to Zohra or even looked at her, but kept their eyes lowered. Under the watchful gaze of the sorceress, they deposited the clothes upon a chair and set the tray of food upon a table. Then they silently departed. The sorceress, giving Zohra one final glance, followed them.

Zohra listened for the key but did not hear it. Swiftly, she ran to the door and pressed her ear against it. When all sounds had ceased in the corridor, she pulled on the handle. The door remained sealed fast. From far away, Zohra thought she heard a soft tinkle of laughter. Angrily, she whirled around.

“Usti!” she whispered.

Nothing happened.

“Usti!” she repeated furiously, shaking the ring.

Smoke drizzled out, coalescing into the form of a pale and shaken djinn.

“That woman is a witch!”

“To say the least. Oath or no oath, you must get me out of here!”

“No, Mistress!” Usti licked his lips. “She is a witch! A true witch! In all my lifetimes, I have never met such a powerful human. She knew I was here!”

“Impossible!” Zohra scoffed. “Quit making excuses and return Khardan and me to our desert this instant!” She stamped her foot.

“She spoke to me!” Usti began to tremble. “She told me what she would do to me if I crossed her. Princess”—he began to blubber—”I do not want to spend my eternal life sealed up in an iron box, wrapped round with iron chains! Farewell, Princess!”

The djinn leaped back into the ring with such alacrity that Zohra was momentarily blinded by the swirl of smoke. Enraged, she grabbed hold of the circlet of silver, and tried to yank it from her finger. It was stuck fast. She tugged and twisted, but the ring would not come off, and finally, her finger swollen and aching, she gave up.

She was shaking with cold. The smell of food made her mouth water.

“I must keep up my strength,” she said to herself. “Since it seems I must fight this alone, it won’t do to fall sick from a chill or hunger.”

Her mind searching for some way out of this situation, Zohra stripped off her wet gown and replaced it with the black robes on the chair. Clothed and warm again, she sat down to dine. As she lifted the cover from the tray, her eyes caught the glimmer of steel.

“Ah!” Zohra breathed and swiftly picking up the knife, she tucked it into a pocket of her gown.

The food was delicious. All her favorites were on the various plates—stripes of shiskhlick grilled to her exact taste, succulent fruit, honey cakes, and candied almonds. A carafe as filled to the brim with clear, cold water, and she drank thirstily. Her strength returned and with it hope. The knife pressed reassuringly against her flesh. She could use it to force the door lock, then make her way out of the Castle. Dressed like all the others, she would simply be taken for one of the other women, and surely they must go about the castle on some errand or other. Once outside—Zohra thought of the nesnas.

Half men who hop on one leg! The sorceress must take her for a child to believe such stories. Zohra had a momentary regret in leaving Khardan; she recalled him lying in the litter, shivering and moaning in agony; she saw the bluishpurplish scratches on his arm and body, and she remembered guiltily that he had been willing to give his life to defend her.

Well, she told herself, it was all for his own honor, anyway. He cares nothing for me. He hates me for what Mathew and I did to him; humiliating him by taking him from the battlefield. I shouldn’t have done it. That vision was stupid. Undoubtedly it was some trick of Mathew’s to . . . to . . .

How hot it was! Zohra loosened the neck of the robe, unbuttoning the tiny buttons that held it together. It was growing unbearably warm. She seemed to smell again the stifling odor of musk. She was becoming sleepy, too. She should not have eaten so much. Blinking her heavy eyelids, Zohra struggled to her feet.

“I must keep awake!” she said aloud, tossing some of the cool water on her face. Standing up, she began to walk around the room, only to feel the floor slip away beneath her feet. She staggered into a chair and grabbed hold of it for support. The light coming from the brazier was surrounded, suddenly, by a rainbow of color. The walls of the room began to breathe in and out. Her tongue seemed dry, and there was an odd taste in her mouth.

Zohra stumbled back to the table, clinging to chairs, and grabbed hold of the water carafe. She lifted it to her lips. . .

“I have means by which I can make the most obdurate eager to obey my will.”

The carafe fell to the floor with a crash.

Two women, clothed in black, carried Zohra from the antechamber. Zohra’s eyes were open, she stared at them dreamily, a vacant, vacuous smile on her lips.

“What do we do with her?”

The Black Sorceress looked down at the nomad woman, then raised her eyes to the red velvet curtain covering the archway. The two women holding Zohra by her arms and legs exchanged swift glances; one lowered her eyes to her own swelling belly, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

“No,” said the Black Sorceress after a moment’s profound thought. “I am not clear in my mind about this one. The God’s message is to wait. Take her to the chamber next to mine.”

The women nodded silently and moved down the hall, carrying their burden between them.

The sonorous clanging of an iron bell, sounding from a tower high above them, caused the Black Sorceress to lift her head. Her eyes gleamed.

“Vestry,” she murmured, and wrapping her fingers around an amulet she wore at her neck, she disappeared.