Chapter 7

Auda ibn Jad had been at Mathew’s side, step for step and almost heartbeat for heartbeat, as they made their way up from the beach to Castle Zhakrin. Mathew’s sodden wet clothes clung to him. The mournful wind cut through his flesh like slivers of ice, but was nothing compared to the cold, glittering sideways glances of the Black Paladin. Always the focus of that piercing gaze—even when ibn Jad was talking to a fellow knight—Mathew had a difficult time maintaining his composure when faced with the horrors of the Castle. A follower of Astafas, he was certain, would not stare fearfully at the gruesome heads that guarded the bridge, or shrink away from the human skeletons on the walls.

By the time ibn Jad had escorted him to an antechamber located on the ground level of the palace, and left him there alone with a flask of wine to ease the chill, Mathew thought that he had performed adequately. No credit to himself. After the long walk to the Castle in the company of the Black Paladin, the young wizard was so miserable and cold that he doubted if any emotion other than terror was left inside him.

Shivering so he could barely keep hold of the glass, Mathew drank a little wine, hoping to lift his spirits and warm his blood. All the wine squeezed from every grape in the world could not obliterate reality, however.

I may have deceived ibn Jad, he thought, but I can never hope to deceive the Black Sorceress. A skilled Archmagus would see through me as if I were crystal. Mathew had little doubt—from the obviously high regard in which this woman was held—that this Black Sorceress was, indeed, very skilled.

Hoping to distract himself from his mounting fear, Mathew listlessly examined his surroundings. The room was bleak and comfortless. A huge fireplace dominated almost one entire wall, but no fire burned there. Fuel must be difficult to obtain on this barren isle, Mathew realized, peering wistfully at the cold ashes upon the hearth. He knew now why everyone dressed in such heavy clothing and began to think with longing of soft black velvet draping him with warmth. Drawing back thick red curtains, he found a window. Made of large panes of leaded, stained glass bearing the design of the severed snake, it had no bars and looked as if it could be easily opened. Mathew had no wish to try it, however. Though he could not see them, he sensed the dark and evil beings that lurked outside. His life would not be worth a copper’s purchase if he set foot beyond the Castle walls.

Turning back, leaning upon the mantelpiece above the chill fireplace, Mathew saw no hope for them—for any of them. Auda ibn Jad had described in a cold, dispassionate voice what fate awaited Zohra in the Tower of Women. The Black Paladin made it clear that he admired the nomad woman for the strong and spirited followers she would deliver to the God, adding that he planned to request her for his own private use, at least to father her first few children. Ibn Jad’s talk of his intentions sickened Mathew more then the sight of the polished skulls adorning the stair railings. If the man had spoken with lust or desire, he would at least have demonstrated some human feeling, if only of the basest nature. Instead, Auda ibn Jad spoke as if he were discussing the breeding of sheep or cattle.

“What will happen to Khardan?” Mathew had asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Ah, that I cannot say,” was Auda’s reply. “It will be up to the members of the Vestry this night. I can only make my recommendation.”

Alone in the bitterly cold room, sipping the wine that tasted like blood in his mouth, Mathew wondered what this meant. Recalling the human heads mounted on the Dead March, he shuddered. But surely if they were intent only upon murdering Khardan they would not go through such ceremony. Ibn Jad had been ready to toss the Calif to the ghuls, but that had been done in anger or . . .

Mathew stared into the flame of a candle burning on the mantelpiece. Perhaps it had been a test. Perhaps ibn Jad had never intended to give Khardan to the ghuls.

A soft knock upon the door made Mathew start; his hand shook so that he sloshed wine on his wet clothes. He tried to bid the person enter, but his voice couldn’t escape past the choking sensation in his throat. Not that it mattered; the door opened and a woman stepped inside.

She smote Mathew with the heat of the blazing desert sun, blinding him, burning him. Her evil was deep and dark and ancient as the Well of Sul. Her majesty overawed, her power overwhelmed, and Mathew bowed before her as he would have bowed to the head of his own Order. He was conscious of eyes studying him, eyes that had studied countless others before him, eyes that were old and wise in the knowledge of the terrible depths of the human soul.

There could be no lying to those eyes.

“You come from Tirish Aranth,” said the Black Sorceress. The door shut silently behind her.

“Yes, Madam,” answered Mathew inaudibly.

“That facet of the Jewel of Sul shared by Promenthas and your God, Astafas.”

“Yes, Madam.” Did she know he lied? How could she not? She must know everything.

“I have heard that in this part of the world men have the gift of magic. I have never met a male sorcerer before. You are man and not eunuch?”

“I am a man,” Mathew murmured, his face flushing.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

He was conscious of the eyes staring at him intently, and then suddenly he was enveloped by a fragrance of heady musk. The walls around him changed to water and began to slide down into some vast ocean that was rising up around him. Soft lips touched his, skillful hands caressed his body. The smell, the touch aroused almost instantaneous desire. . . . And then he heard a laugh.

The water disappeared, the walls surrounded him again, the fragrance was blown away by a cold wind. Gasping, he caught his breath.

“I am sorry,” said the sorceress, amused, “but I had to make certain you were telling the truth. A man your age with no beard, features and skin any woman might envy. I have heard it said that men gained magic at the price of their manhood, but I see that is not so.”

Breathing heavily, his body burning with shame and embarrassment, disgust twisting his stomach, Mathew could not reply nor even look at the woman.

“Male children born to you will acquire this gift?”

“They may or may not,” answered Mathew, wondering at this unexpected question. Then Auda ibn Jad’s description of the Tower of Women came to his mind. He lifted his head and stared at her.

“Yes.” She answered his thought. “You will prove quite valuable to us. Male magi!” The sorceress drew in a deep breath of pleasure. “Warriors trained to kill with arcane weapons! We could well become invincible. It is a pity”—she regarded him coolly— “that there aren’t more of you. Perhaps Astafas could be persuaded to lend us others?”

“I—I’m certain. . . he would be honored, as would I, t—to serve you,” stammered Mathew, not knowing what else to say. The suggestion appalled him, he felt again the touch of the woman’s hands on his body, and he hastily averted his face, hoping to hide his repugnance.

It obviously didn’t work. “Perhaps a bit more manly than you,” the sorceress said wryly. “And now tell me, how did one as young and obviously inexperienced as yourself manage to summon and control an imp of Sul?”

Mathew stared at her helplessly. He was a wet rag in this woman’s hands. She had wrung him and wrenched him. He had no dignity, no humanity left. She had reduced him to the level of a beast.

“I don’t know!” He hung his head. “I don’t know!”

“I thought as much,” the sorceress said gently. A hand patted him, an arm stole around his shoulder. It was now a mother’s touch—soothing and comforting. She led him back to his chair and he sank down, unnerved and sobbing—a child in her arms.

“Forgive me, my son,” said the soft voice, and Mathew raised his head and saw the sorceress clearly for the first time. He saw the beauty, the cruelty, the evil, and that strange compassion he had seen on the face of Auda ibn Jad and the other worshipers of Zhakrin. “Poor boy,” she murmured and his own mother could not have grieved for him more. “I had to do this to you. I had to make certain.” She stroked his face with her hand. “You are new to the paths of the shadow and you find the walking difficult. So do all who come to us from the light, but in time you will grow accustomed to and even revel in the darkness.” The sorceress cupped his face in her hands, staring deeply into his eyes.

“And you are fortunate!” she whispered passionately, a thrill in her voice transmitting itself to Mathew’s flesh. “Fortunate above all men for Astafas has obviously chosen you to do his bidding! He is granting you power you would otherwise not have! And that means he is aware of us and watching us and supporting our struggle!”

Mathew began to shake uncontrollably as the import of her words and their truth tore open his soul.

“The transition will be painful,” said the sorceress, holding him close, pitying his fear, “but so is every birth.” She drew his head to her breast, smoothing his hair. “Long I mourned that I could bring only daughters of magic into this world. Long I dreamed of giving birth to a son born to the talent. And now you have come—the Bearer, chosen to guard, to carry our most precious treasure! It is a sign! I take you for my own, from this moment.” Her lips pressed against his flesh, stabbing like a knife at his heart. He cringed and cried out with the pain.

“It hurts,” she said softly, brushing away a tear that had fallen from her eye onto Mathew’s cheek. “I know it hurts, my little one, but the agony will soon end, and then you will find peace. And now I must leave you. The man, Khardan, waits for my ministration so that he may be fit to receive the honor that is going to be bestowed upon him. Here is clothing. Food will be brought to you. Is there anything else you desire— What is your name?”

“Mathew!” The word seemed squeezed out of his chest by his bursting heart.

“Mathew. Nothing else you want? Then make yourself ready. The Vestry convenes at ten this evening, four hours from now. Ah, poor boy.” Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. “Fainted dead away. His mind can accept this, but not his heart. It fights me, it fights the darkness. I will win, though. I will win!

“Astafas has given me a son!”