Chapter 17

Once again the circle of Black Paladins formed in the Vestry around the signet of the severed snake. This time, however, all the followers of Zhakrin were present in the room. Blackrobed women, many with the swollen bellies that held future followers of the God, sat in chairs in one corner of the huge hall. Kiber and his goums and the other menatarms in service to the Black Paladins stood ranged around the hall, their weapons in hand. The naked blades of sword and dagger, the sharp points of spears, gleamed brightly in the light of thousands of black wax candles set in wroughtiron flambeaux that had been lowered from the high ceiling.

Behind the soldiers, huddled on the floor, their faces pale with fear, the slaves of the followers of Zhakrin waited in hopeless despair for the return of the God that would seal their fate forever.

Flanked by Khardan and Auda ibn Jad, Mathew entered the Vestry. He walked closely between the two knights; more than once Khardan’s body brushed against his, and Mathew could feel it tense and taut for action. But he could also hear the breath catch in Khardan’s throat when he moved, the stifled groan or gasp of pain that he could not quite suppress. The Calif ‘s face was pale; despite the intense chill of the great hall, sweat gleamed upon his upper lip. Auda ibn Jad glanced at him in concern and once whispered something to him urgently, but Khardan only shook his head, gruffly answering that he would stay.

It occurred to Mathew, as he entered the huge, candlelit chamber, that Khardan was suffering this because of him, because of what he’d said. He has faith in me, thought Mathew, and the knowledge terrified him. I can’t let him down, not after what he’s endured because of me. I can’t! Gripping the wand more tightly, he entered the circle of Black Paladins, who moved aside respectfully to make room for them.

Within the center of the circle of men and women had been placed an altar of such hideous aspect that Mathew stared at it, appalled. It was the head of a snake that had been cut off at the neck. Carved of ebony, standing four feet high, the snake’s mouth gaped open. Glistening fangs made of ivory parted to reveal a forked tongue encrusted with rubies. The tongue, shooting upward between the fangs, formed a platform that was empty now, but Mathew guessed what object soon would rest there. Around the altar stood the tall ivory jars that Mathew had seen on the boat. Their lids had been removed.

Beside the altar stood the Black Sorceress. Her gaze fixed on Mathew when he stepped into the circle. Aged, ageless, the eyes probed the young wizard’s soul and apparently liked what they saw there, for the lips of the stretched face smiled.

She sees the darkness within me, realized Mathew with a calmness that he found startling. He knew she saw it because he could feel it, a vast emptiness that felt neither fear nor hope. And over it, covering the hollowness like a shell, spread exultation, a sensation of power coming into his hands. He reveled in it, rejoicing, longing to wield it as a man longs to wield the blade of a new sword.

Glancing at Khardan, he wondered irritably if the man would be of use to him now, injured as he was. Mathew fretted impatiently for the ceremony to get under way. He wanted to see that smile on the woman’s drumskin face vanish. He wanted to see it replaced with awe!

The Black Sorceress laid her hands upon the emerald eyes of the snake’shead altar, and a low sound thrummed through the Vestry, a sound that was like a wail or moan. At the sound, all excited talk that had flowed among the circle of Paladins and whispered through the women waiting in the corner of the Vestry ceased. The menatarms came to stiff attention, their boots scraping against the stone floor. The circle parted to admit four slaves carrying a heavy obsidian bier. Staggering beneath the weight, the slaves bore it slowly and carefully into the center of the circle that closed around them. Reverently, the slaves brought their burden before the Black Sorceress.

Upon the obsidian slab lay Zohra, clothed in a gown made entirely of black crystal. The beads’ sparkling edges caught the candlelight and gave off a rainbowcolored aura whose heart was darkness. Her long black hair had been brushed and oiled and fell from a center part in her head around her shoulders, touching her fingertips. She lay on her back, her hands stretched out straight at her sides. Her eyes were wide open, her lips slightly parted; she stared at the candles above her, but there was no sign of life on her face. From the pallor of her complexion, she might have been a corpse, but for the even rise and fall of her chest that could be detected by the faint shimmering of the crystal beaded gown.

Mathew felt Khardan flinch and knew this pain the man experienced did not come from his wounds. He cares for her more than he admits, thought Mathew. Just as well, it will give him added incentive to serve me.

The Lord of the Paladins stepped forth and made a speech. Mathew shifted from foot to foot, thinking they were taking an inordinate amount of time to conduct this ceremony. He had just heard the clock chime threequarters of the hour gone, when he suddenly stared intently at one of the slaves carrying the bier.

At that moment the slave Mathew was watching set his end of the bier down suddenly, groaning from the strain and wiping his face. The bier tilted, jostling Zohra and causing the Black Sorceress to glare at the slave with such ire that everyone in the Vestry knew the wretched fellow was doomed.

Usti! recognized Mathew, staring in blank astonishment. How he had managed the transformation, Mathew didn’t know. He was certain the djinn hadn’t been among those who first carried the bier into the Vestry. But there was no mistaking the three chins, the fat face rising from bulging shoulders.

The other bearers started to set down their ends, but the Black Sorceress said sharply, “No! not here in front of me! Beneath the altar.”

With a longsuffering groan, Usti lifted his end of the bier again, helping to shift it around to place it where indicated. Mathew saw the jeweled handle of a dagger flare from the djinn’s sash wound around his broad middle. Usti’s fat face was grim. His chins shaking with intent and purpose and resolve, Usti took his place at his mistress’s head.

A hushed silence descended upon the Vestry; breath shortened, hearts beat fast, blood tinged the faces of those who had worked and waited and dedicated their very lives to the attaining of this moment of glory. The iron chimes began their toll. . . .

One.

The Black Sorceress drew forth from her robes the crystal globe containing the swimming fish.

Two.

Reverently, she laid the globe upon the forked tongue of the snake.

Three.

Turning to one of the ivory jars, the Black Sorceress dipped in her hand and drew it forth, stained with human blood.

Four.

The Black Paladins began to call upon their God by name. “Zhakrin . . . Zhakrin . . . Zhakrin . . .” whispered through the Vestry like an evil wind.

Five.

The Black Sorceress bent over Zohra and drew an Sshape on her forehead in the blood of the murdered innocents of the city of Idrith.

Six.

The chant rose in volume, increased in speed. “Zhakrin, Zhakrin, Zhakrin.”

Seven.

Mathew’s hand slowly began to draw forth the black wand.

Eight.

The Black Sorceress lifted the crystal globe and placed it upon Zohra’s breast.

Nine.

The chant became frenzied, triumphant. “Zhakrin! Zhakrin! Zharkin!”

Ten.

The Black Sorceress dipped her hand again in the blood in the ivory jar and smeared it over the crystal globe.

Eleven.

Removing one of the razorsharp, ivory fangs from, the mouth of the altar, the Black Sorceress held it poised above the globe, above Zohra’s breast. . .

Twelve.

“In the name of Astafas, I summon you! Bring the fish to me!” cried Mathew.

He raised the wand, the imp appeared. A shattering explosion blew out the lights of the candles and plunged the room into darkness.