The music burst forth desperately, and the dancers writhed in a frenzy to please, but Naipal dismissed them from his awareness and waved away the serving girls. His heart seemed to beat in time with the throbbing of the opal against his hand. The stone was all his mind had room for, the sign from Masrok that the demon should be summoned, and what that must mean. Ashok, chief among the tongueless ones, would quickly prepare the chamber below. In such terror was the wizard held by those who served the gray chambers that he knew they would literally run themselves to death to obey his slightest wish, let alone a command. It could not be done quickly enough to suit him, however. Impatience bubbled in him like the surface of a geyser before eruption.
Able to wait no longer, Naipal flung himself to his feet and stalked from the chamber. Behind him dancers and musicians continued their vain strivings, fearful now to cease without his express command.
To his bedchamber Naipal went first, to fetch the golden coffer containing the demon-wrought dagger. That must be in Masrok’s view, not mentioned this time, but no less a reminder that even a demon could be slain.
When he reached the gray-domed chamber beneath the palace, the wizard nodded in satisfaction without even realizing that he had done so. A large, tightly woven basket, its lid lashed firmly in place, stood n
ear his worktable. A bronze gong with a padded mallet hanging from its teakwood frame had been placed near the iron latticework set in one wall.
Naipal paused by the bars. From the door that was part of the iron mesh a ramp led down into a round pit lit by rush torches set high on the walls. On the sand-covered floor of the pit a score of swords in various patterns made an untidy heap. Directly opposite the ramp a massive iron-bound door let into the pit.
For a single test he had used the fires of the khorassani to carve out the pit and the cells and connecting corridors beyond. A single test but most necessary, for he had to test the truth of the ancient writings. He did not believe they lied, but none knew better than he that there were degrees of truth, and he must know the exact degree of this truth. But other things must be done first. Beneath his robes the black opal still pulsed against his chest.
Denying his own need for haste, Naipal took greater care than ever before in setting the nine khorassani on their golden tripods. Anticipation burned in him like fanned coals as the tenth stone, blacker than midnight, was placed. He settled on the cushions before it, and once more the ancient incantation rolled against the canescent walls.
“E’las eloyhim! Maraath savinday! Khora mar! Khora mar!”
Once more bars of fire leaped up. The stones blazed like imprisoned suns, and a pathway was opened to realms unknowable to mortal man.
“Masrok,” Naipal called, “I summon you!”
The winds of infinity blew. Thunder roared and the huge obsidian demon floated within the fiery cage. And with it floated another figure, that of a man in armor of studded leather and a spiked helm of a kind unseen in Vendhya for more than a thousand years. Two swords of unbelievable antiquity—one long and straight, one shorter and curved—hung at the armored figure’s sides. Almost did Naipal laugh with joy. Success! He did not realize he had spoken aloud until the demon replied in tones like a storm.
“Success you call it, O man? I call it betrayal! Betrayal heaped upon betrayal!”
“Surely a small betrayal only,” Naipal said. “And freedom is your eventual reward.” A shudder passed through the demon, and its eight arms shook until the wizard feared it might attempt to hurl one of its weapons at him, or even try to fling itself through the flaming barrier. He laid a nervous hand on the golden coffer.
“You speak of what you do not know, O man! A small betrayal? To do your bidding I was forced to slay one of my other selves! For the first time since time itself began, one of the Sivani is slain, and by my hand!”
“And you fear the vengeance of the other two? But surely they do not know, or you would not be here.”
“And how long before they discover the deed, O man?”
“Fear not,” the mage said. “I will find a way to protect you.” Before the demon could speak again, Naipal shouted. “Go, Masrok! I command it!”
With a deafening roar the demon was gone, and only the ancient warrior floated within the bars of the fire.
Now Naipal did permit himself to laugh. Demons, it seemed, could indeed be enmeshed as easily as men.
Swiftly he set about lowering the sorcerous barrier, a task more difficult in some ways than erecting it had been. At last it was done, and he hurried to examine the figure that now stood precisely centered on the arcane pattern in the floor. No breath stirred the ancient warrior’s chest, and no light shone in his dark, staring eyes, yet his dusky skin seemed to glow with life. Curious, Naipal touched the warrior’s cheek and grunted. Despite what seemed living suppleness to the eye, it was like touching leather stretched tight over wood.
“Now,” Naipal murmured to himself.
From the myriad of crystal beakers and vials on his worktable, he chose out five, pouring small, precisely measured portions of their contents into a mortar wrought from the skull of a virgin murdered by her mother. Four of those ingredients were so rare that he begrudged even the tiny amounts needed. With the thigh bone of the virgin’s mother for a pestle, he ground and mixed until he had a black paste.
The mage hesitated before turning to the large wicker basket. Then, steeling himself, he tore open the lashings that held its lid. Pity rose in him as he looked down on the ragged boy within, bound and gagged, frozen with fear. Forcefully he stifled emotion and lifted the child from the basket. The small form trembled as he laid it before the shape of the warrior. He could feel the child’s eyes on him, though he tried to ignore them.
Hastily now, as if to be done with the thing, Naipal fetched the foul-made mortar. Dipping the little finger of his left hand into the black paste, he drew a symbol on the forehead of the bound child, then again on that of the warrior. The residue he scrubbed carefully from his finger with a cloth.
The warrior, the child and the largest of the khorassani lay in a straight line. Naipal lowered himself to the cushions to invoke powers not summoned before.
“Mon’draal un’tar, maran vi’endar!”
The words were softly spoken, yet the walls of the chamber chimed in resonance with them. Thrice Naipal repeated the chant and at the third speaking, rays of light, cold and pale as mountain snow, lanced from the ebon stone, one to strike the dark symbol on the warrior’s forehead, the other that on the child’s. On and on Naipal spoke the incantation. A third icy beam sprang into being, linking the two symbols directly. The child arched his back and screamed, unable to move his head from beneath the glittering point of that sorcerous triangle. Naipal cried the words loudly to drown out the scream. A whine shimmered from the light like the string of a zither drawn too tight.
Abruptly all was silence; the rays of light vanished. Naipal expelled a long breath. It was done. Getting to his feet, he approached the lifeless body of the child. He had eyes only for that small form.
“You have been freed from a life of misery, pain and hunger,” he said. “Your spirit has gone to dwell in a purer realm. Only life was taken from you. It had to be a young life, not yet fully formed.” He paused, then added, “I would use the children of nobles and of the wealthy if I could.” Funeral fires fit for a lord, he decided. Such would he give this nameless waif.