The Shadow of Ararat (94 page)

"Fire, come to me," he said, crossing his hands on his chest. He closed his eyes.

In his self, there was a struggle. The cold surged across him, raising a chill and then a sweat on his face and arms. Another fire echoed the pillar, curling in his center, flickering at the base of his spine. Ice leached across it, killing the embers one by one. Finally there was only a pure burning point of flame settled just above his stomach.

Distantly the sound of men crying out in fear came to his ears. Wind blew against him, a fierce gust, and he felt a blow to his stomach. Dwyrin's eyes flew open in alarm. Living flame had leapt from the side of the pillar, a streamer of white-hot fire that burrowed into his chest. He staggered back, but the current did not let go. He began screaming in fear, but the fire did not consume him. The incandescent point in his diaphragm spun and whirled, drawing in the pillar. A molten stream of flame sizzled down into a great depth, all hidden in a single point. Ice raged around it, and Dwyrin lost sensation in his fingers and toes.

The pillar shrank suddenly, rushing with a great noise down into the pit. The room shook with a booming sensation and without warning there was complete darkness. Dwyrin collapsed on his hands and knees to the cold marble tiles. Frost had formed on his eyebrows and skin. He shivered uncontrollably. All through the great room, a light ashy snow fell out of the clear air. It was terribly cold. Above, on the deck at the top of the room, the Greek officer and his men clambered to their feet, stunned and horrified in the darkness.

Dwyrin curled into a ball, trying to warm his limbs. It was so cold. His body shuddered, filled with a bone-deep buzz of delight and pleasure. Dwyrin felt sick; he had never felt like this before. The snow continued to fall, carpeting the floor and the rows of seats with a pale-white coverlet. Flakes settled onto his face, dusting his long braids.

The bloom of late summer was gone now, the cold air that had been held back from the valleys curled along the stream bottoms. The Roman army marched southward in bitter cold fogs and intermittent rain. Dwyrin bent his head, feeling chilly rain patter on his straw hat. A woolen cloak hung over his shoulders, and over that a cape of raw fleece. His boots slipped in the muck of the road—the rains had begun to turn the tracks that wound south toward the Euphrates into muddy rivers. The weather reminded him of home, though he was sure that his mother was not waiting at the end of the day, in a warm firelit house with a big bowl of mutton stew thick with onions. Instead, it would be a cold camp by the side of the road and moldy bread with a bit of salt pork.

Dwyrin was last in the column of thaumaturges, even behind Colonna, so he did not notice that they had entered a village until he had passed two or three ruined houses. When he looked up, he saw that the column ahead was turning left down a lane bounded by whitewashed houses and garden fences. The windows of the houses were barren and open, with smoke stains marking the walls above them. Their roofs were gone, or only a jumble of beams with charred ends. The mud in the street was thick with soot and ash, making a black muck that stuck to everything. The Hibernian shivered in his cloak—not from the cold, which was not nearly so biting as in his homeland, but from some unseen chill that seemed to fill the spaces between the houses.

At the little crossroads, where one road started up the side of a hill to the left and the path of the army wound down to the right, heading for the bottomlands of the river, he stopped. He heard a
ting-ting-ting
sound, like metal on stone, from the left-hand road. He looked ahead, seeing nothing but the backs of his comrades hunched under their hats, slogging down the road. The sound came again, a hammer or a pick it seemed. Rain continued to spatter out of a dark overcast sky. He hitched up his leather belt and adjusted the straps that held his bedroll and bags of sundries on his back.

Dwyrin hurried up the left-hand road, finding cobblestones under the sheet of mud that covered the path. At the top of the hill, set aside a little from the other buildings, was a solidly built square house with a peaked roof. Two dirty-white columns flanked the door, which had been broken and pushed aside. Unlike the houses on either side, it did not show signs of being burned, but then the roof was slate tiles. He paused in the doorway.

Within there was a central room, bounded by an arcade of columns. At the center, in a stepped depression, was a circular pit lined with dark stones. Dwyrin felt a chill on the back of his neck. He rubbed his arms. Weak gray light filtered in from a hole in the peaked roof. An old man, bent with great age, was sitting at the edge of the pit, striking two stones together. Below him, in the bowl of flint, there was a little pyramid of twigs and grass. Beside the pit a few lengths of wood had been gathered. In profile, Dwyrin could see that the old man had a strong, almost hooked nose and thick bushy white eyebrows. His cheeks were sunken, the skin stretched tight over the bone. His beard was long and parted into a fork.

"Are you cold, old father?" Dwyrin's voice echoed a little from the domed roof.

The old man looked up, his eyes dark in the dim light of the ruined building. "Everyone is cold, lad. The fire has gone out. See?"

Dwyrin stepped to the side of the pit, seeing that old coals still remained in the bottom in a thin layer of rainwater. The water was glassy and swirled with the shimmer of oil. The old man continued to strike one stone against the other, trying to bring a spark to the little pile of tinder. Dwyrin leaned over and slid the gear from his back. It clattered on the tiled floor.

"Let me," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I can make it go."

The old man looked up, his eyes bright under the ridge of his brow. He shook his head.

"No," he said in a gravelly voice, "this is my fire. I will take my time in lighting it."

Dwyrin sat, wrapping his arms around his knees, facing the old man. "Aren't you cold? The roof is broken, the rain... winter is coming."

"Yes," the old man said, nodding his head, "it will be a harsh one. Much rain, snow in the mountains. It will be difficult for all the people. But it is my fire, I need to take the proper time of it."

Dwyrin frowned. Fire was not something that took time. He saw that the old man's hands were trembling from the effort of striking the rocks together. He sat up, leaning closer.

"I've a flint..." he started to say, but the old man glared at him and moved to put his thin body between the pile of tinder and the Hibernian.

"This is
my
fire," the old man said, his voice even but insistent. "If you desire your own, make your own. Mine is not to be rushed or hurried. Fire will come at its own pace, in its own way. I make fire with two stones—one from the mountain of Ormazd and one from the mountain of Ahriman. In this way, the world is lighted."

The old man turned his back on Dwyrin.
Ting-ting
came the sound of the rocks. Dwyrin swallowed a curse and stood. Rain dribbled down his back from the hood of his cloak. He snarled. It would take the old man hours, or even days, to start his fire. Through the round hole in the roof, he could see the clouds lowering. They were heavy and dark—it might even snow. Ignoring the old man, he stepped to the edge of the pit and looked down into the filthy pool at the bottom.

The slick of oil was spattering out in rings as raindrops fell into it. The old dead coals were almost submerged. Dwyrin thought of the pillar of flame in the temple, now days behind. That whole valley had been dark when the Greek and his men had ridden forth. Dwyrin had not looked back, feeling ill and weak. The ancient building was pitch black, without even the light of the moon to illuminate it.

Dwyrin raised his hand, feeling power bubble up in him, rushing and quick, like a spring stream. The coals in the bottom of the pit began to hiss and the water to steam.
This is so easy,
he thought with a grin. One of the coals turned a ruddy orange and the sludge of water began to bubble and boil. Steam curled up from the surface as another coal caught, burning under the water. Raindrops spattered down, but they hissed away into more steam before they could touch the fiercely bubbling water.

"See, here is your fire for winter!"

Flames roared up, wrapped in scalding steam, and the room was suddenly hot. The water hissed away, leaving burning coals and a bright fire in the pit. Dwyrin turned, silhouetted against the flames, his face cast in red-orange relief by the hot light. He was grinning.

The old man had stood as well, his face dark as a summer thunderstorm. His eyes flashed in the firelight. "I see nothing. The way is finding the flame that is hidden and allowing it to come forth of its own volition. You are a crude boy, without restraint." The old man's voice was muted thunder.

Dwyrin stepped back, suddenly sick at the reproach and pity in the bright eyes.

"Flame that comes quickly dies quickly." The old man stepped forward and Dwyrin stumbled back over his bedroll. "A flame to light the world takes a long time to come, nurtured, steady and slow, it might take years or decades or centuries. This witch-light is nothing, a passing fancy."

Dwyrin scrambled up in a dark room. The fire in the pit had guttered down to nothing, only some cracked stones and a faint hissing as more rain spattered in through the hole in the roof. A sense of terrible shame pressed at his heart. He gathered up his baggage and ran out into the street. The rain was heavier now, and the air colder. He slid down the cobblestones toward the other road.

Ting-ting
came the sound, faint in the patter of the rain.

Despite the hour, late after the rising of the moon, the halls of the palace were filled with light. Thyatis, following an unusually ebullient Jusuf, glanced sidelong at grand colonnades of marble pillars, slim and topped with acanthus capitals. On every pillar lanterns burned brightly. The broad floors, a pale-azure color, were clean swept and the walls were covered with incised murals of the victories of the kings of Persia. Thyatis was garbed in a delicate silk gown under a supple dark robe. Only her slate-gray eyes, edged with kohl, showed amid the headdress. As befitted a woman of her station, she kept a pace behind Jusuf and a step to the side.

In turn, he was gorgeously appointed in blue and green linen with a silk scarf draped around his neck. His shoes were jeweled and curled up at the pointed tips. The afternoon had been spent carefully waxing his beard and sharpening the points of his mustaches. Now he cut a dashing figure, one that was completely in place, and thus invisible, in the palace of the King of Kings. Far more demure in her dark cloak and robe, Thyatis was also invisible, though her nerves had been on edge since their carriage had been admitted to the grounds of the stupendous palace. The servant who was escorting them paused before a tall doorway with a pointed arch. He bowed to the two guards, massively built black men in leather and iron, and whispered to them.

The guardsmen, somber in a dull red and black, returned the bow and opened the door behind them. Soft music drifted out and Thyatis forced herself to remain behind Jusuf as he bowed to the room and entered in stately fashion. The servant sidled up to the Bulgar and Jusuf bent his head to listen. A bag of heavy coins was pressed into the eunuch's hand and the plump little man bowed again before closing the doors behind him as he left the room.

Thyatis balanced forward on the balls of her feet. Raw boldness had gotten them this far, and the last of their gold had bought entrance to this room, but now she fretted at the prospect of Jusuf carrying off the last of his little stratagem.

Three days before, sitting on the mud-brick wall of a second-rate caravanserai on the outskirts of the sprawling Persian capital, Thyatis had frowned at the taciturn Northerner.

"My friend," she had said, "do not take it wrongly, but as a matter of course, you are a gloomy fellow. You are brave and quick with a sword or bow—true—but you do not, as a rule, have a sunny disposition. In fact, you have the demeanor of a lemon."

Jusuf, grinning smugly, had remained before her, brown arms crossed over his broad chest. He was grinning particularly at Nikos, who was eyeing him with his usual distaste.

"Well?" Jusuf said. "Here we are, but there are no Armenians to raise up in revolt. Any good we might do to help the Emperors must come from being properly placed in the city when, at last, their armies come before the gates."

The Bulgar turned and pointed off across the roofs of the city. Thousands of whitewashed mud-brick buildings rose up on a low hill at the edge of the Tigris. Above the tenements, on a great raised platform of brick terraces, stood the palace of the King of Kings. Actually, one of three palaces. This one shone in the hot sun like a beacon, its roofs plated with gold and the delicate architecture of its towers and dome a sharp contrast to the crowed narrow streets and dark bazaars of the city.

"What better place to be, when that day comes, than within the Palace of Swans?"

Nikos coughed and made a face at the barbarian. "Thyatis has an unusual fondness for underground places, friend Jusuf, but it does not seem likely to me that the sewers of the Imperial Palace are going to be unguarded. How do you propose getting into the palace, much less at the proper time?"

Jusuf rocked from one foot to the other. His grin, if anything, grew wider. "Because, my good Roman friends, I know someone in the palace. Someone important."

The disbelief on Thyatis' face must have been obvious, for the Bulgar snickered.

"Who?" She did not believe it. There was no way this steppe-rider had a contact in the second biggest city in the world, or within the palace of an Emperor.

"You'll see," Jusuf said, still smiling that big grin. "How much gold do you have left?"

The round chamber was softly lit by tall lanterns of copper and amethyst. Deliciously thick carpets covered the floor and spilled through the doorways. No bare wall was visible, save at the edges of the doorways, for heavy tapestries and hangings covered them. Brass chains hanging from the ceiling held more lanterns and the air was touched by the sweet smell of incense. Somewhere, through one of the doorways, a lyre played, a haunting sound pitched low enough to permit quiet conversation.