Snare

  ‘No! Don’t be an idiot, Zahir.’ Warkannan paused for a long moment. Tears were running down his face. ‘I’m just sorry that – well, that things have worked out like this.’

  ‘So am I. Believe me, so am I.’

  Warkannan raised his arm and wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that God would condemn anyone to Hell for something they were born with.’

  ‘Don’t you? I know He can. I’ve lived with it for years.’

  ‘No!’ Warkannan stepped forward. ‘There’s something very wrong here. I don’t care what they told you. The Lord is the all merciful, the compassionate. What do you think? that He’d pull wings off yellabuhs to watch them crawl?’

  Zayn felt his head start throbbing again, a regular pulse of pain. In his ears something was hissing, bubbling like water boiling in a kettle. ‘No,’ Zayn could barely speak. ‘I don’t suppose He would.’

  ‘Then ask yourself why He’d treat you worse. Ask yourself if He’d torture children the way you were tortured. They lied to you, Zahir – the Chosen, I mean. For the love of God, please, think about it. They had to have been lying to you.’

  ‘Oh? The mullahs said the same thing, you know. Long before I’d even heard of the Chosen.’

  ‘Then the mullahs were wrong, and God will make them pay for it, one fine day.’

  The hissing turned to a roar like water drowning the world. Zayn could barely see Warkannan’s face, swimming beyond the bars.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zayn whispered. ‘I can’t believe in your god.’

  ‘Then I’ll pray for you doubly.’ Warkannan’s voice cracked. He turned on his heel and walked away.

  The priest slammed the outer door shut. Zayn took one step and fell to his knees. He sat down on the carpet, merely sat for a long while, staring at the door beyond the bars. The pain in his head slackened off, and the boiling hiss first receded, then vanished, from his hearing. When he tried standing, he found his balance back to normal.

  For a long time Zayn stood at the window and stared out at the forest, but in his mind he was seeing fog and water, lapping around the island in the Mistlands. Once again he saw the image of himself grown old and empty, a husk of a man floating through his double life. He was going to be spared that fate, at least. Maybe it was better to die now than to end up drifting like a ghost through what was left of a life that never should have been lived. Maybe God was merciful in some ways, anyway. All at once he realized that he couldn’t remember what Idres had been telling him, except, vaguely, that it had something to do with God’s mercy.

  ‘Alayn must have hit me harder than I thought.’

  Outside, the sunlight was dancing on green trees, impossibly beautiful, all of a sudden, impossibly beyond his reach. Someone was leading horses across the green lawn. He turned sideways in order to watch this simple moment, when men who were going to live led horses into the sunlight. Men – it was Warkannan and Soutan, and the nephew, ready to ride out, leading pack horses, leaving the temple behind. He should have known that Idres would refuse to watch him die.

  Others joined them, Alayn’s two bodyguards as far as he could tell, but he didn’t see the red-haired sinyur among them. Most likely Alayn was going to stay and enjoy the ceremony. From the way Warkannan was gesturing and pointing, it was clear that he’d taken charge of everybody, and that they were obeying his orders, just as most men did obey Idres when he set his mind to it. Zayn watched as they mounted up. He stayed at the window until the little caravan disappeared among the trees.

  Zayn left the window and lay down on the bed. The pillow was hard and scant; he grabbed it and shook it to soften it. With a waft of perfume a pale brown hair fell from the covering. He caught it, dropped the pillow, and stretched out the hair – long, very long, most likely a woman’s. He decided that he wouldn’t wonder what these so-called priests had done to her before her death. He threw the pillow onto the floor and lay down without it.

  His head throbbed, he ached with the bruises his capture had given him, but above all, he felt drained of all life, all feeling. He fell asleep to dream of his initiation into the Chosen and the tall pillar, a single crystal of quartz, a pale blue quartz. Some sort of light glowed inside, points of light, pale fire rippling in its depths. They’d bound him to it – it stood taller than he did – and administered their oath of silence with a crystal knife held at the side of his throat.

  Crystals. Ammadin. She stood by a fire, swearing at him for stealing one of her horses. You’re one of us now, she said. Why did you sneak off like that? She held up a scanning crystal. Deep inside it he saw a tiny image of himself, riding through the night. Suddenly he found himself awake and sitting up. Very real, that dream, so real – for the first time it occurred to him that Ammadin could find him if she wanted to. He felt a surge of hope, as palpable as a shudder of sexual desire, that drove him onto his feet and to the window.

  Heat shimmered on the empty lawn. The lie of the shadows told him that he’d slept till afternoon. Awake, Zayn saw no reason why Ammadin would want to rescue him, unless perhaps to retrieve the sorrel gelding. He felt himself start shaking again, and cold sweat ran down his back. He gripped the windowsill with both hands and considered the second thought that came to him: he didn’t want to die. After all those years of playing games with Death, Death was finally going to win, just when he’d decided he wanted to live.

  ‘Now listen,’ he told himself aloud. ‘It’ll be quick. You’ve never been a coward before, and you’re not going to die like one.’

  The sound of his own steady voice reassured him. He knew he could face it when the time came, just as he’d faced the flogging down in Blosk. No doubt this would hurt a good bit less. He went to the table and poured himself more water. Judging from the position of the sun, he had only a few more hours before the priests came for him. He sat down on the bed and stared out at nothing.

  The sun was hanging low in the sky when he heard the sound. At first he thought he was imagining it out of simple despair: hoofbeats, and someone yelling a couple of words in Hirl-Onglay. Yet the sound came closer, grew louder. Zayn ran for the window in time to see mounted riders erupt out of the forest and swirl around the temple. Comnee men. Zayn saw Father Sharl run out, hands up in supplication, but two men swung themselves off their horses and grabbed him. Over the yelling, screaming mob, Zayn couldn’t hear what the old man was saying, but he could guess it was curses.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Zayn said. ‘Saved.’

  He tossed back his head and laughed like a maniac, then swung around. Footsteps were pounding up the stairs outside his door, and it was too soon for them to belong to his rescuers. The outer door swung open; a priest began wrestling one-handed with the lock on the iron grate. He held the long bronze knife in the other hand, and right behind him stood Alayn with his drawn sword at the ready.

  ‘You’re not going to be giving evidence,’ the priest snarled. ‘Not against us!’

  The priest swung the grate open and rushed in with Alayn right behind him. Zayn picked up the flimsy silver cup and hurled it straight at his head. With a yelp the priest ducked, then lunged, brandishing the knife. Zayn grabbed the pitcher in one hand and swung it up, throwing the water straight into his attacker’s eyes, then hurled the pitcher after it. The manoeuvre bought him a split second, long enough to grab the priest’s arm. Zayn swung him around like a shield, slammed him from behind, and forced his chest onto Alayn’s naked blade. With a scream, the priest arched backward as the sword bit deep. Howling with rage, Alayn pulled the blade free. Zayn grabbed the bronze knife and thrust the dying man straight at Alayn, who staggered back to the doorway from the force of the dead weight. Alayn shoved the corpse to the ground, then glared at him, panting for breath. His pale eyes glittered as he stepped over the corpse, then paused, listening.

  Muffled voices were shouting in the shrine below.

  ‘Dallo!’ Zayn yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘Dallo, up the stairs.’
>
  Zayn heard footsteps pounding, but Alayn heard them too. Swearing under his breath, he charged, the blade flashing. Zayn caught it on the bronze knife. For a moment they struggled; then the bronze snapped under the steel. Zayn leapt, dropped, rolled and kicked out with both legs. His feet slammed into Alayn’s knees and knocked them both to the floor. As he fell, Alayn lashed out with the sword and nearly caught Zayn across the face. Zayn rolled again and found himself up against the wall. Alayn scrambled to his knees and raised the sword in both hands, ready to slice down with all his strength.

  With a howl of rage Dallador appeared in the doorway and threw his long knife. It tumbled end over end in a glitter of caught light and sank its point into Alayn’s face. Alayn screamed and fell back, dropping the sword, screamed over and over while his hands pawed at his face. The long knife had bitten deep into his right eye. Dallador ran in and grabbed the sword. He held it two-handed and high, then plunged it into Alayn’s throat. The sinyur’s body twisted, writhed, and lay still.

  Zayn clambered to his feet and stood panting for breath. Dallador knelt on one knee, looked at Alayn’s face, and turned so pale that Zayn thought he might vomit. Instead he pulled the long knife free, shook himself once, then wiped the blade off on the hem of Alayn’s smock. He rose, sheathing the knife in one smooth motion, and turned towards Zayn.

  ‘I’m damned glad you called for me,’ Dallador said.

  ‘So am I,’ Zayn said. ‘Somehow I figured you’d be here.’

  More footsteps came pounding up the stairs. ‘Dallo!’ Grenidor yelled. ‘Are you in there? Where’s Zayn?’

  ‘In here!’ Zayn called out.

  Long knife in hand, Grenidor ran into the room, then stopped, staring at the bodies on the floor.

  ‘Oh gods!’ Grenno blurted. ‘You’ve killed a priest.’

  ‘And a sinyur, too,’ Dallador said. ‘We’d better get out of here.’

  ‘Dallo, listen.’ Zayn laid a hand on his arm. ‘Let me take the blame. I killed that stinking priest, so outside the comnee, let’s just say that I killed Alayn too. They can only hang me once if it comes to that.’

  ‘It’s not going to come to that even if we have to fight our way back through the Rift,’ Dallador said. ‘I’m not going to let you take the blame for my kill.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Grenidor broke in. ‘You’ve got a child to think about.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Zayn said. ‘And a wife.’

  Dallador hesitated, then nodded his agreement. They hurried down the twisting dark stairway and came out into the shrine. Four comnee men were standing in front of the altar. Sitting on the steps of the dais were the other two young priests with their hands and ankles bound. The side door swung open. Kassidor strode in, and behind him Orador and another man were dragging Father Sharl, bound hand and foot as well. They threw him down on the steps next to his assistants. Orador turned to Zayn and held up a long knife.

  ‘Yours, I believe?’ Orador said, grinning.

  ‘It is, and thanks.’ Zayn took it and sheathed it. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the belt he’s wearing.’ Orador pointed at Sharl. ‘That stack of horseshit shaped like a man.’

  ‘Isn’t this something?’ Kassidor said. ‘Charlador turns up at last, and he’s still no damned good for anything on this earth.’ He glanced at Zayn. ‘He was a spirit rider once, back when I was a child. We were all hoping he was dead, but we weren’t lucky enough.’

  Sharl hauled himself up to a sitting position. Hatred burned in his eyes and set his grotesque mouth quivering.

  ‘All right, renegade,’ Kassidor went on. ‘You’d better hope that some of your ever-so-civilized friends find you before you die of thirst.’

  Sharl started to speak, then stopped himself.

  ‘You should have known better than to kidnap a comnee man,’ Zayn said to Sharl. ‘But don’t worry. I killed Aggnavvachur a sacrifice. Sinyur Alayn is dead.’

  Sharl snarled and spat straight at Zayn’s face. The drops fell short.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Kassidor snapped. ‘Their god can come rescue them if he wants.’

  Kassidor, Grenidor, and the rest ran down the long room and headed out. In his exhaustion Zayn followed slowly and Dallador stayed with him. Just inside the temple doorway Dallador paused; his face had gone pale again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Zayn said.

  ‘That was a shit ugly way to kill a man.’

  ‘I’m sorry you –’

  ‘Don’t apologize!’

  ‘All right.’ Zayn flung his arm around Dallador’s shoulders and pulled him close. For a moment Dallador let himself rest against him, sharing warmth, sharing strength. Zayn was tempted to kiss him, but Dallador stepped away, turning to look out. He shaded his eyes with one hand to study the crowd outside.

  ‘What are –’ Zayn said.

  ‘Wondering where the spirit rider is,’ Dallador said. ‘Huh! She’s probably looking for the sorrel gelding.’

  ‘She’s going to want my hide for taking him.’

  ‘She said something along those lines.’ Dallador turned to him and managed a smile. ‘But you’ll live through it.’

  ‘I’ll even enjoy it. It’ll mean I’m not dead. You know, I never thanked you.’

  ‘No need. We’ve got to get out of here fast. That sinyur keeps paid soldiers at home, and they might be coming back for him.’

  Outside, the rest of the comnee men had spread out across the lawn, some to hold the horses, others ready for possible trouble. Kassidor and Orador stood together, talking urgently.

  ‘There’s Ammi.’ Dallador pointed across the compound. ‘She’s found the sorrel.’

  Zayn saw Ammadin leading the gelding, which she’d saddled and bridled. She was heading right for them. Her mouth was set in a tight line of fury, her face was smudged with dirt, but to Zayn she looked more beautiful than ever. All his old desire for her was still alive – the realization shocked him, that he could stand next to Dallador and yet realize how much a woman meant to him. For a moment he had such trouble forming a coherent thought that he felt as if he’d drunk himself into a near-stupor. Dallador muttered something cowardly and trotted off, leaving Zayn face-to-face and alone with Ammadin. When she threw the horse’s reins at him, he caught them in one hand. The sorrel tossed its head and snorted as if it were glad to see him.

  ‘Spirit Rider,’ Zayn began, ‘I’m sorry –’

  ‘You should be,’ Ammadin said. ‘You’re going to tell me the truth when we get back, Zayn. And I mean every last word of it.’

  ‘Anything you want. You know something? I never thought you’d come after me.’

  ‘You idiot! What do you think being a comnee man means?’

  ‘I didn’t understand before. I do now.’

  ‘Good. Try to remember it from now on.’ She suddenly frowned. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I never thought I’d see you again, and you’re beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Ammadin took a deep breath, as if she were stocking up plenty of air to list his sins.

  Kassidor, however, saved him. Just as Ammadin was launching into a tirade, Kassidor called her name and, with a couple of men in tow, came running up.

  ‘There you are, Ammi,’ he said. ‘Charlador’s inside. He was the man in charge here.’

  ‘Oh was he?’ Ammadin’s voice went flat and cold.

  ‘Yes, he made a point of telling me when he was trying to make me let him go. Is there anything you want to say to him before we ride?’

  ‘Say?’ Ammadin blinked rapidly. ‘Not precisely.’ Ammadin turned on her heel and headed for the temple. Zayn flung the sorrel’s reins to one of the comnee men and hurried after her, as did Kassidor. They caught up with her as she was striding down the aisle, heading for the dais, where the three so-called priests sat flopped like fish on the riverbank. Sharl started to speak, then let the words fade. Ammadin stopped in front of him and looked him over for a long hard minute. He sco
wled, let that fade, started to speak again, stopped, then slowly went pale. The growths stood out, lurid against his sweaty white skin.

  ‘Zayn?’ Ammadin said. ‘Come here.’

  When Zayn joined her, she turned and pulled the long knife from the sheath on his belt before he was truly aware of what she’d done. Sharl screamed, twisting this way and that, and flung himself off the steps in his desperation. Ammadin knelt beside him. In one smooth motion she shoved her left hand flat against his forehead and pinned his head to the floor. With the other hand she cut his throat. Blood sprayed, soaking his smock, dappling her face, but she neither flinched nor spoke. My God, she’s strong! Zayn thought. She cleaned the knife on his trouser leg, handed it back to Zayn, then wiped her face on her shirt sleeve.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Kassidor. ‘The other two, they’re no concern of ours.’

  As they all hurried out, Zayn glanced back. One of the young priests was sobbing; the other, white-faced, sat as still as the idol behind him.

  ‘Ammadin?’ Zayn said. ‘Why –’

  ‘He was a renegade, but he was still a comnee man. We’re all responsible if one of our own does something criminal. Now save your breath. We’ve got to get out of here.’

  Zayn reminded himself to wash the knife first chance he got and followed her outside.

  When, earlier in the day, Warkannan had led his caravan out of the temple compound, Soutan had found them a winding dirt path that led more or less east. A scant mile along, they came to a fork, and there Alayn’s men left them. As they trotted off, one turned in the saddle and shouted something back.

  ‘He says the other path will take us to the Burgunee road,’ Soutan said.

  ‘Can we trust them?’ Warkannan said.

  ‘Of course. They’ve sworn their loyalty to Alayn, and we’re his friends.’

  ‘They have more honour than me, then.’

  ‘Captain, are you still fretting over Benumar?’

  ‘Fretting? No, I’m not fretting. I’m sick to my guts over it. May God forgive me, but I wish I could go back and –’