Shilo tried not to think about home.
She must have missed something in the courtyard . . . some clue that would point the way back to Meemaw and Wisconsin.
Her father had found his way back from the puzzle, and at a younger age. Maybe he had been cleverer.
Nidintulugal. The sacrifice he had made to help her. Would she ever be able to repay him:1 Perhaps he could teach her his language and then she could say "thank you" so that he would truly understand.
She drew her face forward until it was pinched. The notion of learning another language was not an agreeable one. She'd hated Spanish class her freshman year in high school. How about Babylonian instead ... or whatever they called the native tongue of Mesopotamia?
"I'm in Hades,' she whispered. "What did I ever do to deserve this?"
"Heed my call, Sigurd Clawhand. Time grows short.''
"That's it!" Shilo stopped, standing rail straight and fuming. "I've had enough of your Sigurd Clawhand chitchat. Talking only when you've a care to invade my brain."
Nidintulugal had stopped, too, his face a mix of surprise and concern. His mouth hung open, like he was going to say something. Instead, he watched her rant.
"Sigurd Clawhand doesn't exist. Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"
She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists, her nails pressing so hard into her palms it hurt. Shilo managed to keep from crying this time.
"Sigurd Clawhand was my father, and he's dead. Buried more than two thousand years from now. So why don't you just stop calling for him . . . whoever you are! Get out of my head."
"I am Ulbanu, and if you would open your mind, this would proceed much easier. Shut me out no longer, Child of Sigurd."
Shilo trembled.
Ulbanu. The speaker finally had a name.
Shilo clutched the sides of her head, eyes wide and staring straight at Nidintulugal, but not seeing him. Instead she saw small fields ringing a village, the homes made of glazed bricks and the roofs tiled. People milled about, weeding the crops, drawing water from the well, bathing children, playing with dogs, tanning the hide of some large animal.
In an instant she was beyond that village and into clay-colored hills, her vision suddenly so keen that she could make out the striations in sections of broken stone. There were places where dirt had gathered in bowl-shaped depressions in the rock, and stunted plants with feathery leaves grew there. She could even see thumbnail-sized green beetles that crawled on the stems.
Shilo stammered. "Nid-Nid-Nidin . . . I'm scared."
Still, she didn't see him. She saw only the hill. Then her gaze traveled up it until shadows collected in thick crevices. Something stirred in the blackness, and Shilo blinked and shook her head.
"Keep your mind open, Child of Sigurd, and you will find your way to me."
"I'm not going to the hills . . . whoever, whatever, you are. Nidin and I have other plans, and . . ."
"If you want to go home, Child of Sigurd, you must find your way to me. I am the gate."
Nidintulugal gently shook Shilo's shoulders. He tugged up her left arm and used her sleeve to wipe at the sweat on her face. Her skin was warm, but she was sweating profusely like she had a fever, and she shivered all over.
"I'm fifteen years old, Nidin. Stuff like this shouldn't happen to someone my age. Stuff like this shouldn't happen to anyone."
What, exactly, had her father experienced?
Did he have visions when he went to the far, far north?
Did he hear voices in his head?
Nidintulugal looked uncertain, and Shilo thought he was having second and third thoughts about helping her.
"You think I'm nuts, don't you, Nidin?" She shook her head and wiped at her face again. "I think I'm nuts." She looked east and pointed toward the hills in the distance. "But I need to get into those hills, Nidin, I guess. And if there's something in the shadows high in those hills . . ." She shuddered. "I figure nuts or not, what's in the hills is probably just as bad as the guards back in the city. But at least I can communicate with what's in the hills.'
She brushed by Nidintulugal and pointed herself toward the highest section. Her gait wasn't as fast as Nidintulugal's had been, but it was steady, and after a few moments he fell in behind her. Shilo stopped to rest once, sitting cross-legged amid stunted grass, brittle because the land had not been irrigated here. She closed her eyes, not wanting to meet Nidintulugal's curious stare, and listened to the insects.
Calming herself, she put her hands on her knees, trying to match the lotus position of a Hawaiian yoga instructor she'd seen a few times on television. Clear my mind, the voice told me. Not an easy thing to do. Impossible, she figured after a few moments. Too much to think about. There was Babylon and Slade's Corners, and . . .
"Child of Sigurd, there will be time to rest later."
Shilo's eyes flew open, and again she saw the village and the hills, the shadows farther up, and one wide dark shadow in particular. The darkness pulled her, and she got to her feet.
"Come on, Nidin. My destiny awaits ... or something like that."
She nervously trudged on, her feet alternately burning and numb, eyes hurting from the gnats and bits of dust stirred up by the slight breeze. It was warmer the farther away from the river they traveled. Despite her stumbling a few times, and slowing, they reached the village before dawn, and Shilo skirted the fields that ringed it.
Nidintulugal pulled on her sleeve and pointed to the collection of homes. He talked rapidly, invoking the name of his god and a few other Babylonian deities Shilo vaguely recognized from his tour of the city. She shook her head and nodded to the hills.
"You can go to the village, Nidintulugal. No doubt you've family and friends there or you wouldn't be interested. You'd be better off in the village than traipsing up the hill with me . . . nutty me."
She waved to the village, took a deep breath, and tromped toward the hills. After several yards, she glanced over her shoulder, disappointed to see Nidintulugal heading into the village. Within moments, he was gone from view.
She sucked in her lower lip. "He's better off," she said.
Then she started to climb, humming a Wynton Marsalis tune as she went. Her legs throbbed, that pain competing with her feet and her side . . . and now her head, which ached because she was so hungry. There was nothing pleasant to latch on to here—no pleasing birdsong to distract her.
Instinctively she knew which cave to go to.
Shilo thought she should have been surprised to see a dragon inside of it. But like her father decades before, finding the dragon only made sense.
Her father had told Meemaw about a silver one named Fafnir. The puzzle was all about dragons, and in putting one together, she'd found the real thing.
So while she wasn't surprised to see it, she was riveted in place by the sheer size of it. The beast filled the immense cavern, its head alone larger than an adult elephant. She'd seen pictures of "Sue," the Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton on display in a Chicago museum.
As big as that was, this dragon dwarfed it.
Shilo forgot to breathe, she was so overwhelmed by its presence. It was the most beautiful and the most hideous creature she'd ever seen. Its snout was vaguely equine, silvery scales running down the center like a blaze. Bronze and gold scales covered the sides of its head, and a ridge that looked sharp and that glistened like molten metal ran from between its eyes and up over the top of its head. The eyes held her. At first she thought they were black, with no discernible pupils. But as she stared, they changed to a midnight blue, and then to a deep violet, and she saw her quivering form reflected in them. Perhaps they shifted color at the dragon's whim, she thought, blinking in disbelief when they suddenly appeared to be as green and shiny as wet emeralds.
The dragon settled on that color and edged closer, extending a leg toward her. Like the image on the puzzle box and on the gate in the city, it looked like the paw of a lion, talons longer than she was tall. Shilo felt dizzy and dropped to her knees, fi
nally remembering to breathe and sucking in gulps of air filled with the dragon's overpowering scent. The great beast stunk, and she concentrated so she wouldn't gag and offend it. The odor was reminiscent of her father's garden in the fall when he let the tomato and bell pepper plants rot and lay there until the spring.
She could smell nothing else save the dragon . . . until it opened its mouth. Its breath was as strong as a gust of wind, and it was filled with the scents of scorched earth and cinnamon. The moisture of it plastered Shilo's hair to the sides of her head; it was as if she stood in a warm, misting rain.
The dragon's tongue was blood-red and slit at the end like a lizard's. It lolled out and twisted around its front fangs, then teased its lower lip and dipped down to touch the barbels that dangled from its jaw.
It moved closer still, and Shilo could see more of it now. The thing's neck was covered with scales the size of the shields carried by the guards in the city. They were a mix of metallic colors—silver, gold, bronze, brass—gleaming in a light that came from the creature itself. Plates on the underside of its neck also covered its belly, looking impossibly thick, like the armor of a tank.
Saliva spilled from its mouth and pooled on the cave floor, reflecting the dragon's scales and adding to the light of the place.
"Child of Sigurd, I am honored." The words echoed off the walls. The voice sounded sultry and whiskey-tinged, like she remembered it when she first heard it in the hallway of the antique store. "I feared you would not come in time."
The dragon's mouth did not move, and Shilo realized the words still came inside her head. Telepathy, she guessed, like some of the superheroes in the comic books used. Who are you? she thought.
The dragon did not answer.
"W-w-who ..." she stammered, finding her tongue uncooperative. She could not help but be terrified in the creatures presence. "W-wh-who are you?" In fact, Shilo had never felt such a deep, heart-stopping fear. Although she shivered all over, she couldn't move, her legs like trees anchored in place. She wondered if she'd die here, perhaps of a heart attack like her father had.
But he'd made it through his dragon, watched men kill it if the tale Meemaw had recounted was true. She couldn't make it through this one, however. Her father's dragon could not have been this large. Nothing that lived was larger than this! That she wasn't dead already was a miracle. This creature could swallow her in an instant.
It would be quick, so quick she wouldn't feel a thing.
Shilo closed her eyes and waited for the end.
Would she see her father?
Was Heaven real and was he there?
"I am Ulbanu," the dragon said. "I gave you my name before, when you walked through the fields beyond the great city of Babylon."
Shilo's eyes flew open and she tipped her head back. The dragon had slid closer, and its head filled her vision. She nearly swooned because the stench of it was even stronger, the odors of rotting vegetation and burnt earth practically choking her.
"I sensed you" the dragon continued, oblivious to Shilo's distress, or perhaps merely ignoring it. "Across continents and time I felt you touch the relic."
"The puzzle," Shilo whispered.
"What your kind call the relic."
That horrible puzzle, she thought, that wretched thing that would not let me leave it alone.
"The sage found it on his travels and took it to your land."
"The old man who lived next to my dad." Shilo remembered that her grandmother said the boys snuck into the man's house after he died and found the puzzle. "My dad . . ."
"Sigurd Clawhand," the dragon corrected.
"My dad." Despite the dragon and her hopeless situation Shilo mustered some courage. "His name was Sigmund."
The dragon cocked its head, its barbels stirring the puddle of saliva on the cave floor. "I worried that you would not master the relic and reach me in time."
"You mean put the puzzle together and"—Shilo searched for the words—"activate it, the relic."
The dragon's eyes became a deeper shade of green.
"I mixed up the pieces and made a dragon that wasn't part of the puzzle, at least not what was on the cover of the box. I made a dragon that looked like you." Shilo's legs tingled, some feeling coming to them and letting her shuffle backward a handful of steps. "The dragon of the Ishtar Gate."
The creature roared then, the sound painfully deafening and causing the cave to shake as if in the throes of an earthquake. Stone dust came down like rain, and cracks appeared in the cave floor.
"Dragon of the Ishtar Gate, Talon of Marduk. Image of the God of Love and War. Guardian of Kings. Men call me all of those things, hut I am none of those things. You have angered me, Child of Sigurd."
The dragon's eyes narrowed and Shilo felt her heart stop.
11 Arshaka’s Dream
ARSHAKA PADDED TO THE RIVER, CROSSING AT THE CITYS northern bridge.
Babylon never wholly slept, but in the early-morning hours the fewest number of people were about. Guards always walked the streets, though not all the streets, and he did not see any on this trip. He'd deliberately taken the alleys through the poor quarters, where the guards rarely patrolled. Despite his jewelry and bulging pockets, and his fine clothes, he didn't fear any of the ruffians that the slums of the city engendered.
Arshaka didn't fear people.
The scents were subdued in the darkness, and so he did not have to suffer the smells of sweat and warring perfumes and oils. There were only the odors of the river and the boats. To the south he saw a light reflecting off the water, and he strained to see its source.
Nothing to concern him, he realized: a fisherman worked on his boat, perhaps had been working there throughout the night. Arshaka felt mildly sorry for the man, who would never accomplish anything great in his pitiful, and probably short, life. The fisherman might catch enough to feed his family and to sell, but would never make enough to wallow in luxury.
Arshaka craved luxury and power.
He glided into the western part of Babylon, down a narrow street made of cobblestones that had been carved to look like half-moons. Crumbled pottery and mud served as the cement between them. There were gentle sounds in this neighborhood—the soft snores of people sleeping, the chirp of crickets hiding against buildings, and still the lapping of the Euphrates reached him here.
Arshaka preferred traveling in this part of Babylon during the dark hours, when he was not likely to be noticed. Not even Ekurzakir, his most trusted guard, knew where he was at the moment. Not even Nebuchadnezzar was aware of Arshaka's little rituals. His legs protested this trip, as it was a good distance from his apartments at the northeast part of the city to this den in the west.
The shop came into view when he turned the corner. It fronted onto the narrowest street in all of Babylon, and Arshaka's shoulders rubbed the walls as he squeezed through. Three raps on a wood door halfway down—only the merchants and the wealthy in this part of the city had other than blankets and hides hanging in their doorways—then he opened it and stepped inside. The door was not locked, as he was expected.
He closed it behind himself and eased down a half-dozen brick steps, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of a candle that lit a single sunken room. The candle had been burning for some time, as wax was pooled thickly around its base.
He wove between the tables, touching the fingers of his left hand against the gouged wood, and went to the back of the room, where he brushed aside a beaded curtain and took a longer set of stairs down to a deeper level. There was considerably better light here, ten thick candles spaced evenly on a long bench, the flickering light sending shadows dancing up the earthen walls.
There were two other occupants. The one who acknowledged Arshaka bowed stiffly. He could have been thirty or fifty, his unlined face keeping his years a secret, but his long hair and beard were shot through with streaks of silver. His hands were thin, the fingers long and decorated with tattoos where rings should be. He was a tall man for this time, w
ell more than six feet, but his shoulders and waist were narrow, like they belonged to a smaller person.
"The Hand of Nebuchadnezzar graces our den on this Night of Portent." The man's voice was clear, each word perfectly pronounced and measured, reminding Arshaka of a practiced politician. "The gods bless you."
Arshaka extended his right hand, allowing the man to kiss his largest ring. "And the gods bless you, Belzu-Mar."
Belzu-Mar swept his hand behind him, indicating the other occupant. This one was clearly elderly, with dark, age-spotted, and deeply wrinkled skin that reminded Arshaka of a walnut shell. His hair was as thin and white as cobwebs, accenting a high forehead. He sat on a wide, low stool, humped forward and giving his back the shape of a turtle shell. If he breathed, it was so shallowly that Arshaka could not discern it.
His eyes had been closed, but they opened at Belzu-Mar's gesture, and immediately fixed Arshaka in place. They were as pale gray as the fog that clung to the Euphrates on winter mornings, yet there was nothing gentle or soft about them.
Cold and hard were the words that came to Arshaka's mind. He'd been in the Old One's presence twice before, each time getting caught by his gaze.
Arshaka did not know the Old One's true name, and though by his position in the city he could have demanded it, he'd stayed silent on the matter. Arshaka only needed the Old One's expertise. In fact, better he not learn the man's name, he decided, as that would bring him one step closer to the Old One, something the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar did not desire.
The Old One blinked and released his hold on Arshaka.
Belzu-Mar glided to a cabinet Arshaka had not noticed before and retrieved three rolled pieces of parchment that he brought to the Old One.
"The center one, Belzu-Mar. It carries the best hope for success." The pale gray eyes closed again.
Arshaka had not heard the Old One talk before, the voice sounding brittle and eerie and sending a chill through him.
Belzu-Mar returned the other two parchments to the cabinet, then retrieved four stones off a shelf and carried them in one hand. He took the parchment in front of the bench and stretched it out on the floor, using the rocks to hold the corners down. His long arms made the task easy, and when he finished, he stepped back so nothing obstructed the candlelight.