The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (19 page)

Still, Aztar himself had not come to bid Gilwyn farewell. For a reason that confused Gilwyn, the prince’s absence disturbed him. He fiddled with the stallion’s tack, making sure his belongings were secure while Harani looked on, confused. The morning sun was already hot on his back, and when he looked eastward he saw the great expanse of desert still needing to be crossed.

‘Be well on your journey,’ said Harani, ‘and when you return, you will be welcome here.’

Gilwyn smiled at her, pleased to see her husband agreeing with a nod. He had hardly spoken to Mazal at all, but had found him to be less fierce than his appearance.

‘I will,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Thank you for everything, Harani.’ He looked around at all the gathered faces. ‘Thank you to everyone.’

‘You are well enough now?’ asked Harani. ‘You are sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Then why do you wait?’

Gilwyn didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated. It might have been fear, he supposed, but then he realized it was not. It was unfinished business that kept him.

‘Harani, I want to see Prince Aztar,’ he said.

Harani blanched at the suggestion. ‘No, Gilwyn.’

‘Please. I want to speak with him. It’s important.’

‘Tell me what you want to tell him. I will speak for you after you have gone.’

‘That won’t work,’ said Gilwyn. ‘I want to talk to him about Salina. Please . . .’

Harani looked at her husband, who shrugged in confusion. The request left them both uncomfortable, but seeing that Gilwyn would not leave, Harani relented.

‘Come, then,’ she said, and started off into camp. Gilwyn followed eagerly. Aztar had been good to him, despite the plans he had laid against Jador. Gilwyn picked his way carefully across camp, trying to keep up with Harani, the special boot for his clubbed foot sinking heavily into the loose earth. Soon, Harani had taken him through the centre of the camp, across the outskirts and toward an outcropping of rock surrounded by desert sand. Here the morning sun beat down hotly, sending up a
blinding reflection from the shimmering land. Gilwyn slowed, squinting to see better. They were alone now, a good distance from the pavilions. The noise of the Voruni and their animals fell away under the whisper of the wind.

‘Where are we going?’ Gilwyn asked.

‘To Aztar,’ said Harani. She pointed toward the outcropping. ‘There.’

The rock itself rose out of the rugged desert, its jagged silhouette cutting the daylight. It was, Gilwyn realized, the tallest structure for miles, like a tiny mountain that had somehow wandered away from its mother range. There were no other people in the distance, only the sweeping dunes, but on the crest of the hill Gilwyn spotted a lone figure, cloaked in plain robes and kneeling, his head bowed, his hands flat against the stone.

‘Is he praying?’ asked Gilwyn.

‘Every morning he comes here to be near Vala,’ Harani answered.

Gilwyn stared, struck by Aztar’s devotion. He seemed so alone on the rock – and so lonely. He took no notice of his visitors far below, but instead raised his voice in a musical chant, singing mightily as he turned his face toward the cloudless sky.

‘What is he praying for?’ Gilwyn wondered aloud.

Harani looked melancholy. ‘For understanding. That is what I think.’

‘Should we wait? How long will he pray?’

‘Until his prayer is done.’

The sun baked the top of Gilwyn’s skull. He waited, cultivating patience, waiting for Prince Aztar to finish his devotion. At last the prince ceased his song, bent low to kiss the rock, then straightened his stooped spine. It occurred to Gilwyn that the effort to climb the rock had been enormous for Aztar, whose body was racked with burns. Aztar slowly turned his head to regard them from his perch. A mild annoyance flashed across his face.

‘Stay,’ commanded Harani. ‘I will leave you now.’

‘What? Harani, wait . . .’

The woman ignored Gilwyn’s plea, turning and walking back toward the camp. Gilwyn thought of going after her, but Aztar was already making his way down the jagged slope, painfully coming toward Gilwyn, his head and face protected by a brilliant white gaka. The dark skin of his cheeks glowed with redness. His eyes flashed when they met Gilwyn’s.

‘You are to go,’ he grumbled. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To speak with you, Prince Aztar. I’ve been thinking.’

Aztar remained perturbed. ‘On your way, boy.’

Gilwyn shook his head. ‘I can’t go, not yet. I’ve been thinking about what you told me, about Princess Salina. I’m going to speak to her, Prince Aztar.’

‘So you have said.’

‘That’s right. And when I told you, you got angry. I don’t understand why.’

‘Why? That is none of your concern.’ Aztar drilled Gilwyn with his gaze. ‘Is that why you came here?’

Gilwyn spoke carefully. ‘Prince Aztar, you’ve been kind to me. I didn’t expect that. I expected you to kill me.’

The prince’s suspicious eyes barely softened. ‘You were wrong about me. Perhaps we were wrong about each other.’

‘Yes, we were. But I wanted to repay that kindness if I can. I want to bring a message to Salina for you, tell her you’re still alive. She thinks you’re dead, probably. You know that, don’t you?’

‘To her, I am dead,’ said Aztar. ‘I have nothing to offer her, and nothing to say.’

‘But you love her. She should know that you’re alive, at least. When I see her, I can tell her that for you.’

Behind his cloak, Aztar looked regretful. ‘I cannot stop you,’ he said. Pulling the hood close around his face, he brushed passed Gilwyn on his way back to camp. ‘Go.’

Gilwyn hobbled after him. He had been so sure Aztar would welcome his offer. ‘Don’t you want to tell her you’re alive? That you still care for her?’

‘It makes no difference. I cannot see her again. Not ever.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I am forbidden!’ Aztar roared. He whirled on Gilwyn, ripping back his hood and exposing his burned and furious face. ‘Look at what Vala did to me! My love for her is a curse, boy. It must never rise again.’

‘But what if she loves you? What if she’s suffering because she thinks you are dead? That isn’t fair, Prince Aztar.’

‘Why do you pursue this?’ Aztar groaned. ‘Why must you torture confessions from me?’

‘To repay you,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Because you’ve been kind to me. And because I think you’re wrong. I know about Vala, Prince Aztar. I know that He is a kind and loving god. Maybe he did punish you for attacking Jador. But not because you love Salina. That can’t be.’

Aztar snarled, ‘You know nothing of Vala, boy. You are a northerner; you do not even believe. I have devoted my life to the Serene One. And I know my crimes. Let me suffer them in peace.’

Gilwyn looked at the man, stunned by his refusal. He had wanted to repay Aztar’s kindness, but now he realized he had stumbled into a hornet’s nest.

‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll go. And when I see Salina I won’t say anything about you. I won’t tell her that you’re alive or that you were kind to me. I’m sorry, Prince Aztar. I only meant to help you.’

He started off, wandering past Aztar on his way back to camp, leaving the prince in the shadow of the hill. He went five or six paces before Aztar called after him.

‘Wait.’

Gilwyn paused, turning hopefully. Aztar’s pained eyes faced the ground.

‘Tell her that I am alive,’ he said. He lifted his gaze toward Gilwyn. ‘Tell her that I love her still.’

‘But you won’t go to her?’

‘No. I can never go to her. Tell her that as well, Gilwyn Toms, and that I will never forget her beauty.’

Prince Aztar covered his head again, then turned and walked quietly back toward the hill. Gilwyn waited a moment, wanting to say more but having no words. As Aztar again began climbing his sacred hill, Gilwyn walked slowly back to camp, where the magnificent black stallion waited for him.

A chorus of song birds greeted Salina as she made her way through the palace gardens. Already the sun had risen, but Salina’s mind still slept, and as she padded across the cobblestones she let out a long, unlady-like yawn. The brightly coloured birds who had risen with the sun ignored her outburst as they sang, clinging happily to the fruit trees in the garden. The first rays of sunlight shone through the green leaves, warming the small balls of sweet-smelling citrus. The palace itself was already humming with activity, but the garden remained blessedly quiet, and Salina took satisfaction in the silence. Tonight was the last night of Oradin, the week-long festival of the new year’s moon. That meant legions of revelers and a long night pleasing her father’s many friends, and Salina was already dreading it. When she was a girl, she had loved Oradin and the sweet-tasting moon cakes that came with the holiday. For a week she and her sisters would choose pretty clothes to impress the boys, painting their nails and polishing their jewelry until it sparkled. Of all the Ganjeese holidays, Oradin was not the most holy or important. It was simply the most fun, and for that reason alone the people or the city looked forward to it all year. But Salina took no joy in this year’s holiday, nor in the tedious task her father had assigned her for the morning.

Princess Salina of Ganjor was the youngest of five daughters, and often described by her father as the prettiest rose in his garden. Until recently, King Baralosus had indulged Salina, favouring her with liberties he had never granted her older sisters. She had been independent, able to make up her own mind as to her education, her friends, even her manner of dress.

Until now.

At the end of the garden, Salina glimpsed the woman who had come to the palace to instruct her. Her name was Fatini, and Salina had seen her around the palace many times before. Fatini was the wife of Toran, the silk merchant who supplied the fabric to all of the king’s tailors. She was a woman of great stature among the servants, certainly rich by Ganjeese
standards, but when she came to instruct the king’s daughters she lost the haughtiness she displayed in her own shop. Salina slowed her pace, sure that Fatini had not yet seen her. Around the woman were wooden tables burdened with bales of fabric and tools. Fatini herself fiddled with tools, testing and arranging them as she waited for the princess to arrive. All five of Baralosus’ daughters had been instructed by Fatini, patiently taught how to make their own mejkith. Now, it was Salina’s turn. She was to wear the veil tonight, hiding her pretty face from all of the hungry male onlookers. Salina cringed at the thought, wondering how thunderously mad her father would get if she simply turned around.

A bird in the tree above Salina’s head began to sing, getting Fatini’s attention. Spotting Salina in the grove, Fatini smiled and urged her forward. Except for the two of them, they were alone in the garden. Grateful no one else had come to watch her, Salina reluctantly proceeded. Fatini had arranged their work area under a beautiful, wide-spreading orange tree. A carpet of fallen leaves softened the ground beneath the tables. Salina looked around, dazzled by the colours of the many fabrics Fatini had brought with her. The display softened Salina’s mood. She would be able to choose her own colour for her mejkith. The thought brought out the child in her.

‘Good morning, Princess Salina,’ said Fatini, rushing forward to greet her with a smile. Though many merchants and their wives spoke the tongue of the continent, Salina had never heard Fatini speak anything but Ganjeese. She had a practiced, aristocratic accent that made the language sound beautiful.

‘Good morning, Lady Fatini,’ replied Salina, giving the woman a slight bow. Even though she was a princess, she could still be intimidated by her father’s lordly friends.

Fatini reached out and took Salina’s hand. She had long, dainty fingers laden with rings that dug into Salina’s skin. ‘Look!’ she pronounced, making a sweeping gesture at the tables. ‘I’ve brought only the best for you, Princess. This is a special day for you. Your formal mejkith!’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I am happy for you, child. No, not a child! A woman.’

‘Yes, a woman,’ Salina agreed, though the distinction was not what it should have been. In Ganjor, becoming an adult was not the same for women and men.

‘Here, sit yourself down, child,’ said Fatini, steering Salina toward a chair near the largest table. ‘First we will choose a colour. Have you thought of what you would like?’