Stealing Sacred Fire (28 page)

The question had given her
power. It was not a good question, and revealed more than Jazirah
intended: his uncertainty, perhaps even fear. ‘He is one of the
Grigori, from whom your king claims descent. I am surprised you
have not heard the name before.’ She risked a small, if polite,
smile. ‘Is he here?’

Jazirah shook his head and
smiled indulgently. ‘No.’

‘He is on his way here. I know
this.’

Jazirah raised his brows, but
made no comment to her revelation. ‘What business have you with
such a… person?’

‘I represent a body of men in
the West who are eager to meet Shemyaza. He is a difficult person
to locate and once he has arrived here, might prove difficult to
negotiate with. Babylon and my organisation can be of help to one
another.’

‘We do not need your help,’
Jazirah said. ‘Whatever plans our great king has, he is quite
capable of realising them by himself.’

‘Of this I am sure,’ Melandra
said carefully. ‘However, no-one upon this earth but your people
and mine are aware of the fallen race — the Grigori, who walk among
us. This is a shared secret. My people have watched the Grigori, in
every land, for a long time. King Nimnezzar might be interested in
our intelligence.’

Jazirah stroked his chin, his
eyes never leaving the gaze of Melandra. She could tell she had
surprised him, and thought that perhaps the Babylonians, for all
their worship of the fallen ones, were not aware just how great was
their influence or how far their numbers extended.

‘What exactly do you want from
us?’ Jazirah asked her.

Melandra lowered her eyes.
‘Something happened to me in Istanbul,’ she said. ‘Shemyaza touched
my soul. I am drawn to follow him, and where else will he want to
be, but here with his people. I come here as Shemyaza’s
hand-maiden, and as the servant of his king on earth.’

Jazirah regarded her with
scepticism. ‘And what of your masters? Are they all this Shemyaza’s
followers?’

Melandra nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And they send you to us; a
woman alone in a dangerous country. It is strange. Why has there
been no official communication concerning this matter?’

‘I am chosen,’ Melandra
answered simply.

Jazirah exhaled through his nose. ‘We
shall see,’ he said.

At least it seemed she was to
be given some hospitality. Jazirah summoned servants, who escorted
Melandra to a salon nearby — a woman’s room of drapes and tinkling
chimes. Here sweet cakes were brought to her, as well as a
selection of nuts, a salad and fruit tea for refreshment. These
foods were like nectar to her eager mouth, their flavours delicate
and somehow antique. But for the telephone extension on a nearby
filigreed table and the electric lights, she could believe she had
somehow been transported back to ancient Babylon.

A young girl, dressed in
flowing green veils, stood silently beside the door. Melandra felt
drawn to communicate with her in some way, if only by a smile, but
her instincts warned she should not. It was important that the
Babylonians realised her words were for the king and his courtiers
alone.

A thought intruded stealthily
into her mind. But what if they should find me out? She dismissed
it firmly. It was vital that she banned from her heart all thoughts
of death and bitterness. She must act her role.

After she had eaten, Melandra
lay down on the cushions that smelled of incense, and dozed for a
while. She was exhausted. Warm breezes came in through the swaying
diaphanous drapes at the window and fanned her softly. She was
awoken later by a contained commotion at the door.

Rising, she saw an old woman
come into the room. Her eyes were milky-white; blind. She wore
layers of diaphanous robes of different shades of grey. Around her
neck; a golden necklace fashioned like a serpent biting its tail.
Her carriage was erect, her step firm. Perhaps she was the mother
of the king.

The old woman put her head on
one side as if in appraisal. Melandra found this unnerving. She
could not help feeling that the woman could see inside her
perfectly well. The woman inhaled, seeming to draw in the scent of
Melandra. She nodded and smiled, extending gnarled yet elegant
hands. ‘Welcome, my child.’

Melandra was unnerved by this
familiar address. She composed herself on the cushions,
straight-backed. ‘When shall I see the king?’

The old woman glided towards
her, the blind eyes staring out above Melandra’s head. ‘That I
cannot say. I would like you to tell me what you can about the one
they call Shemyaza. You know him, don’t you?’

Melandra shook her head. ‘I can
speak only to the king.’

The old woman sighed. ‘Ah, my
child, there are some things you most certainly must not tell the
king, but you can unburden yourself to me. I am Tiy, the king’s
seeress.’

Melandra went cold inside. A
witch! Perhaps this hag already knew Melandra’s purpose. ‘There is
nothing to tell,’ she said, ‘that I cannot tell the king.’

Tiy smiled. ‘Not even that you
surrendered your maidenhood to the fallen one?’

Despite herself, Melandra felt
her face redden. She turned away from the old woman, even though
she could not possibly witness the blush. ‘How do you know
that?’

‘I can smell it on you — his
spirit, his fire.’ Tiy sat down. ‘You can speak to me, Melandra
Maynard, for I understand your purpose. You are here to kill
Shemyaza.’

Melandra uttered a surprised
cry. ‘No!’

Tiy raised a hand, shrugged.
‘It is of no consequence to me. I would hear your story. Tell it to
me.’

Melandra was aware of a strong
sense of support and empathy emanating from the old woman, but
wasn’t this simply the sorcery of a witch? She must surely resist
it. ‘I can’t.’

Tiy reached out and touched
Melandra’s hand. ‘But you can, my child. You can. You think me a
witch, yet learn one universal truth. We women, all of us are
witches. Every one. No matter what we call ourselves.’

Melandra rubbed her forehead
with one hand. ‘I don’t know…’

Tiy pushed her back into the
cushions with one firm hand. Melandra could not fight it, and felt
as if it took an eternity for her body to hit the embroidered silk.
Perhaps she fell a thousand times. A headache was beginning behind
her eyes. She could smell burning. ‘So long ago…’ she began in a
small, slurred voice. ‘It started before I was born…’

Tiy sat beside her, idly
caressing Melandra’s hair as she talked. Her heart beat strong
within her. She too could smell the fire.

The
Mountains of Babylonia

Qimir knew of the Cave of Treasures,
although he had not visited it in person. ‘Its location is known to
the adepts of my people, and some have travelled there to connect
with the spirit of our ancestors. But the journey is long and
arduous.’

‘How far?’ Shem asked.

Qimir shrugged. ‘Days, at
least. You must head south-east. Most of the journey is impassable
for trucks, so you will have to travel on horseback.’

It was decided that they would
take an escort of half a dozen Yarasadi, for the route was
sometimes hazardous, and rival Kurdish factions prowled the
shadowed passes, as well as agents of Babylon. Qimir summoned an
old woman of the tribe, Tahira, to his dwelling, explaining to his
guests that she had visited the cave fifteen years previously and
would make an excellent guide.

Tahira was tall and unbent by
age, although her advanced years showed in the weathering of her
face. Long, grey hair, that looked as strong as steel wire, coiled
down over her shoulders. She wore heavy jewellery of
malachite-inlaid silver at her throat and wrists, and around her
spare shoulders hung a large, fringed shawl of red and yellow silk.
She listened without expression as Qimir explained what he required
of her. Once he’d finished speaking she spent several minutes
arguing with him in Kurmanji. It was clear she did not welcome the
suggestion of acting as Shemyaza’s guide.

Gadreel translated her words
quietly for the others. ‘She says she’s too old to risk such a
journey. And she’s demanding to know why we want to go there. She
says there’s nothing left there but bones.’

While Gadreel was whispering,
Tahira turned to her and uttered a question in accurate English.
‘Why are you making this journey? Do you seek guidance from heaven
and will visit the Cave to find it?’

Gadreel shook her head. ‘Not
exactly. We are looking for an artefact.’

‘No artefacts there!’ Tahira
snapped, waving her hands. ‘Many bones, old memories, but no
artefacts. Barren place, home of the vulture spirits.’

Gadreel smiled patiently.
‘Perhaps the artefact we’re looking for doesn’t look like much. It
could be a stone or even one of the bones. We don’t know yet what
it is. It is very important, Tahira. The future of our people might
depend on us finding this thing.’

Tahira considered for a moment,
then shrugged. ‘Did not want to be called upon this late in life,
but if the journey must be made again, then so be it. But finding
artefacts — that is up to you.’

‘Thank you,’ Gadreel said, in
obvious relief. ‘We could not do this without your help.’

Tahira asked Qimir if she might
take her grandson, Jalal, with her, for she claimed the boy had a
sensible head on his shoulders and she’d feel safer with him there.
‘And you know, Qimir,’ she added, in English for the benefit of the
visitors, ‘what you must do before they leave.’

Qimir regarded her thoughtfully
for a moment, then nodded. He rose from his cushions and went over
to what looked like a pile of rugs in the corner of the room. These
he threw aside to reveal an old wooden chest, covered in intricate
carvings. ‘Come here,’ he said to Shem.

Shem joined him and watched as
Qimir reverently lifted the lid with both hands. Inside, lay an
article wrapped in layers of multi-coloured silk and bound with
seven ribbons of the different colours of the rainbow. Qimir
reached in and lifted out the bundle. Shem heard something clank
inside it; metal. Qimir gestured for Shem to hold out his arms and
laid the bundle into them. Then, he unwrapped the coverings to
reveal a collection of ancient, blackened short swords.

Shem looked down at them
steadily, although his instinct was to wince away from the blaze of
power they emitted. He could sense their great age, and also that
they had been used in ritual for centuries, if not millennia. He
realised he was looking at treasured artefacts of Qimir’s clan.

‘These swords have been passed
down my family since our blood-line began,’ Qimir said. ‘They have
great power. In the distant past, they may have tasted blood, but
now we use them in our most important rites.’

‘They have tasted blood,’ Shem
said, almost absently.

Qimir nodded. ‘Before you begin
your journey, we will join in a ritual to ask for the protection of
the highest god. You must be confirmed as divine avatars of the
last epoch.’

Shem nodded. ‘Whatever you
think best.’

The ritual would take place at
daybreak, when the first rays of the rising sun slanted over the
mountains and touched the valley. In the dim pre-dawn, Shirin and
two of her sisters came to Shem and his companions in Qimir’s
dwelling. Here, they offered robes of bright colours; gold for
Shem; green for Daniel; red for Salamiel and violet for Gadreel.
The robes were embroidered with gold wire and when Daniel held the
cloth to his nose, he could smell a faint aroma of flowers.

After they’d dressed themselves
in the robes, the Yarasadi women wove fresh blooms into their hair
and circled their necks, wrists and ankles with bracelets of
flowers. Then they were led out into the central area of the camp.
Qimir and his personal guard were already waiting, adorned in
multi-coloured robes and similarly decorated with flowers. The air
was filled with their heady scent, and the green smell of cut
stems.

Qimir bade the avatars stand in
a circle around him; his personal guard forming a wider ring around
them. Then, quietly, every other member of the tribe gathered
beyond them.

The crowd waited in silence
until the blue-grey twilight turned rose and the sun lifted between
two mountains, sending a golden-pink road of dawn light down into
the valley. Along such a road, the angels might once have walked to
enter the ancient settlements of humanity.

Qimir bowed three times to the
rising sun and gestured for Shemyaza and his three companions to
follow his movements. Then Qimir began to chant in quick, lilting
tones, his voice rising and falling rapidly, his tongue flicking
around complex sounds. Beyond the circle, in lower voices, his
guard echoed responses, pausing to bow at regular intervals.

Qimir fell silent and made a gesture
with his hands. A young girl entered the circle, carrying the
sacred swords. They seemed to weigh heavily in her thin arms. Qimir
lifted the first of the swords, kissed it and held its blade up to
the light. Now, he spoke in English, presumably for the benefit of
the avatars. ‘Let all present bear witness upon these oaths I swear
today. You with eyes aloft, behold the splendour of haq, the
universal spirit, shine forth through my will.’

Everyone’s eyes focused upon
the sword Qimir held high. He turned round slowly. ‘I, Qimir,
create baba ba and open the gate through which all holy avatars may
pass from dun ba dun, from oblivion to oblivion.’ He bowed and then
plunged the sword into the earth at his feet. This ritual was
repeated with five more of the swords, which he positioned in a
tight circle. Projecting his voice across the valley, he held the
final sword above his head for several minutes.

Standing at the edge of the
circle, between Salamiel and Gadreel and opposite Shem, Daniel felt
the hairs rise on his arms. Qimir was attracting the attention of
powerful forces, who now hovered invisibly around them, observing
the proceedings. Power was gathering, swirling above them; a
maelstrom of memories, emotion and purpose.