Chapter 15

Auda ibn Jad opened his casement to the night air, feeling it blow cool against skin flushed and feverish with excitement and anticipation. He reveled in the sensation; then, turning back to his room, he bathed—shivering in the chill air—and arrayed himself in the black armor, donning at the last the black velvet robes. Examining himself critically in the mirror, he searched for the slightest flaw, knowing that the eyes of his Lord would be hard to please this night. He smoothed the black beard that ran across his strong jaw, brushed the wet black hair so that it glistened and tied it behind his head with a black ribbon. The mustache that grew over his upper lip traced two fine lines down either side of his mouth, flowing at last like a thin black river to the bearded chin. His pale face was stained with an unnatural infusion of blood beneath the skin, the black eyes glittered in the light.

I must calm myself. This excitement is unholy and irreverent. Kneeling down upon the cold stone floor, Auda clasped his hands in prayer and brought a restful repose to his soul by losing himself in holy meditation. The Castle around him was abnormally still and quiet. All were in their, rooms alone, preparing themselves with prayer and fasting. They would remain there until the hour for the Gathering came. Eleven times the iron bell would toll, calling all forth to the Vestry.

It lacked an hour till that time yet. Ibn Jad rose to his feet, his prayers concluded. His mind was clear, his racing pulse once more beating slowly, steadily. He had a matter of importance to attend to before the Gathering. Walking from his room, his booted feet making as little noise as possible upon the stone so as not to disturb the others in their holy solitude, ibn Jad went forth. He left the upper recesses of the Castle, making his way down to the chambers below the surface of the earth.

He had seen the Lifemaster this morning. Exhausted from having had no sleep throughout the day and night, the man was on his way to his room to eat a morsel (the strictures of the fast being required only of the knights) and then nap a few hours. An assistant, one to whom he was teaching his heinous skills, had taken over with the subject.

“The nomad is a strong man, ibn Jad,” said the Lifemaster, his oversized head bobbing upon its spindly neck. “You chose well. It will be nightfall before we break him.”

“The only man alive who ever bested me,” said Auda ibn Jad, remembering Khardan raiding the city long months ago. “I want the bonding, Lifemaster.”

The Lifemaster nodded, as if this did not surprise him. “I thought as much. I heard about Catalus,” he added softly. “My condolences.”

“Thank you,” said ibn Jad gravely. “He died well and for the cause, laying the blood curse upon the priest who seeks to rule us all. But now I am brotherless.”

“There are many who would be honored to bond with you, Paladin,” said the Lifemaster emotionally.

“I know. But this man’s fate and mine are bound together. So the Black Sorceress told me, and so I knew in my heart from the moment we looked upon each other in the city of Kich.”

The Lifemaster said nothing more. If the Black Sorceress had set her word upon it, there was nothing more to say.

“The critical time will come this evening. His pain and anguish will have drawn him near death. We must be careful not to allow him to slip over.” The Lifemaster spoke with the modest air of one who has mastered a delicate art. “Arrive at ten strokes of the bell. The bonding will be stronger if it is your hand that leads him away from death.”

The final strokes of the iron bell were just fading away when Auda ibn Jad entered the Lifemaster’s dread chamber.

Khardan was very far gone. Ibn Jad, who had murdered countless of his fellow beings and felt without a qualm their blood splash upon his hands, could not look at the nomad’s tortured body without feeling his stomach wrench. Memories of his own conversion to Zhakrin, of his own suffering and torment in this very chamber, seared through the blackness of deliberate, blessed forgetfulness. Auda had seen others endure the same fate without thinking back to that time. Why? Why now?

Face pale, a bitter taste in his mouth, the Black Paladin sank weakly back against a wall, unable to wrench his gaze from the dying man who lay limply on the floor. Khardan was no longer chained. He no longer had the energy left to escape or fight his tormentor.

The Lifemaster, busy with his work, spared ibn Jad a glance. “Ah,” he said softly, “the bonding starts already.”

“What. . . what do you mean?” ibn Jad asked hoarsely.

“The God has given you back the memory He once blessedly took away. Your souls share pain, as your bodies will soon share blood.”

Falling to his knees, ibn Jad bowed his head, thanking Zhakrin, but he flinched and came near crying out when the Lifemaster grasped hold of his arm.

“Come forward!” the tormentor said urgently. “It is time!”

Auda moved near Khardan. The nomad’s face was ashen, his eyes sunken in his head. Sweat gleamed on his skin. Mingling with blood, it trickled in rivulets over his body.

“Call to him!” ordered the Lifemaster.

“Khardan,” said ibn Jad, in a voice that trembled despite himself.

The nomad’s eyelids shivered, he drew a quivering breath.

“Again!” the Lifemaster’s voice was insistent, fearful.

“Khardan!” called Auda more loudly and stronger, as though shouting to one about to walk blindly off a cliff. “Khardan!” Ibn Jad grasped hold of a limp hand that was already devoid of the warmth of life. “We are losing him!” he whispered angrily.

“No, no!” said the Lifemaster, the huge head whipping about so rapidly it seemed it must fly off the thin, brittle neck. “Make him call upon the name of Zhakrin!”

“Khardan,” cried ibn Jad, “pray to the God—”

“There, he hears you!” said the Lifemaster in what ibn Jad noted was a tone of relief. The Black Paladin glanced coldly at the man, his displeasure obvious, and the Lifemaster quailed before Auda’s anger.

But ibn Jad had no time to spare upon the tormentor. Khardan’s eyelids flickered open. Rimmed with crimson, the pupils dilated, the nomad’s eyes stared at Auda without a glimmer of recognition.

“God?” he said inaudibly, the barest hint of breath displacing the bloody froth upon his lips. “Yes, I . . . remember. Mathew. . .” His words died in what ibn Jad feared was his final breath. The Black Paladin clutched the man’s hand.

“Call upon the God to spare you, Khardan! Offer him your soul in exchange for your life, for an end to this torment!”

“My soul. . .” Khardan’s eyes closed. His lips moved, then he fell silent. Slumping forward, his head rested on his chest. “What did he say?” ibn Jad demanded of the tormentor.

“He said. . . ‘Zhakrin, I give you my life.’ “

“Are you certain?” ibn Jad frowned. He had heard the words “give you my life,” but the name of the God to whom the man prayed had been indistinct.

“Of course!” the Lifemaster said hastily. “And look! The lines of pain upon his face ease! He draws a deep breath! He sleeps!”

“Truly, life returns to him,” said ibn Jad, feeling the hand he held grow warm, seeing color flow into the bloodless cheeks. “Khardan!” he called gently.

The nomad stirred and lifted his head. Opening his eyes, he looked around him in astonishment. His gaze went to the Lifemaster, then to ibn Jad. Khardan’s eyes narrowed in obvious puzzlement. “I . . . I am still here,” he murmured.

An odd reaction, thought ibn Jad. Still, this was an unusual man. I’ve never seen one draw so near death and then have the strength to turn back.

“Zhakrin be praised!” said ibn Jad, watching the nomad’s reaction closely.

“Zhakrin . . .” Khardan breathed. Then he smiled, as though seeming to recall something. “Yes, Zhakrin be praised.”

Scrambling to his feet, the Lifemaster hastened over to a table and returned bearing a sharp knife, whose blade was already stained with dried blood. Seeing it, Khardan’s eyes flared, his lips tightened grimly.

“Have no fear, my . . . brother,” said Auda softly. Khardan glanced at him questioningly.

“Brother,” repeated ibn Jad. “You are a Black Knight, now. One who serves Zhakrin in life and in death, and you are therefore my brother. But I would go further. I have requested that you and I be bonded, that our blood mingle.”

“What does this mean?” asked Khardan thickly, propping himself up, his face twisting in pain as he moved.

“Life for life, we are pledged to each other. Honor bound to come to the other’s defense when we can, to avenge the other’s death when we cannot. Your enemies become my enemies, my enemies yours.” Taking the knife from the Lifemaster, the knight made a slash in his own wrist, causing the red blood to well forth. Grasping Khardan’s arm, he cut the skin and then pressed his flesh against the nomad’s. “ ‘From my heart to yours, from your heart to mine. Our blood flows into each other’s bodies. We are closer than brothers born.’ There, now you repeat the oath.”

Khardan stared searchingly at ibn Jad for long moments; the Calif ‘s lips parted, but he said nothing. His gaze went to the arms, joined together—ibn Jad’s arm strong and whiteskinned, the veins and sinews clearly visible against the firm muscles; Khardan’s arm, pale, weak from the enforced inaction of the past few months, stained with blood and filth and sweat.

“To refuse this honor would be a grievous insult to the God who has given you your life,” said the Lifemaster, seeing the nomad hesitate.

“Yes,” muttered Khardan in seemingly increasing confusion, “I suppose it would.” Slowly, haltingly, he repeated the oath.

Auda ibn Jad smiled in satisfaction. Putting his arm around Khardan’s naked back, he lifted the nomad to his feet. “Come, I will take you to your room where you may rest. The Black Sorceress” will give you something to ease the torment of your wounds and help you sleep—”

“No,” said Khardan, stifling a cry of anguish. Sweat beaded his upper lip. “I must. . . be at the ceremony.”

Auda ibn Jad looked his approval but slowly shook his head. “I understand your desire to share in this moment of our victory, but you are too weak, my brother—”

“No!” insisted Khardan, teeth clenched. “I will be there!”

“Far be it from me to thwart such noble courage,” said ibn Jad. “I have a salve that will help ease the pain somewhat and a glass of wine will burn away the rest.”

Khardan had no breath to reply, but he nodded his head. The Lifemaster draped a black cloth over the nomad’s naked body. Leaning upon Auda ibn Jad, the Calif—weak as a babe—let himself be assisted from the chamber.