The Curse of Tabigati

“You animal. You seduced me. Have you forgotten?” Zamira could no longer restrain herself. “What kind of creature are you? How could I ever have believed I loved you?”

She lunged toward the guard with clenched fists, but the nukers intercepted her and forced her onto the bed.

One scraped the girl’s shoulder against a plate of his armor. A scarlet bead appeared upon her snow-white skin, and the bey’s eyes flashed with anger.

“I told you to be silent. He is speaking.” Yusuf Bey’s saber touched the captain’s forehead. “What happened next?”

The cold steel made Ibrahim lose the thread of his story for a moment. Then he continued his self-serving confession, pleading for mercy and claiming that every boundary crossed between them had been crossed at Zamira’s command.

Tears streamed from the girl’s eyes.

All the curses of the bazaar struggled from her chest but lodged in her throat.

The betrayal hurt beyond endurance. How could a warrior like Ibrahim prove such a coward, while the nameless gardener’s son had shown such honesty and courage?

She had never even allowed that boy to touch her. He had only looked upon her with wonder.

Remembering Alisher’s gaze, Zamira understood that he had felt more than admiration.

He had sacrificed himself for her. She had forgotten him for the whimpering puddle at her father’s feet. She had betrayed her promise to pray to the Faceless One for him and instead pursued forbidden pleasures with this wretch.

Ibrahim’s voice grew louder and more confident as his tale became still uglier.

Yusuf Bey’s boot smashed into his face and finally silenced him.

At that moment, Akhneya rushed into the bedchamber.

“What happened?” she asked.

Then she saw her charge wrapped in a sheet amid the guards and understood everything.

“I failed to protect her…”

“Where were you?” the master of the household growled, sheathing his blade.

The nursemaid bent into a bow and answered without straightening.

“You ordered me to leave Zamira alone after the initiation. Before that, you commanded me to guard only her virginity.”

“You knew of their relationship?”

The saber scraped free again and stopped above the bey’s raised hand.

“I knew. You may kill me, my lord, but I tried to shield Zamira from his schemes. I even attempted to warn you, but you were occupied with preparations for the trial. I am only a weak woman. Everything that happened is my fault. I beg you—spare your daughter. I know she is not what he says. This Iblis is only trying to save his own skin.”

“So be it.”

The father struck.

The blade whistled into its victim. The nursemaid’s head struck the floor heavily. A moment later, her body fell upon the granite slabs as her departing soul seemed to whistle away.

“No!”

The savage cry tore from Zamira, carrying away a part of her soul and burying the carelessness of childhood forever.

Even through her horror, she understood that only love made one willing to sacrifice oneself for another.

The girl rose and cast aside the sheet. Her tears were gone. Akhneya’s death had severed something inside the young servant of Tabigati—something vital and precious.

Where wounded pride had burned only moments before, there was now a terrifying silence, as though her body had lost sensation and her soul had charred and fallen to ash.

“Cover yourself, shameless creature,” Yusuf Bey roared.

“Why? Did you not permit them to watch me bathe? I know why you killed Nurse. She noticed them that day. What did they do for you? What did he do? Why didn’t you kill him immediately?” Zamira asked with cold indifference, folding her arms.

“Be silent.”

“Or what? Will you murder the Chosen One? My love for Ibrahim preserved me along the Path of Trials, and he was only a piece in your game.” She smiled bitterly, knowing her father would not dare harm her for insolence.

“I preserved you. I did. And you behaved like a harbor whore. Lock this creature in her room.”

Several men seized Zamira by the arms and dragged her away.

Yusuf surveyed those remaining.

“This is what will happen.”

The saber whistled once more, ending the guard captain’s moans.

“Bury him in the gardener’s plot, but dress the body first. Kill the apothecary from Flea Corner and the animal trainer with knives. Make it appear they murdered one another. You will oversee it. You are captain of the guard now.”

The chosen nuker bowed. At his signal, the others left the bedchamber.

Yusuf Bey dropped the bloodied saber beside the nursemaid’s body and went to the guardroom, where an old and trusted servant awaited him.

The morning brought no joy. Moans and weeping sounded from the palace, but every voice fell silent when Yusuf Bey came out to address the people.

“My brothers and sisters, people of Ostos. Last night, Iblis entered my house and tried to murder Tabigati’s Chosen One. He clouded the mind of my gardener, who attempted to poison the guards in revenge for his son.

“We all remember how that man’s offspring tried to attack me beside the lake. Folk wisdom speaks truly: the apple never falls far from the tree.

“The gardener murdered the captain of my guard and buried his body in his own vegetable plot. He and his wife confessed everything.

“Using magic, the witch who concealed her face beneath the name Fatima bewitched the guards with Ibrahim’s key. They attacked Zamira’s nursemaid. But the woman loved my daughter and accepted a terrible death without fear.

“A battle began between those possessed by Satan and the household guard. The nukers prevailed, though seven ended their service forever. May the Faceless One reward them according to their merit.

“Moreover, at the apothecary’s shop near Flea Corner, the lion trainer attacked the proprietor. Both died. The guards arrived too late because they were repelling the demons’ assault upon my household.

“This is a sorrowful day. But let the great joy of receiving a new High Priestess eclipse our grief. Remain vigilant. Iblis and his servants are near. May the Father and the Great Faceless One aid us.”

Yusuf Bey finished and brushed a single tear from his cheek.

“What of the Chosen One?” someone called, and the crowd responded at once.

“She is safe and unharmed. The Faceless One protects her. But the girl suffered great distress and slept poorly. In a few days, you will see her once more upon the road to her true home—the temple of the Faceless One.”

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause.

Chapter Ten

The moment the fjord’s turbulent waters broke free from their chains of ice, the Varangians prepared to sail.

The southern waters were a crowded artery connecting the Sultanate to the rest of the world. The region’s only affliction was the fast, maneuverable ships of the north. Merchants tried to move their cargo before the northern fleet blockaded the routes.

The sultan had sent his own fleet several times, but enormous galleys built for naval battle were ill-suited to patrol duty. Besides, the Norsemen were too skilled upon the sea and easily escaped the sultan’s armada.

That was why Yorik hurried.

He had the longship dragged across the bay’s still-solid ice to open water and became one of the first to reach the sea.

Every man aboard had proved his right to stand upon the longship, Thrasing included.

After a winter training beneath Asard, Alisher defeated every challenger with surprising ease. Now the free northern wind carried him toward the Sultanate’s shores and the mouth of the Daryo.

The youth was nervous. He constantly rehearsed what he would say to Yusuf Bey and Zamira.

The winter in Windale had cooled his anger toward the bey. Yusuf had been protecting his home and family. The northerners’ legends taught warriors to do the same. Thrasing found words for him readily enough.

But he had none for Zamira.

Nor did he know how to make his request of Yorik. He could imagine nothing that would persuade Storm Wind to enter Ostos’s harbor. The uncertainty haunted him, destroyed his concentration, and made it difficult to breathe.

His goal was so close—and still unreachable.

A shield strike knocked Alisher from his feet.

“What has gotten into you?” Asard demanded angrily, deliberately speaking the Sultanate’s tongue. “You think too much. You know: time for talking, time for thinking, time for fighting. Do not mix. You die.”

The lookout’s cry interrupted the training. The Norsemen took their positions. Sail handlers seized the sheets. Rowers placed their oars into the locks and waited.

Yorik remained silent as he confidently guided the longship into the mouth of the Daryo.

“Brother, the islands lie that way.” Asard extended one hand to port. “We must change tack and heave to.”

“No. We are going to Ostos.”

“But—”

“We are going to Ostos,” the chieftain commanded in a voice that allowed no objection.

“A raid?” his younger brother asked.

Yorik shook his head.

Asard glanced toward Thrasing and received a confirming nod.

“What if there is an ambush?”

“An ambush waited between the Bowl and the Sickle—more than seven heavy galleys. Had we changed tack, they would have closed around us.”

“But…”

“The old hag’s spirit visited my dreams near dawn. If she spoke true, we should see their banners… now.”

Yorik had barely finished when the sultan’s standards appeared to port, stirring upon tall masts beyond the hills of a small pine-covered island.

“Mother of all—at this wind, our usual tack would have carried us straight into their jaws,” Asard exclaimed.

Yorik nodded again.

“We have come to seek a bride—the daughter of Ostos’s ruler. Rumors of Yusuf Bey’s daughter’s great beauty have reached the northern lands. Everything else can wait.

“And stop waving your arms, Asard. The woods to starboard are crawling with archers. I have no desire to test the accuracy of Asarian bows upon my own hide.”

As if to confirm his words, military tents and campfires stood in a clearing beside a small inlet.

“We are putting our necks into a noose, brother,” Asard whispered.

“We cannot die before our hour. And the pass to Valhalla is not a territory but a sword in the hand of a warrior fallen in battle.”

Another galley lay at anchor outside Ostos’s harbor, blocking the channel.

Yorik raised one hand above his head and dropped it sharply.

The drummer struck stretched bull hide with sticks more like wooden maces than drumsticks. The rowers pulled backward once, then again and again.

A wooden wheel groaned. Forged chain rang. The anchor struck the river with a great splash, and lowered sails snapped.

A moment later, the longship lay motionless several hundred paces from the galley.

A boat left the harbor and headed toward the longship’s port side. Nukers of the Sultanate formed ranks upon the galley’s deck, their armor glittering. A deep voice shouted orders as the crew prepared to board the northern vessel.

The northerners exchanged only occasional uneasy glances, remaining in their places as befitted the disciplined war band of Windale’s jarl.

No one moved when the men in the arriving boat called for a rope ladder.

Thrasing’s hand settled upon his sword hilt, but Asard shook his head and became still again, like a statue carved from stone.

The visitors climbed aboard.

An elderly man in a large turban, with a pointed beard beginning to gray, was far too richly dressed to be an ordinary harbor official. Four well-armed mamluks in forged armor and bearing iron shields accompanied him.

An awkward silence followed. Yorik said nothing and looked down upon the guests.

The youth’s heart tightened and seemed to refuse to beat. Air became impossible to find. Anxiety turned his legs to cloth. The tension hung in the air like a nearly visible fog.

The visitor hesitated. Then, observing the ritual, he bowed to the ship’s master. Whatever else might be true, aboard the longship he was the guest. Etiquette required him to offer the first greeting as a sign of respect.

“I am Abu Bikar ibn Sahib, vizier to the great Sultan Artashat.” The man straightened.

“I am Yorik Storm Wind, ruler of Windale.” The chieftain answered with only a slight nod. “These are my brothers: Asard the Crusher and Thrasing the Unbowed.”

Alisher did not spend long deciding how to greet the great vizier. If he was Thrasing, prostration was out of the question. Following Asard’s example, he merely inclined his head.

“What purpose brings you to Ostos, worthy ruler of Windale?”

“Rumors of the beauty of Ostos’s ruler’s daughter have reached the northern lands. My sworn brother Thrasing has come to ask for the hand of Yusuf Bey’s beautiful daughter, Zamira.”