As he spoke, he extended his hand, almost covering Sean’s eyes. Terrifyingly, a vision seemed to be concealed within that open hand-of fire, of agony, of eternal longing for bliss never again to be tasted.
Sean cried out and turned his head away.
“Do you believe what I just told you?”
“Yes.”
“Look back at me.”
Sean turned to look back and was startled, for Hazin was gone, disappeared, a swirling cloud of sweet-scented smoke obscuring all around.
The smoke drifted and curled, slowly parting, and someone else appeared before him. He had never seen such eyes, the palest of amber, her skin a milky white, hair raven black, coiling in a long, wavy cascade that covered the nakedness of her breasts.
“Her name is Karinia.”
It was Hazin’s voice, but where he was Sean could not say.
“I have chosen her for you, Sean O’Donald. Look into her eyes and see paradise. Fail and know that you will never see such love again.”
Sean could not turn away from her gaze. Her features were flushed, and he sensed that somehow she was afraid. He reached out and lightly touched her cheek.
“You will stay and serve?” Hazin asked.
Sean could not answer. Some voice whispered to him that here was the moment that would forever define his life, who he was, what he would live for. But all he could see were her eyes and the actual feel of the garden of paradise, as if all of it had merged into his body and soul and would be part of it in pleasure, or torment, forever.
“I will serve,” he whispered.
“Then she, all of this, is yours forever.”
He heard a soft laugh, a rustling, and knew that Hazin was gone.
“I’m of the Shiv,” she whispered, “and though not born to it, you are now of us.”
Startled, he realized that she was speaking English, though her words were halting.
“Is this what you desire?” he asked.
She laughed softly and, leaning over, kissed him.
SEVEN
Throughout the day and into the night an inner sense told Richard Cromwell that something unusual was going on. In the week of his captivity he had grasped a sense of the language of the Kazan, realizing that there were some similarities to the Bantag dialect he had learned as a child.
He had been taken off the ship blindfolded, but the sounds and smells had told him that-he was in a city, a city of the race of the Horde, for their musky scent was overpowering. Loaded into an enclosed cart, he had noticed that the ride was smooth, the road well paved, and an ocean of noise surrounded him, echoing in the confines of city streets until they had passed through a gate. The doors clanged shut behind him with an ominous boom.
They had finally removed his blindfold once he was in his cell. He had known places far worse. The cell was even comfortable. He had a cot and a straw-filled mattress, and a thin shaft of light coming from a vent in the ceiling let him know the passage of days.
Hazin had come to visit him, and what he’d had to say was surprising. Throughout Richard tried to reveal nothing that could be of worth, and Hazin had even complimented him on his tact. At the same time, Hazin had seemed to be almost too revealing, telling him of the civil war, their learning of technology from a “prophet” and his companions who had come through a Portal more than two hundred years ago. This had given the Kazan, a minor clan on the island chains that spanned a million square miles of ocean, their first advantage in the endless warfare between a dozen rival clans.
They had made the leap to steam power, to flight, to the weapons they now possessed, and in the process they had defeated their rivals one by one, until finally the Kazan were supreme. Then had come the civil war to decide amongst themselves who should rule.
Of these subjects he had spoken without hesitation, even answering questions Richard had posed. Especially intriguing and frightful was the story of the rise of the Order of Alamut, which had been but one of the numerous cults and secret societies that the Kazan seemed to revel in. It was the prophets who suggested the breeding of humans, first for simple labor, but then for sacrifice as well, and finally for what Hazin called the fulfillment. A topic on which he would not elaborate.
Richard had expressed no reaction to this, assuming all along that the Kazan would be no different that the Bantag or Merki, and Hazin had stepped past the issue as if sensing that there was no purpose in elaborating.
During the years of the civil war, the Order, as it was simply known, had served as assassins for all sides. Once there had been an attempt to wipe them out, an effort led by the grandsire of the current emperor, and he had paid the price, his death an object lesson. From the way Hazin had talked, Richard guessed that the Shiv numbered in the tens of thousands, and he wondered why the Kazan would allow such a strength, which could perhaps turn against them the way the Chin had against the Bantag in the last days of the Great War.
The conversations were strange, perplexing, as if Hazin was educating him to some purpose Richard could not divine.
They had talked thus for days, but today was different. Hazin had not come. Richard remained alone, wondering if something had changed.
In the evening he heard anxious whispered comments in the corridor outside his bolted door, then the swift scurrying of feet. From beyond the vent opening he soon heard someone speaking slowly, as if giving a speech. He made out the Bantag word for dead, “sata,” spoken solemnly, followed by an outcry, the high keening wail of their race when mourning.
Shortly afterward, he heard other angry voices, shouts, and then the sounds of fighting, grunts of pain, and the crack of gunfire. In the corridor outside he heard more voices, the sound of someone struggling, as if being forced or dragged down the corridor, and a door slamming shut. He had drifted off to sleep then and was startled awake by the sharp report of a gunshot followed by laughter.
When the door to his cell swung open, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Had Hazin merely been toying with him? Was someone coming with a gun to finish it?
He was surprised, and relieved, to see that it was Hazin. An entourage of half a dozen Shiv and several of Hazin’s own race followed behind him. Hazin motioned for them to wait and then closed the door so that the two were alone.
“You are intelligent enough to realize that something is happening here,” Hazin said, and Richard saw a look in his eyes of excitement, of satisfaction.
“It is kind of hard to sleep when there is shooting going on in the room next to you.”
Hazin laughed. “His name was Dalmata. A rival, or should I say, a former rival.”
Again the satisfaction was evident.
“My congratulations, then,” Richard offered. “Was it ordered by the Grand Master?”
Hazin smiled. “I am the Grand Master now.”
You killed him, didn’t you? Richard thought.
“Yes. I, shall we say, arranged it,” he said in English. “Why are you telling me this?” Richard asked, and he realized that there was a touch of fear in his heart.
Hazin laughed. “Perhaps because I have to tell someone, ahd it might as well be you. That is the problem with such triumphs. There can never be an audience, never someone to share the moment with. In my world such victories are achieved alone and celebrated alone.”
At that instant Richard found an answer to a question that had bedeviled him ever since he had met Hazin. Why was he being spared? Was it just sadistic amusement or was there another purpose?
Hazin went over to the single chair in the room. A chair sized for a human, so he seemed almost absurd sitting in it. “I was born of the lowest caste,” Hazin said. “Every step has been a clawing upward. You, Cromwell, understand that better than most, saddled as you are with the name of a traitor. When I was first told who you were I was intrigued. Why would the son of a traitor wear the uniform of the nation his father had turned against? Why as well would such a nation trust you? It was an interesting skein to unravel, a diversion, even, from the more weighty concerns I was struggling with.”