“This, of course, leaves him well-equipped to attack Merovence while you are gone,” Jimena pointed out.
“Yes, but I trust him not to—provided I leave a sufficient force of wizards and warriors to cost him dearly if he tries.” Alisande turned to Ramon with a frown of anxiety. “You will not risk yourself in the land’s defense?”
“Not foolishly, no.”
“Not at all.” Mama glared at him. “Leave the actual leading of the troops to young noblemen eager to prove themselves, and content yourself with planning the battles with me, while Saul plans the magical assault.”
“I would never forgive myself if you were slain or maimed in my place,” Alisande told him, huge-eyed.
Ramon sighed. “What can a gentleman do when the ladies league against him? As you will, my love and my daughter—I shall take all possible care. Let us hope, though, that the tournament we have planned at Avignon will give Boncorro pause enough so that he finds attack unnecessary.”
“Let us hope so,” Jimena agreed.
Ramon frowned, troubled. “We may wrong a good man.”
“If so, he shall never know of it,” Jimena pointed out.
“I shall be delighted to be proved wrong in having borrowed trouble,” Alisande assured him, “the more so because I will not have to repay it.”
Below, hooves thundered on the drawbridge, and the last knight came trotting in from his fief with six squires riding behind him, leading fifty archers.
“The time has come; I am gone.” Alisande turned to embrace each of her parents-in-law, briefly but fiercely. “I left you Lady Eldori and three other nursemaids, but it is to you whom I entrust my children. Protect them for me, and care for them! I praise God that you are here, and pray Heaven to protect you!”
“May Mother Mary watch over us,” Jimena returned, “and St. Michael protect you. Go, daughter, and have no fear for your kingdom or children.”
A shining figure was shadow-boxing—or shadow-fencing, Matt realized, for both figure and umbra fought with sword and shield, the dark one slashing at the bright one’s target. But how could its right hand be striking its opponent’s right? This, Matt decided, was an awfully independent shadow.
Only it wasn’t a mere shadow, not simply a darkening of the pale wall of mist behind it—rather, a total absence of light, an even deeper darkness than a moonless, starless night, even more profound than the lightlessness of a small shut-up room. The manlike figure seemed to drink light, to soak it up, to be a window into the primal Void beyond space and time, where all light streamed in but none came out. It was no mere absence of light, but a presence of darkness.
The Light-Drinker swung high, the bright figure raised its shield to ward off the blow—and Matt felt shock reverberate through him, for the shield was his own face. The bright figure smashed that shield into the dark one’s head, and the Light-Drinker fell—fell and fell into his own darkness until it closed up behind him, and the shining one turned, came closer to Matt, his face filling the world, clean-featured and handsome, smile quirking with humor, hair so pale as to be almost white, and the face said, “Behold your destiny!”
Matt ran howling. He didn’t want anything to do with either of the maniacs. The bright figure was gone, though, and he was fleeing through darkness now. He realized his wailing wasn’t his own voice, it was a dozen, and it wasn’t howling, it was droning.
A droning chant in his ears, Matt realized the only reason he fled through darkness was because his eyes were closed. Something seemed to swim up and press against his whole body from behind, and he was astounded to discover he was lying down, not running. Then came the thunderous realization that he was awake, that the hard surface beneath him and the droning around him were real, and the fencing figures had been a dream.
Or a vision?
He shoved the thought away and opened his eyes—a little.
He saw a figure that made him jump, or would have if he could have, but he couldn’t, because he was bound hand and foot. The figure was female, but certainly not in the slightest bit voluptuous—at least, not unless you were aroused by necklaces of skulls. It was human, too—technically, and if you didn’t count the extra arms. The face was contorted into a ferocious snarl, and Matt finally recognized her—Kali, the Hindu goddess of death.
He looked away, both out of a need to see where he was and a greater need not to look upon the image of doom. He saw a barrel-vaulted ceiling held up by stone columns and filled with muslin-clad worshipers, bowing to the statue and chanting. There were no windows; if the place wasn’t underground, it might as well have been.
Matt turned his head a little farther and saw the girl.
She was only a teenager, and a very pretty one, though clearly no Hindu—her skin was too pale, and had a golden tinge; her eyes slanted slightly; her mahogany tresses were long and abundant, framing her head and shoulders. Seventeen, perhaps, but her simple white robe revealed adult contours, for she lay on a slab of rock, wrists bound before her, eyes wide open but glazed, her face peacefully entranced.
At least, Matt hoped it was a trance.
He realized that he was lying on just such a slab of rock, too. His stomach sank, for he knew what Kali’s worshipers, the Thuggee, did with the people they kidnapped—strangled them, as sacrifices to their goddess.
He heard voices above his head and craned his neck enough to see two men robed as priests with scarlet silken cords in their hands. They didn’t look ready for business, were only reviewing the facts. They were speaking Hindi, but his translation spell was still working.
“She fought so hard to save him that perhaps she is already consecrated to the goddess.”
“No,” the other priest replied, “for she did not slay.”
“Not for lack of trying! Three of our staunchest men will bear the marks of her claws for a month or more.”
“If she were of Kali,” the older priest said dogmatically, “she would not have failed to kill.”
That decided it, not that Matt had had any doubts—he had to save the girl. Of course, that involved saving himself, but he’d been planning on that anyway.
“There is no doubt we must sacrifice her,” the older priest went on, “for she is of great importance to the enemies of the horde, and the horde brings destruction.”
“Surely, then, the barbarians’ enemies are ours,” the younger agreed. “How, though, can she be of such importance? She is so young!”
“We cannot know,” the older priest said heavily, “only be sure that sacrificing her to Kali will help to assure the horde’s success.”
Definitely, he had to save her, Matt thought. As softly as he could, he began to chant—but found that his lips and tongue scarcely moved, felt as though he were trying to talk through heavy syrup. Panic struck for a moment, and he thought he had fallen back into the tongue-tied spell again. He looked about frantically for Balkis but didn’t see her.
But he did see the girl’s glazed eyes again, and this time he recognized the look—drugged! Presumably the priests had given him the same dose-that was why his head wasn’t hurting yet—but having more body mass, his had worn off faster.
It felt like trying to talk with a mouthful of cotton, but Matt forced his lips and tongue to move:
“J
uice of the p
o
ppy or leaves of sativa,
Begone
from my fluids
,