“I shall, O Lord,” Matt agreed. “Then you know that your Guebres worship Ahura Mazda, the God of Light?”
“Yes, and they honor Him in the sun, and in fire, since both are luminous. What of it?”
“This Arjasp has betrayed them. He has forsworn Ahura Mazda and worships Angra Mainyu, their god of darkness and deceit.”
“Shaitan!” the majordomo cried, then clapped a hand over his mouth.
The Caliph’s breath hissed in. “Even as you say, faithful servant. This Angra Mainyu, or Ahriman, as they also call him, is surely Shaitan by another name.”
Matt chose his words with care. “Then is it not also possible, O Lord, that Angra Mainyu is only their name for Allah?”
The Caliph frowned, but said, “I will admit the possibility, though if it is true, they are in error about many aspects of His nature.”
“That may be,” Matt agreed, “but surely He is too vast for any human mind to conceive of entirely, and devotion to the One God is of far more importance than the incompleteness of their understanding—or ours.”
The majordomo started to argue, affronted, but remembered himself and caught his tongue in time.
The Caliph frowned in thought. Matt guessed he was trying to decide whether to interpret “ours” as referring to the Christians’ lack of understanding of the nature of Allah, or to both Christians and Muslims failing to fully understand the one God. He apparently decided to take Matt’s words as referring to the fallibility of Christians, because he said, “Surely devotion to God is more important than human blindness.”
“Faith can move mountains,” Matt agreed, “and the Parsi high priest with whom I spoke was as angry at Arjasp as either of us—but feared him, too.”
“There is sense in that, if not bravery.”
“Oh, he was brave enough to rescue me from one of Arjasp’s lesser priests when they captured me,” Matt said dryly.
All the Arabs stared, and Balkis moved restlessly, claws digging into Matt’s shoulder. He tried to ignore her indignation at not getting the credit she deserved. Sometimes it was better to keep a card up his sleeve, and Balkis was proving to be an ace.
The Caliph asked, “How could they capture a wizard?”
“Same way you can capture a king’s champion,” Matt told him, “hit him from five directions at once without any warning. It’s cowardly, but it works.”
“I can see that it would.” The Caliph had a thoughtful look, and the majordomo was looking cagey.
Matt decided to give himself the magical equivalent of a bubble dome, and to keep it there at all times. “Of course,” he said, “catching a wizard and keeping him are two different things—and you really don’t want to be around when he decides to get even.”
The majordomo looked apprehensive and guilty, but the Caliph merely looked interested. “And what happened to this minor priest of Ahriman when the high priest of Ahura Mazda came upon him?”
“The dastoor buried him in shadow,” Matt said, “then washed the whole chamber in bright light. We heard his screams, but they faded with the shadows.”
The guards almost managed to suppress their shudders, but the majordomo didn’t. The Caliph only looked grave. “A fitting end. Have you learned, then, how to deal with these barbarians?”
“Oh, yes,” Matt assured him. “The dastoor taught me a few verses.”
“Then perhaps you can aid where my own wizards have proved lacking,” the Caliph said. “They have experience only in dealing with sorcerers who gain their power from Shaitan.”
“I wouldn’t expect your holy men to be terribly bothered by Satanic verses,” Matt agreed, “but it would be more difficult for them to counter spells oriented toward Ahriman. Drawing on a different aspect of the Prince of Lies changes the proportions of intentions and effects.”
The Caliph frowned. “This is wizard’s talk.”
Matt tried to find a clearer way of saying it. “It’s a matter of finding the right aspect ratio—Never mind. I haven’t actually seen the barbarians fight, but if I do, maybe I can get an angle on them—a way to defeat them, that is.”
“Come, then.” The Caliph rose in one fluid motion. “Sunset approaches, and the barbarians will attack in the dusk.”
“They attack at night?” Matt stared, then gave himself a shake. “No, of course they attack at night, if they so much as pay lip service to Ahriman. Certainly, lord. Let us see their battle order.”
Jimena, who could stand before an army without a tremble or a tear, clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her own wailing. With eyes wide and tragic, she stared at the devastated nursery.
Ramon gathered her into his arms and, over her head, gave the first useless orders. “Search the palace and the grounds, Sir Orin. Only a fool of a kidnapper would keep close to home, but he or she may not yet have been able to escape.”
Sir Orin’s face was pale with shock, but he gave a small bow and turned away.
“The nursemaids.” Jimena swallowed her tears, recovering some shreds of composure. “They may have seen something, heard something. Ask them all.”
Sir Gilbert snapped to attention, struck his breastplate in salute, and turned away.
“Saul.” Jimena raised a trembling hand to beckon to the Witch Doctor. “Search magically. There may be some trace. How else but by sorcery could the children have been stolen from a castle under siege?”
“Yeah, sure.” But Saul came into the room, not away, and offered his arm. “You’d better come to the solar and sit down, though, Lady Mantrell. We need all your wits, and you’re not going to recover your strength standing up.”
Jimena accepted his arm and, between the two men, stumbled out of the nursery, down the hall, and into her daughter-in-law’s solar. The sheer normality of the room, the comfort of tapestries and polished wood, and the warmth of the sunlight that bathed the chamber, restored her even as she sat.
“Tea,” Saul said to the guard at the door.
The man hurried away to find a servant. The tea would be herbal—trade with the Far East had come to a sudden standstill—but it would be reviving nonetheless. Saul poured a brandy to hold Jimena until it came. Then he poured two more for Ramon and himself.
Jimena sipped, swallowed, and her complexion turned a shade less pale. “What do we do now?” she asked. “Wait for a ransom demand?”
“This is not New Jersey,” Ramon said with gentle reproof.
“Still, she may have a point,” Saul said. “Why would they kidnap the prince and princess, except to hold them as hostages?”
Ramon nodded, mouth tightening. “So the ransom will be in deeds, not in gold.”
Sir Gilbert came back, ushering three noblewomen before him. They came into the solar, wide-eyed and trembling, and lined up before Jimena.
She understood immediately. “Don’t be afraid; I don’t blame any of you.” Then she frowned, looking about. “Where is Lady Violette? This is her time to sit with the children.”
“We cannot find her, milady,” said Lady Eldori. She was the eldest nursemaid, a woman in her late thirties.
“Cannot find her?” Jimena stared. “Has she been stolen away, too?”
“Or was it she who did the stealing?” Ramon asked, his face darkening.
A huge explosion sounded, muffled by distance and masonry, and the floor trembled, the walls vibrated. One tapestry slipped from its hooks and came tumbling down.
Jimena stared. “What now?”
“If that is a demand for a ransom, it is rather more forceful than it needs to be.” Ramon started for the door.
Voices called, coming nearer. The door guard blanched and stepped in. “Lord and lady! The wall! We are beset!”
They ran.
Up the twisting stairs, out onto the battlements, as the castle shuddered at another blow. There, though, they jolted to a halt, staring.