The Seal Page 13

  Sassan closed his eyes and covered his mouth. The burning blast of sand particles never came.

  He opened his eyes and found himself inside his tent. He grabbed the table’s edge a second time and fought to regain control of his erratic breathing and unsteady legs. Sassan sat down in the chair next to the table.

  He was right: he’d received a vision. From what Emad had said, the djinn were coming to rescue him. So, the vision was a warning. But what was he supposed to do: postpone the executions; set Emad free; double, triple the guards and confront the daeva’s rescuers?

  The fire in the altar had gone out long since. Nevertheless, Sassan knelt and prayed for guidance.

  None came.

  Again, God tested him.

  If he were being tested, it was—like all things to do with God—a test of faith. Those seven daevas had chosen not to convert. He’d given them a choice, and he’d do it again one last time before issuing the order to execute them. Derbicca’s citizens knew of the executions. He’d charged the city’s administrators with making sure they all attended, to witness first the executions and then the remaining daevas’s conversions. What kind of message was he sending to Derbicca’s citizens—the empire—if he postponed the executions?

  God had sent one of His host to warn him. With noon approaching, he had to heed the warning and act fast.

  Sassan strode out of his tent and into the camp.

  ‘Tell General Afacan to meet me in the operations tent—immediately,’ he called to a guardsman, then continued on.

  The general entered the operations tent, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, unflustered by the high magus’s summons.

  ‘Think, speak and act well, High Magus.’

  Sassan stopped his pacing and unfolded his arms.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Think, speak and act well.’ He realised he’d left the sabaoth’s arrow in his tent.

  ‘High Magus?’ the general said.

  He might as well get to the point.

  ‘I had a vision. The djinn will try to rescue Emad, the daeva captured this morning.’

  Sassan described the scene in Derbicca: the sandstorm, the figures carrying weapons and a pleased-looking Emad announcing the djinn were coming to rescue him.

  The general listened and said nothing.

  ‘I think it’s a warning,’ Sassan said.

  The general nodded, then tilted his head.

  ‘What I don’t understand is, what’s so special about this Emad he needs rescuing? No one’s tried to rescue a daeva before.’

  ‘There isn’t time to find out.’ Sassan cursed himself for sounding impatient. ‘General, I’m concerned for our citizens’ security. Right now, men and women are leaving their homes and making their way to the square. What are we going to do?’

  The general clasped his hands behind his back.

  ‘We postpone the executions. We take the prisoners out into the desert and execute them there.’

  Sassan hadn’t thought of conducting the executions outside the city. He shook his head. Such a thing sent the wrong message to the daevas and the empire’s citizens. They had to witness, first-hand, what happened when a daeva refused to convert.

  ‘Your suggestion has merit, General, but the more I think about this, the more I believe the vision is meant to prepare us for a confrontation. God wants us to face the djinn and foil their rescue, and to do so in His followers’ presence. We can’t march to Baka, a city filled with daevas, with our tails between our legs—can we?’

  The general took a deep breath and his eyes rolled down to his right. He exhaled, then looked up.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It will mean postponing our departure. I’ll position men along all the streets leading into the square and triple the guard around yourself and the prisoners.’

  Bolstered by the general’s response, Sassan nodded his agreement.

  ‘Very good, General. I’ll leave you to make the arrangements.’ Sassan turned towards the tent flaps. ‘I need to prepare for the executions and then for the conversions.’ In his haste to leave, Sassan almost forgot. ‘Think, speak and act well, General.’

  ‘Think, speak and act well, High Magus.’

  Dressed in his white ceremonial robe and sash, Sassan stood on the platform and waited for the seven daevas to be led to the wooden blocks. In place of his staff of office, he gripped the golden arrow in both hands. Sweat trickled down his back and beneath the rim of his prayer cap. General Afacan stood next to him. The general’s presence and the extra short sword he wore for Sassan did little to calm the growing tightness in his muscles.

  Sassan didn’t turn his head but let his eyes dart from left to right. He scanned the streets and the guardsmen lining it. Next, he examined the crowd. Those at the front all faced the blocks, waiting for the daevas to appear. No one seemed troubled by the circle of black uniforms surrounding them.

  The daevas shuffled into the square. The chink of their manacles made Sassan want to look over his shoulder. He knew Emad would be among them, but he wanted to make sure for himself. Sassan waited for each daeva to be positioned before a block. He had to remind himself that, on this occasion, he wasn’t to dismount the platform. He waited until guardsmen ringed the condemned prisoners—four males and three females, all washed and dressed in a plain white robe—then addressed Derbicca.

  ‘These daevas have turned their backs on God and have refused to convert. The Divine Light will not tolerate those who worship other gods or those who call upon unholy magic. But’—he paused and raised the golden arrow—‘the Divine Light is also merciful and loves all humans, djinn and daevas who follow the One Religion.’ Sassan pivoted and faced the line of daevas. ‘In the name of the Divine Light, I offer you one last chance to convert. If you wish to live, speak now.’

  All seven of the prisoners stood with their heads bowed, seemingly at peace with their wish to die.

  Sassan’s heart grew heavy. By failing to convince the daevas to convert, he had failed them and he’d failed God.

  Forgive me, G—

  A prisoner looked up and turned to face Sassan.

  ‘Emad,’ Sassan said under his breath. The tightness in his muscles eased.

  The daeva opened his mouth.

  Somewhere, a man screamed.

  Sassan scanned the temple’s dome and the archers and magi he and the general had positioned there. Bowmen on the rooftops of buildings facing in on the square drew their bows.

  ‘There,’ the general said, pointing eastwards and in the scream’s direction.

  A maelstrom of sand bubbled and churned as it hurtled down a street, swallowing the guardsmen lining it. Lightning bolts burst from its surface. At its centre, a red disc blazed as brightly as a sun. Sassan swallowed when he spotted similar sandstorms rushing down the other streets that led into the square.

  ‘Take cover,’ the general yelled.

  As one, the crowd swelled outwards, heading for the doorways surrounding the square. Closer to Sassan, guardsmen formed a second ring around the prisoners.

  People shouted and screamed, and some fell as they dashed to avoid the approaching sandstorms. Those who fell, Sassan saw, did not get up. Behind him, a sword slid from its scabbard.

  ‘Now would be a good time to raise a dome of protection, High Magus,’ the general said.

  ‘People are dying out there. I shouldn’t have summoned them. They should have stayed indoors. I did this.’

  A hand squeezed Sassan’s shoulder, then shook him.

  ‘High Magus, Sassan,’ the general said, his voice gruff, ‘raise a dome of protection.’

  24

  Roshan had counted to one hundred and ten by the time the king waved at her to raise her portal. Thirty-five djinn had already left for Derbicca.

  Behrouz stepped through first, followed by Zana. The king nodded to her, a grim smile pursing his lips. He touched his bracelet to remind her he’d use it to signal her and the djinn.

  Roshan passed thro
ugh her portal and into a dust-filled square. She caught flashes of people running in and out of the boiling clouds of dust, lost and disorientated.

  From her right came the clash of weapons.

  Roshan collapsed her portal at the same time a djinni appeared by Behrouz’s side. The djinni recited an incantation, producing five shimmering figures, all of them carrying scimitars. The five illusionary djinn rushed a platform in front of her. On it stood two men with their backs to her. One man wore the black tunic and leggings of a guardsman, and the other was dressed in the ceremonial robes and sash of a magus—the high magus. A dome of purple light surrounded them.

  Several of the guardsmen lining the platform broke rank to confront the five illusions, creating a gap for Behrouz.

  Roshan recalled an incantation that would tire the high magus and weaken his dome of protection. She raised her hands and felt herself nudged by Zana. The manticore looked up at her and shook his head.

  He’s right, she thought.

  ‘The high magus,’ she said to the djinni who’d woven the illusions. ‘Can you make him sleepy?’

  The djinni nodded.

  Zana coughed, and Roshan had to cover her mouth as a cloud of fine sand sped past them. Roshan glanced up at Behrouz. The daeva stood poised and untroubled by the sand. His attention remained fixed on the high magus, his short sword already drawn.

  ‘Father!’ Zana cried.

  The daeva whirled to his left and, within two strides, clashed swords with a guardsman.

  ‘The sandstorms,’ Zana said above the din. ‘They’re thinning. The soldiers will soon see us.’

  The space between Roshan’s shoulders tightened. If the storms faded and the guardsmen realised they were only fighting thirty-five djinn, they’d be done for.

  Roshan resisted the urge to raise a dome of invisibility. Behrouz needed to see her, to know where to go to make his escape. Zana pressed his side against her leg, his presence dampening her dizzying panic at being so exposed.

  A hum reached her ears and her panic turned to terror. It grew in volume until it masked the sounds of fleeing and fighting. The humming became a chant, an incantation used by a magus to clear a room or building of a former occupant’s residual magic. Here, a single magus didn’t recite the incantation but several.

  ‘The djinn’s magic is weakening,’ she said to Zana. ‘It’s like... It’s like they knew we were coming.’

  ‘The high magus’s dome,’ Zana said, excitement raising the pitch of his voice.

  The edges of the purple dome flickered. Unable to distinguish between human and djinn magic, the incantation suppressed all magic.

  Behrouz sailed past them in two strides, then launched himself at the platform. Roshan glanced behind her to see the daeva’s former opponent on the ground, bleeding. The djinni who’d woven the illusions stood over the fallen guardsman and raised his sword. Roshan looked away.

  Up on the platform, the high magus cowered behind the guardsman who fought Behrouz.

  ‘They can see us now,’ Zana said. He strode a protective circle around Roshan, his scorpion tail poised to strike.

  Sand no longer filled the air but lay in heaps around their feet. Across from her, a double line of guardsmen pushed against the djinn who were trying to break through and rescue the prisoners, the edges of their scimitars no longer aflame.

  Someone yelled.

  Zana had disappeared from her side.

  A guardsman wielding a spear ran at her.

  Roshan heard the manticore snarl and from the corner of her eye saw Zana leap at him. Roshan yelped when the guardsman turned and pointed his spear at Zana, his eyes bulging. Zana drew up his hind legs. He lashed out with a front paw, pushing the spear aside. Before the guardsman could react, Zana’s hind legs struck his chest. The manticore’s momentum carried him forward so that he landed on the fallen guardsman. Roshan saw a paw raised, claws extended, ready to strike at the man’s face.

  The chanting grew louder. Magi lined the temple’s domed roof. Next to them stood archers.

  Someone cried out. A djinni attempting to rescue the prisoners fell, an arrow protruding from his neck.

  Roshan’s back grew stiffer.

  They’ll all be picked off, she thought.

  Too busy fighting to counter the magi’s chanting, the djinn had lost their advantage and were no match for trained guardsmen.

  Roshan remembered her promise to Yesfir. Back then, no one knew they were walking into a trap. She had to do something.

  Destroyer.

  ‘They’ll die if I don’t help them,’ she said out loud.

  Roshan glanced up at the platform. The guardsman, whoever he was, had slashed Behrouz’s tunic in several places.

  ‘Roshan!’

  Something hard barrelled into her and knocked her backwards and the air from her lungs.

  It took several heartbeats for Roshan to catch her breath. Zana lay beside her. She followed his gaze and saw an arrow jutting from the ground where she’d stood.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, then pushed herself up.

  Destroyer or not, she had to act.

  Roshan closed her eyes. Her thought had to be clear and the command precise enough to avoid causing any unnecessary harm. Roshan pictured the line of magi on the temple’s roof. She imagined she stood behind them, bent forward and whispered a command into each of their ears: ‘Sit down and be quiet.’

  25

  Emad heard the scream before he could accept Sassan’s offer and convert. His jaw remained slack as blasts of sand swept through the five streets that opened onto the square. He closed his mouth before the storm tore into him. It filled his eyes with grit and set the other daevas coughing.

  He and the six others huddled together and bowed their heads while they waited for the storm to ease.

  ‘They’ve come to save us,’ someone said—it was difficult to tell who over the scratching of sand particles.

  Emad didn’t share the daeva’s relief. Once again, his brother had interfered. He shielded his eyes and glanced at the platform where Sassan stood.

  The high magus had woven a dome of protection, its mauve, curved edge shimmering against the sand.

  How am I supposed to kill him now? Emad said to himself.

  ‘Look!’ a daeva shouted, then pointed. Like Emad, he also shielded his eyes with a hand.

  The brilliant reds, browns and greens of flaming scimitars appeared above the heads of the guardsmen.

  ‘It won’t be long,’ he said to the others. He hid his resignation at being thwarted.

  The circle of soldiers, their outlines fuzzed by the sand, didn’t budge, and not one of them fell beneath a flaming scimitar. Emad held out his manacled wrists to the daeva next to him.

  ‘It’s Payam?’ he said. When the daeva nodded, he added, ‘Help me take these off.’

  Emad’s gratitude turned to impatience as the daeva took an age to pull out the bolts holding the manacles closed.

  The second manacle, finally, fell open.

  ‘Now let me do yours,’ Emad said.

  He touched the bolt’s head and his fingers numbed and his wrist tightened.

  ‘The iron,’ Payam said. ‘It makes it hard to grip.’

  Emad nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise.’

  Both free of the manacles around their wrists, they worked on freeing their own shackled ankles. Emad saw the other daevas doing the same and gave them a nod of encouragement.

  He rose to a crouch and moved closer to the platform and Sassan. The sand clouds had thinned enough for him to see that another man—no, a daeva, Yesfir’s husband, Behrouz—stood under the high magus’s dome of protection. Behrouz fought with the soldier Emad recognised as the general who’d accompanied Sassan when they’d first met. Emad sidled towards the platform, his hand opening and closing, eager to hold a weapon. He tripped and came close to colliding with a line of soldiers with their backs to him.

  Emad regained his balance, expec
ting to see the body of a soldier behind him. There was no body but a daeva with his knees drawn to his chest, his wrists and ankles manacled.

  ‘What are you doing just sitting there?’

  Emad knelt when the daeva didn’t answer. He recognised him. Kacper; he’d once been Fiqitush’s treasurer, but years had passed since he’d seen him. Rumours were he’d become a recluse, scuttling around Derbicca at night, searching through the humans’ rubbish for scraps to eat.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Kacper said. He didn’t stop Emad drawing a bolt from a wrist manacle. ‘I want to die before the madness takes me.’

  ‘I understand,’ Emad said, his attention flitting between the daeva and the platform. Behrouz wasn’t faring well against the general. ‘But there has to be a better way than this, Kacper.’ He helped the daeva up. ‘Come on. Join the others. That way, the guardsmen won’t fall on you and crush you.’

  Once Kacper had hunkered down with the others, Emad turned, then stopped. The air cleared, and the sand dropped like a heavy blanket off a washing line.

  A chant grew louder. Emad followed it and saw magi on the temple’s roof. He recognised the incantation. To his right, the guardsmen continued to fight, but the djinn’s scimitars no longer burned.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ he said.

  The rescue would fail, djinn would die and it was all his fault. Emad scanned the ground, desperate to find a fallen weapon, something he could use to put an end to Sassan and this madness.

  The circle of soldiers surrounding them swelled, pushing the djinn farther from Emad and the rest of the prisoners. His stomach churned when a coordinated surge from the soldiers caused several of the djinn to stumble and slide as they retreated.

  Without their magic, those djinn are done for.

  A jolt of power passed through him. The chanting stopped. The magi on the roof no longer stood but sat.

  Emad saw flashes of red, brown and green from the corner of his eye. The djinn’s scimitars had reignited. Someone—that jolt of power—had silenced the magi and enabled the djinn to weave their magic again.