Shadow of Ararat

THE HOUSE OF DRACUL, NEAR THE HIPPODROME, CONSTANTINOPLE

Dwyrin was thrown to a tiled floor, landing heavily. The bag over his head was untied and pulled off with ungentle fingers, allowing fresh air, at last, to reach him. He gagged and tried to spit to clear his mouth, but there was no moisture left in him. The tiles under his hands were small and worked into a mosaic. The sharp scent of incense came to him, though the pain of his right wrist was overriding all other senses. A clammy hand dragged him up by the scruff of his neck. A warm white light from a hundred candles filled the room, banishing even the smallest of shadows. Dwyrin knelt at the edge of a great rug; an opulent room surrounded him, filled with rich lacquers and wood, hung with silk and brocade. A sizable wooden desk was set a little off to one side, and before it sat a sturdy-looking man in a light-colored shirt and dark breeches.

The man bent forward a little and gestured to Khiron to bring Dwyrin closer. The dead man hoisted the boy up by his arms and dragged him forward, dropping him on the carpet at the end of the desk.

“Now, Khiron, don’t be harsh to the boy. He’s young. Not used to rough treatment.”

The voice was thick with the burr of an accent, but not one that Dwyrin had heard before. Still queasy at Khiron’s touch, Dwyrin looked up, meeting the eyes of his owner. They were a merry blue, twinkling in the light of the lanterns. The man’s face was broad and rather plain, but creased with the beginnings of a smile. A light-blond beard edged his chin, and he showed the signs of incipient fat.

His whole body was broad, like a cart, as were his hands. A gentle finger brushed Dwyrin’s forehead, tracing the line of his forebraid.

“Pretty young thing, isn’t he?” The voice was cheerful, but despite all appearances Dwyrin shrank from the man. For all his jollity, this was Khiron’s master. The time with the dead man was still a blur of horror and despair. Even this place, wherever it was, was better than the boat with Khiron and his captives.

“Oh, aye, master. The very paradigm of vitality. Does he please you?”

The rich voice laughed again, saying “Well, not yet! But there is promise here. How did you come by him, dear Khiron?”

“In my travels, master, I came by chance to Delos and decided to take to shore to acquire provisions for my voyage. While perusing the cattle, I was approached by a nervous Egyptian slavemaster who said he had something special to sell. I am not unknown on Delos, so I presumed that it was some exotic frippery. Instead, there was this sweet boy, all drugged and beaten. But I could smell the power in him, so I purchased him for a pittance, sure that he could find some use here, in your house.”

The stout man laughed, a deep bubbling sound, like a spring in the mountains.

“He has the Power, does he? Have you seen it? What expression of that art does he own?”

Khiron placed a thin-fingered hand on Dwyrin’s shoulder. “Master, he brings forth fire by the tale of the slave-master, who lost one of his men when the boy attempted to escape from the slave ship in the waters off of Alexandria. The man, by the account, was utterly consumed while leaving not so much as a char mark on the decking.”

A talonlike fingertip hooked under the thin metal chain that ran around Dwyrin’s neck.

“As you see, I have a ban upon him so that I do not suffer a similar fate… The fire is strong in him, though, like water building behind a dam.“

“A fire-bringer.” The stout man’s voice oozed with pleasure. “Many uses for such a talented young man. You wound me, Khiron, bringing me such a pleasant dinner companion and then telling me this! Stand him up.”

Hands like iron set Dwyrin upright. The stout man stood as well, and Dwyrin was surprised to see that he was only a little taller. The stout man placed his hands on his hips and stared into the Hibernian’s eyes. Dwyrin sagged against Khiron’s claw-grip but fought to match the stout man gaze for gaze. Lanterns hissed quietly in the background, then the stout man blinked and looked away.

“Know, young man, that I am the Bygar Dracul, the master of this house and all that exist within it. You are my property now, a slave. If you serve me well, you will be treated well. Otherwise, there are more torments than the lash to be found here. Khiron, take him below, into the pits, and see that he is safely put away. But he is to be kept whole, until I call for him again.”

The dead man took Dwyrin from the office of the Bygar and down through a maze of corridors, all lit by lantern or lamp. Dwyrin dimly sensed that they were now below-ground. The rock walls were no longer covered with tapestries and hangings. They descended a long flight of stairs that doubled back upon themselves once, then twice. Now the walls were damp with seepage. They passed through a solid oak door, which Khiron carefully closed behind them, muttering the while. Now the corridor was dark and ill lit. Only one fitful lamp guttered in an invisible breeze. A strange tang filled the air, like rotten lemon. Khiron drew his cloak back from his shoulders and pushed Dwyrin ahead of him.

“Walk, boy, and stay at the center of the corridor.” The dead man’s voice was thready and low, like a whisper caught in the wind.

So they walked for a time. Dwyrin felt the grade of the corridor descend again, and now dark spaces opened on either side of them. Some of the openings seemed to have worked lintels and walls, others were gouged from the raw stone. A cold exhalation crept from most of them. At last they came to another door, though this one was of iron, and studded with bolts and spikes. Khiron reached over Dwyrin’s shoulder, though so quietly that Dwyrin had to focus hard to see his hand in the gloom. There was a clicking sound, and the door suddenly split in the middle. Golden light spilled out, blinding the boy. Khiron pushed him ahead, again, into the room.

The cell was small, and lit only by the reflected brilliance of the lamps and candles that Khiron maintained in his own chamber. A sturdy door of iron bars separated Dwyrin and his tiny space from the rest of the dead man’s domain. Dwyrin spent his time curled up with his back against the smooth stone wall of the cell. There was a thin blanket of scratchy wool to lie upon and a ewer of water to drink from. Beyond the bars, Khiron paced restlessly in a room filled with lamps and candles, such that no corner was cast in shadow, no wall darkened by the lack of light. A narrow cot and a small stand completed the furnishings. The cot was covered with another blanket and a straw tick, but Khiron lay on only it rarely. Though Dwyrin woke, slept, woke, and slept again, the dead man only paced endlessly around the lighted room.

The stand held a pair of candles and a small icon, though the face of it was turned away and Dwyrin could not see what it represented. The dead man muttered as he walk’ed, and after six wakings, Dwyrin began to make out the words of his captor. They were a jumble, single words repeated over and over, short phrases, a long rambling internal monologue. On the seventh waking, Dwyrin’s mind had cleared enough that his body could weakly tell him that it was ravenous with hunger. Too, he was aware enough to realize that Khiron was reminding himself, over and over, of all the things that he had seen or done when he was alive.

“K-kk-hiron…” Dwyrin’s voice stumbled. His tongue felt enormous, choking the breath from him. “… hungry • • •”

The dead man paused in his endless pacing and turned, hooded eyes focusing on the boy behind the tiny grate. Khiron moved closer, a dark bird, head bobbing as it turned sideways and peered into the little cell. A simulacrum of a smile fleeted over his face, a mask put on and then taken off. A bone-pale hand reached out and touched the bars.

“Hungry? Why, I had all but forgotten you, little mouse. Your belly must be quite empty now. It would not do for” you to starve or waste away. Food you shall have.“

Khiron straightened and his body was tensed with energy now. He passed to the door, a gray cloud in the butter-yellow light of the room. In a moment the room was empty, the door shut. Dwyrin crouched at the entrance to his cell, a thin arm snaked through the grate and groping around the outside. His fingers found the sconce of a candleholder, rusting and ancient to his touch. Stretching upward he managed to catch the dripping wax on his fingertip. The heat of the hot wax flashed through his arm and, for a moment, sight threatened to return. For a bare instant the room flared unimaginably brighter as Dwyrin’s eyes took in the radiance of both the candlelight and the shimmering power that coiled endlessly behind the physical light.

Then the thin band of metal around his throat turned freezing cold and his head snapped back in a howl of pain. The burning ice around his neck choked off all thought, all breath, and plunged him into an abyss of cold, filled with grinding ice and a bottomless black lake.

“Food…” a distant voice hissed. There was a clanging sound and hands like spiders clawed at him, dragging him out of the warm cocoon of unconsciousness that had been wrapped around him. His throat still burned with the cold fire, though it was greatly muted now. A bowl filled with some sweet-smelling porridge was pushed into his hands. Trembling, he ate from it with his fingers. The porridge was thick and had chopped nuts and figs in it. There was more water in the ewer. After cleaning the bowl, he looked up, exhausted with the effort. Khiron was crouched before him, long cape lying in a puddle of storm-gray around him. The dead man’s head was cocked to one side again and his deep-yellow eyes surveyed the starving boy curiously. Dwyrin bowed his head and pushed the empty bowl away. Weariness filled his body from his feet to the top of his head.

“Sleep…” said Khiron, his voice growing distant even in the space of that word.

The cell door rattled and swung open. Khiron crouched outside again, snaking a long arm in to drag the boy out. Dwyrin shook his head to clear the muzziness of sleep. The sharp smell of the dead man tickled at his nose and he woke fully.

“Time to go upstairs,” Khiron growled, his voice and body equally tense. He shoved a bundle of clothing into Dwyrin’s hands. “Dress in this.”

Dwyrin stripped out of his tunic and breeches. The new clothing was a wadded lump. In it were trousers, a shirt, a cloth belt, and a felt cap. The fabric was plain and gray, with a little embroidery at the cuffs and hems. It was a little too large for him, particularly in his current state. The dead man watched him closely but without overt malice for the time it took him to dress. Flat-bottomed sandals completed the garb. Done, Khiron surveyed him up and down before pushing him toward the iron door.

“No time to dawdle,” he rasped-his voice tighter than usual.

They ascended the long passageway again, returning to the office filled with candles. The stout man, the Bygar, was still seated at his desk, but now two others joined him. Khiron guided Dwyrin to the side of the desk, facing the two new men. Dwyrin felt the dead man recede to the edge of the room, but he did not leave, he merely became less obtrusive. The men in the room had been speaking but had fallen silent upon the arrival of the boy. Now they surveyed him, and he them. The first of the two men was large, taller than Khiron, with a bristling beard and great whiskers. His black hair was curled and fell in ringlets past his broad shoulders. His arms were thick and corded with muscle. He was clad in heavy woolen garments, like a merchant, but they sat uneasily upon him. Dark piercing eyes scanned Dwyrin up and down, then the chin lifted in appraisal, a hand adorned with many rings stroking the lushness of his beard.

“Barely a sprig of a boy.” Whiskers’s voice was like a trumpet, echoing in the confined space of the office. “He should still be watching the sheep, not about on a man’s work.”

The other man was well built too, but next to his companion, he seemed a sapling to an ancient oak. Where Whiskers wore his clothes like a stone, this one was dressed in a flowing black robe of some shining material, with dark cotton trousers and arms graced by many bands of dark gold and red and amber. He too had dark hair, but it hung long and straight on his back, bound back by a silver fillet. His face too was long and straight, with arching eyebrows and a sharp nose. He was clean-shaven, without even the shadow of a beard. Whiskers exuded an aura of strength and vitality, almost abrim with energy. This one was cold and distant, like the ice on a mountaintop. Looking upon, him Dwyrin met his eyes for an instant and quailed away. They were deep pools of darkness, filled with horror and suffering.

Dwyrin felt faint, realizing that if the othersight were still upon him, the true shape of the creature across from him might be revealed, and that knowledge might destroy his mind. Being trapped in the same room with this monster and Khiron seemed to drain all air from the space. Dwyrin could now dimly sense the tightly controlled fear in both the Bygar and, behind him, Khiron. The school and the sun on the bricks in front of the dining hall seemed infinitely far away.

“He has potential, Dracul.” The voice of the creature in black was smooth and cultured. His Greek was flawless and filled with an ironic lilt. “Your servant has done well. You make our journey not only profitable but pleasant as well.”

Dracul made a half bow in his chair, acknowledging the compliment.

“Your presence is a boon as well, Lord Dahak. I know that you are a collector of rare items and so I thought of you when this young man was brought to me. He carries Power within him, waiting to be channeled, tapped, used.”

Dahak nodded, his eyes flickering in the candlelight. “Show us.”›

The Bygar nodded to Khiron, who stepped up behind Dwyrin and rested his bony hands on the boy’s shoulders. The dead man leaned close, his gray presence blotting out the candlelight in the room.

“Now, dear boy, I will lift the ban from you a little. I want you to call fire from the stone.” A gnarled finger drew Dwyrin’s chin around and pointed to a stand of bronze set against the wall beside the entry. Upon it sat an oblong of dark flint. The wall hangings had been taken down, the carpets rolled back from the foot of the stand.

“Not too much, now. Just enough to show our guests.”

A fingernail slid between the chain around Dwyrin’s neck and his skin. The edge, so sharp, cut into his neck, drawing a bead of blood. The veil that had lain over Dwyrin lifted a little, revealing the room awash in a swirl of dark purple, midnight blue, and a nameless color. By utter effort, Dwyrin kept from looking to his left, where Dahak lounged on a divan. The echo of his presence in the room was enough to distort the flow of power around him, drawing it into himself. The flint block was inert, no so much as a spark of its ancestral fire remaining within it.

“Bring the fire…” Khiron crooned in his ear. Dwyrin stumbled through the Opening of Hermes, failing to reach the level of calm needed to exert his will. Khiron’s fingernail dug into his neck. The pain sharpened his focus and he was able to complete the Meditation of Thoth. Now the power in the room, in the bronze stand, even buried deep in the innermost heart of the flint began to expose itself to him. With a deep breath he focused on the block as he had done on the ship, drawing power, first in a tiny thread, then in a surge from the candles, the rugs, the wall, the floor. A bright white-hot point suddenly danced into view in the heart of the flint. Dwyrin fanned it with the flood of power he was drawing from the appurtenances in the room. It began to glow.

Even Dahak flinched back when the flint oblong suddenly flashed into flame, burned white-hot and then shattered with a booming crack, scattering shards of flint across the room. Many bounced back from a sudden, wavering wall of power raised by Dahak’s languid hand. There was a pattering sound as they rained down onto the floor and tabletop. Flames licked at the wall and the bronze stand collapsed, riven into shattered bits. Dwyrin fell forward onto the carpet, his head spinning with the power.

With Khiron’s hand gone from the chain around his neck, the flood of sensations cut off. The room seemed terribly dark.

Dahak laughed, a terrible sound like graves opening. “He will do, my dear Dracul. He will be magnificent.”

The Bygar smiled and gestured to Khiron to take the prize away.