The Necromancer's Grimoire Read online

  She touched the tendril inserted in the necromancer. He was fully engaged. She had a few minutes more. Less, if the two women began to touch him with more intent. Corbett had diverted his inquisitors to drink. Montrose was leaning so far on a limb she feared he would fall. The plan was not working. Assad was no closer to taking the book from his chest as when they first arrived.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the Grimoire instead. She thought about its knowledge, its purpose, its history. Who are you? She asked it directly. It opened to her questions through the tendril she had in the apprentice. Through Assad’s mind she touched the wisdom of the ancient Persians. She saw the whirling dervishes, the Sufis. The book smiled at her and said, This is what your heart says to me, Nadira the Reader: “It tells me that you wish to possess the pearl of divine knowledge: you ask that I either give it to you or sell it to you.” The book waited for her reply.

  She hesitated. She had not expected the book to speak to her. I would that it be given to me. I have not the gold to buy it, she answered.

  Indeed, the book said. You cannot buy it, for the price is beyond gold, and yet if it is given to you, then you have not earned it. Cast yourself into the ocean that you may win the pearl of wisdom by waiting for it to form within the oyster.”

  Nadira answered truthfully. I have not the time to wait for a pearl to form. She showed the Grimoire its master, panting and gasping among the discarded silks of the slave women. I have mere minutes, if not seconds. He will cry out soon and that is when I must have you in my arms. She felt the Grimoire reach inside her, feeling around her heart and sending shards of light through her mind. She slowly sank to her knees, unable to stand against its intrusion. Self-doubt began to color her thoughts. It is eating me. The book snaked its tendrils through her heart and found Montrose there, and William, and Kemaleddin. It stopped with the image of the reis and she felt its disapproval. Ah, it scolded, you have broken his heart.

  The Grimoire continued to course through her body, touching every part of her until it consumed every piece of information she possessed. She felt drained. The carpet on the floor called to her and she stretched out upon it, embracing its soft silk pile. Blinking her eyes felt like moving great stones. She would not be able to summon Montrose. No one could help her. Assad and William continued a spirited debate on the nature of God. Scrolls were unrolled and books were opened, their pages fanned across their covers as lamps were lowered to increase the light. Montrose would not enter the room without her signal.

  Then the Grimoire stopped. All time stopped. Light and sound stopped. Images of Montrose in his tree stopped. The two scholars stopped mid-gesture, one scroll held high in the air.

  She saw the necromancer freeze in place, his back arched in the final spasm that cleared his mind and deadened the tendril that connected him to his Grimoire.

  Now you have eternity to form that pearl, Nadira the Reader, the book said.

  Nadira felt an enormous surge of energy. All that had been drained from her was returned double. She got to her feet, lightheaded and tingling from the charge. Assad and William remained frozen in place. She walked around them, searching their faces for some sign of sense. They were like statues of men. Her eyes were drawn to Assad’s chest. The book was calling to her through the apprentice’s caftan.

  The Grimoire said of the apprentice, this one will not progress. He cannot give up his self-image. In his arrogance he believes that every thought he thinks is the Truth. The Grimoire showed her the necromancer, his face frozen in the grimace of release. This one cannot progress as long as he believes the purpose of great wisdom is to acquire earthly power. And ultimately, what does earthly power provide? The Grimoire waited for her answer.

  Can it be so simple? She wondered. What do those with great power and riches do with what they possess? She sent the Grimoire images of the Vatican in Rome, the Padishah’s palace, the beautiful houses of Barcelona and the glory of the Alhambra. She sent it images of abundant food, of opium and of young women and men among soft cushions and fine fabrics. She showed it elaborate carriages and Spanish horses, fine silk and golden jewelry and fragrant spices. She touched Assad’s chest and felt the Grimoire, warm and solid, under the binding cloth. This is what men do with their power and riches. They pleasure themselves.

  The Grimoire agreed. It had another question for her. Nadira the Reader, if not pleasure and power, what is the purpose of acquiring great wisdom?

  She focused inward for the answer. Why even seek out the key to understanding? Why not be content to merely eat and breathe and sleep as so many do? She thought of the wisdom that she had gained in the past year. She took two calming breaths, and then answered the Grimoire with the truth she had known since she opened her first book. Because all of us travel between cradle and grave. Because no one escapes this journey. Because I would know where I am going, even as I remember where I’ve been. This is my answer: I want to know.

  The Grimoire touched her chest with a thick golden cord. She leaned back against the edge of the table as the cord was inserted between her ribs and entered her heart. She did not need to close her eyes to see the memories the Grimoire was activating. They appeared fully as if they had come alive in the room before her, all light and sound and color.

  She saw the first encounter with her friends in her master’s spice cellar. There…my lord Montrose has taken me in his arms and is examining my fingertips…Marcus has me over his saddle. I fall. I agree to their terms. The bloody mountain pass and that horrible ax…and Marcus.

  The images froze, but now she saw herself touching John’s face as he lay dead, and spooning broth into Marcus, then washing her lord’s broken body in the laundry at Andorra…touching William’s wounds, taking the Hermetica from his hands, and how that night she reached into his mind and brought him back from madness…the Grimoire stopped the images there and she felt it considering.

  She slowly knelt at Assad’s feet, too weak now to stand. She put both hands over the place where the golden cord entered her body, for it had begun to hurt.

  I am that pearl of wisdom, the Grimoire said, and you are that pearl.

  Nadira looked up. Above her she watched as Assad’s caftan swayed as if caught in a sudden breeze. She held her breath. Beneath his clothing, the Grimoire began to move. She blinked, uncertain if what she was seeing was real or merely another vision. Swathes of white cloth drifted from under the caftan and bunched down around Assad’s ankles. A moment later a brown leather book dropped with a dull thud among the creamy folds. The cover opened, a page turned, and another. There on the third page near the gutter in the left margin was an illuminated image as Corbett had told her there would be. But it was not a man. It was not a bearded knight in a helm.

  Nadira leaned closer. It was a woman. A young woman with luminous almond eyes and…Nadira held her breath…a woman with one hand on a long black braid and the other holding a shining dirk to the root of the plait, ready to sever the strands.

  Put your hand on the image, the Grimoire instructed.

  She did. A surge of energy shot up her arm and through her body. She was lifted into the air and set lightly on her feet again; the Grimoire was now in her arms, pressed against her breasts. At that same instant all time began again. She had to remind herself to breathe. Assad had instantly noticed his great loss. It took William a few moments to notice the world had changed. He looked at Nadira and saw the book in her arms, then at Assad’s face, now as pale as death.

  “Ah!” William cried loudly. His cry brought Montrose through the window with a crash, knocking the wood screen from its hinges. He gained his footing then drew the large sword and crouched for defense. He had removed his caftan to climb the tree, though he retained the turban. The blue eyes took in the situation at once, resting only briefly on the Grimoire cradled in her arms.

  Assad spun about and opened his mouth to sound an alarm. Montrose raised his sword. “No!” she shouted at him. The steel froze in mid-air. The appren
tice tried to take a step toward the door, but as he moved his feet, the winding cloths that had secured the Grimoire to his chest rose up like a fakir’s serpent and bound his ankles. He toppled to the floor and rolled as the cloth wound him like a spindle, finishing the shroud by tucking its end into his mouth. Assad’s eyes were wide with shock and disbelief.

  He was no more shocked than Nadira, who held the Grimoire out in front of her so she might stare at it in amazement, nor William who had backed against the table, his knees shaking. Or even Montrose, who lowered the sword point to the carpeted floor and stood blinking at the apprentice, rolled in his white cocoon.

  Nadira examined the cover; the book was bemused at her wonder. She could feel the emotion through her two hands. It was solid, and not very thick or heavy. The cover was pliable, made of many layers of sturdy leather worn thin in some places, cracked with age in others. Great age and wear partly obscured a complex symbol in the center. Fingerprints and creases spoke of its many owners over the centuries. The cover was peppered with scorch marks.

  She looked up at William first. His eyes were large in his face. He was waiting for her to tell him what to do. Montrose had moved across the room and was poking Assad gently with the toe of his boot. He sheathed his blade.

  She closed her eyes to try to see the necromancer. She could no longer feel him. Corbett was also lost to her. She opened her eyes and looked up at Montrose and William. “He will kill Assad if we leave him here,” she said.

  “We cannot carry him and flee,” Montrose replied.

  His pragmatic response only made Nadira more determined. “Release him, then.”

  Both William and Montrose looked doubtful that this was a good idea.

  She pressed on. “The necromancer will blame him, punish him, he will torture him to death for the loss of this book.” The apprentice’s eyes over the binding cloth agreed with her.

  “You are stuffing a snake in our baggage, Nadira.” Montrose said.

  “Did not the book bind him?” William agreed. “I say we abide by its wisdom. I hear footsteps. The servants have alerted the guards.”

  Nadira knelt by Assad’s head. She held the Grimoire to her body with one hand, and with the other, pulled the veil from her head to reveal her face and hair to him. “If I release you, will you flee?”

  He nodded.

  “You will not attack us?”

  He shook his head.

  She looked up at Montrose. “Use one of your knives to cut the cloth and free him. He knows the Grimoire gave itself to me. He knows its power.”

  “Are you sure?” William asked.

  She gave him an exasperated look as she got to her feet. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and the doors to the library flew open.

  “Too late,” Montrose said, drawing his sword. He patted the air with his other hand. “Will, get behind me.”

  The five janissaries who crowded the door registered surprise for only an instant. Nadira was certain they were not expecting the two frenki and an uncovered woman as the intruders. Their recovery was swift. The first two through the doors split to the left and right, then crouched low on one knee, their curved blades ready. Behind them the two bowmen took aim over their heads at the largest target.

  Nadira raised the Grimoire as the bolts flew from the crossbows. Both bolts passed harmlessly on either side of Montrose’s chest and out the open window behind them. William had his little dagger in his hand, and had leaped up upon the table among the books and scrolls directly behind Montrose.

  Both crossbows tipped down as the bowmen reached into their quivers for fresh bolts. With the space now free from missiles, the two swordsmen leaped at them, scimitars in the air. The fifth guard pushed past the bowmen and made straight for Montrose. Nadira stepped back quickly out of range of his broadsword as it swung low against the three men. The force of the heavy blade knocked the sword from one janissary’s hand and sent it clattering against the wall, but the high backswing left his right side vulnerable to the janissary’s blade. The other two guards were ready to take advantage of the high arc by stabbing low and under his great sword. Montrose kicked out, connecting the disarmed one in the thigh and sending him sprawling over Assad who was trying to wriggle away from the combat.

  The other janissary ducked and darted from the pile of bodies and closed with Montrose, pushing him back against the table with the flat of his blade across his chest. He was too close to strike. Instead, Montrose brought the pommel down and pounded the man’s back with the heavy steel circle. The guard made a gasping sound as the air was knocked from his lungs. In close combat the long sword was no use, and Montrose dropped it. He put both hands on the man’s neck as the guard dropped his own sword and pulled a shining dirk from his belt.

  Nadira raised the Grimoire again, unsure how to use it. Corbett had said it would defend her. Right now it needed to keep that thin blade from skewering Montrose through the rings of his brigandine. The crossbowmen had reloaded and the thick points were again aimed into the room, this time one at William, standing high on the table behind Montrose, and at Nadira to his left against the fluttering scrolls that lined the wall. She asked the Grimoire to save them, but the book felt cold in her hands. She lifted it and demanded a defense, but no answering pulse assured her of her safety.

  The bolts were let fly, and in her horror that they might connect with bodies this time, Nadira dropped the book and raised her arms. Time seemed to stop for her. The fighting men were moving in slow motion. She generated swirling tendrils of light and in desperation insisted they intercept the missiles.

  Red and blue threads of light caught and entangled the bolts before they entered their intended targets, tossing them to the floor where they bounced like sticks. Nadira gasped. Her tendrils could now affect physical objects. She glanced at the Grimoire. The bowmen were startled for only a moment before they pulled two more fletches from their quivers and slid them into place, ready for another salvo.

  No, you won’t. She gathered her tendrils into a ball and sent them to the crossbows. She jammed the mechanism so they would not fire, then turned her attention to that silver dirk as it made its way from the third janissary’s belt in a low arc toward Montrose’s ribs. The men’s movements were easy to track and she could see each of their intended targets as they planned their assaults. She gathered another ball of energy and drew back to throw. As she took aim, the janissary’s head snapped to the side and his body fell limp across Montrose’s boots, his dirk bounced on the carpet. The first guard, who had been disarmed, recovered his blade and with a practiced roll, brought himself to his feet and leaped at Montrose, sword in air, ready to strike. Nadira let him have the ball of light instead. The impact to the side of his head disrupted his aim. Montrose ducked low out of the blade’s path and lunged for his sword on the floor.

  As Montrose moved, William became exposed, and Nadira saw the second janissary’s blade swing where Montrose used to be and miss William’s chest by a hair. Will’s eyes went wide and his arms went up to avoid the slash. As the blade passed him, he brought his hands down on the guard’s neck and shoulders. Nadira watched as the man staggered back, both hands on the hilt of the small knife in his neck. William fell to the floor in the moment after, knocked from the table by the combined forces of both blows.

  Encouraged by this new use of her tendrils, Nadira whirled a whole skein of them to throw at the crossbowmen, who had now dropped the useless weapons and had drawn their own swords. She hoped to tangle them in the threads and keep them out of the fray. Before she could throw them, a spray of hot blood splashed her eyes. Blinded, she dropped the skein into a tangle of threads which quickly dissipated. A moment later something thick and heavy knocked her down. She scrambled to wipe her eyes and kicked hard.

  Blinking brought the room back into focus. She was pinned by a fallen janissary, face down across her body, twitching and bleeding hot blood that soaked the silks over her breasts. Waves of nausea pounded her throat. The man’
s chest and belly had been opened by Montrose’s sword which was now scything through the room knocking books and scrolls and guards with determined force as he confronted the remaining two bowmen. The banging and slamming of bodies and weapons filled her ears. There were no shouts or cries, only heavy breathing and clangs and thumps as each man fought with pointed concentration. She searched the room for William. He was on hands and knees scrambling to catch Assad as the apprentice made for the door like a worm, rolling and inching in his cocoon of linen.

  Her eyes flashed to count enemies. Montrose had beheaded one of the bowmen and was swinging at the only one left standing. This one was backing quickly, his sword whirling in front of him to try to deflect the thicker blade that tested his every move. Montrose’s eyes were narrowed and focused only on the eyes of his enemy. His mouth was open with the exertion and Nadira could hear him wheezing.

  The guard that William had stabbed sat propped against the table leg, hands tight around the hilt of the knife in his neck, and bright blood splashed his knuckles red. He would not get up again. The man who held her down was dead before he struck her. She saw two more crumpled bodies against the wood stands that held the books.

  She focused on the one man battling Montrose. He was smaller, but agile and skilled with his blade. She strained against the body that pinned her and was able to slide it a few inches down, enough to move one leg and use her hips as a fulcrum to roll him off. Her legs trembled as she got to her feet; the sticky silk clung to her limbs and threatened to trip her with every step.

  William had caught Assad, he knelt at his side and was talking to him while his hands held a knife he had recovered from one of the bodies, cutting through the cloth that bound him.

  She heard Montrose breathing louder. This last janissary was his match in everything but height and reach. The two had traveled the length of the room and were now converging on the doorway. She rotated her wrist, but could form no tendrils. She, too, was tiring. She searched the floor for her book. The Grimoire lay where she had dropped it, near the table by the wall of scrolls. Its cover was spotted with the spray of blood from William’s man. Her sodden skirts tripped her as she took a step. She fell, and then got to her knees, gathering the bloody silk in a wad and lifting it high to free her legs.