The Paladin of the Night by Margaret Weis; Tracy Hickman

Author:Margaret Weis; Tracy Hickman
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 0553279025
Publisher: Bantam Spectra
Published: 1989-04-30T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

In the arwat, the immortals resumed their pleasuretaking, giving the body of Sond nothing more than a cool, casual glance or—at most—a look of bitterness for having bled all over the carpet (this from the rabat-bashi).

“Get him out of here!” the proprietor muttered to two ma- malukes, who bent down and—lifting the dead djinn by his flaccid arms—appeared prepared to drag him unceremoniously out the door.

“The back door,” specified the rabat-bashi.

“No one’s taking Sond anywhere,” declared Pukah, drawing a dagger from the sash around his slim waist. “Not until I have some answers.”

Dropping Sond’s arms, which fell with a lifeless thud on the floor of the arwat, the two immortal mamalukes drew their daggers, eager grins on their faces.

“Pukah, no!” cried Asrial, hurling herself at the young djinn.

Gently he pushed her away, his eyes on the knifewielding slaves who were circling, one to either side of him, steel flashing in their hands.

“You there!” cried the proprietor distractedly, gesturing to another mamaluke, “roll up that other carpet! It’s the best one in the house. I can’t afford to have it ruined as well. Quickly! Quickly! Excuse me, sir”—this to Pukah—”if you could just lift your foot for a moment? Thank you. It’s the blood, you see, it doesn’t wash—”

“Blood!” Asrial put her hands to her head in an effort to concentrate. “This is impossible. Our bodies are ethereal. They cannot bleed, they cannot die!” Lowering her hands, she looked at Death. “I don’t believe this,” the angel stated flatly. “Sond is not dead! Not even you can make the immortal mortal. Pukah, stop that nonsense.”

Somewhat startled, Pukah glanced at her, then at Sond lying on the floor. Slowly he lowered his dagger. “That’s true,” he said. “Sond can’t be dead.”

“You are both young,” said Death, turning the empty eye sockets toward them, “and you have not lived long among humans—especially you,” she said to Asrial. “You are right, of course. Sond is not dead—at least not as mortals would term it. But he might as well be. When the sun dawns tomorrow, this djinn will regain his life—but nothing else.”

“What do you mean?” Pukah glared at the cold and lovely woman suspiciously. “What else is there?”

“His identity. His memory. He will have no knowledge of who he is, whom he serves. He will be—as it were—newborn and will take on whatever identity occurs to him at the moment. He will forget everything. . .”

“Even the fact that he is immortal,” said Asrial slowly.

Death smiled. “Yes, child, that is true. He will have the mortal hunger to live life to the fullest. As are mortals, he will be driven—blessed and cursed with the knowledge that it must all come to an end.”

“This is why the immortals are lost to the world,” realized Pukah, staring at Sond. “They no longer remember it. And that is why Nedjma did not know my poor friend.”

“She is no longer Nedjma, nor has she been for a long time now. Only a few nights ago she died at the hands of a jealous lover.

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