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Spellbound
By Kathleen Nance
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2003
Kathleen NanceAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-505-52486-4
Chapter One
Kaf, the realm of the djinn
The birds were growling.
No, not again! Zayne leaned over his oud, his fingers dancing
across the strings as the song swelled from him. He was the
sole Minstrel of Kaf; no others shared this trust. His music
wove into the harmonies of his world, balancing the elemental
powers of ma-at. His ma-at and his music could not be the
source of the chaos.
Yet, as his voice grew in depth and breadth and richness, the
unrest of the birds grew louder. Their tumult held mirror to
the beckoning ferocity inside him. To the battle between his
ma-at and the strange force fueling his song.
His audience, sprawled on cushions scattered across the
night-cooling sand, murmured restively, but he paid them no
mind. His passion was for the beauty and the clarity of music.
Only the oud and the voice, which gave substance to song and
soul, mattered. Only the strength of his ma-at, the elemental
fuel of his harmony, mattered.
His powerful ma-at wove through the music, enchanting all the
senses, a counter to the strange rising force within him. The
taste of honey and the brush of an alpaca's hair heightened
each note. Scents of sandalwood and green melon gave way to
the spicy intoxication of clove and mimosa. Fierce arousal
shot through him, hardening his body anddemanding release,
and he shared that erotic need with his song.
The unwonted seductive lure of the strange force captured him,
and at last he submitted to its call. Lyrics transfigured to
dark deeds and darker hearts.
A bolt of lightning slashed across the sky. No thunder
followed, but the wind rushed through the circle with a moan.
Where moments ago were sunset and the pleasures of a quiet
eve, now were night fire, the hot sirocco, and the growl of
birds. Even the brilliant moon of Kaf hid behind roiling
clouds.
Still, he sang, denying the unthinkable. As the feral song
grew, the sparkle of djinn emotions danced on the edges of his
vision. White and gold deepened to red, purple and blue. The
murmurs from the audience grew in volume. What was this eerie
melody from their Minstrel? He could almost hear the
questions. Yet, he did not look at them; his auburn hair
shielded his face from view, as it always did when he played.
Flame encased him, a shimmering blue spire that encircled but
did not scorch. Instead it pulled at the air and heat, as
though fed by his thrumming blood and his powerful ma-at. His
fingers flew across the strings, aching with the need to
release the building alien power, while his ma-at fought
against the intrusion.
Lightning crackled and danced in whips of blinding whiteness.
Wind tore at the linens and silks of his audience. Scarlet
geysers of lava burst from spreading cracks in the sand.
Outward manifestations of his inner battle.
Someone from the audience screamed, and several others
scrambled to their feet. A single, eerie screech cut through
the night. The birds silenced before the might of ma-at and
the violent unrest of Kaf.
Minstrel, what do you do? The deep masculine voice of the
Oracle of Kaf dared to pierce his absorption. Zayne's glance
shot upward, but he saw not the shadowy figure of the powerful
djinni. Only the faces of his audience-lit with fascination
and fear, shock and need-surrounded him.
I feel the unrest of Kaf here in the Tower Lands, Alesander
added.
For a moment, Zayne considered ignoring the question. Djinn
could not read another's thoughts, only send their own.
Zayne? The voice could not be ignored.
I but sing. His fingers slowed as he struggled to rein in the
tumultuous song and the accompanying chaos. He could no longer
deny his music and his tumult created the strange
disturbances, but he dared not admit that to Alesander.
No, your song is never that simple. Music feeds the soul of
Kaf, and you are the only Minstrel. Only you keep our harmony.
Do you think I could forget that?
Your responsibility is to the people and the land.
I know. Abruptly he broke off the conversation, fearing
further contact would reveal his cursed malady.
Note by note, he fought against the tumultuous force. Beat by
beat he slowed the driving, foreign melody. Each time he sang,
though, the task grew harder. The indigo silk of his shirt
stuck to the perspiration coating him. With agonizing care he
transformed the music, locked away the turmoil, and
reestablished the harmony. Let only ma-at color his voice.
The fires waned, and the land settled. Wind gentled to a
breeze, lightning disappeared and once more pleased djinn
emotions sparkled through the night. A lively, charming air
replaced the dense song. The audience's collective sigh of
relief was almost palpable.
The new song was light as air, fresh as a breeze off the cool
oasis. With his ma-at he added the scent of laurel and the
taste of lime, gave them misted pictures of palms and grass
and an intertwined couple.
He wove his ma-at with song, with the motion of a finger and
the unvoiced chants of his power. He restored the harmony.
Yet, even now, the winds threatened to lift, while desire and
wildness still beat against his throat and chest. Ruthlessly
he ignored them to intone the words that would soften the
memories of his audience and soothe their disquiet.
He was unable, however, to soften or soothe himself.
The song ended on a single, clear note which faded into the
night. Zayne pushed to his feet, acknowledged the applause
with a simple incline of his head, slung the strap of his oud
over his shoulder, and then strode away into the desert. He
sought the solitude and luxury of his tent pitched a distance
away.
A woman stepped into his path. He felt her heat before he saw
her shadow. Neheri. She had given him her name earlier, when
he had first entered the tiny village and she had set herself
in his attention.
"Minstrel, after such a performance, do you wish solitude?"
Her voice was low and seductive.
Urgent heat shot through him again. As always, the music left
him aroused and keen of each sense, but lately this awareness
had become a sharp thirst, undeniable and unquenchable. Maybe,
for a few unrestrained hours, she could relieve his pressing
needs and he would give her the pleasure she craved.
"Come closer," he commanded, drawing her near with only the
music of his voice. She leaned against him, all willow curves,
and his fingers threaded through her dark hair. He rubbed the
downy strands between his forefinger and thumb, then captured
her chin and lifted her face to his brief kiss. All he could
risk for the moment, else the wildness overwhelm him. And Kaf.
"Is this what you want?"
"Yes," she breathed. "No, I want more, our Minstrel."
Not Zayne, only Minstrel. In seeking identity, he had lost it.
Zayne smiled, sensually, ruefully, without humor, though she
would not recognize it as such. He released her. "Go, Neheri."
"I can satisfy you." Seeking to draw him near, her hands ran
down his back and curled around his oud.
"Do not touch my instrument," he warned, the voice gentle but
utterly implacable.
Her arms dropped away, as though burnt, but she recovered
quickly. "Could I touch another instrument, then?" she cooed
with coy seduction.
"Are you sure?"
It was a warning, but she heard it as an invitation. "Yes."
She slid her hips across his. "I know your need."
"This is the need of the Minstrel." He bent to the kiss again.
It was the kiss he needed to give, the release he craved. He
was ruthless, violent even, demanding all of her with the
touch of his lips and teeth, with his ma-at and his seething
emotions.
She pulled away with a murmur of protest.
He let her go, knowing to his soul she was not the one he
needed. "Go, Neheri," he repeated, his voice a mere sigh. This
time, she did not demur, but disappeared into the night. Zayne
entered the tent and stripped off his clothes, leaving him
wearing only a loose cord around his neck. From the woven cord
hung his round turquoise tablet-the symbol of his djinn
status-and hidden beneath it rested a second, half tablet. The
sole possession of his youth. With a wave of his hand and a
quick chant, he cleansed clothes and body. Exhaustion grabbed
hold of him at last, and the mound of pillows beckoned him to
rest. First, however, there was a task he must perform.
Naked, he knelt before the circle of stones at the center of
his tent. He stretched out his hands and chanted the brief
incantation. Flames ignited at the center of the stones.
Zayne fingered the smooth warmth of his turquoise tablet. He
was Minstrel of Kaf. His songs fed the fire and air of Kaf; he
was part of her energy and her harmony. He could not stop
singing; voice was as vital to him as breath and drink, nor
could he deprive Kaf of his Minstrel's touch. There was no
other to take his place.
But, this strange new power became part of every song. It
fought with his ma-at and brought disharmony to the land and
the people he was sworn to nurture. Yet the dark beauty within
it was as compelling and mesmerizing as any he had felt. The
songs it fueled could not be denied.
He had to master this power. Or he had to eliminate it. A
wrong choice would be disaster for his music and for Kaf.
He thought he knew the answer. Although few djinn united in
the soul bonds of zani and zaniya-male and female as
one-Minstrels had always taken a zaniya. The zaniya of a
Minstrel was great chanteuse, whose voice blended with his in
the harmonies of Kaf; she was as vital to him as his ma-at or
his song.
In this, as in so many other things, he was different, for he
had never found such a woman, and he was well past the age
other Minstrels had found their mate. No more could he leave
such an important matter to the whims of fate. He must find
his zaniya.
So, this evening, he would perform the ritual of divination,
seeking guidance. A divination was not a ritual to be
performed lightly. It could not reveal the future, for the
future was shaped by the choices of free will. Instead, it
provided a path to follow, but often the path was murky and
the divination difficult to interpret.
He took a deep breath, the rhythm of his heart hard upon his
chest. He had to find her. Once he found her, there would be
no barriers to returning the harmony and balance to his song.
For what woman on Kaf would refuse the Minstrel as zani?
Intoning the incantations, he picked up a vial of oil and
sprinkled seven drops on the fire. Purple flames erupted
upward; the heat beat against his face and chest. The tent
filled with the scent of violets. Still chanting, he spread
his arms outward, and a whirling wind circled across him,
twisting the flames downward to a knotted inferno.
A plume of smoke rose from the center, and in its heart a face
formed. A woman's face. A woman he did not know.
Eagerly he sought some clue in the visage. Nothing about her
was familiar. Something about her seemed almost ... alien.
Hair close to her scalp-perhaps she pulled it back?-and firm
jaw, eyes and brows that tilted up, an unsmiling mouth, a
sensual full lower lip, and a rounded nose. She decorated her
ears with three round gems at the bottom. Hers was an
intriguing face, with the contrast of smooth hair and erotic
eyes, of drawn mouth and kissable lips, of soft cheeks and
determined chin. As he studied her, his body hardened and rose
to life.
Zaniya? Was she to be his zaniya? His body said yes, but-
"Who is she?" he whispered.
Madeline Fairbanks. The plume of smoke curled around his neck
and ears and whispered out the odd name. Madeline Fairbanks.
No djinni on Kaf had such a name.
No djinni on Kaf. The smoke whispered in echo.
"No," he hissed, his gut turned to rock. His soul was
connected to his world, the source of djinn ma-at, and as
Minstrel this connection was stronger and deeper than that of
most of the djinn. His zaniya must also be of Kaf. The smoke
began to break apart as he denied what his eyes saw and his
instinct accepted.
He added another drop of oil, replenishing smoke and flame and
violet. "I need more. Where do I find her?"
Images danced through the fire: a jungle of twisted trees and
thick brush; stagnant dark water beneath and around the roots,
the ripple of an armored reptile as it swam through the swamp.
The scene shifted to hard walls and impossibly tall buildings,
people everywhere, crowded and hurrying. His lip curled with
disdain. Everything about the land was foreign.
At last he saw a sign. New Orleans, the letters read.
This was Terra. Or Earth, as the humans called their world.
A world his mother had detested and taught him to despise.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Spellbound
by Kathleen Nance
Copyright © 2003 by Kathleen Nance.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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