Читать книгу The Black Khan - Ausma Khan Zehanat - Страница 19

SINNIA NO LONGER NEEDED THE RESTRAINTS. HER LIMBS WERE FILLED with a wondrous languor, and the dark skin she prized was outlined with radiant flares of gold. Her arms were weightless. She was floating above the world, buoyed on a wave of inaudible sound.

She smiled at the man in the gas mask, trailing her fingers along the tray of needles. The floor of her cell was crimson and gold, colors and patterns bobbing along the Sea of Reeds. Her hands were filled with delicate spiny shells. She flung them to the shore with a smile.

“Please,” she said to the man in the gas mask. “It’s wearing off. I need more.”

A thunderous sound filled her ears. It was Salikh and the others banging against their cell doors. Salikh’s oddly insistent murmurs whispered through Sinnia’s mind, shattering the needle’s delights. She knew the others were jealous. They craved the white needle as she did—they’d do anything to steal the tall man’s attention, but she was the prisoner of choice.

Her full lips pouted. She was—what was she, again?—the words seemed difficult to recall. A woman of the Negus. A Companion of a stronghold on the banks of the High Road. She wore a pretty silk dress and—intricate bands on her arms. She tossed her head. It didn’t matter. Why should any of it matter when she was black and gold and weightless? She would soon be cast upon a sea of languid bliss. If she could ignore Salikh’s imperceptible cautions in her mind.

“The needle,” she begged again. “Give me the white needle.”

The tall man in the mask moved his head from side to side. He had three heads, each equally beautiful. He stroked a gloved hand down Sinnia’s arm, setting her on fire. When he grasped her upper arms, the tiny barbs on the palms of his gloves felt good. They scored a path on the place on her arms that had lately come to feel bare. Scarlet drops were added to the pattern of black and gold that engulfed Sinnia in an airless cocoon. Her dazzling smile indicated her sense of transcendence. But was it the white needle? Or did some other power soothe her senses? A power that was inexplicably familiar, as though rooted deep in her soul. She could feel it flickering before her—she needed to reach for its promise, knew it offered her salvation.

“More,” she said. “Please, more.”

A new sound reached her ears—not the clamor of the other prisoners. Nor was it Salikh shouting strange names at her, as he did with such persistence.

“Companion, remember yourself. Remember Hira! Remember who you are!”

It was the horrible sound, the sound that intruded on her daydreams: the sputtering hiss of the hose. The tray of needles was gone, replaced by the canister she had come to know with horror. She returned to her body with a thump. She gazed at the tall man in confusion. Now there were other men with him. Three men instead of three heads.

“What’s this?” she asked. “What have you done with the needle?”

A hollow voice echoed through the gas mask. “This is a test,” it said. “The white needle amplifies the effects of the gas. Some die on its first application; others last for months. We are attempting to accelerate its effects.”

“No,” Sinnia whispered. “Give me the white needle. Can’t you see that I need it?”

“Oh, yes, I can see.” She heard a sickening anticipation in the eerie throb of the tall man’s voice. “But this is my first experiment on a Companion of Hira. I want you to live through the night.”