‘Welcome,’ said the old man. Sieben sat up and was about to speak when he noticed with horror that the speaker had been mutilated. His hands had been cut off, and blood was seeping from the stumps.
‘Sweet Heavens, you must be in great pain,’ he said.
‘Always,’ agreed the man, with a smile. ‘But when something never passes, remaining constant, it becomes bearable.’ Shrugging his shoulder he let the bag fall, then reached into it with his mangled, bleeding arms. From the bag he produced a hand, which he held carefully between the stumps. Gripping it with his knees, he held his mutilated right arm to the severed wrist. The limb jerked, and the hand attached itself to the wrist. The fingers flexed. ‘Ah, that is good,’ said the man, reaching into the bag and producing a left hand which he held in place over his left wrist. This too joined, and he clapped the hands together. Then he removed his eyes and dropped them into the bag.
‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’ asked Sieben.
‘It is a compulsion engendered by sorcery,’ said the stranger amiably. ‘They were not content to merely kill me. Oh, no! Now I can have my hands or my eyes, but never both at the same time. If I try- and I have – then the pain becomes unbearable. I have great admiration for the way the spell was cast. I did not think it would last this long. I managed to counter the curse upon my ears and tongue. I see you found my medicine pouch.’
The fire flickered down, but the old man gestured with his hands and the flames sprang to new life. Sieben found himself staring at the man’s empty eye-sockets. ‘Have you tried using just one hand and one eye?’ he asked.
‘Is there something about me that suggests I am an idiot? Of course I have. It works . . . but the pain is too awesome to describe.’
‘I have to tell you that this is the worst dream I’ve ever had,’ said Sieben.
‘No dream. You are here.’ Sieben was about to question him when a low, inhuman growl came from beyond the stones. The old man’s hand came up and blue forked lightning flashed from it, exploding between the stones with a loud crack. Then there was silence. ‘I need my hands, you see, to survive here. But I cannot go anywhere without my eyes. It is a sweetly vile punishment. I wish I had thought of it myself.’
‘What was that . . . thing?’ asked Sieben, craning round to peer between the stones. There was nothing to be seen. All was darkness, deep and final.
‘Difficult to know. But it did not mean us any good. I am Shaoshad.’
‘Sieben. Sieben the Poet.’
‘A poet? It is long since I savoured the delicious sounds of exquisite wordplay. But I fear you will not be with me long, so perhaps another time . . . Tell me how you found my pouch.’
‘The use of the Nadir letter i,’ Sieben told him.
‘Yes. It was a joke, you see. I knew no Nadir would see it. Not given to jokes, the Nadir. They were searching for the Eyes of Alchazzar. Eyes and i’s. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Most amusing,’ agreed Sieben. ‘I take it you are not Nadir?’
‘In part. Part Chiatze, part Sechuin, part Nadir. I want you to do something for me. I cannot offer you anything, of course.’
‘What do you require?’
‘My medicine pouch. I want you to take the hair and bum it. The knuckle-bones must be dropped into water. The parchment is to be shredded and scattered to the air, the pouch itself buried in the earth. Can you remember that?’
‘Hair burnt, knuckles drowned, paper scattered, pouch buried,’ said Sieben. ‘What will that do?’
‘I believe the release of my elemental power will end this cursed spell and give me back my hands and my eyes. Speaking of which . . .’ He lifted the eyes from the bag and slid them back in their sockets. Holding his arms over the bag, he released his hands, which fell from the wrists. Immediately blood began to flow. ‘You are a handsome fellow and you have an honest face. I think I can trust you.’