“Did I not tell my lord truths?” she inquired in a demure whisper. “As surely as the sun is a dragon, and the flaming pearl burns between his claws, so surely burns the soul of Heart of Flame between thy guarding hands. There are as many words as there are demons, my lord, but it is written that Niaz is the greatest of all words save only the name of God.”
She laughed without any sound, sweetly malicious where she sat among the ferns.
“Heart of Flame,” she said to Tressa, “you called me and I made the effort.”
“Darling,” said Tressa in her thrilling voice, “the Yezidees are making living things out of dust,—as Sanang Noïane made that thing in the Temple.... And slew it before our eyes.”
“The Tchor-Dagh,” said Sansa calmly.
“The Tchor-Dagh,” whispered Tressa.
Sansa’s smooth little hands crept up to the collar of her odd, blue tunic; grasped it.
“In the name of God the Merciful,” she said without a tremor, “listen to me, Heart of Flame, and may my soul be ransom for yours!”
“I hear you, Sansa.”
Sansa said, her fingers still grasping the embroidered collar of her tunic: