Escaping had cost Ethrian love and sanity, a price not yet fully paid. Some days he did nothing but lie curled in a ball. Others he sat and rocked, eyes vacant, an age and countless miles away. His mind held millennia of memories not his own. He was never sure what was then and what was now.
The wizard did what he could to keep the boy anchored. He had no faith in the boy’s chances for recovery, yet did his best for Nepanthe’s sake. She would not concede any chance that Ethrian could not be saved
Smyrena could be a spooky little beast, normal one moment, possessed the next. She did not cry. She seemed too alert and attentive for an infant. She enjoyed the presence of the Unborn. Varthlokkur found that dreadfully unnatural. Radeachar was an instrument. It ought not to have friends.
He told himself that Smyrena would grow out of it.
Mist’s brats were disturbingly normal. Fathered by Nepanthe’s brother Valther back when Mist had entertained no hope of becoming Empress again, they were exotic hybrids, scary in their beauty. The girl was older. The boy was growing faster. Right now they looked like twins. They worked hard to maintain that pretense, though there was no need. There was no survival imperative here.
They did know who they were. Varthlokkur showed them their mother occasionally. He meant the look at their heritage as a caution, not a kindness. He wanted them to know that they could be in danger for no greater cause than being the children of that woman, however much they remained separated from the Dread Empire.
He lied to them, too. He told them their mother had left them with their aunt for their protection. He told them Mist had been dragged into Dread Empire politics unwillingly and had been terrified of the risks to them.
Insofar as he recalled, Mist had left them as hostages she was not concerned about losing.
His cynicism ran deep.
Seldom did he encounter anything that rendered him more sanguine.
Nepanthe joined him. She was cheerful. She went directly to Ethrian, petted and fussed. Varthlokkur and Smyrena both watched with a touch of jealousy.
…
The fugitive entered his homeland. He did not relax. He was a stranger even here. The people of Hammad al Nakir, of whatever political or religious persuasion, distrusted strangers.
He moved slowly, avoiding tribal camps, till he reached the oasis called al-Habor. It was more developed than when he had visited as a boy. More permanent structures had been added and new orchards had been planted, but then disaster had found the town. Most of it had fallen apart since. Today it was dying.
And provided proof that some men did not care about issues that had tormented their people for two generations. Al-Habor had become a haven for rootless men. The forgotten King Without a Throne could begin gathering the strings of his life here.
Haroun was not there when the sun set. When it rose he was seated against an adobe wall, snoring, one of a half-dozen probable miscreants…
Yasmid, with Habibullah behind her, an intimidating shade, considered the foreigners Elwas al-Souki had invited to Sebil el Selib. The tall, fat one was a Matayangan swami eager to put distance between himself and his blasted homeland. He was the color of pale mahogany.
His companion, a smaller man of low caste, was darker and less healthy. Nervously, he translated for the bigger man.
Elwas repeated himself. “Swami Phogedatvitsu specializes in overcoming addictions.” He wilted under Yasmid’s disapproval.
She was angry down to her toenails. The presumption of the man! But she could not just run him off. Not with Habibullah watching. Not after the miracle he had wrought at the salt lake.
Al-Souki’s success irked Yasmid. The history of the Faith was speckled with military geniuses who became liabilities after they won their reputations. That started with her uncle Nassef, who had been with her father from the beginning. Nassef, as the Scourge of God, helped build a wide, wild religious empire. And had been a thorough-going bandit when the Disciple was not looking. He had been ambitious, too, systematically eliminating anyone who stood between him and succession to the Peacock Throne. He had wanted Yasmid as his child bride so he could unite Royalists and Faithful under his rule.
Fate had delivered Yasmid to Haroun bin Yousif instead.
The Faithful never lacked brilliant commanders but few were moved more by faith than by ambition and greed.
Yasmid was not ready to believe that Elwas bin Farout al-Souki was something new.
She made a “Get on with it!” gesture.
Al-Souki said, “Phogedatvitsu can conquer an addiction as deep as your father’s. I beg you, allow him to try.”
She had mixed feelings. And a sense of shame.
She was not sure she wanted her father freed. If he recovered, his daughter would become a simple ornament to his glory. A saint at best.
How shameful. How dare she put herself ahead of God’s Chosen Disciple?
Despite all, including her long love for the King Without a Throne, she believed in her father’s message. He had a unique relationship with God. Much as she reveled in being God’s stand-in hand and voice, directing the Faithful, she did not have that direct relationship herself.
She was a custodian, nothing more.
“Elwas, I will give you the chance you want. The foreigner can try to rescue my father. I will make him wealthy if he succeeds.”
“You won’t be disappointed, Shining One,” the prostitute’s son promised. “It may take a year but the world will gain its soul back. El Murid will be a golden beacon once more.”
After al-Souki left, Yasmid asked Habibullah, “Is he for real?”
“Totally. And he’s not unique. He just doesn’t mind letting the world know.”
Yasmid looked like she had bitten into something sour.
Habibullah began to frown. Did he wonder what her problem was? Elwas bin Farout al-Souki had offered her a chance to spark new life into the flames of the Faith.
Habibullah was her slave emotionally but he was, as well, one of the oldest of the Believers. He coughed gently to remind her that the One was watching. This might be His mercy at work.
“Call him back.”
Habibullah was not gone long.
Yasmid looked al-Souki in the eyes, hard. He was not accustomed to that from a woman. His gaze dropped. She said, “You have one hundred days to show me real progress. If Phogedatvitsu is a con artist his corpse will join the hundred thousand already fertilizing Sebil el Selib. No more talk. Habibullah, arrange to house and feed those men.”
Giving Habibullah that task was meant to put both men in their place. She felt petty doing so.
…
Al-Habor was the well to which social gravity drew the lost souls of the desert. Even the flies and parasites had yielded to despair. Soul-shattered veterans of decades of war haunted al-Habor, shaking, muttering, afraid, or just staring at something only one man could see. They did not talk much. They survived on the charity of Sheyik Hanba al-Medi al-Habor, the local tribal chief. Hanba bore the marks of the wars himself. They had cost him a hand, an eye, and three sons. He could not afford the charity he provided. The wars had seen to that, too.
Still, he did provide.
Al-Habor once was a major crossroads. It was of minor importance still. Trade remained limited because fighting could return any time. The oasis was sweet and reliable and strategically valuable.
Half the mud-brick buildings were abandoned. The best preserved were infested by squatters.
Haroun settled in unremarked. Few would have cared had he announced himself. Al-Habor was the end of the road. No roads led to a future elsewhere. Al-Habor clung to the souls it collected. Haroun found it bleak enough to dampen a brilliant spring day at high noon.
Nobody cared about one more bum fallen into the cauldron. He did not learn much. Lack of care meant a lack of information. Only travelers had any real news. Few of those would waste time on a soul-shattered tramp whose real goal must be to mooch or steal something.