"What do we do now? Iraj said. Make some kind of chant and toss them, I suppose?"
"I don't want to do this, Safar said.
"I'll tell you what, Iraj said, to make it easier, I'll chant and you toss. Okay?"
Without waiting for an answer Iraj drew a breath and then intoned:
"Bones, bones, demon's though you be, Tell us what the future holds, What roads shall we see?"
As Iraj chanted the demon's teeth suddenly grew warm in Safar's hand. Instinctively he loosened his hand and shook the fangs like dice.
"Chanting was never one of my best subjects, Iraj said. He laughed. But if I can chance making a complete fool of myself, so can… and his voice trailed off as he saw Safar rattle the bones, blue eyes glowing in concentration.
Safar cast them on the cave floor and instead of a dull clatter, the sound was like the ring of steel against steel.
Red smoke hissed up, rising like a snake and the two lads drew back in alarm. The smoke was thick, smelling of old blood, and it swirled in front of them like a miniature desert dervisha slender funnel at the bottom, billowing into a fist-size head on top. Then a mouth seemed to form, curving into a seductive smile.
The lips parted and they heard a woman speak"Two will take the road that two traveled before. Brothers of the spirit, but not the womb. Separate in body and mind, but twins in destiny. But beware what you seek, O brothers. Beware the path you choose. For this tale cannot end until you reach the Land of Fires."
The smoke suddenly vanished, leaving the two young men gaping at the four small gray piles of ash where the demon fangs had been. It was as if they'd been consumed by a hot flame.
Iraj recovered first. You see? he chortled. We heard it from the mouth of the Oracle herself. He threw an arm around Safar's shoulders. 'Brothers of the spirit, but not the womb,' he quoted. What a pair we shall make! The King of Kings and his Grand Wazier!"
"That's not exactly what the Oracle said, Safar replied. Hells, whoever she was, we don't even know if she was speaking about us."
Iraj made a rude noise. I don't see anyone else here in this cave with us, he said. Who else could she mean?"
"There was also a warning, Safar said. Don't forget the warning."
"Sure, sure, Iraj said, impatient. I heard. And I'm forewarned. It's settled then. I'll return home with my uncle and start building my forces. And you'll go to Walaria and learn as much as you can until it's time for us to be rejoined."
"I'm not convinced that was what the Oracle was predicting, Safar said.
"Of course she was, Iraj replied. But it doesn't matter what either of us think. We'll find out for ourselves in the days to come. Just think of me sometimes. When you're in Walaria up to your elbows in dusty books and scrolls, think of me riding free across the southern plains, an army of horsemen at my back carrying my standard. It will be the banner of Alisarrian that I fly as I charge from victory to victory."
He tapped Safar's chest. And it will be the banner of Alisarrian you will be carrying in your heart, he said. We'll make a better world before we're done, Safar. A better Esmir for all."
It was then that Safar finally made up his mind. He'd leave his beloved Kyrania and go to Walaria. He'd enter the university at the Grand Temple, pore over every tome, soaking up all the knowledge he could hold.
The decision had nothing to do with Iraj's impassioned speech. Safar was remembering the Oracle's final words about the land of fires. Hadin was known as The Land of Fires! Hadin, where the handsome people of his vision danced and died and a mighty volcano raged, spewing flames and poisonous clouds into a darkening sky.
"You have decided to go, haven't you? he heard Iraj say.
Safar looked up and saw his friend's eyes ablaze with joy as he read Safar's intentions on his face. Yes, he answered. I've decided."
"Then let us say farewell now, brother mine, Iraj said. A great dream awaits us. The sooner we get started, the sooner that dream will come true."
And so the two young men embraced and swore eternal brotherhood and friendship.
Iraj took one road. Safar another. But neither doubtedfor entirely different reasonsthe roads would someday converge.
And that they'd meet again.
Part Two
WALARIA
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nerisa watched the executioner sharpen his blade. It was long and broad and curving and he stroked the edge with such tenderness one might have thought his sword was a lover.
And maybe it was, Nerisa thought. She'd heard of stranger things.
The executioner was a big man, naked torso swelling out of baggy silk pantaloons of the purest white. He had thick arms, a neck squat and strong as an oak stump. His features were hidden by a white silk hood with two holes for his dark gloomy eyes to contemplate his victims sins. Masked or not, everyone knew who he wasTulaz, the most famous executioner in all Walaria. Five thousand hands had been severed by his legendary sword. One thousand heads separated from their shoulders. And he'd never needed more than one cut to accomplish his task.
There were seven condemned to test his record that morning. The plaza, set just inside the main gate, was packed with gawkers, hawkers, purse snatchers and pimps. Gamblers were betting heavily on the outcome for Tulaz had never attempted so many heads before. The odds were in his favor for the first sixa mean lot who hadn't learned their lesson from previous mutilations. The seventh, however, was a woman charged with adultery. She was said to be beautiful and there were many among the crowd who wondered if Tulaz might falter when confronted with such a tender and record-breaking neck.
Nerisa had an excellent vantage point to view the proceedings. She was crouched atop a high freight wagon just returning from market and had a clear view of the six felons chained to the dungeon cart. But the adulteress was hidden by a tent pitched on the cart. It wasn't out of humanity her jailers had provided such privacy. They knew a featured attraction when they saw one and were among the heaviest bettors. They were also, Nerisa noted, selling quick glimpses of the woman to all who'd grease their palms.
Nerisa didn't have slightest interest in the executions. In her twelve summers of life she'd witnessed many such things. For as long as she could remember she'd been a child of the streets. She'd awakened in alleys next to fresh corpsescorpses not so cleanly slain as Tulaz was wont to do. There were worse things, she'd learned, than being executed. She'd spent her whole young life dodging those things with a skill matched by few young denizens of Walaria. Her only fear of Tulaz was she might someday make an error that would cost her a handthe traditional penalty a thief paid for a first offense. Nerisa was a thief intent on keeping all her parts.
It was professional purpose, not entertainment, that had drawn her to the plaza; although she'd experienced an added thrill when she realized she'd be breaking the law under the executioner's nose. She peeped out of her hiding place to check on the stall keeperher intended victim. She buried a giggle as she watched him step up on a box so he could see over the crowd. He was a fat old turd, she thought. The crate would never hold such a skin load of grease.
True to her estimate the crate collapsed, sending the stallkeep sprawling. Nerisa hugged herself to keep from laughing. The joke was especially delicious because the crowd was so intent on the executions that she was the only one to see his humiliation. There was nothing that Nerisaby circumstance and nature a solitary personenjoyed more than a private joke. The merchant grumbled up, found a heavy barrel and rolled it over to the edge of his stall. He leaned on the trays bearing his wares and clambered gingerly onto the barrel. It held and he looked around, a yellow-toothed smile of victory dissolving when he realized no one was watching. With a belch, he turned to see Tulaz prepare for his legendary work.