A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Twenty-One:

Winter, Year 1017 AFE:

An Era Ended

S easons were not extreme at Sebil el Selib. Winters were cooler but seldom really cold. Most years it was damper but not remarkably so. Those who grew up there and did not travel could not conceive of the fury of a thunderstorm.

Some knew sandstorms but even those had to be experienced elsewhere.

On rare occasions the wind did shift enough to bring a taste of alkali off the salt pans.

Rains, even in this year’s notably wet seasons, seldom amounted to more than sustained heavy drizzles.

Haroun eased his head through a slit in the exterior wall of El Murid’s tent. Rain was still falling in what locals considered torrents. It was cold. The wadi boiled with raging brown water. He muttered, “Twenty years of this and the ancient seas will be back.”

Megelin Radetic, Haroun’s boyhood teacher, had insisted that salt pans were the bones of ancient seas. In the heyday of Ilkazar today’s pans had been vast lakes. The scars of old shorelines remained visible on the flanks of mountains.

The swift drying of those lakes had been part of the vengeance of the Empire Destroyer.

All Hammad al Nakir had been more lush in those times. But this was now. This was remarkable. This could become dangerous.

Rushing waters tore away tons of hard soil. The wadi bank had crept five yards nearer the Disciple’s tent.

Suppose a truly violent downpour came along?

Bin Yousif pulled back inside. He settled to think.

This weather could be used to cover his getaway. And go he must. Yasmid could not cover up much longer. Her henchmen were suspicious. They wanted to know why she kept disappearing inside her father’s tent.

So far they thought it had something to do with him, possibly involving the foreigner. They thought she might be trying to consolidate her position as the old man’s successor.

Luckily, Phogedatvitsu never went out where he could be isolated and interrogated. He would not hide the fact that Yasmid spent little time with her father. Instead, she vanished into the empty quarters for hours, then returned disheveled but in a better temper.

This was insanity.

This was what had kept him going during his captivity and long journey home. He was back with the woman who was the other half of his soul.

The circumstances were insane, not the relationship.

But he had to go. This had persisted far too long. Fate had been tempted in the extreme. Elwas al-Souki talked about searching the tent again.

Al-Souki smelled something not the stench of vixens’ dens.

He should have moved on months ago. Al Rhemish called. Megelin had made a muddle of everything.

Haroun realized that he was not alone.

He had let himself drowse where he was not secure.

His gaze found that of El Murid. The Disciple looked vague but not caught up in a poppy dream. The man extended his left hand, pointed. “You are the one. Why do you haunt me?” He spoke slowly, voice dreamy.

Haroun rose slowly, so as not to spook the man. His keepers should be looking for him. They would rush toward any excitement.

Bin Yousif spoke softly, turning the question. “Why do you torment the world so, Tongue of Darkness?”

The Disciple stared. His mouth moved but nothing came forth. He had only a passing acquaintance with reality still. It took him some seconds to analyze what he had heard.

Haroun took a quick look round. He had left no sign of his presence. When the Disciple’s eyes shifted away Haroun stepped through a gap in canvas wall, disappearing.

Those looking for the Disciple could be heard, now, moving closer. It was for sure time to get gone.

Haroun was within earshot when they found their man, who announced, “I wrestled the Evil One again. And once again I banished him.”

“Outstanding, Lord. I apologize for everyone. Some dared doubt you. Come. We must have the doctor make sure the demon did you no harm. Then we will celebrate your triumph.”

That fellow was skilled at playing to the Disciple’s manias. No doubt he had a lifetime of practice and habitually ignored El Murid’s delusions.

Would Elwas al-Souki be more inclined to investigate?

Yasmid visited him as he sorted through treasures he might want to take along. During his stay, killing time, he had winkled out dozens of small items overlooked by earlier, hastier thieves.

Thoughts of her sapped his will to do what had to be done.

…

Yasmid congratulated her father on his latest triumph over the Evil One. He would not stop going on about it. She dearly wished he would shut the hell up. Elwas was sure to get interested.

How could Haroun have let the old fool slip up on him?

She brushed the irritation aside. Stuff happened. Magden Norath had been inattentive. He had died for his lapse.

She slipped away from dinner, as had become her custom, leaving her father to his attendants. They never questioned her anymore.

The effort to wean the old man off opiates was successful. Sadly, the man reclaimed was not the man the poppy had conquered. El Murid restored was a spectral reminder of the firebrand of yore. Today’s El Murid was old and tired and slow.

Old was to be expected. He was old. And tired made sense. But the slow, especially on the mental side, was deeply disappointing.

This Disciple would make no impassioned speeches to the Believers. His delivery would be so tedious as to put them to sleep before he finished.

His mind, however, did not appear to have burned out entirely. Given time, he thought quite well. Yasmid had read two recent letters to the Faithful dictated after ponderous reflection. They were as closely argued as those of forty years earlier.

He did have some idea of what was going on in the world. Swami Phogedatvitsu did not feed him pabulum news.

In the more recent letter he hinted at doubts about the divinity of he who had brought him to God. It was just a whiff that suggested rational processes stirring somewhere deep under the surface of his mind.

Yasmid found Haroun quickly. She had had regular practice. They embraced. He said, “The rain won’t stop.”

“That’s good. I can leave Habibullah behind for the sake of his aching bones.”

Time passed. Neither spoke. Finally, he did tell her what she was expecting but did not want to hear. “I have to go.”

“But…”

“I know. I don’t want to. But our luck won’t last. Al-Souki is suspicious already. What happened today will set him digging.”

“I know. They all wonder. I tell them I’m looking for something.”

“Some may think you’re finding it. The Matayangan isn’t stupid.”

“But… Still… In all these years… We’ve had so little time.”

She expected nonsense about Fate and obligations to Destiny. He said only, “Yes. It’s cruel.” And held her tighter.

“Father thinks he bumped into the Evil One this morning.”

“I dozed off in the wrong place. I woke up and he was there.”

“Where will you go? No. Don’t say it. If I don’t know I can’t give it away.”

He played along, though they both knew there could be only one next destination.

Yasmid mentioned her father’s developing disenchantment with his angel. Haroun asked, “Have you asked him about that? At all?”

“No. He would tell me that, even though his angel might only be the Star Rider, he did do God’s Work. How often has he told us that God drives the wicked to advance His own Plan?”

“It’s an old argument, impossible to refute. And if you do come up with one the True Believer just reshapes the Will of God to fit.”

“So?”

“I’m wondering if your father is disillusioned enough to act against the false messenger.”

Yasmid stiffened. His embrace tightened. “I’m just thinking. Looking for ways and means.”

“Out loud? I’ve never heard that the old devil accused of being able to read minds.”

“Silence it is. But think about it.” He released her, picked through a last dozen items, stuffed a few into a battered black sack. It’s contents appeared to consist of food and souvenirs.

She said, “They say the rain may stop later tonight.”

“If I go now it will wash away my trail.”

One last embrace.

She rejoined the others before anyone came looking, though the swami scrutinized her closely. She brought several items Haroun had given her to provide evidence that she was indeed looking for something that ought still to be hidden in the tent because no thief had yet confessed to having taken it away.

Elwas turned up shortly, wet and unhappy. She was glad she had returned before he did.

Relief made her overlook his mood.

…

Nepanthe called out, “Scalza, do you have any idea how to get hold of your uncle?” She had none. Varthlokkur had foreseen no need for making emergency contact.

“No, ma’am. What’s up?”

Ma’am? Being polite? He was up to something. “It’s probably not important. I was fiddling with the scrying bowl. I found that man he’s been hunting for months.”

Fiddling indeed, getting the hang of shifting point of view, she had stumbled across the ragged traveler at the limit of the bowl’s range. The long-missing Haroun wore uncharacteristic clothing, lacked a beard, and was afoot in the desert.

Ekaterina and Scalza joined her, one to either hand. The boy said, “I do wish I could get hold of him. He’d definitely want to know. Lock the point of view so we don’t lose him again.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I think I do. Let me try.”

Scalza took her seat. He did some things she did not understand. Ekaterina made little sounds behind him. Each time she sucked spit or clicked her tongue Scalza paused, reflected, then took a different approach.

The vision locked up with Haroun fixed in its center. He stayed there no matter which direction he moved.

Scalza pulled the magical eye back. “So we can maybe tell where he is from his surroundings. Well, so maybe somebody can. I’ve never been anywhere so I can’t really recognize anything.”

“Not even your grandfather has visited that part of the world.”

Ekaterina seldom said anything. Though the brighter of Mist’s children she usually deferred to her brother. She acted like his little sister instead of being two years older, on the precipice of menarche. She startled Nepanthe. “ Uncle was born there. He created that desert. He has been back a million times. He knows every rock, bush, viper, and grain of sand.”

Finished making the longest speech Nepanthe ever heard from her, Ekaterina moved to where Ethrian sat staring into the Winterstorm. Something about the boy’s body language troubled his mother. He looked ready to pounce. But she was too engaged in trying to fathom Ekaterina’s remarks, and with Haroun, to give her son devoted thought.

Watching Haroun sneak through a desert could be interesting only if you were a dedicated fan of stealth techniques.

Something passed between Ethrian and Ekaterina. Nepanthe did not notice. Scalza caught a hint. His eyebrows bounced but he said nothing.

Scalza was, deliberately, the mask Mist’s children offered. Ekaterina was in stealth mode always. Scalza was a little frightened by her.

He enjoyed this wizard stuff. He tried to learn anything his uncle would teach. Ekaterina, though, had no need to study. She watched and caught on intuitively. She could be spooky and nerve-straining because she was determined to keep her real self hidden.

One of the Council of Tervola might observe that Ekaterina was her mother’s daughter, descended from the Demon Prince and Tuan Hoa, and those who had come before them.

Despite all that, Ekaterina had a first blush of womanhood crush on her cousin, Ethrian.

Scalza was furiously jealous but never considered acting upon that bleak emotion.

And Nepanthe, typical of adults in such circumstances, remained oblivious. Her perception of the children’s development ran well behind the actuality, especially there in the splendid isolation of Fangdred.

Ekaterina was quiet but not a dark soul, and she was wise enough already to understand that, romantic as the notion might be, she would not be the one to liberate her cousin from his prisons of grief and guilt.

“Aunt.”

Startled, Nepanthe blurted, “What?”

“Ethrian is remembering.”

Nepanthe shot to her feet. She found Ekaterina positioned to keep her from charging Ethrian, to interrupt the process at work.

Nepanthe was having a day where emotion did not rule her completely. “Oh. Yes. I shouldn’t disturb him.”

Scalza kicked in, “He’ll heal faster if you let him alone.” He shot his sister a look.

Ekaterina acknowledged the help with poor grace. She foresaw sabotage later.

She was complex. She did not understand that her brother was not. What he showed his small world was ninety percent of Scalza.

Ekaterina suggested, “Aunt, why don’t you just keep an eye on that man while Scalza thinks of a way to contact Uncle?”

She made a “Get busy, Worm!” face and body gesture once Nepanthe turned back to Haroun. Nepanthe concentrated only a moment before she turned again. Ethrian was, clearly, going through something unpleasant.

Though it hurt, Nepanthe stayed put. Ekaterina was right. Interrupting would break the train.

For a moment she understood why Varthlokkur had shielded her when her son was the Deliverer. She could have done nothing but make things worse. And she would have done so. She had managed that even while ignorant of the facts. And she would not have heard any caution offered her.

Ethrian was her baby.

Startling notion. Could she be making Ethrian’s recovery more difficult because she would not let him stop being her baby?

The possibility left her thinking poorly of herself.

She began watching Ekaterina as closely as she watched Ethrian.

The girl did not intrude upon his space. She did not distract him by trying to make him acknowledge her presence. She was just there, able to lend a hand, touching him gently when he needed calming.

Not his mother’s approach at all. Nepanthe was determined to swamp him with love.

“To smother him,” she murmured. Then, too softly to be understood by the children, she wondered, “What is he remembering?”

At that moment Smyrena announced the end of her nap, with considerable gusto, adding that, surely, it must be feeding time.

A glance showed Haroun crossing more desert.

There was plenty of that. It never did get very interesting.