Again, Maranath's hand was on her shoulder, firm and steady, seeming to pour strength into her. “He’s alive, Narelki. And he’ll heal.”
“Into what?” she gasped. She covered her face with her hands to hide the shame of her weakness, but surely anyone nearby would hear her sobbing. “A monster? And what of his mind? Rithard—”
Maranath waved the question aside. “Pay no attention to that charlatan. Aiul is strong like his father. He always has been. He’ll make a full recovery, mark my words.”
The grief and fear in her mind seemed physically hurled to the side as the shock of Maranath's comment forced its way in. How could you bring him up at a time like this?
For a moment, she simply stared at him, speechless. Maranath's face remained concerned and fatherly, showing no sign of guilt or malice. Grandfather. He meant to say grandfather. Slip of the tongue, slip of the mind. He's getting old, Meite or no. His mind is failing him.
She swallowed hard and tried to put the horror of that thought out of her head, along with all the others vying for dominance. With some effort, she managed to offer him a tearful smile, hoping he saw nothing in her expression to give away her realization. If he knows, if he feels himself slipping....
“Of course,” she said with a nod.
Rithard closed the door to his office behind him and leaned against it, taking a deep, shuddering breath. That went well, all things considered. He stood several seconds, waiting for his breathing to calm, then crossed to his desk, sat heavily in his chair, and jerked open the largest drawer. He drank straight from the bottle of brandy he kept there, taking no real pleasure in it. It was medicinal, not for entertainment.
He noticed with detachment that his hand was trembling. How odd. I don't feel this fear very deeply, but my body, it seems, does. He took another mouthful of liquor, swallowed it with a grimace, and closed his eyes to wait for the effect.
After a while, Rithard raised his treacherous hand in front of his face, pleased to see the shaking had passed. Now, to finish this. He opened the top desk drawer and removed the sealed envelope he had placed there. He had been uncertain as to whether he would actually carry out this plan, and it would not have done to send his missive until he was committed, but now that he was, the letter was imperative.
Rithard rose and opened the door. He waved the letter at the receptionist outside. “Have this taken to my mother at once. It's vital.”
The girl looked up at him from her desk, confusion in her crystal blue eyes. “I'm sorry, sir, but I don’t know your mother,” she said hesitantly, as if afraid she would be punished for her failure.
Rithard put a palm to his face and shook his head with a wry smile he didn't actually feel. “I'm sorry. I was thinking of the other girl.” The one Aiul put in hospital this morning with ten stitches and a concussion. I hadn't fully decided until then.
He handed her the letter with a flourish. Better she think I'm deliriously happy than contemplating the likelihood I won't survive the week.
“My mother is Teretha Prosin.”
Chapter 2
Voyage Interruptus
Ahmed stood once again at the ship's railing, gripping it lightly to steady himself against the gentle rolling of the deck. He looked down at his hands, pleased to see his skin color had returned to a healthy, chocolate brown. The winter had been hard, and at the height of it, Ahmed had been shocked to find himself ashen, pale like a dead man. Now, the sun had returned, and he felt human again.
He stared out over the waves, pondering the strangeness of the sea, the small miracle of the ship floating upon it, marveling at the brilliant orange glow of the sun slowly setting. It was less alien as time passed, more familiar. He was still fairly certain he would never choose the life of a sailor, but he could endure it, if need be. He had grown stronger in Yazid’s absence, less in spite of it than because of it. Such was Ilaweh’s way, to harden a man by taking away the things that propped him up, the things he leaned upon.
“Grow stronger or die,” Ahmed said softly. “I miss you, Father.”
It had been a long and often stressful trip since Yazid had fallen. Brutus had begun preparations to launch for Xanthia the moment he returned from Nihlos. Had Sandilianus been a single day later to return, Brutus would have left him in this accursed barbarian land. Sandilianus’s tale of sorcerers and strife amongst the leadership of the savages simply made the return to Xanthia even more pressing to the captain.
Ahmed had stood on the bridge with the two of them, listening to the tale. “It is a mistake,” he had told them. “Ilaweh has work for us here, yet.”
Brutus's nearly black face seemed to grow even darker, his broad nostrils flaring as he turned to Ahmed. The captain was clearly in no mood for such talk. “What do you know, boy?” he shouted.
Sandilianus said nothing, simply stared at Ahmed, almost unrecognizable through the swelling, bruises, and wounds still in need of stitching. Even so, the expression on his olive-skinned face spoke loudly, his sharp features growing even sharper.
So he does not hear me, either.
Ahmed had no fear of a beating. Had it been merely that, it would have been so much easier to stand his ground. But beneath the withering glare of the two veterans, men of the world, men who knew reality and death like their own bodies, he felt his conviction shrivel. What he knew without doubt from his visions shriveled into a mere belief, and then simply, “It’s just a feeling I have.”
Brutus nodded in triumph. “Just so. And I will not endanger my mission for a 'feeling'.”
Ahmed felt rising anger. “I am Yazid’s second. His place falls to me. It should be my decision.”
Brutus regarded him with shocked, wide eyes, then burst out laughing. “You? An unblooded boy in charge of me and my men? Preposterous!”
“The prince said—”
Brutus raised a fist, more statement than threat. “Do not speak of what you do not know, boy! The Prince said I was to serve Yazid.”
Ahmed could not contain himself at this. “And Yazid is dead, while you are not!” he shouted. “How did you serve him, dog?”
Brutus moved far more quickly than Ahmed expected, though he did not hit nearly so hard as Yazid. Ahmed barely felt woozy from the blow, and retaliated with his own. The two men grappled, then fell to the floor, hammering at each other. Sandilianus banged his fist against his chest with little enthusiasm.
Ahmed was hardly surprised to find himself pummeled fairly quickly into submission. Nevertheless, he had managed to score several telling blows on the captain, and was damned proud of it. He lay against the bulkhead and laughed, spraying blood from his lips.
Brutus crouched on a knee beside him. “You laugh? Truly, I am impressed, boy. You will not call me a dog again, eh?”
“Don’t call me boy.”
Brutus chuckled and wiped at his bloody nose. “Fair enough.” He stood and called out, “Tahir, set a course for Xanthia, best speed.”
Tahir poked his head out from the door of the chart house, his wiry, orange beard trembling with annoyance. “Aye, captain, but there’s an interesting wrinkle there.”
Ahmed wiped blood from his face with the back of his arm, unable to fully suppress his loathing for the orange-skinned, half-breed blasphemer. It was best to keep his mouth shut about it and settle for a contemptuous sneer. Likely, Brutus and Sandilianus shared his thoughts, but he might still receive a second beating for speaking out of turn. One is enough for the evening.
Sandilianus ground his teeth. “Then come the fuck out with it instead of dangling it like a damned prize for us to admire, eh?”
Tahir scowled at him, but he was nodding, too. “Aye. The thing is, I reckon we’re about two-thirds around the continent. The best course is to continue forward and finish our map, assuming we don’t run into anything crazy.”
Sandilianus, still annoyed, pursed his swollen lips and grimaced in pain. “We have the old map. Continents don’t grow arms or legs.”
Tahir looked
at Sandilianus in wide-eyed shock. “They damned well grow reefs, fool!” he shouted.
Sandilianus raised his eyebrows and blinked a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “Hmm, well, I have been hit in the head a lot lately.”
Brutus held up a hand for silence. “What kind of time difference are we talking?”
Tahir squinted and scratched at the red, wiry hair on his chin,. “Hard to say, figuring in distance and winds. Best guess is near two months difference.” He shrugged. “If the wind stays the same.”
“Will it?”
Tahir shrugged again, this time adding an exasperated sigh. “It should, but it’s the damned bottom of the world. I never been there. Can you beat a man you just met? There’s lots of variables.”
Brutus nodded in appreciation of the problem. “Very well. We move forward, then. Can we save time if we skip the mapping?”
Tahir shook his head. “Not much. A week at most, if we cut around the last corner and head straight for home.” His face grew very serious. “I reckon the map is worth a week, Brutus. It’s hard military intelligence, and it’ll cost a lot more if we have to come back for it later.”
“I know. Finish it, then, and take us home. If we see any natives who seem weak, we can try consulting with them. I don’t want to risk any encounters we won’t definitely win, should it come to blows.”
He pointed to Ahmed. “Give me your hand.” Ahmed reached upward, and Brutus hauled him to his feet. “I like you better after fighting you. Let’s have a drink.”
Things had gone well with them after that, both finding new respect for one another. Brutus invited Ahmed to take Yazid’s quarters in the officers’ berthing, a small cabin adjoining Brutus’s own. Ahmed had expected Brutus to make some advance toward him, and was prepared to fight, even if he would lose, but the captain had apparently been serious about his convictions. Ahmed was “polluted by women's weakness,” and Brutus would not taint himself with such, not even second hand. For his part, Ahmed was greatly relieved to hear this. He would have given what was due had it been won fairly, but he had no taste for men. He would not have enjoyed it, merely endured it, and likely earned another beating for being sullen.
None of the pursuers Brutus feared had ever materialized, but their journey had been far from easy. The weather had been their fiercest enemy. The southern edge of the continent was bitterly cold, despite the fact that it was high summer. They had been battered by freezing rain as they struggled past treacherous ice. Snow had been so thick at times that they had no choice but to anchor and wait for the blinding white to pass. Ahmed found it all terribly annoying and inconvenient that the world worked this way. It was confusing enough that the seasons should be reversed in the Southern Hemisphere, and too much that North and South be reversed as well, science be damned. North should be cold, not South. The gods seemed mad at times.
Now, as he stood at the rails remembering Yazid, it was at last warm again. They were much farther north, their map almost complete. Soon, they would turn the ship for home, and then what would he do? We are not supposed to leave!
Yazid would have had the answers. Had it not always been so? Ahmed could not remember a time without him, a rock to cling to in any storm, and the loss cut him deeply. He knew, because Yazid had told him, that his mother had died shortly after his birth, that Yazid's order had taken him in, trained him, but he did not remember another father. Few children remember even one, though.
Ahmed tightened his grip on the railing and ground his teeth in frustration. I am failing you. They will not listen.
For a thousand years, the prelates had kept Xanthius's writings, preserved his warning, passed it down from generation to generation: Elgar will return. Stand vigilant.
Ahmed heaved a deep sigh, feeling tears well in his eyes. I never imagined it would be me.
He was unworthy, barely more than a boy, and tasked with swaying men of substance that they should abandon their every instinct and follow him, to risk their lives for a prophesy Ahmed himself barely believed.
And there was the rub. He knew the words, but he had never truly believed. He had never placed faith in writing and prophesy beyond that which would get him past his next lesson. He heard the voice of Ilaweh directly, sometimes soft, sometimes crashing in his ears, but it was that, not the prophesy, that had always driven him.
Now they are the same. Ahmed felt as if his guts would sink through him and the ship, knowing now that what he had always imagined a fairy tale was true: the world would become as ash if strong warriors did not stand and give all they had.
It falls to me, and I am not ready. How could a man cope with such a burden? And how could he possibly convince a man like Brutus? That was the most damnable part: in a purely logical world, Brutus was right. But Ahmed knew with grim certainty that there was more at play here than cold logic. Ilaweh called them to war.
I don't know what to do!
It was a lie he told himself, for truly, Yazid’s voice still rang in his ears, even though Yazid was gone: “You will do what is right, Ahmed. You will follow your head and your heart.”
Ahmed laughed softly to himself, and couldn’t help but speak back to the ghost. “And when they disagree?”
He was startled from his musing by Brutus’s voice. “When who disagree?”
Ahmed turned from the rail to face the captain approaching. Brutus wore no shirt, only a pair of dark breeches, and his eyes seemed to float, disembodied, in the failing light, his skin blending seamlessly into the growing shadows. “Head and heart,” Ahmed answered. “Which to trust?”
Brutus looked at Ahmed with suspicion, as if he thought the question some sort of military ruse. “You are the prelate. Do you truly not know the answer, or is this your way of preaching?”
Ahmed shrugged and picked at his tunic. It had once been white, but it was now gray and threadbare. Like me. “Yazid was a prelate. I am confused. You know that. It is why you do not listen to me.”
“Why should I listen to you, when you do not listen to Ilaweh?” Ahmed frowned at this, but Brutus did not retreat. “You know it is so. How else would a man reconcile such a disagreement?”
Ahmed turned back to the waves, feeling his heart shrink within his breast. “We are not supposed to leave, Brutus. Not yet.”
“Ah, this again?” Brutus heaved a great sigh and joined him at the rail. “I will not change my mind.”
Ahmed could feel the soldier’s harsh gaze like the sun on his back, and turned to face him, returning Brutus’s scowl. “Ilaweh is mighty and his vision long. We are small to him, and our lives very short.”
Brutus snorted. “You think this is some great enlightenment to me? I've seen enough blood to know Ilaweh is hard and ofttimes cruel. ”
Ahmed struggled to contain himself, to explain rather than grow angry at Brutus’s willful ignorance. “Most of us are like plants in Ilaweh’s garden. Sometimes, it is necessary to destroy some of the crops for the good of the garden. Does the farmer weep for this? Why should he? The crop would be plowed under at the end of the season anyway. There is a reason he planted many seeds, and he will do so again in the spring.”
Brutus looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “Most of us. But not me, I think. My brothers and I, we will bear no fruit. What are we in your allegory?”
Ahmed chuckled. “Perhaps you are herbs, Brutus, desirable in your own right.”
Brutus’s sudden laughter echoed out over the waves. Tahir poked his head from the chart house, glared at both of them, then slammed the door closed again. Brutus clapped Ahmed on the shoulder and smiled broadly. “You preach strangely.”
Ahmed felt his heart sink like the ship in a trough. “You do not hear me.”
“I stand here before you, do I not? I am not deaf.”
“But you do not take to heart what I am saying. You still intend to defy Ilaweh.”
Brutus shot him an irritated look. “So you claim.” After a moment his expression softened. “And what if you are right?
If it is truly Ilaweh’s will, then he will have his way despite me.”
Ahmed grimaced at this, feeling sick. It is not the sea this time, though. “Such thoughts have consequences.” He paused a moment, looking at Brutus’s resolute expression, struggling to find a way to reach him. “When a farmer tends his garden, he destroys much, even as he preserves. He pulls weeds from the ground, treads upon insects, shreds spider webs. From the perspective of an ant, it is a cataclysmic thing. If we leave it to him, our works are but gossamer shimmering in the wind, to be torn aside in his passing.”
Brutus shook his head, unmoved. “Ahmed, I have killed hundreds, and watched many of my brothers fall. Do you not think I have made peace with this notion long ago? I live and die by Ilaweh’s will, as do all my men. I am no plant in a garden, and neither are you.”
“Then what are we?”
“Swords. Weapons in Ilaweh’s hands, instruments of his will. We may individually dull and break from the power of his blows, but we are many.”
Ahmed strained to appreciate the thought. “Then who is our enemy?”
“Villains. Liars. Thieves. Anyone who tries to take more than his fair share, or strikes at the innocent.”
“Nebulous,” Ahmed replied “Anyone could be our enemy, then.”
“Aye, it is so. Any fool.”
Ahmed waved the discussion aside. None of it truly matched reality. Allegories rarely did. “Will you not at long last hear me? I tell you, I know this in my heart. Ilaweh wills that we stay. He has work for us. The prophesy—”
“I have heard you. You have not heard me. I do what I think is best, just as you. I accept the consequences.”
Ahmed fumed at this, and Brutus stiffened, tensing for a fight, but Ahmed knew now that this battle could not be won by physical blows. “And the rest of your men?” he asked, his voice quiet and grim. “Your decision is for them as well.”
Mad God's Muse Page 3
