by Fuad Baloch
“Poalon, is the man being treated?” asked the priest, taking Ruma by surprise.
“Yes, Mza.”
Brother Hadyan nodded, touched his forehead reverently with the index finger of his right hand. “Alf is the origin, the originator of health and sickness. May He grant your companion and all the wounded men and women bountiful health.”
A million snarky comments rose in Ruma’s mind.
But she bit her tongue and kept quiet. Whatever her issues with organised religion, the Alfi faith in particular, and the inherent hypocrisy of showing concern for hurt caused willingly, the man’s words carried a conviction that seemed to drain the raging hatred in her chest.
“Come,” Brother Hadyan said once more, waving a hand towards guards wearing ceremonial sashes. “Body of the Prophet, she is with me!” Then he lifted the tent flap for her.
Shorn of arguments, placated for the moment, Ruma swallowed. Then she drew in a long breath, raised her chin, righted the veil on her head, and marched through.
Incense, sickly sweet and intense, greeted her as she stepped onto the thick carpet laid within the spacious tent. A simple bed had been pushed to one side, a long table set in the centre, behind which sat Yasmeen, Blessed Mother, wife of the prophet Gulatu Koza and of Blessed Turbaza.
Ruma blinked, her mind growing numb.
Yasmeen looked different than the portraits Ruma had seen hanging in the Alfi temples. The Blessed Mother’s skin was olive instead of pale, the cheekbones low, the features delicate, refined. The painters had also failed to capture the eyes—the large, luminous eyes that shone brighter than either of the moons at their fullest.
Yasmeen leaned forwards, a lock of straight brown hair streaked with grey falling over her cheek. She didn’t brush it back. She was thin, almost frail, yet seemed to fill the very space with her presence. A lioness keeping her paws close to her chest.
“Greetings in the name of Alf,” said Yasmeen, her voice measured, the cadence almost hypnotic. “These are tough times for a stranger in our lands.”
Ruma licked her lower lip. Was this a dream? Did she really stand in front of Gulatu’s wife? Fear rose over her anxiety. The First wanted her here. Whether due to his designs or through sheer bad luck, Ruma had ended up here. Influence the world. Change its course. Ruma exhaled. She had to be very careful what she said here.
“I hear you do speak Anduras,” said Yasmeen. “If not, we can find interpreters.”
“I do…” replied Ruma.
Yasmeen’s eyes narrowed. For a long beat she stared at Ruma without saying anything. The world shrank away. Ruma felt a bead of sweat start trickling down her spine. She was here, in front of the woman who’d played almost as important of a role in the course of history as had Gulatu. Exactly what part Ruma couldn’t recall. Not that it mattered. The woman in front of her carried more authority than the Arkos admiralty board and Volorosi put together. Faith and belief were the tools she’d used to cement her command. Factors Ruma had seen Gulatu use to great effect in the war against the Pithrean as well.
“Where are you from?” asked Yasmeen.
“Far away,” replied Ruma, finding herself choking up. She shook her head, ran a hand through her hair.
The prophet’s wife leaned closer, her eyes watching Ruma’s movements closely. Ruma shifted her weight, looked about, unnerved by the intense scrutiny. She might have stood naked in front of another woman not too long ago, but this was somehow worse. Ruma was being stripped to the soul.
“What’s your name, laal?”
Ruma opened her jaw, then stopped. Laal was a word she’d only heard rarely before, one denoting someone with red hair, a word that had fallen into disuse in a world where physical markers of people no longer mattered. Then again, to give her real name wasn’t a mistake she wanted to do again.
“I’m a mere visitor in your lands,” Ruma replied instead. “Hoping to cause no trouble.”
“Hmm.” Yasmeen leaned back, her posture upright, the long, thin fingers interlacing. “The faithful tell me you’re a brave woman. One who knows how to fight.”
“Just enough to defend myself.”
A dark expression crossed over Yasmeen’s eyes. Ruma realized her mistake. She stood in front of the person who laid claim to the empire of believers, someone who was not used to some foreign girl almost treating her as an equal.
They were not equal, Yasmeen and her. Not just worlds apart, but also in almost every other marker of differentiation. But they were equal in one crucial manner—something that only leapt into her mind when she thought it over.
They both had laid claim to the same man. Yasmeen might have been the wife, but from Ruma’s perspective, she was the dead wife.
Another fact united them—both had lost him, each in her own way.
Yasmeen coughed and Ruma snapped back into the world. The Blessed Mother was famed for her composure, something Ruma seemed to recall from her history books, but she’d also been known to erupt without warning—something Ruma didn’t want to witness first-hand.
“I,” Ruma started, “mean no harm to you or your people.”
“Is that right?”
Again, the intense scrutiny returned. Ruma shifted her weight, once more ran her hand through her hair. “Am I your prisoner?”
Yasmeen crossed her arms, the eyes boring holes into Ruma. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “With the ceasefire, neither my misguided niece nor I have any desire to let the hostilities of the past fester. I hope she will turn away from her barbaric ways.”
Ruma felt her eyes widen in incredulity at what she’d seen the Blessed do.
Yasmeen continued. “I demand nothing of you. You are free to go.”
Again, Ruma bit her tongue, nodded, turned around.
“But if you want, you could ride with us to Fanima. The entire world gathers to hear the prophecy that will clear the binds covering the blasphemers’ hearts and eyes.”
“I… will think it over,” Ruma replied. It would be useful to travel with the host, get to Fanima without too much trouble, then get on with her activities. But being a part of this host meant listening to this woman, and that was something she could never do.
Then, without waiting for a response from Yasmeen, Ruma marched out, ignoring the small voice in her mind suggesting she wasn’t yet finished with the woman with iron in her speech.
Fifteen
The Long Marches…
The Blessed warriors chanted as they rode through the desert. Ancient hymns hailing Alf as Lord of all the worlds, praising the prophet He had bestowed his gifts upon, celebrating the migration the infidels made the prophet go through, which in turn made them return to the holy cities as victors, promising divine retribution to whichever Vanico soldier dared enter the holy cities.
Scoffing, Ruma followed them. One thing promising vengeance upon the infidels for all the perceived harm they brought, but what of all the vices they, these holy men, wrought upon their own people?
Ruma followed them regardless, far enough to not have the kicked-up dust choke her, but not enough to drown out the constant singing. In the centre of the Blessed army—a descriptor made necessary by the three or so thousand more men that had joined up in the morning—wobbled the palanquin carrying Yasmeen, wife of the prophet Gulatu Koza, a massive Scythe flag flying overhead and casting a long shadow in the afternoon sun. A hundred of the fiercest Blessed surrounded her at all times—men who called themselves Body of the Prophet, a group originally tasked with the protection of the prophet, now devoted to his family.
Ruma shook her head. The camel she sat on now was no better than the one she had ridden before with the Kapuri siblings. Perhaps all camels were similarly afflicted with awkward gaits. She couldn’t lose sight of her own goal, though. Yes, she was free, still heading towards Fanima, but the fundamentals of her situation hardly changed—just as powerless in the grand scheme of things as she had been since the day she woke up here.
Her mind drifted, go
ing back to her meeting with Yasmeen. The night following her encounter, she had remained up all night, tossing and turning in an empty moth-infested tent a priest had offered her out of charity. She could have headed away from the fanatics, headed back to Yiahan, but instead, she chose the fastest way to Fanima—by accompanying the Blessed. Even if that meant another ride over a camel courtesy of the kindly old priest.
Ruma exhaled, blinked to ward off the exhaustion creeping up on her.
Whether she liked admitting it or not, there was another reason behind her desire to visit Fanima. All this prophecy business sounded interesting. The age she had grown up in had little space for mysticism and miracles. Though she had seen the prophet do stuff even her people would have to call miraculous, there was nothing quite like seeing a whole world believe in the powers and mystery of the divine. An intoxicating wave that had apparently taken hold of her fancy as well.
“Focus,” she told herself, groaning, adjusting herself once more atop the saddle. “Get to the fracking town, look for ingredients, then get engineering.” That is what she was good at, after all—making things tick instead of letting idle thoughts consume her.
She hadn’t seen Sivan, nor had she made any more enquiries, but Brother Hadyan had seemed sincere enough in his assurances. Besides, if they could let her go after what she had done to their men, what possible reason would they have for imprisoning a whimpering young merchant, assuming he’d pay out whatever religious tax they levied on him?
“Hey,” Ruma called out, raising a finger towards one of the men riding beside her, his mouth covered by a white cloth wrap, the eyes dark over it. “Are you a Blessed as well?”
The man chuckled, then raised a hand towards the clear sky. “I believe in Lord of the Worlds.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I know,” he shouted back.
Ruma cracked her knuckles, then turned away. Her mind drifted. An hour or so ago, she had lost Yiahan to the sands, the world a kaleidoscope of sand dunes and stunted cacti plants. If she was to somehow lose contact with the host now, lose the scouts who made sure they weren’t walking into an ambush, she’d be stranded.
A compass. That had to be one of the first things she built. One she should have built already.
Where would I use the compass to go?
A self-defeating, negative thought. Ruma shook her head, banishing it from her mind.
“You’re not from here,” shouted the masked merchant. “I can tell from the accent.”
Ruma clutched the shawl tight over her head. “Very observant of you.”
“Know much about the schisms between the factions?”
She began to shake her head before catching herself. Both her father and Arkos had taught her the value of scouting ahead, of knowing the worlds and their unique geopolitical make-ups before venturing in. She had already ventured, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to know more.
“Who is this Bubraza and why does she fight Yasmeen?”
“The Blessed Mother,” chided the man, his tone measured. “Watch how you address her.” Ruma grunted. “At least so long as you march with the Blessed.” Again, Ruma scoffed. “Bubraza is Blessed Turbaza’s niece, the only daughter of his only sibling. It is said that the Blessed Mother reared Bubraza when she was younger, that the two would play together like girls when they migrated to Salodia.”
“Bubraza was the bridesmaid for the Blessed Mother when she married Turbaza after the prophet’s death. Grown by then, Mother Yasmeen had given her charge over a small army, tasked her with putting down the minor rebellions that had erupted throughout the Andussian peninsula after the prophet’s death.”
Ruma nodded, waved a hand for the merchant to continue even as she found her attention waning. History had never been her strong suit, something that had always managed to induce slumber. Her mind drifted, thoughts rising of the world she had known, the world she had left behind, the relationships and squabbles and worries that were beginning to lose the potency that had always defined them and kept them alive.
“Listening?” asked the merchant.
“Yeah, pray continue.”
“Dadua was way too old to be the prophet’s successor, an argument the Blessed Turbaza made for taking it upon himself to unite the peninsula after the prophet’s passing. Wise Dadua, as his followers called him, didn’t object at first, letting the famed general take charge. Over time—”
“The Blessed Turbaza strayed?”
The merchant coughed, leaned forwards. “Something like that, yeah. Anyway, old as Dadua was, believers continued to flock to him, looking up to him to adjudicate both temporal and spiritual questions that continued to rise.”
Ruma nodded. Interregnums were difficult times, so much so that species in her time struggled with them as well—case in point, the mess that had erupted in Volorosi. “Were there no others the believers could have appealed to?”
“There were,” said the merchant, his voice growing raspy. “That was the problem. Anyone who had ever known the prophet, even spent as little as an hour besides him, ended up offering their own interpretations and suggestions on how things ought to work.” He shrugged. “You can well imagine what happened.”
She nodded. “So over time, Dadua’s views started taking prominence over Turbaza’s?”
“Quite so! So much so that when the question of the prophet’s state of being came up as a theological matter, Wise Dadua Contee disagreed with Blessed Turbaza and declared the prophet as having been a spiritual avatar lacking a physical body.”
Ruma broke into laughter. “So he denied the man a body that surely his wife would have known intimately.”
“Quiet,” he hissed, casting a worried glance over his shoulder. “Guard your tongue, lest we both get strung up for blasphemy.” He leaned in even closer, the mask beginning to slip from his mouth. “When others made a similar argument, the prophet’s oldest companion pointed to the lack of children the prophet’s marriage with the Blessed Mother had produced. There, he cried, was his proof of the prophet having been a spiritual being only.”
Ruma exhaled, stretched her arms. The sun hung forty-five degrees over the horizon now, the rays beginning to lose their potency, but still strong enough for her to avert her eyes. “What happened then?”
“When men grow old, they become forgetful or crazy. A terrible affliction either which way. Which of the two ailed old Dadua, I don’t know. Anyway, the believers ended up getting divided into three factions. Those who sided with Dadua Contee, those who still backed Blessed Turbaza as the true heir of the prophet, and a sizeable faction that supported the honour and word of the prophet’s beloved wife.”
“Ah,” she said, then slapped her thigh. She was beginning to see the reasons why this bit of history had turned out the way it had. “And so… Yasmeen ended up joining ranks with Turbaza.”
The merchant nodded.
Ruma hung her head, her thoughts growing dark. The young man’s face rose in her memory a moment before his horse had bolted. He’d been full of life, vitality. And mere seconds later, he had lain dying on top of her. Would his mother ever know how her son had died?
Time was a strange thing. So much could happen in such little time, without those affected by it ever realising the reasons. She’d heard Gulatu muse many a time over Yasmeen’s choices, never confiding in her directly but unable to hide the terrible betrayal he’d felt by his wife marrying one of his companions.
Yasmeen had been a grieving widow. Surrounded by terrible choices. Still young, desirable, helpless in a world that thought so little of women.
Ruma shivered.
What would she have done had she found herself in Yasmeen’s shoes? Ruma bit her lip, letting the question rattle painfully inside her mind.
“Change the course of this world!” came the urgent whisper of the beast that lived within her. “And you can see you own world!”
Ruma chuckled. “Oh, now you talk! Even if you’re beginning to sound like someone pu
t you on an infinite loop.” She felt the merchant shift in his own saddle, take a long look at her. She raised a hand. “Wasn’t talking with you.”
The Alf-damned Pithrean could go on with the farcical demands. She didn’t have to listen to him. But the constant whispering did mean she might not be able to keep on ignoring him. If he had brought her over here, it would pay to be vigilant, ignore him, but not forget him. She moved to the merchant. “How far are we from Fanima, anyway?”
“Another two days.”
She groaned.
“If you lack for provisions, you’re welcome to break bread with us.” Before Ruma could raise an objection, he raised a hand. “Don’t get any ideas. Women… have never quite attracted me.”
Ruma felt herself smile. Then her mind imagined two more days of riding over the cursed sands, crawling at the speed of a snail instead of coasting over it in a matter of seconds. The smile faded.
They rode on silently for long minutes. Another something Ruma found hard to deal with. When was the last time she had been forced to sit still for this long? Idle moments weren’t even considered a luxury in her time. Every single waking moment was accounted for, devoted to this or that stimuli. And now… the pace of the very world itself forced upon her a lethargy and a strange paradox. She had all the time in the world, and still there was so damned little she could do.
“Hold on, why is Bubraza even fighting Yasmeen?” she asked.
The merchant coughed, looked around as if to make sure no one could overhear them. A stupid precaution considering they were at least a hundred yards from the closest Blessed warrior. “Since the death of Blessed Turbaza and his formation of the clergy to define tenets of faith and doctrine, his niece claims to be the rightful heir to both her uncle’s and Dadua’s legacies.”
“Dadua’s?”
“She was engaged to Eranam, Dadua’s son. A capable young man before he was martyred at the Battle of Jaiana.”
“Ah.” Ruma shook her head. This entire mess seemed far too simplistic to her mind. But surely, there would have been a thousand opportunities for a great many number of people to have stopped things from getting this bad?
