by JC Cassels
Tahar nodded and tapped a finger against his cheek, just below his eye. “But these old eyes see much,” he said. He rested the flat of his palm against Blade’s chest. “I see your heart is troubled. You carry a great burden of responsibility. You face your destiny, and yet you fear it. The fear does not sit well with you. So you run away…to Kah Lahtrec…to Tahar.”
Blade had never discussed the true nature of his relationship with the House of Marin with anyone. He rubbed his face with his hand, trying to scrub away the fog of drug-induced sleep. “I didn’t exactly run… I just needed a safe place to heal…”
Tahar’s throaty chuckles cut him off. The old man moved away and gestured for Blade to follow. “Come,” he said. He handed the gnarled stick to Blade. “You can lie to yourself, but the Maker knows all. Come. Let us see if we cannot untangle the strands of your destiny before you trip and strangle yourself on them.”
Blade watched the old man step through the open doors onto the terrace with an agility that belied his years. He looked down at the stick in his hand, then at his arm, useless in its sling, and his leg, unable to bear his weight. As a medic, he knew that trying to stand without assistance was unwise, but the nanites injected into his body to aid healing worked best when the patient got up and moved around. With a small sigh, he eased off the edge of the bed, bracing himself with the sturdy stick. When his feet touched the floor, he levered himself away from the bed. Leaning heavily on the stick, he tried a few tentative steps.
When his legs continued to hold his weight, Blade hobbled to the doorway and peered out onto the darkened terrace. Flickering firelight warmed a distant corner, setting the cream-colored stones aglow in brilliant orange light. Sparks broke free and shimmered against the black sky, sparsely dotted with the light from distant suns. The old man was nothing but a shifting silhouette in the darkness, outlined by a halo of golden light from the fire.
Blade looked longingly back to his bed. It was so close…and he’d much rather be cocooned in its comfort than painfully hopping out into the night like a broken marionette. With a sigh, he peered back out onto the terrace.
Tahar crouched by the fire.
Grunting to himself, Blade painfully planted the stick and used it to pull himself along. Whether he wanted to go back to bed or not, Tahar was the one who had saved him from Marin’s summons. Tahar was the one who had brought him where he most wanted to go. Tahar wanted him to follow, so follow he would if for no other reason than out of respect for the old man.
Making slow progress, Blade struggled across the terrace to the fire pit. Tahar didn’t look up at him.
“Why did you come here tonight, Tahar?”
Tahar poked the fire with a long slender stick then gestured towards Blade with it. “There is no way you could have made it up Mount Jihat in your current state.” The wizened old man smiled broadly. “Since you could not come to me, I come instead to you. Sit. Join me.”
Blade glanced around for something to sit on besides the flagstones that made up the terrace.
“I will help you rise again,” Tahar said. “Sit.”
Chagrined to find himself so infirm that he’d need the help of a frail old man to get to his feet again, Blade swallowed his pride and carefully eased his aching body down onto the terrace across the fire pit from Tahar.
“Aren’t there supposed to be chairs or benches over here?” Taking a deep breath, Blade adjusted his immobilized leg, looking for a position that didn’t cause stabbing pain through his hips and back.
“I removed them.”
Reflected firelight glittered in Tahar’s dark eyes. Shifting shadows danced across his face, playing chase in the deep grooves time had etched into his skin. His smile faded. His expression grew distant as he stared into the flames. Leaning forward, he studied them intently.
Exhaling slowly, Blade tried to relax. Each shift in position brought a different kind of discomfort, each no less intense than the one before. Every muscle in his body drew tight and knotted with it. His lips pressed together in a thin line as he rolled his shoulders and tried again without success. He glanced back towards the yawning opening leading into the lounge. Surely there was something behind that monstrosity of a bar that would help.
“You’ll forgive an old man his folly,” Tahar said, breaking through the haze of pain that settled over him. His eyes met Blade’s.
“What folly, Tahar?”
The old man shook his head. “I have watched you die many times. I could not sit quietly and watch it happen again.” A slow, sad smile touched his lips. “I am Tahar. If I cannot interfere in your fate, then I am not worthy of my title.”
Blade’s gaze narrowed as he studied the old man, trying to follow his reasoning. “My fate? What fate is that?”
The old man didn’t reply. He simply stared at Blade with an enigmatic smile on his lips.
“Are you talking about the Prenaha? The cycles of existence? You know I don’t believe all that.” Blade shifted his weight onto his hip and winced at the firestorm that shot through his leg. Unable to help his small grunt of pain, he leaned forward and massaged the tight muscles of his thigh above the brace, silently begging them to release and grant him some measure of ease.
Amusement danced with the firelight in the old man’s eyes. “Your faith, or lack of it, is irrelevant,” Tahar said. “The existence of the divine is not predicated on your belief in it. It exists whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. I know it is real because I commune with it. I see it working through all things. I feel it everywhere. The Maker of us all is not some distant thing out there in te Gra Hebla.” Tahar touched his chest. “He is here, with me, because I have asked him to be so. How do you think I knew to send Middo for you if not for the Maker directing me to do so?”
“Why would the Maker give a damn about me?” Unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, Blade held the old man’s stare for a long moment before he looked away into the fire. His vision blurred as tears burned his eyes. Blade ignored it. Light sensitivity was just another recurring side effect of the Ditoxicin poisoning that had effectively ended his desire for his military career.
That was the absolute last thing he needed. He already had obligations he didn’t want: to a Sovran who only saw him as a tactical asset; to the studio, he was a talking hunk of meat that amused a fickle public. As long as the studio marched him out into the spotlight, his brother was guaranteed work. As for Bo…
Blade shook his head.
“You sent Middo because you heard about the crash and you figured it would be a good opportunity to show how mystical you are.”
“I am exposed for a fraud then?” Tahar said. Amusement tinged his voice. “You know I have such good reception of your holovid at the temple.”
Blade looked up at the old man. It took a moment for the absurdity of his statement to sink in. The temple was completely primitive, relying on fire for all its light, heat, and cooking. He chuckled and shook his head.
“Well, you have to keep up with the bumper ball tourneys somehow,” he joked. His lips twisted in a small smile. “Forgive me, Tahar. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Why do you love it here?”
The question took Blade by surprise. “I don’t know. It’s the first place that’s ever felt like home.”
“What makes it feel like home to you? You are not Lahtrecki. You share no common culture with us. We have no concept of your life in te Gra Hebla. Your fame means nothing here, nor does your wealth. You wield no influence beyond that which we give you. Yet you call it home.”
“It’s…I guess…” He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile touched his lips, and he studied the stars dotting the black expanse of sky above them. The constellations were so different from anything he’d seen anywhere else, he doubted he could find Cormoran or Trisdos among the sparsely scattered stars.
Glancing back at Tahar, he found the old man watching him patiently. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the sky. “
Out there, I have to be someone. I’m always looking over my shoulder. Someone is always watching me. Here, I can be alone. I don’t have to perform for anyone. I can just be me. I don’t think I’ve ever been me before.”
Drawing another deep breath, he looked to the old man to measure his understanding. Tahar’s expression was inscrutable as always.
Blade leaned back, bracing his hand on the warm paver behind him and staring into the fire. “I didn’t even know there was another way to live until I came here. You know who you are. You, Ballanshi, Middo – you all know who you are. You’re comfortable in your own skin. I’ve spent my life playing one role after another until I don’t know who I am anymore. The bastard I tend to be isn’t anyone I’d…”
He broke off, afraid he’d said too much. He swallowed and looked once more to Tahar. The old man’s eyes filled with compassion and understanding.
“For some reason, it doesn’t seem to matter to you.” Blade reached for another piece of wood and tossed it onto the fire. A ribbon of sparks spiraled skyward riding on the tendrils of smoke and disappearing into starlit sky.
“You do not see how we could possibly love and accept you.”
Blade’s jaw tightened until he felt a muscle twitch. “If you knew…if you knew the things I’ve done…what I’m capable of…”
“If all men were judged by what they are capable of, everyone would be in prison,” Tahar said.
Blade met Tahar’s eyes squarely. “I’m a bad man, Tahar.”
Tahar smiled. “The difference between a good man and a bad man is that a good man knows he is bad and has the desire to be better.”
Blade’s lips curved in a reluctant smile. “Marissa doesn’t believe me either.”
“Are you so burdened with secrets that you must lie even here?”
“What do you mean?”
“You say Marissa to me, but we both know that is not her true name. Why do you lie?”
“I lie to everyone…”
“Yet here, where it is of no consequence, you have no need for lies and deceit,” Tahar insisted. “You have no secrets from me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Sentaro is the Maker’s gift to us. Through it, we discern truth of spirit. Your woman’s name is Marissa, but that is not the name you give her in your heart. Her true name is dangerous, especially when linked with yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. You know the difference between fate and destiny, yet you pursue fate and ignore destiny.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re saying a lot more than I’m understanding?”
Tahar lifted his chin a notch. “That is the Sentaro,” he said. “You feel it, but you do not accept it. When you accept it and believe that the Maker of all has the power to change you, you have only to ask to be changed and it will come to pass.”
“Why would I want to?”
“Why would you not?” Tahar poked the fire again, sending another shower of sparks skyward. “You pursue a fate which will only end in your death, and hers. Without you, she has no chance of meeting her destiny. Without her, you have no chance of meeting yours. Your lives are entwined. That, you know. It is why you protect her from your father. Your future lies with her.”
Blade gaped at the old man. “What do you know about my father?”
“I know only that which you tell me and the Maker reveals.” Tahar met his stare. “Your father is not a man to leave destiny to chance. He must force it to bend to his will. It will be his undoing. He will lose all he seeks.”
Not knowing how to respond, Blade looked away, afraid of revealing too much to the old man. He stared into the fire, unsettled by Tahar’s observations. The flames hissed and popped as they consumed the logs Tahar had carefully placed just so. A pile of gray ashes dusted the ground underneath the neatly stacked wood. The fire made a fascinating sculpture. Coals in the center glowed red, giving up the last of their combustible material. The stacked logs glowed and flickered as the flames licked up from the middle, reaching skyward and writhing along the wood with all the grace of a Felidaean dancer.
There was something raw and primal about the neatly constructed fire contained inside the stone ring. Harnessing the power of fire was a culture’s first step towards civilization. That something so dangerous and destructive could be tamed and channeled to meet simple basic comfort needs seemed so insignificant compared to mastering hyperspace travel; but without first conquering one, the other would have been impossible.
“If only harnessing your inner demons were as easy,” Tahar said, breaking the silence.
Blade slowly looked up. Tahar stared into the fire, a small smile playing about his lips.
Not for the first time, Blade wondered if Tahar and Ballanshi weren’t mildly telepathic. They always seemed to grasp far more than he shared with them.
“You are not yet ready to understand.” Slowly, the old man lifted his gaze. “I see your path clearly. It’s the curse of the Tahar. I see where your pride is taking you. I also see where the Prenaha intends you to go. The two paths diverge and you will not find peace within until you find the way to bring them into harmony. If you survive.”
Blade rubbed his forehead with his good hand. “You’re talking in circles,” he sighed.
“Perhaps talking in circles is the only way to reason with a fragmented soul,” Tahar shrugged. “Perhaps if I peel away at the man you pretend to be, the man you truly are will emerge. Your roles may have begun as a fortress to protect you, but they have become your prison. Do you suppose that if I chip away at them the true Blade will emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis?”
Blade laughed at the notion. “Nothing so lovely, I’m afraid.”
“The butterfly is a rumpled thing when it first emerges,” Tahar said, “but it spreads its wings and takes flight.” He looked at Blade, a small smile on his lips. “You are always rumpled when you are not playing a role. You are afraid of your wings, I think. You are afraid of where they will take you, so you do not exercise them. The choice will soon be taken from you. The Maker has a mighty plan for you. I am charged with preparing you for it. It will not be easy, but you are equal to it.”
“What won’t be easy? The preparation, or this mystical plan you’re talking about?”
“None of it, I’m afraid,” Tahar said. “You must be broken completely before the Maker can rebuild you into the man you are meant to become. Your body is as broken as your spirit, but your heart remains intact. Your heart is good, no matter what you may think of your soul. But one must be as broken as the other before both can heal. You must break your heart to regain your soul. This has been revealed to you through the breaking of your body. This is the answer you seek as to why you must endure this pain.”
Blade stared into the flames, letting Tahar’s words sink in. “What happens when I’m broken completely?”
“There, in the nothing, you will find the Maker and your destiny, and he will rebuild you. There you will see that you were never alone, not even here, for the Maker has been your constant companion. There you will see what we see – what I see…when I see you.”
“If I’m supposed to be heartbroken, to fulfill some destiny, aren’t you tinkering with fate by telling me about it?”
The old man smiled. “I am Tahar,” he said. “I may tinker with fate. It says so in the rules.” He exchanged an amused look with Blade. “Forewarned is forearmed. With the anger you carry in your heart now, if it were to break as intended, it would heal badly with many scars. The Maker has given me time to teach you so that when the time comes and your heart breaks, it will heal well. There is no place for anger in the Maker’s plans for you. You do not know yet who you are.”
“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. I was made painfully aware of that many years ago.”
Tahar smiled. “I am not talking about the name you were given. I am talking about the character you have forged.”
&nb
sp; Blade’s lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “I am what I’ve been trained to be,” he said. “I’m a killer, a liar, a cheat, a seducer of women.”
Tahar shook his head. “You call yourself many things that you are not. You are not always the sum of your actions, especially when you do not see your actions clearly. You are correct about one thing. You are what you have been trained to be. You are a warrior, first and foremost.”
“Warrior – killer, same thing.” Blade stabbed at the fire with Tahar’s walking stick. The carefully stacked logs shifted and hissed. A cloud of sparks and smoke roiled between them before settling into a graceful flight skyward.
“There is a great difference between a warrior and a killer. A warrior takes no pleasure in taking the life of another. A warrior takes one life to save many. A warrior takes lives in defense of others and to protect his way of life. Do you think a killer gives second thought to his actions? He takes a life and it means little to him.”
“It means little to me, too.”
“No. That is a lie you tell yourself. You are also trained to heal and give comfort. Taking lives defies every principle you hold dear. You take no pleasure in the killing and you mourn each loss of life in your own way. No death is meaningless to you.”
“You think you know me…”
“I know you. I see you clearly. Before you leave here to return to te Gra Hebla, your eyes will be open and you will see what I see.”
“I wish I could see through your eyes sometimes.”
“That can be arranged,” Tahar said. He unfolded himself from his cross-legged position and rose. He rounded the fire pit and draped his arm around Blade’s shoulders.
“Lie back,” he said, “and close your eyes.”
With one hand on his chest, the old man eased Blade onto his back before he could protest. Unable to sit up without help, Blade had no choice but to submit.
