“No. You’l know if something needs doing. Just be Michael You til it does. If.”
He bowed slightly. “Al right.” He went out.
Mist turned back to her personal war, having realized that Eka was better liked than either of them had believed.
She leaned on the back of Scalza’s chair. He tended to be off-putting. Other than Ethrian people had to work at liking him. Ethrian liked everybody. Oh, and the Old Man. The Old Man considered Scalza a kindred soul. They both felt isolated but that isolation was self-induced. Scalza was young enough to be lured out. People here would care for him if he would let them.
...
Yasmid felt lost in space and time, and cultural y, too.
Maybe she was too old to adapt. She had been flexible when she was young. Look what she had survived…
Now she clung to Haroun, watched Sebil el Selib through the enhanced scrying system Lord Yuan had generously created, and waited while the child within her grew. The daughter within.
She knew. There were many months to go but she knew. And Haroun was not pleased, though he never admitted that. He hoped she was wrong.
Elwas was holding it together at home, better than she would have thought possible. He had harnessed Ibn Adim ed-Din al-Dimishqi, somehow. Jirbash and Habibul ah added their own genius. Overal , the movement remained healthy. With no sound Yasmid could not determine how Elwas kept the reins on a people who now lacked their Lady and Disciple. That he did so was pleasure enough.
Old Lord Yuan had observed, “There did have to come a day when you and your father passed the mantle.” She had been surprised the first time he spoke her language, then learned that he had been one of Varthlokkur’s teachers when the wizard was young. He had discovered a few truths about the mechanics of the world and time.
“True, but it isn’t something we face wel .” The old man offered a slight bow and moved on.
Her husband found nothing to encourage him when he took his occasional glance at history in the making in Al Rhemish.
That city remained chaotic. It looked like the Faithful meant to stay away til the insanity of factionalism devoured their enemies. Al-Souki and his ilk would move only after those idiots spent themselves, bringing welcome order.
Yasmid asked, “Can we just forget everything? Leave it to the next generation?”
She was not pleased by his answer, which was no answer.
He was not yet ready to step away, though his struggle had been poisoning his soul for two generations. But he did not reject her suggestion, either.
...
Ragnarson tracked events in Kavelin when he could get a seat at a scrying bowl and help from somebody who knew how to work it. He strove to be nicer than was his nature. These folks knew him now. His strained smiles and schooled friendliness were suspect, but stil they helped.
The combination of close quarters and external threat had created a camaraderie unlikely to survive the threat’s conclusion for long.
Mist joined him as he fol owed developments in Vorgreberg with his oldest surviving friend. Bin Yousif was as animated as Bragi had seen him since their reunion.
Hunger for a kil ing was upon him.
Ragnarson grunted his acknowledgement of her presence.
She said, “We’l be sending you home soon. Lord Yuan has made a connection with a portal out there.”
“So you don’t need me to…”
“None of this went the way I expected. Nothing ever does conform to plan but this has been… unusual.” She seemed distracted. She kept looking around, nervous about something.
Ha! Daughter and boyfriend had disappeared. As had Michael.
Could that be a big deal? Had he missed some big change completely?
“I’m not sure I’m that excited about going back. There’l be a lot of work waiting.”
Bin Yousif said something softly, without turning.
“Yeah. I know. It’s my fault so it’s my job to fix it.” Ouch! That seemed to tweak Haroun’s wife.
...
Haroun made his decision. “Light of My Heart.” He beckoned Yasmid, indicated the scryer Bragi Ragnarson was watching. Centered was a oneeyed man in a cold and dirty cel : Boneman. “There is one more thing that I need to do.”
Her face hardened. “I understand.” Some seconds later, she added, “The Evil One has found a home in my heart. I cannot forgive.” ...
Micah al-Rhami no longer considered himself anyone or anything else. What he had been was lost, nor could it ever be recovered. The Evil One had done his wicked best. But God had won His point as wel . The Message had been brought to the world. There were Believers who would carry on. He hoped God would let them remember him as el Murid, not what, in unconquerable weakness, he had become afterward.
His entire world was a tiny, icy cel . He was not quite sure where that was. The air was thin. He had never been so cold. He sniffled constantly. He could find no good in anything there. But he had gained something he had lacked for years: a friend. The heathen Phogedatvitsu, who had no agenda and no desire to use the Disciple to further it.
They spent a lot of time discussing mutual y alien philosophies. And Micah was content to be this new, unknown worm of a worn out old man. He was content to have the world think that the Disciple had gone to his reward, if it was so inclined, because, in a way, that was true.
And, if he understood right—things were always confusing — he had a grandchild coming at last.
...
Michael did not get close enough to hear what passed between Ekaterina and Ethrian. The latter looked startled and confused. He stood there with mouth agape, unable to respond—especial y not the way the girl hoped.
Michael had played both roles in this scenario in his time, most recently, in absentia, with Haida Heltkler. He had not had serious designs on the girl but he had taken her for granted. Had thought Haida the perfect mate, other than that she was so young. She was Michael Trebilcock in a gender mirror, al he was and a girl besides. But, as with what had been happening between Eka and Ethrian, theirs had been a dance of the clueless and the deluded exacerbated by militant mutual dread of the potential consequences of straightforward communication.
In his absence and perceived indifference Haida had been swayed by the determined and bluntly declarative courtship of Bight Mundwil er—to the not entirely uncompromising despair of Bight’s great-grandmother.
There was every chance that Eka had stated her case the most oblique, arcane, and confusing way possible in order to minimize her own emotional risk.
Would the possibility that the relationship she wanted had not occurred to Ethrian hurt Ekaterina more than outright rejection? In the names of al gods, let the boy not make a joke of this.
Thanks be, he did not. After several stunned seconds he extended a hand, took Eka’s, that she had raised uncertainly, and drew her into an embrace.
This part Michael did not fol ow. This was what he should have done with Haida, if he had wanted her, but he had not done it. Nor did he hear what the boy whispered to please the girl.
It might not have been what she wanted to hear but it was close enough. For the moment.
Everything would be al right. For the moment.
Michael headed for the chamber in the Wind Tower. He would report one less threat likely to arise at this most inopportune of times.
He found Varthlokkur fixated on the Karkha Tower and in a state of agitation. The wizard expected Old Meddler to do something ugly any minute now.
Haroun bin Yousif, his bride, and King Bragi were gone.
“Home,” Nepanthe told him when he asked the air. “You and I and Smyrena wil go after the portals cycle.” Another glance at the wizard explained why Nepanthe and the baby were to leave. Varthlokkur expected big
