the northeastern horizon. No one living recalled a time when captains and kings were not more interested in local squabbles than in preparing for the onslaught to come.
“How does this concern us?” Nassim asked.
“Tel Moussa overlooks the road armies use to march to and fro between Dreanger and the lands between the rivers. The road armies follow north and south crosses that road southwest of Gherig, at the edge of the Plain of Judgment, by the Well of Remembrance.”
Nassim nodded. As a youngster he had known veterans of the Battle of the Four Armies, that the Arnhanders called the Battle of the Well of Remembrance. Hard feelings from that still poisoned relations between Lucidia and Dreanger. “An important site. The crusaders were defending it when they stumbled into the trap set by your illustrious relative.”
“Any Hu’n-tai At army will follow the traditional route.”
“Any army must go where the water is.”
“Just so. And for reasons to do with water and grass, my illustrious relative, as you name him, has convinced the Kaif to remove from Mezket and Begshtar to Shamramdi. The plains round Shamramdi are well grassed. The wars of the future will demand many more horses than we have today. Mounts will become a particular problem if we can’t buy them from peoples who have fallen under the dominion of Tsistimed.”
“I see.” Nassim had been in the presence of the Kaif of Qasr al-Zed several times. “What does the Kaif think of the changes?”
The kaifs of Qasr al-Zed had ruled from Mezket for four centuries. And religious leaders everywhere were known for resisting change.
“He was reluctant. But he does as he’s told.”
As did Karim Kaseem al-Bakr in al-Qarn, Nassim reflected. The Lion lurked behind every fatwa from the Kaif of al-Minphet. More troubling was the Mountain’s suspicion that er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen still dictated Gordimer’s decisions, whether or not he had been outlawed.
“As should be in matters of war.”
“We trust in God but remember that God helps most those who plan best.”
Nassim laughed aloud, definitely beginning to like the boy. There was much of his granduncle in him. He wished Hagid had been such a boy. Though Hagid had been strong in his own way. He had crossed the White Sea alone to warn Else Tage of er-Rashal’s evil perfidy. Which burst of courage had gained him nothing but death.
Which burst of courage had driven a mortal wedge between Gordimer the Lion and his friend since boyhood, Nassim Alizarin, the Mountain. The back draft from which burst of courage swept through the Sha-lug like a blistering desert wind. But which, in the end, changed nothing. Few Sha-lug would put aside what they had always known, however repugnant they found what had been done to Hagid.
The boy returned to his primary interest. “The Hu’n-tai At will come soon. Maybe this summer. We are at that stage where we must give God every assistance by preparing to execute His will.”
Nassim nodded. “And?”
“This is a critical outpost. Signals from Tel Moussa can carry warnings down the road, or back to Shamramdi.”
True. A lookout in the mountains to the northeast could relay signals to Shamramdi in just one transfer. But to the west…
The boy smiled. “To the west is Gherig. Only Gherig, of the crusaders. Gherig, of the foulest Arnhander of all, Rogert du Tancret.”
“Yes.”
“Yet Black Rogert is right there in the path of anyone headed into the Holy Lands.”
“The adder cares not whose hand it bites.”
The boy nodded. “The Hu’n-tai At will ride around Tel Moussa. They’ll bypass Gherig. They’ll want to seize the Wells of Ihrian first. If they’re defeated, which hasn’t happened yet, they’ll try to destroy the Wells.”
“Are they that wicked?” The Holy Lands were the heart of the world. During all the thousands of years that men had fought over the Wells of Ihrian none had been mad enough to try destroying them so they would not benefit anyone else. But the Hu’n-tai At had the reputation. They killed. They plundered. They destroyed. Those who were not of the horde could not comprehend. The horde was determined to destroy settled civilization.
“They’re that wicked, General. That wicked, and more. They’re enemies of everyone who isn’t Hu’n-tai At.”
“Taking that at face, what are we to do here?”
“Assuming you’ll stand your ground?”
“We’ve taken this place under obligation. We’ll fulfill that.”
“That’s what I was sent to find out. That being the case, I’m supposed to tap your thoughts about how best to absorb and crush a Hu’n-tai At invasion.”
That puzzled Nassim. He said as much.
“Sha-lug think differently. You’re one vast brotherhood, strongly disciplined, centrally ruled. My granduncle must, of necessity, gather men from a hundred tribes, captained by proud chieftains who’d rather fight old vendettas than unite against an outsider. He tried to create his own guard, like the Immortals of the Kings of Kings of Ghargarlicea, without notable success. The central problem being the expense of maintaining the force.”
The Mountain allowed himself another nod, as much respect as assent. Indala al-Sul Halaladin had done well, teaching this one. Few Sha-lug had as solid a sense of history and their place in it.
“I’ll do what I can,” Nassim said. “It is written: We must defeat the enemies of God before we can settle enmities within the Realm of Peace.” Which name he spoke with a cynical sneer. There was no peace inside the bounds spanned by God’s Peace. Because men did not just demand submission to the Will of God, they demanded submission to themselves. Nor could they agree what the Will of God might be.
6. Navaya Medien: The Tired Man
The student waited till the Perfect completed his meditation. He carried a letter addressed to the old man. That letter had spent months in transit, tracing Brother Candle from retreat to retreat. In a community less honest and dutiful it would have gotten lost long since. With the Seekers After Light, though, delivery was assured, barring divine, diabolic, or villainous intercession.
It had survived hundreds of miles and dozens of hands crossing the Connec and the Verses Mountains to reach the remote Maysalean monastery at Sant Peyre de Mileage in Navaya Medien.
The old man rose. The youth’s presence startled him. “Jean-Pierre?”
“A letter, Master. For you. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Good.” The old man responded slowly. Not because of any infirmity but because the boy spoke the Medien dialect, a cousin of that used in the western Connec. It did funny things with consonants. You could confuse words that sounded familiar but then made no sense in context. “It certainly could wait those few minutes.”
Brother Candle did not reach out for the letter. He wanted no contact with the world. He had been out there so long, till recently, that he had fallen from Perfection. Far from Perfection. Only now, after months, had he gotten solidly onto the Path again.
The letter was filthy. He did not recognize the hand that had written his name large upon the wrapping. He suspected that had been added in transit because the original had grown so ragged. He saw nothing to indicate a source.
“Aren’t you going to open it, Master? It might be important.”
It would be. Of course. Extremely. To the person who had written it. He considered the possibilities. Whatever this correspondent had to report, it would not be good.
“My fingers aren’t working well today, Jean-Pierre.” He pronounced the name in the Connecten manner. Here, it was Jean-Peyre. “Read it to me, if it please you.”
The boy was thrilled. He could show off for the monastery’s great celebrity. He could demonstrate how well his lessons had taken.
Jean-Peyre took the letter back, removed the wrapper with great care. He made sure nothing had been
