'Smart-ass.' Tearful, Socia began to run.
There was no run left in Brother Candle's old corpse. He trudged on, considering the countryside around him. A determined effort at restoration was under way. It appeared amazingly successful. The siege must not have been as harsh as rumor insisted. Or…
Or Count Raymone had done something extraordinary. And what that was became obvious after a study of the people in the fields and on the hillsides.
Raymone was using forced labor to restore his county. He must have rounded up all the Grolsachers he could find.
The Perfect would learns later, that not just refugees had been forced into the labor gangs. Prisoners of war, criminals, captured bandits, and members of the Society were slaving out there, being used up with grim indifference to their humanity. And Count Raymone's logic was hard to refute. Those were the people responsible for the damage to the Connec. Let them die undoing the evil they had wrought.
The reunion was well under way when Brother Candle caught up to Socia, who was pummeling her brothers severely in her excitement. Of them, only Booth seemed the worse for wear. He had suffered a fierce wound to the left side of his head. Part of his ear was gone. The scar itself remained puffy and purplish. It was one of those that might take a decade to subside into normal scar tissue. The Perfect noted that Booth's left eye did not track, either. But the youngest Rault was wearing one huge grin.
Count Raymone came to Brother Candle. 'I don't know how to thank you, Master. I didn't mean for Socia to become your whole life. You kept faith through hardships I can't begin to imagine. Till yesterday I feared you were lost. Bernardin has been keeping my spirits up since he came back from captivity. He was more confident of you than I was. I'm sorry.'
The warrior enveloped the old man in his powerful arms. 'I owe you, Master. I don't have much anymore, but anything I have is yours. For the asking.'
'Peace, then.'
'Master?'
'Make peace with the new Patriarch.'
'I am at peace with him. And shall ever be. So long as he stays in Brothe. If he comes to Antieux to tell us what to do, then it's him who breaks that peace.'
Brother Candle abandoned the argument. For the moment. There would be a better time. A time when reason might practice its subtle sedition against prejudice.
Count Raymone said, 'Socia tells me that you're eager to get back to the intellectual harbor of Perfect companions. But I hope you'll stay for the wedding.'
'I can do that. Unless war comes. I'm done with war.'
Count Raymone's conviction that that was silly shone through. Then he grinned. 'Done. If it looks like we can't get along with somebody, I'll slap your skinny ass on a donkey, point it west, and give it a whack on the rump.'
Brother Candle considered the possibility that, even now, his outlook was too naive. If he lived much longer he would see more war. The Arnhanders would be back. They sensed the weakness and rot in the Connec. The province's hope was not Tormond, never Duke Tormond, nor even Count Raymone Garete. Count Raymone did not have the resources. Hope lay beyond the Verses Mountains, in Direcia. In Peter of Navaya.
'All right. Who could resist that offer?'
The wedding came off perfectly, within the month. Two newlyweds could not have been more thrilled with one another. And Socia won the hearts of the obdurate people of Antieux with her fierce talk.
Following the wedding Count Raymone sent Bernardin Amberchelle and a hundred men to take the Rault brothers home. Caron ande Lette was in the hands of Grolsacher squatters. The expedition did not go well. The squatters were more numerous than expected. And the Night haunted the land. It was no longer a place for a man who had not surrendered to the will of the Night.
When the tattered survivors returned to Antieux Count Raymone decided, 'I'll send word to the Captain- General. He can muck out that cesspool for us.'
Brother Candle stayed in Antieux way longer than he planned. Worldly things had a definite hold. He was reluctant to leave companionship he had enjoyed so long. As though Socia had become the family he had put aside to walk the path to Perfection.
But he could not stall forever. The Seekers of the west needed leadership and encouragement. And he needed his refreshment of the soul.
'Raymone,' he said reluctantly, accepting the lead of a pack donkey the Count had nicknamed Socia for its stubbornness, 'I've decided how you can repay me. Other than with this tragic beast, who will no doubt be taken by bandits before I'm out of sight of the wall.'
'Not while you wear the pilgrim's robe, Master. They're superstitious, living out there with the Night so close. They won't trouble you.'
'Yes. Only the Church will dare. Eh?'
'As you say. What boon would you have of me?'
'Peace being impractical, protection for those who follow the Path.'
Count Raymone lowered his face as though to a king. 'So shall it be, Master. So long as I have breath.'
Socia, standing by quietly, reluctant to speak because she feared she would burst into tears, repeated the formula. 'So shall it be, Master. So long as
Smiling in spite of his sorrow at parting, Brother Candle tugged the donkey's lead and took a step down the road to his future. First destination, Khaurene. After that, somewhere to reclaim Perfection. In essence, out of history, having shaped the minds of several people who would sculpt it with sharp steel.
23. Dreanger: At al-Qarn, in the Palace of the Kings
The old house slave, Gamel, strained under the weight of the burden he carried across the polished serpentine floor of the vast hall where Gordimer the Lion was holding the autumn assizes. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was present, evidently having an interest in some case due to come before the Grand Marshal. Likewise, Kaif Karim Kaseem al-Bakr, who dozed on a chair nearby. He was there for a case with religious implications.
The slave had little time left in this hard vale. Decades ago he had been a fierce young Sha-lug. Time, luck, and an amazing knack for healing had conspired to rob him of a battlefield death. Sha-lug who grew old despite the endless wars had to earn their keep managing the work of the Palace.
Gamel was well known to Gordimer. Gamel had taught him the lance when he was a pup. The Marshal concluded the case at hand by ordering the defendant strangled for defiling the daughter of his sister. Sentence was carried out on the spot. Gordimer then ordered the daughter stoned. Both corpses to be thrown to the crocodiles.
Then he sent two lifeguards to help the old man.
'Forget all that, Gamel. Your life has earned you the right to stand in the presence of the Marshal.' Though not, perhaps, in that of the Kaif. If the Kaif were anything but an extension of the will of the Sha-lug, and awake. 'What is this?'
It had to be critical if the old slave came here, now, during the height of the assizes.
'This box was given to me to bring to you. I was told it had to be delivered immediately.'
'And what is it?'
'I don't know. But it's been dripping cold water.'
'Who gave it to you?'
'General Nassim. Nassim Alizarin.'
'The Mountain? He's here? In al-Qarn? Er-Rashal. I thought Nassim was dead.'
Shaken, the court sorcerer replied, 'I was sure he was no longer among the living.'
'Let's see what it is. You two. Bring that box here. Open it.'
Er-Rashal faded into himself while the lifeguards carried out instructions. Suddenly, he snapped, 'Don't open
