“Lord?”
“The mountain was too much for me. The pain... I need him.”
The physician appeared almost immediately. He had been sleeping, and had clothed himself hastily and sloppily. “My Lord?” He did not look happy.
“Esmat, I’m in pain. Terrible pain. My ankle. My arm. My joints. Give me something.”
“My Lord, it’s that curse. You need to have the curse removed. A philter wouldn’t be wise. I’ve given you too many opiates lately. You’re running a risk of addiction.”
“Don’t argue with me, Esmat. I can’t cope with my responsibilities if I’m continuously preoccupied with pain.”
Esmat relented. He was not a strong man.
El Murid leaned back and let himself drift in the warm, womblike security of the narcotic.
Someday he would have to find a physician who could outwit his injuries and the curse of the Wahlig’s brat. The pain bouts came every day now, and Esmat’s dosages had more and more difficulty banishing them.
The desert was vast and lonely, just as it had been during the advance on Sebil el Selib so long ago, and as it had been during the desperate flight from Wadi el Kuf. It seemed to have lost its usual natural indifference, to have become actively hostile. But El Murid refused to be daunted. He enjoyed the passage, seeing whole new vistas, wild new beauties.
It was a matter of years no more. Just days remained. Hours and days, and the Kingdom of Peace would become a reality. In hours and days he could turn his mind to his true mission, the resurrection of the Empire, the reunification of the lands of yore in the Faith.
The days and hours of the infidel were numbered. Those sons of the Evil One were doomed. The Dark One’s long ascendancy was about to end.
Rising excitement made a new man of him. He became more outgoing. He bustled here and there, chattering, fussing, joking with the Invincibles. Meryem complained that he was destroying his sublime image.
He began to recognize landmarks seen years ago.
The bowl-shaped valley was nearby. And not a soul had challenged them. The angel had been right. And Nassef had been as competent as ever, slipping them past Royalist pickets as if they were an army of ghosts.
He laughed delightedly when he glimpsed the spires of the Shrines from the lip of the valley, standing like towers of silver in the moonlight.
The hour had come. The Kingdom was at hand. “Thank you, Yousif,” he whispered. “You outfoxed yourself this time.”
Chapter Fourteen
Stolen Dreams
To Haroun it seemed Al Rhemish hadn’t changed at all. The dust, the filth, the vermin, the noise were all exactly as he recalled them. The heat was as savage as ever, reflecting in off the walls of the valley. Hawkers cried their wares through the press of tents. Women screeched at children and other women. Men made sullen by oppressive temperatures exploded violently when tempers collided. If there was any change at all, it was that there were fewer people than during his previous visit. That would change as Disharhun approached, he knew. And the tension would heighten as the capital became more crowded.
There was a malaise in the air now, a continuous low grade aggravation which went beyond what one would expect. No one put it into words, but the appearance of the Wahlig of el Aswad, with his household and troops, had initiated a process yet to run its course: stirring guilt and shame amongst those who had done nothing to aid or support Yousif’s long fight in the south. His presence reminded them, and they resented it. A pale shadow of fear, too, haunted the capital. The reality of the threat posed by El Murid could no longer be denied except by a willful closing of the eyes.
“And that’s what they’re doing,” Radetic told Haroun. “Blinding themselves. It’s the nature of Man to hope something will go away if it’s ignored.”
“Some of them act like it’s our fault. We did everything we could. What more do they want?”
“That, too, is human nature. Man is a born villain, narrow, shortsighted and ungrateful.”
Haroun cocked an eye at his teacher, smiled sarcastically. “I’ve never heard you so sour, Megelin.”
“I’ve learned some bitter lessons out here. And I fear they’ll apply equally to the so-called civilized people back home.”
“What’s going on over there?” There was a stir around his father’s tent. He spied men bearing the shields of the Royal household.
“Let’s find out.”
They encountered Fuad near the tent. He looked puzzled.
“What is it?” Haroun asked.
“Ahmed. He’s asked your father and Ali to be his guests tonight. With the King.”
Radetic chuckled. “Surprised?”
“After the way they’ve ignored us since the first few nights, yes.”
A chill trickled down Haroun’s spine. His gaze swept the surrounding hills. Nightfall was not far off. Shadows were gathering. He had a sense of foreboding.
“Tell Yousif to keep his views to himself,” Radetic suggested. “They’re not socially acceptable right now. Aboud
