Sarn pulled a huge, gem encrusted ring from a taloned hand. He tossed it to Giff, who plucked it out of the air.
'I'm buying my promise back, Sarn said. I've had to put up with him more than you. I had to pretend I didn't completely loathe him. He gnashed his fangs. It's not good for a demon's health to keep things inside that way.'
'I'll do anything, Master, Badawi sobbed. Anything.'
Giff growled laughter and jammed the ring on his finger. Consider the promise retrieved, he said.
Sarn kicked his mount closer to the sobbing Badawi. His steed's snout curled back in disgust at the human's smell. The beast snarled in fear, but Sarn steadied him by digging a heavy heel into his ribs.
'Look at me, human, the demon said.
'No, no, I won't look! Badawi cried, trying to scrabble away.
'I said look! Sarn roared.
Badawi sagged to the ground as if the demon's shout had been a blow. They he slowly looked up. Huge yellow eyes stared down at him. Sarn gestured and the horse dealer's body suddenly stiffened. Badawi had no will of his own, but he still had thoughts and he still had fear.
'Don't hurt me, Master, he shrieked.
'I don't intend to, human, Sarn answered. I wouldn't foul my hands with your cowardly blood. No, you shall have the death you deserve, human. The death the gods must have decreed, or the idea would not have come so quickly into my head.'
'Please, Master! Badawi begged.
'Silence! Sarn shouted.
Badawi was struck dumb.
'Take this knife, Sarn said, handing over an ornate dagger. Badawi's fingers, acting against his will, stretched out and took the knife.
Sarn pointed to the ground. Dig your grave there. Make it deep, so no unsuspecting jackal will poison itself with your rotted corpse. And make it wide to contain your bloat.'
Like a clockwork machine Badawi came to a crouch and started digging.
'When you're done, human, Sarn said, climb into the grave and cut your guts out. I want you to do it slowly. To cause yourself as much pain as if I were doing the cutting.'
He rode off laughing.
Badawi's mind screamed, No, no, I won't do it!'
But he kept digging, gouging the hard ground with the knife, scooping up dirt and rock with bleeding fingers. He couldn't slow down, much less stop. And he knew once he did stop he'd have no choice but to carry out the rest of Sarn's sentence. As commanded, he'd take his own lifeas slowly and painfully as a spirit possessed could manage.
A mad thought came to him. It was all because of a camel. That's when his luck first left him. When he fell in love with a camel and stole her for his own.
And he thought, but she was such a pretty animal, my Sava. And white, so white…
As white as the snows on the Gods Divide.
Iraj returned to the cave several times over the next few days. He went alone, never announcing his intentions when he left or speaking about it when he returned. Although he never said what he did there, each time he emerged he seemed to stand taller, his bearing more confident and his eyes more commanding.
Safar only returned once and he also went alone. Late one night he relived the nightmare of the dancers who died in the volcanic eruption. After he calmed himself and his mind became clear he remembered something he'd found in the cave several visits ago. After checking that Iraj was asleep he went into the cave to the room with the stone shelf and old jars. In one corner was a shattered pot that had caught his interest because of all the ancient magical symbols painted on it. He'd laid out the shards on the floor in a vague attempt at reconstruction.
Safar held the torch high to get a closer look at the nearly completed puzzle. This time his interest wasn't drawn so much to the symbols, but to what the pot once represented. Which was a round jar shaped like the world with a small opening that had once held a stopper. The major features of the world had been displayed on the jar, consisting mostly of the oceans and the four turtle gods that bore the lands. Here, in the Middle Sea, was Esmirwhich in the ancient tongues meant simply the land, or the earth. To the north was Aroborus, the place of the forests. To the south was Raptor, the land of the birds. Last of all was Hadin, land of the fires. Safar studied this arrangement in greater detail, remaking the pot in his mind. On the globe Hadin was on the other side of the worlddirectly opposite Esmir.
He bent to get a closer look at the large piece of shard that contained Hadin, actually a huge chain of islands rather than a single land mass. The largest island had a picture of a cone-shaped mountain with a monster's face. The monster was breathing fire. The memory of this piece of painted pottery was what had drawn Safar into the cave. He wondered now if the large island in Hadin was the place he'd seen in his vision. If vision it was.
He felt ignorant. He'd always prided himself on his mind, but now all his knowledge of the world and what made it seemed so insignificant he might as well have been an insect contemplating the heavens. He hungered to know more, which made him sad because he realized he'd reached the end of what Gubadan could teach him. And as Safar looked at the shattered glove it occurred to him that much of what he'd learned might be in error, or based on Gubadan's stirring myths. Even the old priest admitted, for instance, that there were no turtle gods carrying the continents. The lands floated on the oceans without assistance, he said. The turtle gods were symbols, not science, he said. Although he cautioned symbols sometimes hid inner meanings that might make science.
Safar determined the next time he traveled Walaria with his father he'd find books to broaden his knowledgealthough he didn't have the faintest idea what types of books those might be. To start with, however, he could look for something that could tell him about the four continents. Particularly Hadin.
He reached for the shard containing Hadin and as soon as his fingers touched it his body tingled all over with that warm, honeyed sensation he'd felt the night when the fiery particles had rained from the sky. The feeling quickly vanished and all was normal again. He shook himself, wondering what had happened. He stared hard at the pot shard with its fiery mountain. No answer came. After a time he gave up and tucked the shard away into his shot pouch to be examined later.
He returned to the campsite and his blankets. He slept and this time he didn't dream.
Over the next few days he became uncomfortable in the grotto. Although he didn't show it, there was a buzz of magic and danger in the air that disturbed him. Finally he made an excuse for the two of them to get away for awhile. He told Iraj they needed to find meat for their cooking pot. Always eager for a hunt, Iraj agreed.
Leaving the goats and llama to graze, they wandered along snow-patched trails for hours. Safar felled a few mountain grouse with his sling and Iraj shot a hare with his bow. Safar teased him because he'd brought heavy arrows better suited for bear than rabbits and the creature was so torn up by the missile it was useless.
Iraj pretended to be hurt. I just saved our lives, you ingrate. Didn't you see that mean look in its eyes? A man- eater if I ever saw one!'
'Eeek! Safar shrieked. A man-eating hare! Run! Run!'
And they both bounded down the path as if a tiger were after them.
An hour or so later they came to a promontory that overlooked the main caravan route. Passage through the Bride and Six Maids wasn't easy. It consisted of a complicated series of trails and switchbacks winding up from the desert to the first pass. The pass led to a rickety bridgebuilt, some claimed, by Alisarrian's engineersthat crossed to the next mountain. More passes and bridges joined into the final route, which traveled over the broad summit of the Sixth Maid, then dipped to catch the trail across the Bride herself and then down into Kyrania and beyond.
Safar had spent many an hour perched on that promontory watching the caravans. At the height of the season, when as many a dozen might be traveling, it was a wondrous sight. He'd once spotted four caravans moving along four different peaks at the same time. He'd never seen an ocean, but to Safar the caravans looked like a small fleet of ships sailing over a sea of clouds and snowdrifts. The Kyranians called the region the High Caravans, for it was said that in all the world there were no higher mountains that traders crossed.
As the two young men stood there that day gazing out at the snow-covered peaks, Safar felt sudden joy when
