untouched by the chaos.
Safar turned back to the melee. He had his killing spell ready but there was no clear target. A slight miss and his rescuer would die as well.
Then the equation became simpler as the two demon/wolves were driven through the shattered wall and horse and rider plunged after them. And then there was only Safar and Iraj, who was coming up from a pile of debris. As Iraj rose a powerful light radiated from his body. He began to transform into a giant wolf, black as a starless night with the fires of the hells in its eyes.
The wolf turned its huge head toward Safar, maw coming open. Their eyes met … and held for what seemed like an eternity. It was only a moment but it was time enough for an arc of recognition to leap between them. It was like two souls brushing together-souls from another place and another time when they were just boys, fast friends, with only clear horizons before them.
Then hate rushed back and Safar let loose his spell.
He meant to kill and held nothing back but when his sorcerous bolt struck there was a white hot flare, a loud crack of overheated air, and when his eyes cleared the demon wolf who was Iraj had vanished.
Cursing, Safar sagged back against the shattered door frame. Iraj had escaped unscathed. And he was certain to return-in one form or another-with even greater forces than before.
Safar looked over at Palimak and knew a small bit of joy when he saw the boy was still sleeping peacefully as if nothing had happened. There was debris all around the bed and spatters of blood on the lower frame.
Gundara stood over the boy, chest puffed up under his elegant little doublet, standing as tall as he could, a sharp-toothed grin gleaming in his little demon's face.
'Never fear, Master,' he said, bold as can be. 'Gundara is here.'
Safar sighed and nodded his thanks.
He heard the clatter of hooves and the creak of harness and looked up to see the mounted warrior canter up to the gaping hole that had once been a little boy's bedroom wall.
The warrior reached up with a mailed glove and swept the helm away.
Safar was too numb for surprise and he barely reacted when he saw Leiria grinning down at him.
'Are they gone?' he croaked, exhaustion overcoming him.
'Vanished, is more like it,' Leiria said, still burning with the odd joy battle fever can cause. 'Good thing, too. They were coming at me from both sides and I thought I was in for a helluva fight. Then,
At that moment Palimak sat bolt up in bed. He rubbed sleepy eyes and looked all around him, noting the destruction of his room.
He looked up at Safar, still a little dazed, a worried frown creasing his brow.
'I didn't do it, father,' he said. 'Honest, I didn't.'
CHAPTER SIX
The funeral ceremony for Iraj's victims was depressingly easy to arrange. The village was still draped in black from mourning Tio. The wailing women's cheeks were well oiled for tears. This time, however, there were no swaggering louts shouting vows of revenge.
If Tio's death had shocked the villagers, the toll they now faced was beyond shrieks and tears and shouts. Besides the three murdered sentries Leiria had found, there were six others who had been surprised and killed by Iraj and his companions.
When the dawn came and the bodies were discovered there had been so much blood they couldn't keep the children from seeing it. After Safar pronounced the funeral prayer and the boats were fired and launched, many of the young people became hysterical with grief. They clutched each other and wept, shouting the names of their dead friends. It was a scene that would haunt many a dream for years to come.
As soon as he could Safar retreated into the little temple. But there was no peace to be found in the dusty silence of his inner chambers. Solitude makes misery larger, not smaller, Safar thought. And when you are truly alone there's no one to curse but yourself. He was exhausted from his encounter with Iraj, so tired his limbs were ungainly weights and the air itself seemed formed of the thickest clay, resisting his every motion. It was as if he had been stripped of all spirit and will, leaving him so weak that if Iraj had suddenly appeared Safar would have surrendered gladly.
It made him ill prepared when his father entered the chamber, shamefaced and shuffling.
'You are my son,' he said, avoiding Safar's eyes. 'But it is my duty to speak to you not as a father, but as a member of the Council of Elders. Forgive me, Safar, for what I am about to say. It's their words, not mine, that I must speak. And you should know it is only out of courtesy that the Council is allowing me to carry them to you so the insult might be lessened.'
Safar nodded. 'That was good of them,' he said. If there was sarcasm in his manner, it was unintended.
His father stiffened. 'Safar Timura, son of Khadji and Myrna Timura, it is the wish of the Council of Elders that you report immediately to the Meeting Lodge. There you will wait while the Council considers the recent tragic events and the part you played in them. You have the right to address the Council before their final decision is made. However, you may not be present while that decision is being discussed. Do you understand?'
'I understand,' Safar said.
Khadji's formal pose collapsed into that of a worried and awkward father.
'You know I'll speak up for you at the meeting, son,' he said.
'Of course you will,' Safar said, feeling like a child pretending to be an adult so he could reassure his parent.
Khadji added to the awkward moment by suddenly leaning forward as if to embrace him, then pulling back at the last instant, embarrassed.
'Your mother and sisters send their love,' he said. Then, lower, 'To which I add mine.'
'Thank you father,' Safar said, realizing the reply was weak, but under the circumstances it was the safest one he could manage.
He saved his father and himself further embarrassment by becoming occupied with a misplaced sash.
While his eyes were lowered he heard his father let loose a long sigh of frustration.
It was a sigh best ignored, so Safar drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. 'Tell the Council,' he said, quite formal, 'that I will be honored to attend them. And will abide by whatever wise action they deem necessary.'
Khadji's eyes welled with tears. He stepped back, fighting for control. Unlike Safar, he was not a self- assessing man, so he didn't understand the difficulty he had with his son. A man of strong beliefs, rights and wrongs, blacks and whites, he assumed it was some glaring fault in the clay he was made of and berated himself for his failings. Safar had inherited many of his father's flaws. On sleepless nights, when good deeds are cracked in guilt's jaws to find the sinful center, he'd added greatly to that score.
Still, he was a wizard with an instinct for striking for the truth and sometimes he was even lucky enough to find it. So where his father turned away, Safar looked deeper. Over time he'd come to understand that Khadji suffered from the ancient curse of all master potters. Under a potter's hands clay is a spirit demanding form and life. It also wants to be useful. It requires a purpose. What's more it insists that purpose and beauty be combined. To achieve this unity-which all potters desire above all else-perspective must be maintained at any cost. A potter loves the clay as deeply as any being can love. Yet he can never declare it. He must not let the barest hint of it come through. Above all things a master potter must keep his distance or he will lose his vision, hence control. Or else what he loves will become an ugly thing that bursts in the kiln at the first firing.
Unfortunately, Safar thought, understanding has less value than a beggar's bowl when it stands alone, leaving him with nothing to offer when he looked across the chasm between himself and his father.
So he said, 'How is little Palimak?'
His father laughed, more in relief than anything else.
'He thinks it was all a great adventure,' he said. 'He's even forgotten he was asleep the whole time.'
