Glen Cook - A Path to Coldness of Heart

He did not just have a powerful wil . He was not just driven.

He had an obsessive sense of destiny.

He did, perhaps, overvalue himself. There were lonely operators out there who made his mortal moment look like a lone spark of a lightning bug in springtime. Of those Old Meddler was the foremost and oldest.

Haroun gave the Star Rider a lot of thought when he did not have survival on his mind.

...

“Is that Haroun?” Nepanthe asked.

“Yes. He’s final y through the Pil ars of Heaven.”

“I thought he was dead.”

Varthlokkur frowned. Was she having memory problems again? “He

was a prisoner in Lioantung. Caught trying to rescue Mocker.” Her first husband, his son, now dead, slain in a failed attempt to murder Bragi Ragnarson.

Would this failure be permanent? Or would the memories return one more time? “He escaped in the confusion when the Deliverer came to Lioantung. He would’ve been home long since if we’d known that they had him.”

“He went to rescue Mocker? Al the way to Lioantung?

Why?” “He did. Because he was deceived by the Pracchia.”

“That’s so hard to believe.” Nepanthe had loathed Haroun forever.

His ambitions had had a brutal impact on her life.

Haroun had pul ed her first husband into one cruel saga after another. Again, “He went there to rescue Mocker?”

“Yes. Haroun bin Yousif is unique, darling. He abandoned his own dreams to save Bragi, too, because of a debt of honor.” Nepanthe knew nothing about the horrors Varthlokkur had discovered. She would not learn. He would keep that to himself forever.

He did fear that Old Meddler might know and would not hesitate to spread the news if that would stir the pot of action and hatred.

The Empire Destroyer spent a lot of time pondering how best to misdirect or tame that ancient wickedness.

“But…”

“Dear heart, this shouldn’t surprise you. These men have al done mad things on behalf of those they value. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice twice trekked al the way to Argon to effect your rescue. Ragnarson risked an army to get you back. That nobility of purpose is who they are.” But they could be mislead.

“Al right. But… Varth, I don’t remember things so good anymore.”

True. Her twitchy memory left him impatient when she asked the same question over again. More frustrating was the fact that the problem was intermittent and unpredictable.

“You’re helping him get back, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Haroun may be the last hope of the west.”

“What?”

“The Dread Empire is approaching the end of its terrible trials. The threat from the east has been eliminated. The talismanic focus of defiance in the west, Bragi Ragnarson, has been swept from the game board. The war with Matayanga is winding down. Matayanga has exhausted its resources and wil . And, as always, Shinsan remains wil ing to fight for as long as it takes. Stability exists at the Imperial level. Mist has eliminated everyone wil ing to chal enge her.” Nepanthe wondered about her sister-in-law’s personal life.

What did Mist intend for the children Valther had fathered?

Varthlokkur said, “If bin Yousif gets home in time, and reclaims his place, there’l be a strongman who can resist the next onslaught.”

“Wil you be involved if that happens?” Nepanthe’s gaze was hard. She was unhappy with Varthlokkur these days, though she did not always remember why.

He had made choices, on her behalf, without consulting her.

Neither those choices nor their results pleased her, when she did remember.

“I wil play a part.”

That offered a chance to carp. She let it go.

She wanted desperately to stop fighting about things that could not be changed. She wanted to make him do the right thing from now on.

...

The Lady Yasmid stood atop the wal of a fortress her father had built as a boy, on deciding to establish himself here at the place cal ed Path of the Cross. War had not troubled Sebil el Selib after El Murid moved on to Al Rhemish. But time had seen him disestablished there. War was back.

War’s aftermath was back.

The survivors of the conflict with Throyes and Shinsan had assembled below. The fighting had been unkind to them but they considered themselves the victors. The invaders had gone away.

Yasmid knew the truth. The enemy had gone because of a shift of political wind inside the Dread Empire. Bragi of Kavelin had penetrated the Roë Basin, forcing the enemy to realign his assets. Shinsan’s Lord Hsung had been replaced by Tervola interested in concluding the wars Shinsan already had elsewhere.

But let the warriors believe. Let them be proud. Another enemy was coming. Her son, Megelin, was coming. That stupid boy, with Magden Norath skulking through the shadows, behind monsters sent to spread terror and destruction. Magden Norath, who was the maddest and possibly most powerful sorcerer in the west.

Megelin. Her son. The King of Hammad al Nakir.

What insane whim had driven Haroun to pass power to the boy? He had known that Megelin was unfit.

Three men shared Yasmid’s vantage. The nearest, physical y and emotional y, was old Habibul ah, who had been her bodyguard when she was a child and was her closest conspirator as an adult. He had helped purge the Faithful of the worst lapses of her father and his fel ow founders. Habibul ah’s clarity of vision had become the foundation of her rule. Without Habibul ah, she feared, she would be lost.

A second man was an enigma.

Elwas bin Farout al-Souki was a self-made champion. His mother had been a prostitute in the foreign quarter of Souk el Arba, beyond the Jebal, on the coast of the Sea of Kotsüm. Elwas had risen from recruit to commander of ten thousand by acclamation of the men with whom he rode. He won battles and brought his fol owers home. That overrode al else with the war fighters.

Yasmid knew little about Elwas. His rise had occurred while she was elsewhere. He was a solid Believer. His coloring and shape said that his father was a black man. Other characteristics suggested that his mother had been a refugee from over the Sea of Kotsüm. Those things mattered little in the forest of swords. They did matter at court, where men of old families felt slighted if an outsider received honors.

Yasmid refused to be distracted by pettiness, nor did she tolerate it.

The third man, able to stand only with assistance, unable to communicate rational y, was El Murid, the Disciple, Yasmid’s father, the salt trader’s son whose cal ing had set the west awash in blood. Whose inspiration, invoked, could send thousands to the slaughter even now.

El Murid was old before his time. He was crippled. He was partly blind. Incessant pain had led him to opiate addiction.

He was so enslaved by the drug he could no longer be drawn into the real world long enough to generate a useful thought. He had no say anymore but remained a powerful symbol. He could be shown and men would gal op to their deaths screaming his name.

That the Disciple was in bad health was no secret. But his appearances were staged to leave fanatic rank and file convinced that their prophet could not be overcome by mundane evils.

The warriors looking on today had not yet recuperated from the Throyen campaign. They had not had enough time with their families. They were tired of war but war was not tired of them. They were pul ing themselves together for one more campaign. If they did not, war would devour them and theirs.

The King, Megelin, son of Haroun, son of Yousif, would show his mother and grandfather no mercy. He would attack til he ended the long contest between Royalist and Believer.

Yasmid prayed that her son’s fol owers were more war-weary than her own.