David Zindell - Black Jade

I watched as the flames running along Alkaladur's length grew hotter. I said to Atara, 'If we knew it was really Morjin, I could wait for him and put an end to things, here and now. And the rest of you could take Bemossed to safety.'

I looked at Kane as if to ask if he would give up everything for this final vengeance; his eyes burned with a dark fire of their own, and I saw that he dwelled with death.

'But we don't even know if Bemossed is the Maitreya!' Maram said. 'And without you and Kane with us, we'll never live to reach home!'

Master Juwain nodded his head at this and said, 'There are other considerations as well. If you kill Morjin and fail to reclaim the Lightstone, it will pass to Arch Uttam or King Arsu. Or to another high priest if Morjin has left it in Argattha. In the end, one of these would become a new Red Dragon. And complete Morjin's conquest in his name.'

'Not if Bemossed could keep him from using the Lightstone,' I said.

'But could he? Would he?' Master Juwain said to me. 'Maram is right: if you throw your life away this way, Bemossed might not live to contest anyone for the Lightstone.'

'That is a chance we'll have to take!'

'Indeed? But on whose behalf must we take it? Yours? The dead who are buried on the Culhadosh Commons? Or the living, in all lands?'

'No one can see all ends,' I said. 'We have such a rare chance !'

At this Atara came over to me and grasped my hand. In a clear voice, she told me, 'If you and Kane go after the one who pursues us, I see your deaths.'

Atara's face turned toward me as she tried to fight back her fear, and I saw our deaths, too. And I said, 'I don't care!'

'No, Val,' she said to me as her hand tightened around mine. 'You must care. And you must live.'

Master Juwain nodded his head at this. 'There is a great deal at stake here, beyond our lives or even the life of Ea.'

At that moment, Alphanderry stepped out of the shimmering air and said to me, 'I would rather sing while you play the flute than wail at your funeral.'

Bemossed, I saw, stood near the cart taking in every word of our debate. His large, luminous eyes held much doubt, and he seemed at once both restless and calm, innocent and wise.

'I have seen too much death, Valashu,' he said to me. 'Is there no other way?'

I squeezed the black jade of my sword's hilt so hard that my hand hurt. I said, 'Not so long as Morjin lives.'

'Is there no way, even for him, other than murder and war?' I shook my head at this. 'You're a dreamer, Bemossed.' 'You have called me the Maitreya as well,' he said. 'Should I not then dwell in dreams?'

He brushed back the curls from his gentle face, which came alive with a deep light that seared into me. Then he looked from me to Kane. Something inside my fierce friend seemed to soften. And Kane said to me, 'There is a time for fighting and a time for fleeing. Even if we could come within striking distance of Morjin without him smelling us out, which we couldn't, what do you suppose would happen then, eh? King Arsu would send Lord Mansarian and his damn Red Capes after our companions, and they'd hunt them down.'

'Likely they will hunt us down anyway as soon King Orunjan meets up with King Arsu,' I said. 'If anyone should tell of us, Morjin will come after us with the whole of King Arsu's army.'

That is a good argument for going quickly, as Maram has said. We will have a lead — let's keep it and lose ourselves in the mountains.'

Estrella gazed at me with a look of utter simplicity and a question in her eyes that cut into me like the keenest steel: Why kill at all unless killing was inescapably thrust upon me? She had a way, I thought, of showing me my soul. 'All right,' I finally said. I sheathed Alkaladur, and put it back inside the cart. 'Let us then flee, as fast as we can.'

But with our heavy cart and our horses yoked to it, we could not set anything like a rapid pace. We needed to find a wood where we could abandon the cart, and with it our disguise as players, but it would be folly to do this too close to King Arsu's army.

And so we continued our journey back up the road. The wind blew steadily out of the north, cooling the sweltering valley of the Iona River. We turned east at Orun, which stank of rotting wood and oily fish, and we crossed over the Black Bridge into the rich bottom land on the east side of the river. A few miles farther on, we left the road to strike out along back lanes more or less straight for the Khal Arrak pass through the mountains. It would be more difficult to ride cross-country through field and forest, but easier to throw off anyone who might pursue us.

Amid rice bogs and swarms of mosquitoes, we soon came upon a village of a few dozen mud huts called Tajul. We had no intention of stopping in this ugly place, but the sight of our cart, painted with such eye-popping colors, drew the curiosity of the few villagers not at work in the surrounding fields.

One of these, a thick-bodied man with a shock of curly hair and a grizzled beard, called out to us: 'Good players! Have you any medicines? My son is sick, and could use something for his pain.'

Though he might once have been tall, he stood all hunched over as if crippled with some disease; all his movements seemed to torment him. He wore a tunic of good silk, belted with a piece of thick leather chafed in a way that suggested it might once have borne a sword. He gave his name as Falco and said his son had been kicked in the belly by a mule.

Master Juwain asked him, 'Is there no healer hereabouts who can help him?'

Falco shook his head at this. 'We had a good one, Jahal, but he left our village last year.'

He spat into the street, and I suddenly knew that Jahal had not left the village of his own will, but had been taken away.

At the grave look that fell over Falco's face. Master Juwain said to him: 'I have had some practice tending our troupe's wounds. May I look in upon him?'

Though we all wanted urgently to go on, Falco said that he would be honored to offer us refreshment, and Master Juwain climbed down from his horse — and it seemed that there was no help for breaking our flight in this poor village. Falco invited all of us to come inside his house — all of us except Bemossed, who stayed with the cart. Falco opened the door to his house, and we entered its large, single room. I immediately noted the scabbarded sword mounted above the polished teak mantle. There, bending in front of the fireplace, his eldest daughter hurried to get some water boiling for coffee.

Across the room, his son lay in bed, and his wife sat in a chair by his side, holding his hand. Falco presented her as Nela, and then smiled at his son as he said, 'And this is Taitu, named for the old king.'

Taitu, I saw, could not have been more than fifteen years old. I thought him a handsome lad, though it was hard to tell for his smooth face was all contorted in pain. He lay flat out on his back, and wore a pair of silken trousers but no shirt. A livid bruise marked the brown skin near his navel, and his belly bulged out almost like that of a pregnant girl.

Master Juwain went over to him, and sat on the edge of the bed. He gently touched his hand to Taitu's belly, which caused Taitu to gasp in agony. Master Juwain then pushed against Taitu's skin, and Taitu's head snapped back as he let loose a terrible scream.

'Stop it!' Nela cried out, holding on to Taitu's spasming hand. 'Let him be!'

Master Juwain took his hand away and looked at Falco. And Falco said, 'He's dying, isn't he? I've told him he must prepare for death.'

I could almost feel Master Juwain's hand burning to take out his varistei and hold it to Taitu's belly. I felt the ache in his throat as his voice grew clear and deep, but held no hope: 'I'm afraid the blow fractured your son's spleen. Perhaps other organs, too. He is bleeding, inside. If there are any potions to stop it, I am unfamiliar with them.'