The Spiral of My Destiny: The Rosteval Saga, #2

By Michael R. Schultheiss

"A marvelous continuation that asks the age old question: what is the meaning of life?" ~Reedsy Discovery

"…a riveting epic fantasy adventure that will keep readers glued to the page from beginning to end." ~Literary Titan

An enemy god ascends…

Ancient immortals scheme…

Who can they trust?

 

Rosteval faces a new peril: an old rival has unleashed an ancient immortal, a being who is now ascending to godhood.

 

A vanquished foe offers a questionable alliance, and a connection with otherworldly beings who may be able to help… but at what price?

 

Even as dangers mount from every quarter, Rosteval and Ghaitta embark on a journey to gain powers, win allies, and master a conflict between entities who see them as pawns.

 

Dangerous foes, revelations from the past, questionable allies, intrigue, suspense, and passion all abound in The Spiral of My Destiny, sequel to The Altar of My Fate. Get it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R. Schultheiss
• Release date: May 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985190434

Book preview

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DEDICATION

To Beka: my darling, my love, my light, my joy. I am yours, and no honor could be greater. The enchantment and the rapture of your love is the only reason I could write this book.

Copyright ©(2021) by Michael R. Schultheiss.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by Lyamgallal Press LLC.

Cover designed by MiblArt.

Contents

Maps

1. Encounter at the Senti Massif

2. Sleepers

3. Haldua’s Proposal

4. Dreams and Certainties

5. Soltapyral's Offer

6. Ransom & Rishvanti

7. The Anointed of the Utmost

8. A Third Way

9. The Tithe of the Kastorak

10. The Barrier Sentinel

11. The Right Wife

12. Poraungha

13. The Grandfather of the Great Deep

14. Atop the White Tower

15. Out of the Palace

16. Into the Sky

17. A Duel of Ghosts

18. A Touch of Ambrosia

19. Through the Paradtha

20. To the White Sea

21. The Serpent of Sibonni

22. Conjurations & Choices

23. Like a River

24. Poetry & Deception

25. Into Orestamar

26. A Sudden Retreat

27. The Tangled Path

28. The Wending of Water

29. A God of White & Red

30. The Approach of the Whirlwind

31. Ascended Ones

32. Ponteppatra

Author's Note

The Adventure Continues...

Contact the Author

Maps

The Ketaryat Realm

The Ketaryat Realm

The Sebaiya and Lohiman Kingdoms

The Sebaiya and Lohiman Kingdoms

1

Encounter at the Senti Massif

Ibegan that day expecting a feigned retreat and an ambush, the favored tactic of all the desert tribes. But the danger we encountered was far worse, and it was not a thing I could have anticipated.

My name is Rosteval, son of Bosvadal, and on that day my men and I were perhaps eight days’ ride into the desert, chasing a war-band of raiders—and a rumor that had grown too pernicious to be ignored.

There we are, men, I said, gesturing toward the mountain range that broke the sands of the great Sebaiya Desert like a rocky, worn-down wall. The Senti Massif. The way ahead was clear, a trail marked by dozens, scores of horses, camels, and captives, a trail that led toward the Senti Massif.

We were on the warpath, and so I carried my bow in its case over my back. My quiver of arrows hung at my side, and I had a single-edged iron blade sheathed at my belt.

Despite the heat, I wore a pointed iron helmet and lamellar cuirass of iron scales over my cotton tunic with wide sleeves that covered my upper arms, along with cotton trousers and leather boots.

My forearms were clad with leather gauntlets, and like all the men, I wore bronze bracelets at my wrists. Each of the bracelets held a glass disc about an inch in diameter: the one on my left wrist glowed silver, and the one on my right wrist glowed blue.

The man at my left-hand side laughed. A great pile of rocks in the desert, fit only for snakes, jackals, and small-hyenas. No wonder the Sen-Batalra live there. He spoke Tamnool, his own first language and one I had come to master a little while back.

I can’t argue with you, Kurjayak, I said in the same language, turning toward him even as I gave the signal to rein in. This country is a wasteland. We had a war party of two thousand horsemen, not to mention spare mounts and camp followers. It would have been far too many people and animals to travel together in the desert… but we had allies who kept us supplied by air.

Kurjayak’s golden-brown eyes took on their wolfish look as he surveyed the mountain and licked his lips. Lots of plunder they’ve made off with. Too bad it was ours to begin with.

Kurjayak’s deep bronze-hued face was damp with sweat, and the dust of travel coated his dark beard, part of which he had dyed with a blood-red pigment. He wore a lamellar cuirass of iron scales over a green, sleeveless serape, now stained with the sweat and dust of travel, and a green tunic and trousers. On his head he wore a pointed iron helmet in lieu of the brimless cap favored by his people, the Isarpaday Tamnoolra.

On my right-hand side, my cousin Daryubal spoke: Bit inconsiderate of them, though, dragging us all the way out here for a fight.

Daryubal shared my yellow-gold eyes, common enough among our people, the Barduvatra. He was broad-shouldered and strong-jawed, and dependable in combat. Some years back, he had won a beautiful slave-girl, Shayasda, in a duel of honor, killing her former master. He still regaled us with that story, including the part where he had used a wishbone transport charm, tied to an arrow, to appear next to the man, topple him from his horse, and kill him.

I smirked. "Come now, the sooner we handle this, the sooner we can return to our encampment. I’m sure Shayasda will be delighted with what you bring back for her." I made a ring with my left thumb and middle finger, and stuck my first two right-hand fingers in and out while I leered at him.

That’s if she’s fond of small packages! said another familiar voice, a rider behind Daryubal.

Daryubal whirled about on his horse and slugged the young man in the shoulder. You’re one to talk, Little Bardamal!

Not so little anymore, am I? Little Bardamal said, fending off another blow and hitting Daryubal back. Little Bardamal had been short, once, but now he was a tall and rather gawky nineteen.

"You’ll always be our Little Barda-boy!" Daryubal said, growling with mock-ferocity as he tried to pull off Little Bardamal’s helmet. I knew them well enough to know that Daryubal was trying to tousle Little Bardamal’s hair.

The sands of the great Sebaiya Desert were all around us and behind us, broken only by the occasional gnarled juniper or patchy outcrop of thorns. Still, the way ahead was clear, a trail marked by dozens, scores of horses, camels, and captives, a trail that led toward the Senti Massif.

A faint humming sound drew my attention upward, toward the living god who was descending toward us.

Hail and well met, Bright Apshendarin, I said, not in Tamnool but Shaper-tongue, the language of the Lashvanti, the long-vanished Shaper race.

Apshendarin was a Bright Zayastu, a living god, and as such he glowed with a soft golden light that emanated from his skin and hair. His eyes glowed silver. His face was strong, nose well-formed, and his beard and hair were trimmed and oiled to uncanny neatness.

Still, he was girded for war: he wore a splendid lamellar cuirass with gilt-edged iron scales, and a bronze helmet over his coiffure. He had a sword sheathed at his belt, but I was not fooled: I knew his most important weapon was the pair of blades affixed to the bottoms of his sandals.

Hail, Rosteval… Kastorak of the Western Lohiman Kingdom, he said, his voice a low rumbling that always put me in mind of boulders shifting. The war-band… they are not far ahead… the captives, too… camped in a valley of the Massif. His face was impassive, betraying no hint of anything he might have been feeling.

The war-band, are they all Sen-Batalra? I asked. Or are there Ketaryatra among them?

My tribe, the Barduvatra, counted among the Ketaryat tribes. But I had led a war-band south, across the great Sebaiya, to escape the rule of my grandfather Hamarvan, king of all the Ketaryat tribes. We had defeated the army he had sent against us, but some of them had escaped.

Ketaryatra, yes… Apshendarin said. His brow furrowed. There is… something unusual among them… a perturbation of power.

Well, that confirmed the rumors: instead of going back across the Sebaiya, the survivors of the Ketaryat army had found common cause with the Sen-Batalra. That still left the question of how they had found common cause: the Sen-Batalra were known to be fiercely intolerant of outsiders.

I frowned. The white Rishva-shade?

No… this is something different. I sense… a great tremor… in the Rishva.

My frown deepened. How can there be a tremor in the Rishva? I didn’t think of the Rishva, the immense spiral that flowed between worlds, as the sort of thing that could get tremors.

His eyes, usually so impassive, flickered with displeasure. I can only assume… Rishvant meddling.

I gave a wry laugh. Haldua is bound. Some other Rishvant, perhaps?

Hey, Rosteval, are we going to fight at some point today? Daryubal said.

You’re right, Daryubal, we shouldn’t delay your package, I said, giving him another wicked look.

We formed up and rode toward the Massif. Our horses’ hooves made a dull, rhythmic thumping as they moved across the sand.

Apshendarin and the other Bright Zayastura with him stayed high overhead, flying high enough to be visible only as small, moving spots of light. From practice, I knew that they were flying too high for me to be able to eavesdrop on their thoughts, a strange ability I had discovered I possessed.

That’s probably why they’re flying so high, I thought, with a rueful mental laugh. In truth, I still knew very little about the Bright Zayastura: they conducted themselves in such a remote and aloof fashion, and they lived apart from humans.

There I go again, I thought, thinking of the Bright Zayastura as not-humans.

Tell me, friend Kurjayak, I said, do you still believe the Bright Zayastura are less human than ogres?

His laugh was a cackle. Your memory is remarkable, Rosteval. I suppose I did say that, once—and it is still true. Even the lowliest slave, even a Yulha-man, has human needs, human yearnings, human responsibilities. And I have hunted ogres: they flee, and when they cannot flee they fight with a ferocity that is a marvel to behold.

Daryubal snorted. Man is more than what he needs and what he’s responsible for. Spirit, that’s what a man is, and a man’s spirit is measured by his deeds.

Kurjayak quirked an eyebrow, and his wolfish eyes glinted. A man performs great deeds so that he may profit by them. Thus he satisfies his needs and fulfills his responsibilities. An ogre has simpler needs, and I have never met one who was responsible.

My mind grasped his words like cord, and wove them together to make a rope. What do the Bright Zayastura need? For what are they responsible?

Kurjayak gave me an approving nod. Questions I have never found any satisfactory answer to.

Daryubal made a sour face. Bah. I still say it’s the deeds and the spirit of a man you should look to. A man’s deeds are the track-way of his spirit.

Kurjayak shrugged. The spirit of a man is like the spirit of a horse or camel: it is conditioned by what he does, by what he is made to do.

We continued in this vein for a time as we rode toward the Massif, following the trail of the war-band with their stolen captives and livestock. I was glad for our men to have the chance to engage in this kind of banter: it was a good distraction from the rigors of the campaign and the uncertainty of the battle ahead.

Everyone I had spoken to about the Sen-Batalra had told me the same thing: they were a fractious, quarrelsome race who obeyed no chieftains. They made war on each other as much as they did against their neighbors, and frequently regarded each other with much the same fear that they inspired in others.

Apshendarin had mentioned a perturbation in the power. What could that mean?

I turned these thoughts over in my mind before setting them aside. We were carrying the battle to the Sen-Batalra. With luck, we would prevail.

As we neared the Senti Massif, the low, rocky wall became large and imposing, a great dust-colored wall of desolate desert stone. It was not so tall as the mighty peaks of the Paradtha, or even the weathered slopes of the Masvalpa, but it was far more austere and stark than either of these. The craggy rock was dun-colored, perhaps a half-shade or shade darker than the desert, and the sky was a clear, light blue, a striking contrast with the monotony of the land.

Drawing closer, I could see that there were a number of rocky outcroppings and low hills. A handful of shrubby junipers, scraggly acacias, and thorny weeds grew here and there.

Looking up, my eye was drawn to a soaring vulture. What did it think it would scavenge, in this desolate land?

My Rishva-sense alerted me to Apshendarin’s presence, and I looked up as he descended.

He pointed ahead, toward a rocky hill. There… behind that hill… they are behind it… in a narrow valley.

I thanked him and motioned to my men. This was it.

Ordinarily I would have winded the horn, but we had opted to try for the element of surprise. I raised my left wrist, and made a resonant, droning aural hum, an emanation resonance. A silver Rishva-form about three feet in height sprang into being, surmounted by a silver spirit-figure about two feet in height. Even as the silver light washed over me and my mount, bringing with it a warm, exhilarating sense of power and speed, I willed it to hover overhead.

All around me, the others began doing the same.

I kicked my horse forward, angling toward the rocky hill, and the men followed. Now we were a great stampeding river of men and horses, our mounts galloping with Rishva-enhanced speed around the rocky hill and into the narrow defile behind it.

We came upon a great milling congregation of men and animals, and I quickly saw that the vast majority of the people seemed to be the captives.

With practiced ease, I drew three arrows from my quiver with my right hand and nocked one to my bow. Sighting on the nearest enemy warrior, a wiry, rangy-looking fellow with shifty-looking eyes, and loosed.

He wore no armor, only a cloth headdress and a tunic, and my arrow took him in the chest. As he toppled from his horse, someone within the Sen-Batal ranks winded a horn. The hostages began to cry out, some in panic but others, I thought, begging for deliverance, even as the Sen-Batal warriors shouted in alarm and drone-hummed their own Rishva-spirits into being. Rishva-pairs burst into being over the warriors, a few silver but most of them blue, the fastest.

As the warriors scattered and fled, I saw that some of them wore the iron helmets, lamellar cuirasses, tunics and trousers of Ketaryatra. They looked Ketaryat as well: tawny faces, strong noses, and many of them with the same yellow-gold eyes that I and others of my tribe had.

All the same, they scattered, Sen-Batalra and Ketaryatra, loosing no more than a handful of shafts at us as they fled. We rode after them, killing a few more as they fled, but they led us into a maze of hills and rocky outcroppings. Rather than asking my men to exhaust themselves and their mounts in a futile chase, I opted to turn back.

We returned to the valley, and I saw that the captives and the livestock were gathered around a pool ringed by acacias. They shied away from us as we approached.

Do not fear, I said in the Tamnool language, raising a hand to hail them. "I am Lord Rosteval, Kastorak of the Western Lohiman Kingdom."

My words elicited no sign of recognition, so I repeated myself in Old Hurranian.

Doubt this lot have any Old Hurranian among them, Kurjayak said. Peasants and Yulha-folk, lot of ‘em. Shaper-tongue, maybe.

I tried the Shaper-tongue, and this time a Yulha-man came forward. He had the characteristic wide eyes and flat face of the race, and his chin had no more than a light fuzz, the merest whisper of a beard. He wore a saffron robe, patterned with cross-hatched blue stripes, and a matching brimless cap.

"Kastorak Rosteval, this Yulha begs leave to speak."

After several months in the Western Lohiman Kingdom, I had learned enough to recognize the Yulha-man’s distinctive pattern of dress: he was an official for an administrative unit of Yulha-folk, responsible for overseeing taxation and representing them before their provincial governor.

Granted, I said. Tell me your name, baiyul.

He bobbed his head. Yensapor, baiyul of the South District of Ammartja Province. Your fame much precedes you, Kastorak.

I would be surprised if it had not, I said. Yensapor, I want you to tell these people we are here to return them to their homes. The Bright Zayastura will bring food and water for the return journey.

He clasped his hands before him and bobbed his head once more. Gratitude, Kastorak Rosteval. He turned and spoke to the crowd in a language I did not know—probably Dujanese, by the sound of it. People shouted questions at him, and he responded in a calm, smooth manner.

This, I realized, was a man who was very good at his job.

He turned back to me and bobbed his head again. This one has done as you request, Kastorak Rosteval. The people are grateful, but they wonder if you can help with those who have… he paused, and seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Taken mad might be the best way to say it.

I dismounted, and gestured to my men to follow my lead. Show me.

He led me in among their midst, the true-folk and the Yulha-folk all thronged together, though they parted as we advanced. I saw haggard, desperate faces of men, women, and children, most clad in simple peasant garb: kilts or trousers for the men, skirts or simple mantles that wrapped around the waist and ran over one shoulder for the women. I had noticed that very few of the non-noble women in these hot, sun-touched southern lands bothered to cover their breasts.

I knew, too, that the great blood-law held sway here, as strongly as it did north of the Sebaiya where it was called the Hurranian blood-law: a man could lay a Yulha-maid, even keep a Yulha slave-girl, but to mix the bloodlines was an abomination that would attaint them both. Still, the true-folk and the Yulha-folk thronged together, no doubt bonded in their adversity and the experience of their captivity.

They made way for us, and several of them pointed as the crowd drew back to reveal perhaps a score of people, most of them laid out on blankets. Looking them over, I saw that they all had their eyes closed, but I could see chests rising and falling: they were unconscious, not dead.

Have you administered amber Rishva-pairs? I asked.

Yensapor shook his head. Ah, Kastorak Rosteval, amber Rishva-pairs were not among the articles the Sen-Batalra and the strange ones with them allowed us.

I drew out a glowing amber disc from my belt and knelt by the closest sleeper, a youth. A quick drone-hum drew out the amber Rishva-pair, the shade surmounted on its whirling spiral, and I brought it down to touch the youth.

The youth sat up, rising so quickly he seemed to have been pulled up as if by a string.

His eyes opened, but they were wide and staring.

The Rishva-lord, the Master of the World!

The voice was in the Shaper-tongue, and it was like the rushing of great waters, or the coming of a great storm: a voice too great to belong to any mortal man.

A cold chill went down my spine. I had heard this voice before.

The Rishva-lord, the Master of the World!

His eyes were twin pools reflecting the sky. No spark of awareness gleamed within them.

Possession, I said, reflexively reaching for the sword at my side before I stopped myself. I suppressed a curse. It would not do to anger a god.

The people around me were beginning to gasp and cry out in astonishment.

Kastorak Rosteval, what does one do if a person is possessed? Yensapor asked.

Wait it out, I said. I glanced behind me and saw Kurjayak, Daryubal, and a few others approaching.

A Yulha-maid sat up, eyes opening wide. They were just as blank as the man’s.

The Rishva-lord, Master of the World!

It was the same voice.

And now a true-woman sat up, and then another true-man, and a Yulha-man, and so on until they were all sitting up, eyes wide and staring.

The voice echoed in a chorus from their throats: The Rishva-lord, Master of the World!

Perhaps I should have waited, but I hate waiting when there might be another option. Who is this Rishva-lord, Master of the World? I said.

They all turned to me and smiled, their blank, empty eyes staring but still betraying no spark of recognition.

He comes, Kastorak Rosteval, for the fulfillment of all men! He comes, and he will overcome all opposition! Do not fear, for you will see him soon! He comes, he comes, he comes!

As one, they closed their eyes and then, very carefully and deliberately, lay back down and appeared to go to sleep.

Everyone was silent for a long moment, save for a handful of muffled sobs and gasps of shock.

Tell me, Rosteval, Kurjayak said. Did that Haldua ever fancy himself a Rishva-lord, Master of the World?

My mind was still groping for flint and iron to make a spark. I can’t say that he did. Then again, who knows? He may have gone mad in the months since Ghaitta and I confined him.

Guess we won’t have long to wait to find out, Daryubal said. He made a face. After all, didn’t you hear? He comes.

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2

Sleepers

W e camp here for the night, I said, casting my gaze around the walls of the defile. Men, create a perimeter and scout the nearby passageways. And I need a group of you to escort the rest of our party here. I tasked a couple of hundred men to ride back to our encampment in the desert and bring back the rest of our people. My own wife was among them.

I turned to Yensapor. Baiyul Yensapor, I task you with organizing these people into an encampment.

I looked down at the sleeping forms of the people who had just been possessed. And please see that our sleepers here are given water and made comfortable.

He bobbed his head and clasped his hands. It shall be done, Kastorak. He wiggled his fingers, a gesture I took for enthusiasm. This one is glad to serve.

A thought struck me. I pointed to the sleepers. One other thing: try to find out if anyone knows anything about what might have happened to these people.

He bowed again. With pleasure, Kastorak.

I watched him turn and address the crowd, and although I did not understand his words I was impressed by his calm, reasonable voice. This was a useful Yulha-man.

A faint humming sensation drew my attention upward, and I saw Apshendarin descending. The vertical blades affixed to the bottom of his sandals were crimsoned with blood.

Bright Apshendarin, I said, raising a hand in greeting. You have killed. Congratulations.

We have taken… a prisoner, he said, descending until he hovered perhaps ten or so feet off the ground. Those silver eyes of his flickered with satisfaction.

I saw several more Bright Zayastura appear, a mixture of men and women. Two of the male Bright Zayastura who were armed and armored as Apshendarin was held a man between them, each of them grasping an arm. The man wore the helmet and lamellar cuirass of a Ketaryat warrior, and he was struggling, but his movements were enfeebled.

Looking closer, I saw that his right hand had been cut off, leaving a bloody stump from which the shattered bone protruded.

How well you have done, to capture an enemy! I said, feeling a rush of admiration for Apshendarin. We can interrogate him.

Mentally I probed the air around the Bright Zayastura with my Rishva-sense, attuning myself to the humming noise that marked the conversations they had with their thoughts. Through experimentation, I had learned that I could use my Rishva-sense to hear these conversations.

He will need… treatment… for the loss of his hand.

I shrugged. We can bind up the wound and offer to treat it if he tells us what we want to know.

That would… not be pleasing, Apshendarin said. He is bleeding… we would ask you to heal him.

Probing with my Rishva-sense at the humming sound, I was suddenly rewarded by speech:

This-is-disgusting-and-getting-worse-Apshendarin, said one of the male Bright Zayastura, his mental voice more rapid than speech. I was pretty sure it was the Bright Zayastu holding the captive’s right hand above the part that had been severed. Can-you-hurry-this-up-already?

I shrugged. He’s an enemy. I looked up to the two Bright Zayastura holding the captive. You might as well bring him down for us to question.

The captive was still struggling, but I could see he was getting weaker. Kurjayak, Daryubal, and a few others walked up behind me.

Questioning time! Daryubal said, rubbing his hands with delight.

One of the female Bright Zayastura, a beautiful woman with gray-green eyes, crossed her arms over her chest. I still don’t see why I have to be the one to give him ambrosia. She spoke slower, with greater emphasis, and I felt a strong sense of disgust coming from her. I thought her name was Maralitu.

Despite the fact that we were in the Sebaiya Desert, she wore a silk dress of red-purple, trimmed with cloth-of-gold. It left her shoulders bare, plunged toward her bosom, and was held up by a single necklace-like strap of cloth-of-gold studded with purple amethysts. She wore a pair of golden bracelets, also studded with purple amethysts, on her upper arms.

Apshendarin nodded to the two male Bright Zayastura, and they began to lower the man down to the ground. He is a man, and will respond better to you, he said to the woman. Then, to me: Question him, then, but heal him quickly… his suffering is an offense.

I walked up to the man, a slender-faced fellow with strong cheekbones, and he looked at me with wary eyes, glazed with pain. Do you know who I am?

You’re… Rosteval, he said, and he coughed.

Rosteval, son of Bosvadal, of the line of Verestam of the Barduvatra, I said, giving him a companionable look. Well done. I saw he still had his leather sword-belt, and I took it off him and bound it around the stump of his arm. Tell me, what is your name?

The Bright Zayastura were chattering among other about the offense of the man’s wounded condition, but I ignored them. What did they know of human suffering?

Beregan, son of Marhavat, of the line of Beregan the Elder of the Barduvatra. He gave a faint smile. Always our two lines fight each other.

I laughed. Beregan? Truly? I gestured toward Daryubal. My cousin, there, his name is Daryubal. He once killed a man named Beregan, son of Artagan, also of the line of Beregan the Elder, in a duel of honor for a slave-girl.

Good fight, it was, Daryubal said, puffing out his chest. Took him right through the neck—stabbed him with an arrow.

The man winced. I could tell his wound was paining him. I know… was there that day.

"You were?" I said, with exaggerated delight. Daryubal, did you hear that? He was there that day!

Daryubal licked his lips.

Beregan’s eyes rolled. Hare-Killer was a fool. Got what he had coming to him. Y’going to kill me?

I gave him a mock look of horror and clasped his remaining hand, his left, in my own. It was limp and unresisting. "Kill you? No, no, of course not. But you are going to tell me this: who is the Rishva-lord? What has Aurvedan done?" I tightened my grasp on his hand, and took his small finger in my left hand.

Aurvedan was the favored son of my grandfather, Hamarvan. He had helped to lead a Ketaryat army across the Sebaiya, the army I had defeated with the help of my allies.

Said a voice was talking to him, leading him into the desert. His eyes rolled again, a sign he was slipping. Led him to water. Led him to the Sen-Batalra.

What voice? Haldua’s? I was glad he was talking, even if a part of me had been looking forward to torturing him. I saw Daryubal make a sour face. Clearly he too had been awaiting the torture.

Beregan started to nod, but then shook his head. No, no, says he can help Prince Aurvedan get Haldua back. Says he’s here to… overcome… all opposition.

He was fading. I called to one of the men to bring me my leather canteen from my horse’s saddlebag, and gave Beregan water. Here, not too much.

He gulped it, coughed, and then drank some more.

This voice, I said, when he had drained the canteen. Who did it belong to, if not Haldua?

Calls himself the Rishva-lord… says his name is Soltapyral.

I frowned. That was not a name I had ever heard. Soltapyral? I said. I tried sounding it out: Sole-tah-pyre-all?

He nodded.

What does he look like?

He shook his head. Just… the voice… and the specters.

Specters?

He… conjures them… grant… visions. He was fading, I could tell. I would have to wrap this up.

Bright Apshendarin, do you know that name, Soltapyral? I looked up to see the Bright Zayastura all staring down at me.

Rosteval… will you heal the man now? Apshendarin said. It is… not pleasant… to look upon him thus.

This was curious. Using my Rishva-sense, I probed their conversations.

—so-terrible-Utmost-Source-this-is-so-terrible, Utmost-Source-this-is-so-terrible… said the woman, Maralitu, repeating herself over and over.

Soltapyral? Apshendarin said. That name… I do not know it. Mentally, he said: The perturbation… this is going to be a problem for the Lattice.

Ask-the-Ones-Beyond-about-it-they’ll-know-what-to-do! Maralitu snapped.

Ones Beyond? What could she be talking about?

I wasn’t sure if they were aware I was hearing their conversation, but it did not seem prudent to point it out. I sent for an amber Rishva-pair, and when it arrived I drone-hummed it into being and had it heal Beregan, who had passed out from the shock and blood loss. I then handed him over to the Bright Zayastura—he was their prisoner, after all.

While we were waiting for the rest of our party, I spoke with the baiyul, Yensapor.

It is a curious thing, Kastorak Rosteval, he said, clasping his hands together and wiggling his fingers. Kastorak Rosteval asked this humble baiyul to look into the matter of the ones who slumber?

He phrased it as a question. That, and his other mannerisms, tickled my fancy. I did. What curious thing have you discovered?

When this one asked others about the ones who slumber, they all said their loved ones had been taken into a tent by the raiders. His mouth made a curious grimace, and he shuddered.

I frowned. Are you all right?

He nodded and blinked furiously. This one is pleased to serve! He bowed, and clasped his hands. The, the people, the relatives of the ones who sleep, they spoke of flashes of light… they said their loved ones emerged in a daze.

He was clearly flustered, and I did not blame him. I could only imagine the ordeal of being taken captive by the Sen-Batalra, particularly for a Yulha-man: they were not known to be courageous or possessed of any martial virtue.

Taken into a tent… I said, trying to take the cords and weave them into a rope. If they were taken into a tent, who was in there?

They spoke of a man who walked with a Rishva in his train.

Was he Ketaryat? Did they get his name?

Ketaryat, yes. The name, no.

Almost certainly Aurvedan. It had to be.

You have done well, Baiyul Yensapor.

He bowed. Kastorak Rosteval, may this one ask a question?

I believe you have, I said, with a wink. By all means, ask your second question.

Ah, what is to become of us?

What could he mean? Become of you? I suppose I had assumed you, all of you, true-folk and Yulha-folk, wished to return to your homes. Is this not the case?

His mouth fell open, and then he prostrated himself before me. May you live forever in the sight of the gods, Kastorak Rosteval. He turned and spoke to the crowd, and a chorus of cheers went up.

Men, women, and children turned weary but beaming faces toward me, and though we did not share a common language they at least managed two words: Kastorak Rosteval!

A warm glow went through me. We had done a good thing here today.

Daryubal poked me in the ribs and spoke in my ear in a low voice: I tell you, Rosteval, you could probably get any number of those women in your bed tonight.

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Later that evening, the rest of our party joined us in the valley.

My beautiful wife, Ghaitta, hailed me from her seat atop a camel. Husband! Her dark eyes shone with delight. She wore a sleeveless azure blouse verged with green and embroidered with a golden floral pattern. It was cut in a popular Veyadian style: I admired the elegant plunging neckline, and the way it ended halfway down her midriff. Her long, flowing skirt and silk shawl were of matching color and pattern.

My dear one! I said, my heart gladdening at the sight of her face. I took the reins of the camel from the attendant who held them.

At my command, the camel knelt, and I held out my hand to her. I am afraid this canyon is where we will be lodging for the night.

Her eyes sparkled, and she laughed as she stepped down. You mean we will have to camp out by a mountain?

Yes, I said, drawing her into the circle of my arms and stroking the long, dark fall of her hair. I am afraid so.

She blushed. It will be like when we met.

I laughed, but she was right: we had met in the foothills of the Masvalpa Range, across the Sebaiya to the north. She had been a slave-girl, the property of the great chieftain and slave-dealer Cat-Eye Pon, and he had dangled her in front of me and told me I should have the enjoyment of her for the night. I still recalled the fire within my blood that evening, the way she had looked standing before me, wearing only a short slave-girl kilt, her breasts bare and enticing.

Only later had I learned that Cat-Eye Pon had trained and conditioned Ghaitta to be my sahaudas: by laying with her, I could touch the Rishva, the Great Spiral that ran between worlds, and not lose myself in it.

I drew Ghaitta aside and quickly caught her up on everything that had transpired, including what I had gleaned from the Bright Zayastura as well as the condition of the sleepers.

She frowned, thoughtful and serious. We should voyage into the dream-world tonight, my Rosteval. Perhaps we will find answers there.

I like the sound of that. I nuzzled her neck, and she giggled.

Looking around, I saw the slaves and servants we had brought with us were already pitching tents and lighting fires. There was no firewood to be had in so dry a land, so the fires were fueled by the dried dung of our camels and our horses.

Pardon, Kastorak Rosteval, Lady Ghaitta? said a familiar voice.

I turned and saw the lovely Shayasda, Daryubal’s slave-girl. She wore only a slave-girl kilt that came about halfway down her thighs, and I couldn’t help but admire her bare breasts. Her complexion was a shade of sepia, a deep reddish-brown, and her long, dark hair fell down past her bare shoulders.

Shayasda, I said. You’ll be looking for your master.

She smiled. Her eyes were dark and lambent. Yes, thank you.

I looked about, and saw Daryubal only a short distance away. He seemed to be engaged in a bout of dicing with some of the other men. DARYUBAL! I shouted. GET OVER HERE!

Daryubal looked up, saw me, and trotted over. What is it, Rosteval? Oh, Shayasda, good, you’re here. He grinned and put his left arm around her shoulders, and tugged at the tip of her right breast with his other hand. Now the fun can begin.

She giggled. Master Daryubal.

I tell you, my sweet Shayasda, we had a fine battle, and liberated these people who had been carried off into captivity by cruel, villainous Sen-Batalra, he said, lending comic drama to his voice. Now let’s go celebrate.

She flushed. My master… perhaps we should see that Lady Ghaitta is comfortably settled first.

I was about to assure Daryubal not to worry, that I would ensure the setup of a tent for Ghaitta and I, but then I glanced at Ghaitta. The look in her eyes was a wordless plea to support Shayasda.

Well, I had to admit I did not need a reason to toy with Daryubal.

What a good suggestion your slave-girl offers, I said, giving him a wide smile with only a little hint of mockery. Come on, the two of you simply must eat dinner with us.

We ate dinner, a repast of several different types of bread, a stew of lentils, chickpeas, and chicken flavored with cumin and garlic, and washed it down with beer and wine of the grape.

After dinner, another of our cousins, Taromede, favored us with a song about our ancestor, Bardamal the Elder, who had performed many great and mighty deeds as chieftain of the Barduvatra. I knew that in those days the Barduvatra had been vassals of the Ashvasadra, the tribe of my grandfather Hamarvan, and Bardamal had fought alongside the Ashvasadra in numerous wars against rival tribes.

As I listened to Taromede sing of those battles and campaigns, while playing a lyre, I felt transported in my mind’s eye, as if I could see those long-lost battles. Taromede had an exceptionally good voice, all the more remarkable because he had only recently decided to share it with us, and he sang of wolf-eyed warriors thundering across the plains and fields of the land called Hurranar, past the crumbling, dreaming ruins of the Hurranians and others before them, all the way back to the Shapers.

His mastery of the lyre, too, seemed to be something he had worked at in secret for a long time, to good effect.

Before long, we were all singing along with the chorus:

"You blazed a trail of thunder across the Hurrani-lands you claimed

"Bardamal, your hosts a wonder, the glory of your name

"Wolf-cry echoes from the wood, the soul departs through fire and flame

Father of the Barduvatra, storm-tribe sings to your acclaim

When at last his song was ended, everyone was silent for a long moment. Then I began to clap, and soon we were all applauding.

None of us will ever be s’great as Bardamal, Daryubal said, holding up a tankard of beer. I could see his eyes were a bit glassy. "But s’long as we throw ourselves into battle without fear, and slaughter enemies… well, I can be great, and you lot can be sort of great." He made a comic grimace.

Shayasda rubbed his shoulders. She looked anxious.

I laughed. We have all done great things. And now we have come to the Senti Massif to deal with the Sen-Batalra. That is another great thing in and of itself. You should all be proud of yourselves for what you have accomplished today.

There was much cheering and merry-making, but I noticed an anxious, drawn look on my Ghaitta’s face.

Later, when we were alone in our tent, I asked her if all was well. We had several spirit-lamps for illumination, glass ingots lit by altar-trapped light.

My Rosteval, she said, taking my hands in her own. Do I please you?

I frowned. More than anything or anyone in the world, my Ghaitta.

She smiled. I am glad. My lord husband… I hesitate to ask this of you…

What is it, my dear?

Will you please speak with Daryubal about Shayasda?

He seems perfectly content with her. What would you have me speak with him about?

She sat down on the bed, eyes downcast. Husband, I fear I speak too freely, too much… but is it not true that Daryubal has owned Shayasda for longer than I have been yours?

Yes, I said, and at last my mind began to grasp the cords and weave them into a rope. Daryubal is still not married. You want me to encourage him to marry Shayasda.

She dabbed at her eyes. Yes. Oh, I am sorry, husband—it is only that I see the longing in her eyes. She wants to give him children, but I know that among your people, that is unlikely until he is married. And I see how she looks at me, at us— Tears were pooling in her eyes.

Say no more, I said hastily, sitting down beside her and drawing her to me.

She leaned into me, and for a long moment it was enough to feel the warmth of her, the feather-soft touch of her hair against my cheek. I thought for a moment before continuing. Daryubal is… he was always the one among my cousins who was the most carefree. But I think this would be a good thing.

I was beginning to understand: Ghaitta had been a slave-girl, like Shayasda, but now she was not only free but a noble lady. My feelings for her had grown, infatuation deepening to something else. I had come to care for her, and she for me. At my request, she had been raised to the status of noblewoman by King Yadutheer II of the Western Lohiman Kingdom.

Small wonder she wanted the same thing for Shayasda. And it made sense: I had always known, at some level, that Daryubal had been willing to fight a duel to the death to claim Shayasda from her previous owner because he was taken with her.

Thank you, husband, she said, and she kissed me on the cheek.

I felt the fire of passion kindled, and I drew her into a longer, deeper kiss.

She smiled as I took hold of her blouse, and gently pulled it off. I kissed her bare breasts, and then her fingers were at my waistband, and then we were undressed and full in the throes of passion.

After I had spent myself within her, we lay together for a time, luxuriating in each other’s presence before drifting off to sleep.

In our dreams, we voyaged together into Bright-World, Ellaerugallal, a fiery, hot, arid realm. Great masses of fire billowed in the air, crackling tongues of silver, blue, white, green, rust-red, amber, even a handful of black flames. They were all the colors of the Rishva-pairs, energies that could be harnessed for different purposes.

Holding Ghaitta’s hand, both of us dressed as we had been before going to bed, we flew through the air. Our paths took us deep into Bright-World, to a landscape of dark, burnt-looking, broken ground, all yawning pits and hilly mounds of earth and stones. Here at last we came to a collection of five shining Shaper-glass domes: a large central dome and four smaller domes, all illuminated by light.

A spiraling white Rishva-form whirled at the top of the central dome, and a white Rishva-shade bearing the face of my old friend and mentor was perched atop it.

Hello, old friend, I said, looking up at the Rishva-shade wearing Cat-Eye Pon’s face.

Cat-Eye Pon looked down at us, his craggy grin as achingly familiar as ever. His right eye and the gyre-form in his left eye both seemed to wink at us. I did not understand why Rishva-shades could not speak, but whatever the reason, the Cat-Eye Pon shade appeared to be no exception.

I still wonder, Ghaitta said. Master Cat-Eye Pon, he never told me about this. I don’t understand how he merged with the shade.

Cat-Eye Pon had vouchsafed many secrets to Ghaitta when she had been his slave, during the period in which he had been training her—he had Rishva-worked her while laying with her, making her into a sahaudas.

It is not a thing I understand either, I said. But let us see what we can see.

We were floating toward the central dome, when Ghaitta suddenly stopped and clutched my arm.

For a long moment, I could not believe what I saw emerging from the central dome before us: the figure of a man glowing with white light, but with his face and the rest of him limned with shadow. The hollows of his gyre-patterned eyes, his beard and hair, the folds of his robe and trousers, all carried the touch of shadow.

I knew this man—no, not a man. I knew this being, knew him and loathed him. In fact, I had killed him, and Ghaitta and I had bound him.

YOU! I said, gathering my will and mentally reaching for the bindings Ghaitta and I had woven some months before.

Haldua the Rishvant, the Returning Immortal, clasped his hands and fell to his knees before us. Rosteval! Ghaitta! Thank all that is good!

You have one moment to tell me how you loosed your bonds, I said. I could still feel the binding Ghaitta and I had put together: it was not a physical thing, but rather a Rishva-working, a patterning of power.

Ghaitta stared at him, and I could see more fire in her beautiful dark eyes than I had ever seen before. You hurt me.

I was wrong, I was wrong, I was utterly wrong! Haldua said. His eyes seemed to bulge with actual fear—unless he was shamming. We were duped—I was duped, the Enemy is not who I thought he was!

Haldua’s bonds seemed as secure as ever, but I quickly saw what he had done: he had pushed toward the edge of the patterning to reach us. Since we were the creators of the bond, he had found a way to appear before us.

What enemy? I said, lending iron to my voice. Speak plainly.

The Rishva-lord, Master of the World—I know him, yes, and I can help you bond the white Rishva-shade again.

I turned to Ghaitta. Do we hear him out?

A white light flashed in her left eye. The Rishva-lord comes, the Master of the World! she said, and her voice was the voice of thunder and rushing waters. He comes, he comes, he comes!

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3

Haldua’s Proposal

G HAITTA!

I shook her by the shoulders, trying to bring her back to me. Anger and disbelief knifed at me as I looked into her vacant, staring eyes.

She smiled at me, the vacant eyes meeting my own. The Rishva-lord comes, the Master of the World! she said again, in that voice of thunder and rushing rivers. He comes, he comes, he comes!

Haldua stepped forward, hand raised. I saw power crackling there, a gyre-form, and made to raise my fist, but he held up his hands, and his expression was one of placation.

Let me help—please.

I warred with myself for a moment before relenting. Very well.

He placed his hands on her temples and drone-hummed. His gyre-patterned eyes flashed.

Rosteval! Ghaitta said, and I swept her into my arms. She grasped me and buried her face in my chest.

What happened, dear one? I said.

He swept me away, she said. It was like… touching the Rishva.

That is what I need to speak with you about, you and your slave-girl, Haldua said.

"Me and my wife," I said. That is what Lady Ghaitta is now.

He bowed. My congratulations to you both. So, the Enemy—I thought, for a long time, that he was the One-Eyed One.

Why are you coming to us? I said, suddenly needing that answer. When last we met in the flesh, I killed you.

Hardly the most painful death I have suffered, I can assure you, Haldua said. He actually looked mildly bemused. But not the least painful, either. Was it really necessary to stab both of my eyes?

Talk, I snapped. He wanted something from