He turned and walked away from the melding. A cheer rose from the crowd, and suddenly a stone flew past Luka’s shoulder to strike Gugan on the forehead. It was soon followed by another and another
Luka saw his neighbor, Unga, pick up a rock.
Erelin Osta threw a stone the size of his fist, and the women who stood with him each threw one of their own.
“Go back to your wife, Luka,” Erelin Osta said. “You can leave – he won’t last the night.”
Luka walked away without looking back. It was time to take care of Senna, and to look forward to a life working with the unique properties of metal.
It had always attracted him.
The Sins of the Past
The Kalif of Tarn Bitar was one of the most powerful men in the Hazara Desert.
Even in his younger days – when as a fearless warrior Kalif Majid and his men had raided and plundered villages and caravans from Petrya to the shores of the Great Western Ocean – he hadn’t had as many fighting men under his command as he did now. Majid’s life had been blessed by the Lord of Fire, and from the recklessness of his youth to the wisdom of his advancing years, his star had shone brighter with every passing moment.
Now, when Majid left his tents and gathered his wives for a visit to the souk at the Oasis of Touma, the vendors bowed in his wake. Jewel-sellers ran up to his horse, tugging on his robe and displaying their finest wares, while swords were held up for his inspection and horses were paraded by the dusty road-side, their dark coats brushed until they shone like the sun on the waters of the oasis.
Majid knew he cut a fine figure. His robe was of soft black silk, covered with an outer layer of fine white goat’s wool to reflect the sun’s rays. He was old, nearly seventy years of age, and his hair was entirely white, yet it was trimmed neatly and he wore heavy golden jewelry at his throat and six gem-set rings on his fingers. Despite his age, his bearing was erect, and he rode his proud stallion with the confidence of a man who had spent a lifetime in the saddle, still able to challenge any of his young warriors in a race.
Yet Kalif Majid Khuzaimah was not a happy man.
His sword-arm had grown weaker with every passing year, and at the end of a day’s riding the joints in his knees ached.
As Majid grew older, the glances of his men began to seem resentful rather than respectful, and the looks of those with a claim to rule in his stead became envious. Majid now slept with a dagger under his pillow and a ring of guards around his tent.
Majid hadn’t survived countless midnight raids and taken a wealth of slaves by being a fool. He didn’t need a confessor to tell him that he didn’t have long left for this world. Yet he was fond of life, and wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
So Majid formulated a strategy for his advancing years, just like he would any other battle. To give him as many years as possible, his guards would protect him from those who thought they would make a better tarn leader than he. In the event that death knocked on his door, he would do what he could to cleanse his soul and prepare for the journey to the afterlife.
Yet cleansing Majid's soul had its own troubles. As the confessors forced Majid to focus his thoughts on his own death, his great wealth and status and the pleasures of his numerous wives and concubines became as nothing. As he dwelled on the teachings of the elders, who preached compassion and a life spent following hajjariah, the way, he reflected on the life he'd led.
He knew the commandments; he’d laughed at them long ago, along with the other young men his age. Do not steal? He’d stolen gold and goats, tents and spices. Do not covet another man’s wife? He’d taken his enemies’ wives as concubines, and done with them what he willed. Love thy neighbor? He had raided neighboring tribes, and he had killed cousins who had challenged him for the leadership of Tarn Bitar.
Do not murder? Majid’s thoughts shied from that one.
“Kalif, look,” one of Majid’s warriors pointed at a sign in the souk, beside the stall of a spice merchant, “there is a new confessor.”
Majid searched for any mocking in the warrior’s tone, but could hear none. They knew about his obsession; he’d visited confessor after confessor in his quest for the salvation of his soul.
“I see the sign,” Majid said. “I will stop here for a while. My wives may buy goods while I am visiting.”
“Yes, Kalif.”
Majid’s bones cracked as he slipped down from his horse and handed the reins to one of his men. “Wait for me outside,” he said.
There was a man outside the tent, a devotee, wrapped from head to toe in the black wool of one who sought atonement for past sins.
That makes two of us, Majid thought.
“The confessor awaits,” the devotee said, his voice muffled by the cloth, as he opened the tent. Majid stooped as he walked inside.