by Emma Bull
"This matter must be resolved in a harmonious fashion. Consider the situation, Aritoli, as if it were a painting—a portrait if you will, whose theme is vengeance. The subjects of this painting are you, Emarati, Deremer, and Me. As you well know, for a portrait to be pleasing, all elements must be present in a harmonious balance."
Aritoli frowned, unable to grasp what Irhan was saying. He had been prepared to lose his mind into the Void Beyond, which made it difficult to bring it back down to earth for the effort of thinking. "But this particular tableau, Holy One, cannot be assembled, if for no other reason than that Emarati is dead."
"There are no impossibilities where divine honor is concerned, Ari. If you wish this matter to come to closure, then you will see that it is done. When this tableau is assembled, then shall you hear my judgement."
"But—"
"One bit of advice I will give you. The setting of this work will be upon the sand of Ka Zhir."
•
Aritoli shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, pulling the smelly, worn cloak tighter around him. His false beard itched dreadfully, but he dared not scratch at it too much. Instead, he tried to calm himself and listen to the guttural but musical language of the Zhir sailors who clinked their mugs and glasses at a table nearby.
The darkness of his blindness was almost reassuring after the intensity of Irhan's beauty-sight. Still, Aritoli longed for either normal sight or death, which was why he was willing to sit in this tavern, the Golden Masthead, and listen to the Zhir sailors it served, in order to gain a clue to Irhan's riddle.
Maljun coughed nervously beside him. Someone off to Aritoli's left said, with a heavy Zhir accent, "Why do you stare at us, old man? Have you not seen Zhir before?"
"Perhaps," said another voice, "he wishes to be reminded what a real man looks like. He is so old, he has forgotten."
Aritoli spoke up, "We are held in rapt attention by your wonderful stories of the sea and faraway places, gentlemen." Aritoli hoped his command of the Zhir language was good enough. "But there is one story in particular we are listening for."
"Storytellers are usually paid for their services."
Aritoli pulled a five-levar coin from his pocket and held it out. "This is all I have," he lied. He felt the coin quickly snatched from his hand and imagined the sailors examining it closely.
"This tale is important to you then, eh?" said a sailor.
"It means my life to me." And that is no lie.
"Ask what tale you wish," said the sailor heartily. "If we don't know it, we'll make up one even better."
"Ah, but the tale I want must be true," said Aritoli.
"All tales contain some truth."
"Indeed, but this one must have more than wisdom as its truth. I need to know where, upon the sand of Ka Zhir, is a place where the dead may stand among the living."
There was silence for a moment. Then came a harsh babbling as the sailors conferred among themselves. ''This is a tale we do not know, blind one. We can tell you of ghost ships that appear on Midnight Bay, or the spirits of drowned sailors who haunt the Kil Strand waiting to drag unwary swimmers under. But—"
''The only thing close to what you ask," said another, "is this. There is a tent on the beach by the harbor in which an old woman sits day after day. She is called The Gatekeeper. People come to see her and leave her tent ashen-faced. They say she has the power to summon the voices of the dead."
"Do you believe she can do this?" asked Aritoli.
"I do not know, blind one. But I, myself, will never enter her tent to find out. Too many dead enemies have I."
This brought laughter around the sailors' table and Aritoli knew they would not return to the subject again. "Let's go, Maljun," he whispered to his manservant. "We will learn no more here."
•
To Aritoli, the darkness of his study should be no different from the darkness he experienced elsewhere, yet there was a comfort in the feel of the room that he could not name. He regretted that he would have to leave it, even if only for a tenday or two.
"Your valise is packed," said Maljun, entering. Aritoli knew his manservant had doubts about the entire venture, but he was well trained enough to carry through with it.
"Thank you. The difficulty now is seeing that Deremer follows us. You did spread the rumors?"
"Yes, Master. Certain parties have been informed that you have found a wizard in Ka Zhir who can easily cure a slight ailment of yours."
"Good, but that will not be enough to bring her. She could wait until I return to see if the rumor was true. Damn, I wish there was something more I could do."
Hesitantly, Maljun offered, "You are still a wizard, Master. "
Aritoli snorted. "Yes, a wizard of light and illusion. What good is that when I can see no light? Can I be a wizard of darkness instead?" And then he stopped. Yes … perhaps I can. There are relations, connections I might use …
"Master?"
"Maljun, bring to me the black silk scarf I brought home the night I was blinded."
"It is right here, Master."
The soft veil of silk, still fragrant with Deremer's perfume, was draped across Aritoli's open hands. "Yes," he whispered, stroking the cloth, "This might do very well. Bring me my belt."
"At once, Master." There was no need for Maljun to ask which belt, and shortly the belt whose ornate buckle contained Aritoli's luck was placed in his lap.
Aritoli nodded his thanks and wrapped one end of the scarf in his left fist, the other in his right. Drawing upon the luck in his belt, he concentrated upon Deremer, and easily he could imagine her smiling face as she danced.
We are bound, you and I, Aritoli thought, with will poured through his magical power. Bound by an act of bloodshed. Bound by darkness. The darkness that is in your heart is matched by the eternal night before my eyes. By your spell upon me, you have bound yourself to me, and where I go you will follow until the spell is broken.
He felt something flow out from him—an invisible magical thread. It was small, subtle, yet Aritoli knew when it had reached its destination. And it did not break. She did not expect or sense it. "Yes, Maljun. She will follow."
•
"Is she there, Maljun?"
"A woman in a brown abjahin has been trailing us, Master."
"Good." Aritoli waved his raven's head cane ahead of him, tap-tapping the cobblestones of the Zhir street. Surrounding him were the smells of ginger and garlic, and the heavy perfumes of exotic flowers. "We are at Noyang Market, aren't we, Maljun?"
"Passing the southern end of it, Master. We will come to the beachfront shortly."
Aritoli felt perversely pleased with his newfound ability to use his other senses. Would smell or sound seem this rich to me if my sight were returned? "The day is bright and sunny, isn't it, Maljun?"
"No, Master. It is overcast."
"Oh." Soon, he reminded himself, soon this matter will be finished, one way or another.
"Careful of your step here, Master. This is where the sand begins."
Aritoli felt himself guided to the right a little, and he stepped onto a soft, yielding surface. Overhead there were the cries of seabirds, wheeling in an endless search for fish. In the distance, Zhir dockworkers moaned out their work songs. And beyond that, the soft whoosh of ocean waves upon the shore. The air was full of the tang of salt and sea. What might this have looked like, had I kept Irhan's beauty-sight? Would the sand seem strewn with diamonds and gold? Would the sea be emerald and silver? Would even the grey clouds above seem like doe-skin velvet? For a moment, Aritoli regretted his pride in denying that Holy Gift. Then his step faltered in the sand and Maljun caught his ann. With a sigh, Aritoli turned his concentration back to walking.
After what seemed like an hour, Aritoli heard the thunder of heavy cloth flapping in the wind.
"Here is her tent, Master. Shall we go in?"
"Does Deremer still see us?"
"Yes, she watches from down the beach."
"Let's go i
n, then. The cat always prefers to chase the mouse behind the curtain."
Aritoli let Maljun guide him in, and he heard the tent door cloth clap shut behind them.
"There is a chair here, Master. Sit."
Aritoli cautiously did so as an old woman said, "Welcome, sirs, to the tent of the Gatekeeper." There was something out of place in the voice. If this is an old woman, she yet has some youthful fire in her.
"It is said you have the power to summon the dead," Aritoli ventured. "Is this true?"
"Through me, their voices may be summoned, yes. Do you seek a loved one who has passed on? Merely say the name and the soul will come."
"The one I seek is not, I fear, a beloved relative. And for the moment we must wait for another to arrive before we begin."
"Very well."
By the Twin Forces, may she not be a fraud! Too much depends on this. I hope her skill is enough to satisfy lrhan's riddle. Aritoli fingered a gemstone in his pocket—the parting gift from Irhan. At the appropriate time, Aritoli was to summon the Lord of Beauty with it. If I am wrong …
"Where is Deremer?" Aritoli growled.
"Shall I look outside, Master?"
"No. Then she'll know she's expected." Aritoli pulled the black silk veil out of his shirt and concentrated. Follow! Come and finish what you have begun!
Suddenly the doorflap cracked open and a perfume wafted through the tent that brought back memories of swirling black veils and pounding drums. Before anyone else spoke, Aritoli said, "Deremer Ledoro. What a pleasure to see you again."
There was a moment's pause. "I know you cannot see me, ola Silba," Deremer's low voice purred. "I cast the spell that darkened your eyes."
"Yes, I know."
"And by now you should know there is no wizard in the world who can remove it but me. Your trip here is futile."
"Is it? I think not, Deremer. Actually I came here not to be healed, but to consult with your departed father. I wondered if he'd approve of what you've done."
"If that is a jest, ola Silba, I do not find it in the least amusing. I can do far worse than I have, you know. I have exacted justice where even the mighty Irhan would not. My father would be proud to see this, ola Silba. I dearly wish he could be here. It would bring his unjustly treated soul peace."
"It is not wise to gloat, my dear, and I assure you this is no jest. By all means, let us bring your father's soul peace. Mistress Gatekeeper, what must we do?"
"Merely call the name of the person you would summon," said the old woman.
''This is nonsense," said Deremer in a tone less sure than she doubtless would have liked.
"Emarati Ledoro!" Aritoli called out. "Your daughter and your murderer would speak with you."
"Who … who … Deremer?" a tenor voice, tentative and uncertain, wavered in the air.
Perfect, thought Aritoli. That is much as I remember him.
"What trick is this?" Deremer hissed.
"No trick," said Aritoli. "Yes, Emarati, I called you, and Deremer is here. It is time a certain matter was settled."
"How amazing," said Emarati's voice. "I never … Deremer, my child, how are you?"
Tightly she replied, "I will not speak to a ventriloquist's casting."
"She is quite well, Emarati," said Aritoli, "though a trifle upset at the moment. She needs proof that you are truly Emarati."
"Ah, Deremer, my little Derchi … how I missed you. Remember when you dressed up in my face cream and robes, and called yourself a priestess of Irhan? You were five, I think. Do you remember? Have you devoted your life to Irhan?"
There was a pause, during which Aritoli wished fervently that he could see Deremer's face.
"Irhan!" she cried, "Father, he betrayed you! I would never serve him. Never!"
"Yes … yes, he did," Emarati sighed. "But he had reason."
"Reason? There is no good reason that he let you die. I will punish him for you, Papa. Just as I have punished your murderer, ola Silba."
"Punish? Oh, no, little Derchi, don't—"
"Before this goes further," Aritoli said, "there is one more player missing from this drama." He turned a portion of the gem in his hands. Golden light streamed down from above. Oh, no. Am I to have the benefit of his glamor-sight again?
But it was not quite the same. In the middle of the tent stood an exquisitely handsome young man. All else around him was dark and drab by comparison. The sparse furnishings of the tent were dingy and grey, and even Deremer's golden hair seemed mousy and dull.
"Ah, Ari," said the radiant god, "I knew you were resourceful enough to bring us together."
"You!" cried Deremer. This was followed by a string of epithets worse than anything Aritoli had ever heard in sailors' taverns.
"What a pity," said Irhan placidly, "That camel dung should come spewing out of such a lovely throat and mouth."
Deremer choked on whatever words she was about to say.
"Derchi, stop," said Emarati. "Irhan did not protect me in the duel because I overstepped myself in asking him to."
"Ah!" said Deremer, "Irhan is a god who thinks it too much to protect his priests!"
"I thought I was the one on trial here," said Aritoli, half-amused.
"And so you are," said Irhan. "The subjects of our tableau are assembled."
"And who is to be my judge?"
"I am your judge!" Deremer said, rounding on Aritoli. "And I have already passed sentence."
"I think not," said Irhan. "You may be witness for the prosecution, perhaps, but the right to be judge falls to another. Emarati, will you pass judgement on us, who your daughter claims wronged you?"
"Yes, Papa. tell me what to do."
"There has been no wrong done to me," said Emarati, "that I did not deserve."
"What!" exclaimed Deremer. "Irhan failed me because I had failed him as a priest."
"That cannot be true," Deremer whispered. "You were a great priest, Papa."
"I'm afraid not, Deremer," Emarati began. "You see, I misunderstood the meaning of the worship of Irhan. I felt a High Priest in the Shrine of Beauty must be beautiful. But my concept of beauty changed into vanity as I aged. I combed my hair over my baldness. I bought corsets to hold in my girth. I put clay ointments on my face to smooth the deepening wrinkles, and spent hours at the tailor's, fitting clothes that hid every defect. Soon I forgot my priestly duties in the pursuit of a beauty I could never attain." With weariness, as if speaking was an effort, he finished, "I should have stepped down from the priesthood long before, but my pride would not let me."
Yes, thought Aritoli, remembering, this rings true with what I recall of Emarati. His obsession with his appearance to the exclusion of all else was why his wife Mehari was so receptive to my attentions.
"And so," said Irhan, "Aritoli stepped in to do the removal instead."
"How dare you!" cried Deremer.
"Dare? I?" said Irhan. "Was it not you who dared to attempt to subject me to Rikiki's curse?"
Aritoli marveled at the arrogance, or courage, of Deremer that she would extend her vengeance to a god.
"Ah, Derchi, do not do such things. I deserved my fate. It was my foolish pride that led me to challenge ola Silba. Foolish to ask my god to protect me when I had no skills in swordsmanship and faced a younger man. On this side of life I have learned one thing … to forgive. I forgive Master ola Silba. You should forgive him too, Derchi."
"No!" shrieked Deremer. "Papa, I did this for you! I blinded him to avenge you! Aren't you proud of me, Papa? Aren't you?"
"Oh, Derchi," Emarati sighed sadly, "I should not have neglected you and your mother so."
"Papa, I hated them for you. I'd destroy them for you." Tears began to run down her face and her shoulders shook with sobs.
"Oh, no, Derchi. No, no." Emarati spoke soothingly.
He might have made a good father, thought Aritoli, had he not been a priest of lrhan. He looked at Deremer's strong, tear-stained face. How she must have loved him, to have driven herself so
.
"Well," said Irhan, "our judge has given his verdict. He has forgiven Master ola Silba of the deed. Therefore, Deremer, you must restore Aritoli's sight."
"No!" Deremer wailed, and she sat abruptly on the tent's sandy floor, burying her face in her hands.
"This leaves our portrait of vengeance unbalanced," said Irhan. "Therefore, Deremer, prepare to receive my vengeance."
Aritoli did not know how much of his current borrowed vision reflected reality, but he watched in horror as Deremer became wrinkled and shriveled and bent. Her rheumy eyes grew wide as she looked down at herself, and she moaned.
"No!" Aritoli shouted. "Irhan, I beg you, cease!"
"What?" said the Lord of Beauty, frowning.
"Don't you see? She did this out of love for her father. She wanted to do something he would have found praiseworthy, that would have earned his love. She couldn't know it was not what he wanted. She saw me as her father's murderer. She couldn't know that her father asked for death as surely as a man in a dory who throws his oars away at sea. Restore her, Irhan. I forgive her."
A smile crept across the god's lips. "Well, it would seem forgiveness is an underlying theme of our gathering. I will restore her if she restores your sight."
"No, Irhan, do not blackmail her—" But as he spoke, Aritoli felt his eyes twitch and prickle, and he shut them, putting his hands to his face. He blinked out tears and slowly opened his eyes as the sensations faded. He saw sunbeams slanting through the crack of the tent door, dappling the sandy floor with pools of pale light. He looked up and saw the Gatekeeper's ancient, craggy face, a man-shaped cloud of golden dust motes, and Deremer's young, intent face as her hands completed a sorcerous pattern. And Maljun—his worn visage a study in loyalty and patience. It was the most beautiful scene he'd ever beheld, because it was his true sight restored. "Thank you," he whispered.
"And so our scene is complete," said the golden cloud that Aritoli realized was Irhan. "I could not let you remain blind. I need you as an arbiter of beauty in the world. You have served me in more ways than you know." In a glimmer of golden lightning, Irhan was gone.
Aritoli looked at Deremer and tried to smile at her.