Dreams of the Compass Rose (25 page)

The
taqavor
laughed. “Your vision is even more narrow than his!” he exclaimed. “But I have anticipated all of you, and that is why I have brought my four bravest warriors here. It will take only four fearless men to find out. Four strong men, the four of you. You will each one of you go in the four opposite directions, taking whatever caravans, horses, and supplies you may need on your journey. You will take ships, if you must, to sail.”

And then the
taqavor
pointed with his index finger at each of the four veteran soldiers in turn.

“
You, Jimor, will travel facing the rising sun. You, Mareid, go in the opposite direction, facing the setting sun. You, Rihaad, take yourself to the right hand of the rising sun. And, finally, you, Vikenti, follow the rising sun’s left hand.”

“
How far are we to go, my Lord?” asked one of the four.

The
taqavor
smiled. “You will go as far as it takes, unto eternity if needed. You will keep going, until you reach the End. And when you return, you will describe to me what the End is like. Does the world stop at the edge of a bottomless abyss? Do the oceans spill their waters into that same abyss? Or, maybe, it is an abyss of fire and the realm of the gods? I want to know if my
empirastan
borders upon the land of the gods, and in what manner.”

“
But my Lord,” spoke the most venerable of the soldiers, Jimor, “how are we to know what the End of the World is like? How are we to know it when we see it? In our conquest travels we came to many places which had mountains the height of heaven, and had boundless oceans. We came to a stop before deserts ending over cliffs, and before other wonders, none of which we could surmount easily, and so we went around them.”

“
Well then, you’ve answered your own question,” replied the sovereign. “For, in all such cases, you remember that we continued going, we found a way to move beyond or around these natural barriers. For none of these was the End. And thus I say now, you will know it when you come to it. Therefore, waste not another moment, and be on your way! I do not expect you back in many moons, even in many seasons. But if you fail, or perish on the way, your families and your honor will suffer greatly. So, do not fail me, and do not fail yourselves.”

The men bowed before the
taqavor
and left his presence.

And he stood alone in the hall, all except for the self-effacing Prince Lirheas.

“
Will they find it, father?” the young man asked unexpectedly, for he hardly ever spoke at all. “Or will they all perish needlessly on this impossible quest?”

The
taqavor
glanced briefly at him, with a measuring gaze which held in it mostly disdain. “Only the weak will perish. If they do not come back after five summers, then I will send others in their place.”

And the Prince lowered his gaze before his Lord father.

S
everal moons passed, after the four expeditions had been sent off to find the End of the World.

The
taqavor
found himself walking one morning along the pale marble terrace of his sunlit gardens in the palace that was the middle of the mortal world. He paced, his mind in meditation, while from afar the parched desert wind came to wash over his pale hair—once the color of wheat, now all silvered like old steel. The wind reminded the
taqavor
that his Palace and his great city had been built around a great oasis, and only a little beyond the lush gardens stood empty desolation.

At this, his thoughts took a dark turn, and he felt a buildup of old fury, a decentralized hatred, and with it a surge of old lust.

The House of Wives was only a little away, at the other end of the gardens, and it had been a while since he had touched a woman’s tender resilient flesh. And so he allowed himself the slow burning rise of anticipation as he walked toward the House, taking the quickest way possible, along a narrow sandy path.

As he approached the structure of exotic painted marble he could hear a strange din, and a noise of many female voices. There were also sounds of drums and the sweet wailing of
zourna,
and the strumming of strings, and, most surprising of all, the stomping of many feet.

The
taqavor
stopped, frozen in his tracks. In that instant his mind was inundated with a seething flood of thought-shards and all manner of images—all swirling in disorder, all wrought of doubt, fear, mistrust, and an underlying murk of jealousy.

His
taqoui
were engaging in a ritual that did not involve him, a moment of intimate freedom, of wild abandon?

And the
taqavor
resumed walking, this time with a dark determination, until he was at the doors of the House of Wives, and there was being met by obeisant servants. But he cast them aside, pushing the first of the men forward with such fierce strength that the poor servant fell and remained cowering on the stairs, and the rest drew back in terror of their Lord.

He continued through the entrance, and into the musk-filled soft luxury and darkness of the House. Then, as he picked up the pace and was beginning to race forward, frightened men and women servants scattered from him in all directions as he encountered them in the hallways.

At last, he emerged in the internal courtyard and the inner private gardens, and was met by the rich clamor of celebration, of dance music and wild drums. It resounded on the wind like aerial perfume, and yet to his senses it was poison.

Seeing the
taqavor,
the musicians stopped playing their instruments, their tunes flattening out in dull final notes, and the drums quieted into nothing but echoes on the wind.

The
taqoui
froze in place like glittering temple statues, and then all swiftly came down kneeling, and placed their foreheads to the earth. Strings of pearls swept the ground, and fine gauze veils were gently fluttering in the breeze.

Silence.

The
taqavor
walked to the center of the courtyard, his footsteps ringing against smooth marble tile warmed by the midday sun. He then stopped, feet planted apart, and glanced around him at the prostrate female figures.

Then he approached one young
taqoui
kneeling in silence, her form moving only with breath, and he stepped on her strewn auburn hair with his sandals.

“
You,” he said very softly. “Tell me what has come to pass just now.”

The young woman gasped and then went so still that her breath ceased. She barely whispered, her face still to the ground, “It is nothing, my Lord. . . .”

The silence all around was profound and thick with fate.

“
Is that so?” said the
taqavor.
And then his foot moved in closer, and he rested the toe of his sandal very lightly against the trembling woman’s bare neck.

“
If I put my full weight on this foot,” he said softly, “it will break your neck. So, tell me again, woman. What has come to pass?”

Before the half-faint
taqoui
had a chance to formulate a reply, another female voice came from behind him, from the doorway returning to the House.

“
My Lord! Why, you have spoiled your own surprise!”

The
taqavor
removed his foot from the unfortunate on the ground before him, stepped back, and turned to stare at the speaker.

A thin female covered with the poor shawl of a servant stood at the door, holding a large bowl of stacked honey-pastries and sweetmeats. She walked forward with determination and bowed deeply before the
taqavor,
casting her gaze swiftly to the ground before he could see her face.

“
Forgive me for speaking out, my Lord,” she said gently, in a steady soothing voice, “but we were not expecting you today. The whole House is in turmoil, preparing a marvelous event in your honor—a feast for your delectation, with dancing and musical entertainment. As you can see—” and she motioned with one hand generally, while she continued to balance the heavy overfilled bowl with the other—“the
taqoui
and your concubines are working hard to make your surprise the most dazzling spectacle. It will please you very much, indeed, it—”

The
taqavor
stared at this lowly creature speaking, nay, babbling, calmly in his presence, with amazement. The amazement was such that it had made him forget anger, and inflamed him with a need to find out more. . . .

“
Who are you? What is this that you speak?”

The creature bowed again. “I am nothing but your humble servant, my Lord. I serve you and the House of Wives. . . .”

“
And who will be eating this, since I have not been yet invited, and arrived unexpectedly?” said the
taqavor,
pointing to the bowl of delicacies, and expecting to catch her in confusion.

But the creature was incredible.

“
This? Oh, no one will be eating this, my Lord, for it is not food, but the raw materials of my artistic craft. I will be using pastry to create a voluptuous statue of your First
Taqoui.
For practice, of course, since the real statue will be made on the day of your feast, and presented for you to . . . eat.”

The
taqavor
stared in disbelief, his brows narrowing.

She noted the beginning of that terrible frown, the encroaching doubt.

“
My Lord, let me demonstrate for you!” said the woman suddenly. And as he watched this insane thing taking place before him, she put down the bowl on the ground, and then crouched, and grabbed a handful of sugared gooey pastry in one hand, and with unusually adroit movements started to roll it into a sticky ball.

And then, before his unbelieving eyes, the woman rolled more honey dough—some pieces long and cylindrical, others spherical—and then started to put them together and shape them into refinement with thin strong fingers.

The
taqavor
watched her work in silence, in a sunlit courtyard of kneeling shapes of the Wives and the frozen musicians. He ignored the wind singing against the stone and the whisper of leaves, the rustling veils. He saw only skinny pale hands moving rapidly, and before him an impossible thing taking place.

The statue stood upright. It reached only to his waist, since there was not enough pastry to do something on a larger scale. And it was growing in intricacy every second. In a matter of breaths, a formless lump of honey and sweetmeats was now the figure of a woman with soft hips and full breasts, with every contour defined.

The artist continued to shape her, running fingertips through the head-lump to form locks of hair, then squeezing the holes for the eyes, the slender nose, the fine nostrils, the shape of the chin. She pulled longer thin rolls of dough to create more curving locks and wreathed the smooth forehead of the honeyed mass in spider-thin etchings mimicking the filaments of human hair, done merely with the raking of nails. . . .

At last, she put the finishing touches on the statue, so that the tiny sharp nipples on the breasts stood out sensuously, and the thighs curved and streamed into slender legs, tapering to feet with tiny shaped toes. From the shoulders of the statue grew upraised arms, and the hands curved, flowing into palms and dainty fingers like lotus-blossoms.

The statue balanced impossibly on its slender feet upon the marble floor, without the assistance of the artist. How could this be, without some invisible assistance of the gods?

“
It is complete, my Lord,” announced the woman suddenly. She got up from her crouch, but her head remained lowered, and she wiped her sticky hands upon her old tunic and long cotton pants. “How do you like your little
taqoui?
Though tiny, she is edible in all senses of the word. But I promise you, when I make the real one for your actual feast, she will be life-size. . . .”

For a moment, the
taqavor
was speechless. And then a smile came to his lips, an unusual smile in its innocence. He stared at the small statue, and then approached it, to look at it from all sides.

“
It is indeed perfect . . .” he admitted.

In reply, she once again bowed.

“
She is so perfect,” continued the
taqavor,
“that from this moment I forgive all of you. And you, woman, I forgive you also, for speaking in insolence. Indeed, you lie so well for the others—for I know that you all deceive me even now, do not for a moment think otherwise—and yet you justify your colorful words with such impossible proof that it is the only thing I can do. Furthermore, if you can create an intricate form of wonder out of pastry, what other thing can you do, given proper materials of the artist’s craft?”

And while the multitude of wives let out a great breath of relief, and there were animated rustlings on the ground from all directions, the woman continued to bow, and she replied to the
taqavor,
“I can create anything for you, my Lord. Anything that you desire.”

“
Then you and none other shall be the one to create for me,” he said, “the true symbol of my
empirastan
.”

I
n his favorite hall of violet-veined marble, the
taqavor
sat in a high seat and conversed with the lowly woman who had no other name than “you with the knowing eyes.” A few steps away stood the quiet Prince Lirheas, with his back to them, looking out with an absent gaze through an arched window into a sun-filled garden. And yet he was aware of their every nuance of conversation.