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grim guardian fortress, Maisak, and descended to a town called Baxendala.
    There, after a girl and some wine, Mocker fell to dicing with the locals.
    He got caught cheating.
    This time he was on the run in a land where he spoke not a word of the language.
    In Vorgreberg he lasted long enough to pick up a smattering of several western tongues. He was a fast, if incomplete, study.
     

Chapter Four:
    THE MOST HOLY MRAZKIM SHRINES
    D
    
    ay after day El Murid sat at Meryem's bedside. Sometimes his daughter or Sidi would join him. They would share prayers. His captains sought him there when they needed instructions. It was there that his generals Karim and el-Kader came with the gift—news that they had won an astonishing victory over Royalist forces near the ruins of Ilkazar. That battle's outcome was more significant than his seizure of Al Rhemish. It broke the back of Royalist resistance. Hammad al Nakir was his.
    It was at Meryem's side that, in time, an emaciated, dessicated Nassef finally appeared to report, "Yousif's brat eluded me. But Radetic paid the price."
    El Murid merely nodded.
    "How is she, Micah?"
    "No change. Still unconscious. After all this time. The fates are cruel, Nassef. They give with one hand and take away with the other."
    "That sounds like something I'd say. You're supposed to put it, ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.' "
    "Yes. I should, shouldn't I? Again the Evil One insinuates himself into my mind. He leaves no opportunity begging, does he?"
    "That's the nature of the Beast."
    "It's a hard path the Lord sets me, Nassef. I wish I understood where he's leading me. Meryem never hurt anybody. If she ever did, she paid for it a hundredfold just by being the Disciple's wife. Why should this happen now? With the victory at hand? With the naming of her daughter so near? When we could finally start living the semblance of a normal life?"
    "She'll be avenged, Micah."
    "Avenged? Who's left to avenge her on?"
    "Yousif's son. Haroun. The pretender to the throne."
    "He'll die anyway. The Harish have consecrated his name already."
    "All right. Someone, then. Micah, we've got work to do. Disharhun starts tomorrow. You can't stay closed up. The faithful are gathering. We've promised them this festival for years. You have to put your personal agony aside."
    El Murid sighed. "You're right, of course. I've been feeling sorry for myself. Just a little while longer. You. You look awful. Was it bad?"
    "Words can't describe it. They did something sorcerous to us. I'm the only one who survived. And I can't remember what happened. I lost five days of my life out there. There was a tower... " But he wasn't sure.
    "The Lord saw you through. He understood my need."
    "I have to rest, Micah. I don't have anything left. I won't be much help the next few days."
    "Take as long as you need. Heal. I'll need you more than ever if I lose Meryem."
    El Murid prayed again after Nassef departed. This time he asked only that his wife be allowed to witness the christening of her daughter.
    That had meant so much to her.
    It was the wildest, hugest, most joyous Disharhun in living memory. The faithful came from the nethermost marches of Hammad al Nakir to share the victorious holiday with their Disciple. Some came from so far away that they did not arrive till Mashad, the last of the High Holy Days. But that was in time. That was the day when El Murid would accept his victory and proclaim the Kingdom of Peace. And they would have been present on the most important date in the history of the Faith.
    The crowds were so huge that a special scaffold had to be erected as a speaking platform. Only a few specially invited guests were allowed into the Shrines themselves. Only the Disciple's oldest followers would witness the christening.
    Shortly before noon El Murid strode from the Shrines and mounted the scaffolding. This would be his first annual Declaration to the Kingdom. The mob chanted, "El—Murid—El—Murid." They stamped their