Before Arystan had a chance to act on his lustful urges, the torchlit scene dissolved and they were watching Sara grow up, her sheltered childhood, the manicured lawns and white pillared houses of the suburbs, her focus on her studies to the exclusion of nearly all else. They watched as Sara attended college, selected by her parents; chose fields of study, suggested by her parents; dated John, encouraged by her parents; and then told them all off as she headed to Tajikistan for fieldwork and abandoned her last semester of college. Arystan smirked as snippets of Sara’s relationship with John appeared before them. She certainly didn’t learn the passion she showed him from John.
It only vaguely occurred to both of them that they were not only experiencing a different country, but a different time.
Finally, the images from Sara’s past coalesced into the night at the Horoshaya Yeda, Sara laughing and talking with the group of young people and flirting with the professor.
Then they watched as a black mist entered the restaurant, swirling and dipping above the round florescent lights hanging from the ceiling before it dove at dizzying speed into Sara’s mouth as she went to take another drink of jazi. Sara’s body seemed to freeze instantly in time, as did her university group, and all of the patrons and employees in the restaurant.
Then, Sara’s trials in the stone room were replayed. They watched as she entered the two pools, Arystan hardening again as the scene from the Desiderium Lacus swept before them. He was both surprised and moved by what he saw there. Before he could react, the images showed Sara escaping the burning cistern and confronting the mist, demanding to be released. They both watched as the black mist entered her again and she stood swaying, now controlled by it.
“
What is your will, Great One?”
“You must kill Arystan before he reaches the River of Blood. How you accomplish this is
up to you. This is your only task.”
“I understand. I will do so.”
The image blurred and then General Bayuan appeared, addressing thousands, upon thousands, of troops.
“We have defeated the last of the resistance. Arystan is dead. There is no one else to oppose us. Victory is ours!” Shouts and cheers broke out in deafening chorus from the triumphant army and then images flashed of entire villages destroyed, fields, crops and livestock burned, soldiers raping, torturing, mutilating, murdering, the lives of men, women and children taken in brutal, unimaginable ways.
Sara turned into Arystan, sobbing, as they found themselves back on the cave floor sitting in the circle, Arystan’s arms wrapped around Sara, comforting her, his face like stone.
The circle disappeared and the fire moved back to the center, passing uncomfortably through them again. The old woman appeared opposite, sitting cross-legged on her white furs.
“So,” she addressed Sara, her voice creaking a bit. “Did you see what you needed to see to make your choice?”
Sara gently pulled from Arystan’s embrace and turned to face the woman. She nodded.
“Yes. I will do it. I will return.”
Arystan looked from Sara to the witch, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, return?
Return, where?” he demanded.
Sara turned to him, her blue eyes liquid, full of emotion and pain at what she needed to do. She took his beautiful, dark hands in hers. They were so strong, powerful, talented.
She knew what his hands could do to her body. She forced those feelings back, trying to bury them deeply.
“Arystan, I have to return to my home. To restore the timeline, restore the balance. It is the only way to defeat Bayuan’s spirit, to prevent his evil from inflicting harm on your people, to bring peace to your land.”
“NO!” he said with such fierceness that both Sara and the witch stiffened. He squeezed her hands in his fists so hard that they began to hurt. He squared his shoulders. “No,” he said again. “I will not allow it.”
“Arystan,” Sara said softly, “you don’t have a choice either. It is the only way. If there was any other way – any way at all – I would do it in a single beat of my heart. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to live without you. You are . . . you are . . . my love, my true love.” Sara couldn’t continue as warm tears slid down her face, falling to the white skins below them.
He grabbed her roughly to him, drawing her into his chest, running his hand gently over her hair as she clung to him desperately. His face was expressionless, his eyes hard.
The witch watched the display silently. Arystan’s black eyes flicked to hers over Sara’s head. “What if she doesn’t go back?” he asked evenly.
The witch looked at him a long moment before responding. She would explain and then they would understand. “The challenges you saw Sara face are tests orchestrated by beings – mists – of unfathomable power. Bayuan – or more correctly, Bayuan’s essence
– is one of those mists. The mists test mortals every two hundred years in hopes of finding one worthy to train as a Guardian. Guardians keep watch over this world and other mortals.” Her eyes became distant for a moment. “I know, because I was once myself, tested. And trained.”
The old woman considered Sara, weeping quietly in Arystan’s arms. “When Sara passed the tests and was considered worthy, she should have been trained as a Guardian. But somehow . . . Bayuan’s greed or arrogance, a part of his mortal spirit must have contaminated his essence and he instead tried to manipulate her for his own purpose.”
The witch shifted her gaze suddenly to Arystan. “Your death.”
Arystan did not flinch. He waited, saying nothing. The witch looked to the fire, staring at it, thoughtful. “What Bayuan’s essence did to Sara is far beyond the realm of his power, far outside the scope of laws governing transcendence and time. I do not believe he initially intended to control Sara. The other mists would have sensed his motives and never allowed it. But once done, it was done. No other mist can interfere. Only Sara, herself, can repair this.”
The old woman looked back to Arystan, her eyes reflecting the capering flames. “To answer your question, warlord, there is already a rift in the timeline. Bayuan created it when he forced Sara into this one. If Sara chooses not to return and Bayuan succeeds at the River of Blood, the timeline will be irrevocably broken as he will live when he should have died.” The witch looked slightly pained. “I honestly do not know what will happen then. It may be that Bayuan will simply reign until the end of his days as a terrible, feared, bloodthirsty warlord. Or it may be that he will receive a transfer of unimaginable power, power both from his mortal self and the immortal transcendence of the
chernyi
tuman
. In such a case, the entire world might end as we know it. The Bayuan-spirit might be . . . unstoppable.”
Sara was still leaning against Arystan, but had turned to listen to the witch, softly sniffling.
There was a long silence.
Finally the witch spoke again, slowly, a note of reluctance in her voice. “There is one other possibility that is within the realm of my power as a Guardian even though it requires an alternation of the timeline. It can only be invoked when the timeline has already been broken.” She hesitated.
“Please,” said Arystan sincerely, a bit of gravel in his voice. “Please tell us what it involves.”
The ancient woman mused. Perhaps she could help. She had gone through much to become a Guardian and rarely had an opportunity to fully use her talents. Too often she was beset upon by mortals who camped for days on her ledge, complaining that their favorite cow had died, or that insects had devoured their crops (a perfectly natural, cyclical occurrence), or that they were seeking inner peace, apparently willing to disturb hers.
But this – now this was a matter worthy of her skills. She began to flush a bit with excitement. Yes, she was a Guardian after all. She had been given intense training, knowledge and long life. Not to mention she had survived the same testing which Sara had. Her eyes went rather hot as she remembered facing her greatest desire.
No, it wasn’t every day that she was able to use her powers to prevent real evil and also .
. . she looked across at the couple . . . to do real good. She had been with them on their journey through their lives and knew that if anyone deserved a chance at happiness, it was them.
“All right,” she said, coming to her decision, her eyes glowing copper in the firelight.
She told them what it entailed, cautioning that it was impossible to know whether it had worked until the timeline closed.
Sara looked up at Arystan, trembling, wondering whether he could make it work. She knew that she could do her part.
“It will work,” he said shortly, drinking her in with his black eyes. “It has to.” And he lowered his head and kissed her.
The witch’s eyes suddenly rolled back in her head. She knew dawn had already broken outside the cave and now she felt the gathering of Arystan’s forces as they sped away toward the River of Blood under Tebur’s command. There was a sense of crumbling, a sense of unsteadiness. Arystan was needed. The timeline was weakening. Her head snapped back.
“Time is short,” she rasped, startling Sara and Arystan out of their passionate embrace.
“We must act now. Arystan must return to command of his army immediately. The timeline depends on it.”
She waved her hand. The circle re-drew and the fire receded. “Lie down, now. Both of you.”
They quickly did as she asked, taking their places in the circle and clinging to each other’s hand, hoping it would not be the last time they ever touched each other. The witch circled them, saying more incantations and then stepped between them and knelt, reaching for Arystan’s left hand as he unclasped it from Sara’s. She hissed, noting the ragged scar that was already there, feeling the residual taint of evil, crude, weak, petty, but still evil. She waved her hand and healed the original scar and then made a fresh, clean cut by drawing her finger over Arystan’s palm. She did the same to Sara’s right palm and then she placed their hands together again, and reached into the pocket of her robes, drawing out a rare and beautiful purple flower. She whispered for Arystan and Sara to squeeze their hands together and the witch held the flower under the stream of mingled blood that dripped from their embrace.
The woman withdrew from the circle, wrapped the flower in her hand, walked to the circle of fire and held her fist over the flames until the petals dried and crumbled to powder within her palm. Then, she returned to the head of the circle, chanted further, and released the powder into the air, where it fell gently over Sara and Arystan, finely coating them with its residue.
As it settled, Sara felt a great tug, a pull that seemed to reach within her, sucking and drawing at her very soul, pulling her outward strongly, and suddenly she was alone, far, far away from Arystan, far from the cave, away, but somehow also . . . close.
Arystan looked out across the broad valley, his heavy lionskin cloak draped around him as the cold wind whipped through the pass. A long, snaking river was visible in the distance. Tebur and Sabalak edged their horses closer to his. Behind and below the three warriors, six thousand horsemen and foot soldiers gathered in formation, shifting slightly as they waited for instructions from their leaders.
“Bayuan’s army will be over there.” Sabalak pointed to a distant range. “We are moving quickly. We could reach it in three, perhaps four, days. It will be at least a week’s ride to the river under your plan. Are you sure you want to meet Bayuan there? We could ride directly to his camp and engage him now. It’s unlikely he has yet learned we have killed the regiment he sent to rout us. The element of surprise will be in our favor.”
Arystan shook his head. “Bayuan knows too well there was a chance we would kill the regiment. He will be as prepared for us as he is for the return of his own men. He has had time, much time, to prepare the area strategically. We would be at a strong disadvantage.” He shifted on his horse. “No, we will lure him to the site we have designated by the river. Then, we will have time to prepare strategically, although he will not suspect it.”
“The location you have in mind for the General is not the wisest place,” said Tebur.
“Bayuan will see that. The river is too high to ford there and the terrain on both sides hems in the camp in the case of a flank attack. He is no fool.”
“No,” Arystan responded. “He is no fool. But he is arrogant.”
The men were silent for a few moments as they surveyed the landscape. Then Sabalak said, “I trust you with my life, brother.”
“As do I,” said Tebur.
The three chieftains positioned their horses so that they could clasp their arms together tightly.
Arystan looked from one to the other. “You have been my most devoted chieftains. If anything happens to me after the battle . . . after I kill Bayuan . . . if I am gone for any reason, know that I have loved you as my own flesh and blood.”
Sabalak scowled. “Such talk,” he said gruffly. “Why would anything happen to you
after
you kill Bayuan?”
“Why indeed?” returned Tebur, looking obliquely at Arystan who simply sat on his horse staring across the open steppes.
“Let us ride,” said Arystan, spurring his horse.
Tebur and Sabalak each led a band of warriors down opposite paths, following the hills, skirting the plains. Arystan, and one-third of his army, headed directly for the river, across the center of the steppes.
* * * * *
“Yes, my lord. Our scouts report they have seen it with their own eyes.” Itkul’s black eyes were bright.
“Then tell me, Itkul. How many men join Arystan in his ceaseless attempts to engage me?”
“Two thousand sir, no more,” the man replied.
“And the squadron we sent to find Arystan?”
Itkul’s eyes fell. “I am sorry. They are dead, my lord. All dead. And –" He hesitated.