Discipline and Vision
The night following Joren's trial, Zahir was again besieged by a series of nightmares. First, he dreamed that he was watching the two men who had been convicted of kidnapping Mindelan's maid sweating blood as they strained to build the realm's roads. He heard their moans and cries. He felt their regret at ever agreeing to break the kingdom's laws in order to feed their wives and children. He felt their worry that their families would starve in every beat of their hearts. He heard their overseer shout at them to move faster, and he felt whips slice into the flesh on their backs when their progress still failed to please their overseer.
With a mute cry, he jerked awake. After staring into the darkness for what seemed like an eternity, he drifted into another uneasy sleep. This time, he watched as Joren again abducted an innocent girl to illustrate some political point. He tried to intervene to save the girl, but Joren, smirking, yanked the lass out of his reach. His desperation reaching a fever pitch, he screamed for Joren to stop, but Joren only laughed loudly and continued down a path so dark that Zahir had no hope of finding him upon it….
The blackness of his dream abruptly transformed into a blinding, blazing brightness that reminded him of the desert. Somehow, even though he remained asleep, he felt his awareness increasing. Although he knew it was nothing but a dream, he understood that it contained all the truth of a vision.
It was centuries ago—but it was also the eternal now that Zahir slid into every time he communed with the Voice—and Zahir wasn't himself. Instead, he was the first Voice. The gods had revealed to him so much wisdom, and now it was his duty as well as his delight to share the knowledge he had been given with his people.
He was sitting outside his tent on a rug with rich, swirling designs. As he ate juicy dates from an elaborately painted clay bowl, he admired the cloudless cerulean desert sky. He had only just finished mentally thanking the gods for the gift of this glorious day when a small tornado of sand kicked up by sandals announced that he had visitors.
Glancing down from the beautiful dome of sky above his head, he saw a burly man and a heavyset woman tugging a boy whose thick build suggested he was their son over to the first Voice, whose body Zahir was inhabiting.
All three of the approaching figures appeared to be crimson-cheeked with a combination of exhaustion and ire. The mother was panting, the father bellowing incoherent syllables, and the son attempting to twist out of his parents' clutches.
"Prophet," grunted the man, as he and his wife succeeded in dragging their struggling son over to Zahir. "My wife and I have a problem with our son."
"Yes?" The first Voice, who was Zahir, frowned, as the son kicked out at his parents' ankles.
"The wretched boy—" Here, the livid father paused long enough to push the son to his knees on the rough sand—"refuses to say his prayers. My wife and I have taught all our children to pray in the manner you instructed us, but this boy won't do it even though he knows how. He doesn't obey us, and our other children are starting to refuse to say prayers, too. He is the oldest, and our other children look up to him."
"Do not become angry and furious," the first Voice advised in a mild voice, his words ringing in Zahir's consciousness. "The strong one is not the one who overcomes people by strength, but the strong one is the one who controls himself while in anger."
Then, turning to the son, he pronounced in the same soft tone, "The son who does not obey, honor, and love the parents he can see and touch cannot obey, honor, and love the gods that he cannot see and touch."
"I don't want to say any prayers to make anyone else—even my parents—happy," snapped the boy, lifting his chin defiantly.
"It's not about pleasing your parents," the first Voice replied with more firmness than gentleness now. "It's about keeping your soul in good condition. Do you really think that, at your young age, you have a better understanding of how to preserve your soul than your parents do?"
"Seeing as it's my soul we're discussing, I can't think of anyone more qualified to pass judgment upon it," snarled the boy.
Zahir felt the first Voice's eyes narrow as he studied the lad, and, somehow, he knew the first Voice's thoughts as though they were being sent directly into his skull. He knew that the first Voice was determining that the rebellious boy was about ten. He knew that, in the Voice's mind, the boy had reached puberty and the age of reason. This, in turn, meant that the boy would be held fully accountable for his actions when he was brought before Mithros for his final judgment. The boy, as far as the first Voice was concerned, needed discipline in order to save his soul.
Turning his attention to the father, the first Voice announced, "Order your children to pray at age seven and beat them if they neglect it at the age of ten."
At these words, a perverse glee spread like a lethal disease over the father's face, replacing the seething expression that had dominated the man's features previously. Obviously, the father was eagerly anticipating thrashing his son with a rod until he was black and blue.
Zahir felt a tidal wave of revulsion wash through the first Voice. Again, the first Voice's thoughts were as clear as daylight to him, and he knew that the Voice hadn't been saying that the man should beat his son until blood streamed from the boy's back.
The first Voice had been thinking that the discipline he referred to should only be as harsh as necessary to discourage the boy from repeating his disobedient and impious behavior. When it came down to it, the first Voice had been imagining a few firm taps on the arm or the bottom to redirect the recalcitrant child back to the path of virtue, akin to a shepherd guiding a sheep who had strayed dangerously far from the herd safely back to the flock with a couple of prods from a rod. In short, the first Voice had pictured a scene of loving discipline intended to reflect the justice and mercy of the gods, not one of abuse that demonstrated the brutality and vindictiveness of humanity.
"Don't hit your child harder than necessary," the first Voice added sternly, but Zahir knew that the first Voice comprehended that the damage had already been done. The man, incensed by his son's obstinacy, would only hear the words advising him to beat his son and wouldn't listen to the more important ones about what the first Voice really had meant by using the term beat. "Never strike your child in the face or break a bone in your child's body. Discipline your child out of love. Do not seek vengeance against your child when you punish him. Be as patient as possible with your child. Remember that where tolerance is, nothing is lacking, and where tolerance is missing, everything is deficient."
"Of course, Prophet." The man bowed, but Zahir could see as plainly as the first Voice could when the man dragged his son away that the man hadn't paid attention to the Voice's stipulations.
As the father, mother, and son disappeared in another haze of sand, Zahir again found that the first Voice's thoughts were trickling through him like blood. He knew, as well as if he were thinking it himself, that the first Voice was noting inwardly that if the man could not learn how to treat children from witnessing how the first Voice behaved toward Fatima, his beloved daughter, and Ali, his much loved nephew, then the man certainly wouldn't learn from his words.
Words were hollow compared to actions. The tenderness and firmness that he always guided his daughter and nephew with should have been enough of an example of the benevolent authority a father should wield over his offspring for any tyrannical father, just as the respect and devotion that Fatima and Ali displayed toward him should have been model enough of proper filial obedience for any wayward son or daughter.
Only those who didn't wish to see would be blind to his actions, and only those who had no desire to truly hear would not listen to his words. Everyone else would understand that discipline was about helping another become more moral, not about attaining some sort of petty vengeance. Discipline was always about justice, mercy, and love, and never about hatred, anger, or frustration.
As abruptly as he had been swept into the first Voice's thoughts, Zahir found himself thrust from them. Breathing heavily, he sat up in bed. Reflexively, his hands closed around the prayer beads Cait had given him and the rock his knightmaster had presented to him, which were both laying beside each other on his nightstand. To his horror, he discovered that both of them were as hot as coals.
Yelping in pain like a wounded puppy, Zahir dropped the prayer beads and stone. Before he could even consider what to do next, a rap sounded on his door, and he heard his knightmaster's voice ask through the crack through which a sliver of light shone, "Zahir?"
"Come in, sire," Zahir called, too rattled to be embarrassed about crying out in the middle of the night like a toddler.
"I felt a disturbance in our bond and heard you yelp," the king commented, as he entered the bedroom, lit a candle on Zahir's nightstand, and took a seat on his squire's bed. "What's wrong, Zahir?"
"Nothing you can help me deal with," muttered Zahir, burying his forehead in his palms. "I've got to handle my nightmares by myself, sire."
"It sounded like you were facing more than nightmares in here, Squire," remarked King Jonathan dryly.
"I've received a vision," whispered Zahir so faintly that his knightmaster had to lean forward in order to hear him. "I was having regular nightmares about today's trial when suddenly I was in the first Voice's head. I knew exactly what he was thinking just as I would if I had gotten a memory from you. I was inside him when a couple approached him seeking guidance about how to deal with a son who refused to pray. The father complained that the son was setting a bad example for the couple's other children, and the first Voice told him not to be angry. Then, he advised the son that child who doesn't obey, honor, or love his parents whom he sees and hears can't possibly obey, honor, or love the gods whom he can't see or hear. The son was defiant, though. He hardened his heart and said that he wouldn't pray to please anyone, even his own parents. The first Voice informed him that praying wasn't about making the parents happy but rather about keeping the boy's soul in good condition, and that, at his young age, the boy couldn't know what was best for his spiritual well-being. The boy retorted that he knew better than anyone else what was best for his soul, so the first Voice turned to the boy's father, telling the man that children should be ordered to pray at age seven and beaten for neglecting to do so at age ten—"
At this point, Zahir, whose jaw had been trembling throughout his explanation, found that it was shaking too hard for him to carry on. Miserably, he shook his head to indicate that he might never be capable of speaking again.
"A difficult command," murmured the king, squeezing his shoulder. "It must have been hard for you to hear—"
"That wasn't the nasty part, Your Majesty." Zahir let out a bitter laugh that was more about releasing the agony inside him than expressing any amusement he might feel about living in a world of brutes who would grasp at any words that might justify abusing their own family. "The worst part was that I knew that the first Voice wasn't using the word beat to mean thrashing a child with a rod like the man in the vision was planning on doing with his son—and like my father did to me. The first Voice was imagining a few firm taps on the arm or bottom, and that's it. I even heard him tell the father not to hit the son harder than necessary, and to discipline the child out of love, not punish the son out of vengeance, but the father didn't bother with trying to understand that. He just wanted to hear a few words that would provide him with an excuse to beat his son to a bloody pulp. He wished to use piety as a cover for his own depravity. If that isn't sickening, no one would ever need to vomit."
"Some people such pre-conceived notions that they will only hear what they wish and disregard the rest." Grimly, King Jonathan sighed. "Often, they don't have a problem throwing out the main message of a lesson in favor of one sentence that they like to interpret out of context. Such beings would probably attempt to cram themselves into shakers if they were instructed to be salt for the earth. However, the gods will not be mocked. In fact, it is probably those who do evil in the name of the gods who will be most harshly punished upon their death. "
"It's not even not seeing the forest for all the trees; it's not even noticing that there is a wood at all because of the many leaves." Zahir snorted. Then, a thought struck him, and, cocking his head, he pointed out, "At the risk of sounding rude, sire, you did say that the first Voice's command was a difficult one. If you received the same memory that I did, why would you think that?"
"Ah, I was wondering when that question would come up." The king shot Zahir an appraising look before revealing in a hushed tone, "The truth is, Squire, that I didn't receive the memory that you did. The gods chose to give you that vision for a reason."
"That's why the prayer beads Cait gave me and the rock you presented me with were burning," gasped Zahir, his mouth gaping. "Why would the gods decide to give me a vision that they didn't to you, Your Majesty?"
"You must be meant to do something that I am not as a result of receiving this memory," explained his knightmaster, whose forehead had knotted. "The gods don't give out visions as though they were candy. Whenever the gods reveal something to a being, they expect the person to act upon that revelation."
"What in the world am I supposed to do anyway, sire?" demanded Zahir. "I'm just a stupid teenager, and not even a particularly kind or noble one at that."
"Now that's not true," King Jonathan countered sharply. "You are honorable, brave, devoted to justice, and compassionate no matter how much trouble you go to in a futile effort to conceal that fact. Furthermore, you are not an idiot—headstrong and impulsive, yes, but not stupid. As to what you are intended to do, that is something that you must use your brain and heart to figure out for yourself. Nobody can tell you what the gods are calling you to do just as no one can possibly fill the role that the gods plan for you to play."
"I don't see what a squire could do that a king couldn't, Your Majesty." Zahir rolled his eyes with an almost derisive dubiousness.
"You'll know when you need to," his knightmaster informed him, patting his knee. "Every generation the gods pick a few special people to change the world. Whenever the gods first communicate with anyone, that being is inevitably bewildered, but the person always ultimately discovers that the gods provide all the necessary strength and support for everything the individual is called to accomplish. Have no fear, Zahir ibn Alhaz, you belong to the gods, whether you realize it or not, and they will not abandon you. They will be your sword and your shield. Obviously, you have already found favor with them, and, as long as you continue to do their will, the special affection that they have for you will only grow."
"Yes, sire." Zahir nodded dutifully, wondering what he could achieve that the king could not. His mind settled on Joren, as it had so many times since he had initially heard that his oldest friend among the northerners had arranged the abduction of Mindelan's maid, and comprehension dawned like a stunning spring day after a long, cold frost. Urgently, the syllables tripping over one another, he asked, "May I visit Joren tomorrow morning?"
"I'm not certain that would be a prudent decision." The king frowned. "Associating with a convicted kidnapper jeopardizes your career and your soul."
"You're just worried about what the gossips will say if they hear that your squire was in contact with a convicted kidnapper that plainly wished to see punished more harshly than he was," retorted Zahir. "Certainly, you aren't concerned about how it may tear my soul apart to abandon a friend to his own dark side. It also doesn't seem to matter that the gods clearly sent me this vision to tell me just how in need of appropriate discipline to save his soul Joren is."
"Visions are tricky things, Squire." Exhaling gustily, King Jonathan shook his head. "They do not interpret themselves, and, all too often, our understanding of them can be muddied if we allow our emotions to impact our reading of them. Our feelings never lie to us per say, but they can skew our perceptions more effectively than most falsehoods."
"You said that I had to determine for myself what the gods were calling me to do when they gave me the vision," argued Zahir, scowling. "That's what I just did. Either you trust my judgment or you don't, sire. Which is it?"
"I trust your judgment, Zahir," replied his knightmaster after a lengthy hesitation. "You may visit Joren first thing tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Zahir's words were more tinged with satisfaction at so swiftly winning an argument with the resolute king than with gratitude.
Plainly detecting his smugness, King Jonathan ordered tersely, "Back to sleep now, Squire. You should be well-rested for the last visit I will permit you to have with Joren of Stone Mountain until you have grey hair."
Before Zahir could protest how unfair it was for the king to restrict his interaction with Joren so much, his knightmaster had shut the door. Recognizing that it would be pointlessly to debate the finer points of his argument with a door, he sank against his pillows once more and burrowed under his blankets.
This time, when he drifted off to sleep, he was tormented by no more nightmares. Consequently, he was relatively well-rested when he rose shortly after daybreak the next morning. After dressing and grooming himself at top speed, he raced out of his bedchambers and out of the royal quarters. Not slowing his pace, he hurried down several twisting passageways and staircases until he arrived outside Joren's room.
When he knocked on Joren's door, his friend's called languidly, "Come in, whoever you are."
Obediently, Zahir opened the door and stepped into Joren's chamber.
"Oh, it's you, Zahir," remarked Joren vaguely by way of greeting, as he glanced up from a book on Carthaki tactics he was reading. With an indolent gesture toward his desk chair, he added, "Make yourself at home. Truth be told, I'm glad to have you. I've been out of my mind with boredom, you know. Sir Paxton won't let me out of here. He says I need to think about what I did."
"Have you?" Zahir arched an eyebrow, although he suspected that, if Joren had truly thought about his crime, he could not act so flippant. After all, if Joren had contemplated how wrong his actions were for even an hour, he would have been overcome with remorse. He wouldn't be complaining about a mild punishment. Instead, he would be inventing ways to atone for his crime.
"Shock me, Zahir, and say something intelligent. Of course I have thought about what I did." Joren shot him a withering glare. "As any fool would spot in a moment, it required quite a bit of thought to plan a successful kidnapping."
"Some babies were dropped on their heads, but I reckon that you were bounced off a stone wall, Joren." Zahir flared up. "Don't you realize that because you put so much thought into what you did, more repentance from you is expected. What you did was calculated cruelty. It wasn't some random act of violence that you perpetuated without even thinking about it. You considered it and decided it was right. Now people want you to think about it some more, understand that it was wrong, resolve never to do anything like it again, and seek to atone for your crime."
"Everyone wishes for me to compromise my morals," snarled Joren. "They forget that I kidnapped Mindelan's maid because I, unlike you, wasn't willing to abandon my principles."
"Oh, yes, the fine principles that allow you to abduct an innocent woman are definitely worth preserving," Zahir scoffed. "Nobody should bother remaining true to the codes of honor that prohibit kidnapping people."
"I grow weary of your lectures," spat Joren. "If all you want to do is yell at me, get to the point and leave."
"I don't wish to scream at you," Zahir stated in a softer fashion. "All I want is for you to comprehend that many people, Lord Wyldon and I included, would derive much comfort from seeing you repent for kidnapping Mindelan's maidservant. It would give us great hope if you could see the error of your ways. We would all be so happy if you demonstrated that you weren't going to let what is worst in you destroy that which is best in you and forever dominate your destiny."
"You're melodramatic enough to be a Player." Idly, Joren examined his smooth fingernails. "Well, I can join in the show." His mouth contorting in a rather ugly smirk, he theatrically placed a hand upon his chest, as though he had just sustained a mortal wound. "It is too late for me, my friend."
"It's not too late for you," hissed Zahir, tired of hearing this from everyone he spoke to about Joren. "While there is life, there is hope. Every choice is a fork in the road. No matter how terrible the path you are on now is, you can always decide to leave it. One right choice really can be enough to change your entire existence. Choose and start again, Joren."
Leaning forward, his face flushed with zeal, Zahir went on, "I'll never forget how you saved my life when I slipped during the battle against the spidrens when we were pages. The boy you were was willing to risk his own life, not for glory, but to save a friend's neck. That boy lives inside you. I can see that. After all these years and across all the miles we have traveled, the little Joren still calls to me. He yearns to fly toward the light like iron drawn toward a magnet. Despite all that you have done to ruin yourself and others, he still screams to be released. Let him out, Joren. I swear you won't regret it."
"Your eyes fail you." Joren continued to stare at his fingertips. "There is nothing beneath my surface, and I haven't changed since I was a boy. It is only you who have abandoned yourself, not me."
"Very well." Pressing his lips together, Zahir turned to go, shooting over his shoulder, "I'll leave you with one last thought, even though I'm not sure you have anywhere to put it. Anyway, you know, among the Bazhir, it is common knowledge that a simple desert flower will bend itself in order to grow toward the light. Shall a small desert flower be able to achieve that which the mighty Joren of Stone Mountain can't?"
"You said you were going, so get lost already," growled Joren, his pale cheeks tinged scarlet.
"I'm going." Zahir riveted his dark eyes upon the other young man. "Before I leave, though, I want to tell you a secret."
"What secret would that be?" jeered Joren.
"That just as I carry around a darkness inside of me, you bear a light inside you, as you did when you saved my life." A quiet passion pervaded Zahir's manner now. "No matter what you do, that light will still exist as long as I remember it, so why don't you stop trying to put it out?"
"Keep talking about light, and I'll find a way to set you on fire." Joren rolled his eyes. "Run along now. You don't want your progressive knightmaster to worry about the amount of time you spend with conservatives, after all. It would be horrid if you gave the king any cause to doubt that you were anything but his stooge."
"I'd rather be a stooge than a kidnapper," Zahir volleyed back, finally exiting the room and slamming the door in his wake for good measure. Although he would not abandon the boy that he had known as a page, that didn't mean he couldn't lose his patience with the unrepentant criminal who had taken that promising boy's place.
The blood still throbbing in his veins in response to Joren's final insult, Zahir marched down the hallway. However, he had barely moved several paces before a weary voice called out to him, "Joren wasn't suppose to have any visitors."
Pivoting to face Sir Paxton, who was standing in the doorway next to Joren's, Zahir bowed. "I apologize, sir. I didn't know he wasn't allowed visitors. He just told me he was supposed to stay in his room and think about what he had done, but he didn't mention that he wasn't permitted guests." Aware of how flimsy his explanation sounded, he added with a trace of defensiveness, "King Jonathan gave me permission to come here."
"Well, the king certainly outranks me." Sir Paxton's anxious, exhausted expression made a valiant attempt at twisting into what must have been a very agonizing grin. The forced smile fading almost as rapidly as it appeared, he observed, "You look as angry and as impatient with Joren as I feel. Apart from me, you are the only person who has bothered with trying to get him to appreciate how gravely wrong he was to kidnap that poor maid. His parents are proud of him. His other friends and many other conservatives have stopped by to congratulate him, while those progressives who are disgusted with his actions don't see any reason to take the time to get him to understand the horrible nature of what he did, so that he never commits a similar crime. You are a very loyal friend to try to rehabilitate an old friend who has done something so repugnant. Know that even if Joren isn't ready to appreciate you for standing by him and trying to make him into the person he should be, I admire you for what you are doing."
"What I'm doing isn't working, sir." Dourly, Zahir shook his head. "You don't need to thank me for doing something that is having no effect whatsoever."
"Nothing I'm doing is working either," muttered Sir Paxton, his face sliding into an expression of bleak defeat. "I can talk to Joren until my voice is hoarse, but he won't listen to a word. I can say he is wrong until I am blue in the face, but he remains confident that he is right. I can punish him, but he just shrugs it off."
"Your suggestion at court about tying and gagging Joren had some merit to it," commented Zahir, his mouth tightening grimly.
"I can't use force against him to prove that might doesn't make right, as he seems to think it does." Sir Paxton sighed. "It's all the violence you boys are raised with that taught him that might makes right in the first place."
"I would say that, to be effective, a punishment must sting but not injure, sir." Zahir bit his lip, and then burst out earnestly, "Just please make Joren repent for what he did. I can't continue to watch him destroy his own potential. It sickens me whenever I see the promise that used to constantly blaze in his eyes replaced more and more often with a cold cruelty."
"If I could make him repent, I would," Sir Paxton answered in a voice barely above a whisper.
After that, they, abruptly, had nothing more to say to each other. With a final bow, Zahir spun on his heel and strode down the corridor back toward the royal quarters.
