This is a long one. I wanted to get it all down on one page, so to speak.

Btw, I just started up a tumblr page for Sons of the Desert, adding accompanying music. Look for capnhoozits (keepin' it simple)

Chapter 6

Dad had experience on his side. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't a brawler. But when life treats you rough you have to get rough back. Generally, anyone who knew Shua didn't cross him. Unlike me, though, they didn't have to live with him. Andakar had discipline, as well as what he must have thought was a righteous cause. If he thought this was supposed to benefit me somehow, I could have told him otherwise. Neither of them, of course, had consulted me. I would have reminded Dad that if he injured or killed not just one of the quality but a priest, he'd be in for it. If he himself were injured or killed, not that many people would care.

A fight is usually not a pretty thing to witness. But if not for the fact that this was between my dad and my first ever honest-to-God friend, it would have been fascinating to watch the two of them go at each other. They each moved with their own brand of grace, alternating between slow caution and lightning fast moves. Andakar was up bare-handed against someone wielding a knife, but that didn't seem to faze him. After a while, I noticed that Andakar seemed to be doing little in terms of offense. He was simply, and very adroitly, blocking every attack, whether it was a lunge or slash of the knife, a thrown fist, or a sweeping kick. He hadn't laid an actual blow on my dad.

Dad noticed it, too, and it was making him angry. "Is that all they teach you?" he jeered, just beginning to get winded. "I've fought old women better than you!"

It was pretty certain that that wasn't the sort of remark that would trouble Andakar, and he just continued the way he was and letting Dad get angrier and angrier. I just watched helplessly, knowing better than to try to intervene. Someone who ought to have known better but apparently didn't was Katri. Probably wondering where everyone had gotten off to, she suddenly burst through a nearby stand of meskaas.

She stared for a moment, then sent a furious look my way, as though the whole thing was my fault. Then she darted forward, straight for the two combatants. That was exactly what I figured she was going to do and I was already sprinting to cut her off. I wrapped my arms around her and swung her off her feet, making sure her arms were pinned down safely. I pulled her away as she thrashed like a wild animal.

"Lemme go, dumbass!" she snarled.

She wasn't that big or that strong, but it was all I could do to keep a hold on her. "Stay out of it!" I ordered her, putting as much manly authority into my voice as I could. That might have done the trick, but it might also have been the underlying fear in my voice that really caught her attention. "This is between them!"

"It's your fault, anyhow!" she grumbled back with another thrash. No surprises there. I could hear the fear in her voice, too. "You brung that priesty guy here! Now they're fightin' 'cause o' you! Stupid dumbass!"

"They're not fighting over me," I replied, keeping my voice low. "They're fighting over Mom."

Katri drew in a hissing breath. That made her grow still, breathing hard. "How come?" she demanded in a scared whisper.

I kept my arms around her, just in case. "You'll find out soon enough, I think."

Dad's movements were becoming less skilled and more erratic, and this was when Andakar switched tactics. He grabbed Dad's wrist, and with a few quick jabs to that must have deadened his arm, the knife fell to the ground. Dad dove to retrieve it with his good arm but he never even got close to it. Andakar delivered blow after telling blow, one to the jaw, one to the shoulder, another to the ribs. Dad blocked as many as he could, but Andakar was simply too fast and too precise.

Katri made another attempt to break free. "That bastard's gonna kill 'im!" she gasped.

"No, he's not!" Apart from knowing that that wasn't Andakar's intention, it looked like the strikes that he made weren't meant so much to injure as to disable. Sure, he was trying to knock what he felt was some sense into my dad's hard-as-a-rock skull, but he probably wanted him to survive the lesson so he could learn from it. That's what I hoped, anyway.

Dad was finally getting worn out, and with a good kick to the back of the knee, Andakar dropped him. Then he stepped back as my dad hunched over in a crouch, his breathing labored.

"If your word means anything," Andakar said calmly, "I will hold you to—"

From his crouch, Dad made a sudden lunge. It took Andakar a little off guard, but not by much. Sending an elbow into his back, he drove Dad to the ground, this time landing on top of him with his knee in his back. He twisted one of Dad's arms behind him and pressed his face against the dirt.

"You're done!" Andakar declared. "Stop this now and keep to our accord!"

Dad made a couple more struggles, unwilling to concede, but Andakar had the advantage of bulk. After a few moments, Dad lay still, his teeth still bared in rage and his breathing raising puffs of dirt. Then he looked at us, Katri and me. He didn't say anything. He just watched us for a minute or so. His eyes met mine, and I would have looked away except that it wasn't anger that I saw there. It wasn't shame, either, for having lost a fight. It was close to the look he'd given me yesterday when he was looking at the stitches on my face. It was a look of profound sorrow. Then he closed his eyes, the moment having past.

He grimaced. "Ishvala, you're heavy! Get the hell off me!"

"Not until I'm sure you'll keep your word," Andakar answered sternly.

Dad blew out a weary breath. "Yes, I'll keep my damn word!"

Andakar straightened up, not without a little caution. Dad lay there for a few more moments, then pushed himself up to his knees. As he paused, Andakar held out a hand to help him up, but Dad just glanced at him with a venomous look and got slowly and stiffly to his feet.

Andakar stepped back. "I'll return tomorrow at this time with my master."

Dad was still bent over a little, propping his hands on his knees. "You do that," he mumbled.

With a parting glance and a nod to me, Andakar turned and left. Dad slowly straightened, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. Then he began to head back, passing Katri and me without a look. We watched him, awestruck, bewildered, whatever you like. I had no idea what to say, but I felt I ought to say something.

"Dad…" I started weakly.

He just lifted his hand, still not looking at me or pausing. "Not a word out of you," he said. He sounded so weary. Not angry, though, or at least not in the usual way. I always tried to get a good read on him so I would know when to get out of his way. But right now, I couldn't figure him out, other than the fact that he probably wanted to be left alone. One thing I could tell, though. He was shaken up by more than just the fight.

Katri elbowed me in the ribs. "Get yer hands offa me!" she growled.

I let her go and she turned around to glare at me. There were tears in her eyes. "If Shua gets any more hurt, I'm never gonna forgive you, Dejan!" Then she stormed off, probably to go throw a rock at something.

Well, at least she didn't call me dumbass. There was some hope left in the world.

8888

I followed my master through the vatrishi camps, the meskaa wood box that held the incense in my hands. We spoke very little during the long walk from the Kanda temple. The day before, when I told him that I had persuaded the vatrish Shua into having the funeral prayers chanted over Dejan's mother's grave, my master was pleased. When I confessed how I had persuaded him, my master grew quiet. He was not necessarily displeased, as far as I could tell, and he agreed to officiate.

"We shall see what sort of fruit your methods will bear," he told me with a penetrating look.

He took no notice of the roughness of the area. He strode along as if he was on the streets of North Kanda. Along the way, we came across a number of lean-tos and makeshift shelters that served as permanent homes for these wretched people. During my two previous visits, I had attracted some attention. I was pointed at and whispered about as I passed the ragged men and women who lived here.

This time, accompanied by my master, we attracted yet more notice, so much so that as we passed along, they began to trail along behind us. I was unsure whether to be uneasy about this. My master showed no concern at all. A slight smile even appeared under his mustache. Then I saw among this group of people an old woman being carried between two of the men, a funeral shawl draped over her head. By the time we reached the grave, we have accumulated quite a following. My original impression of this place was that its inhabitants kept to themselves, isolated even from each other. I had apparently underestimated their sense of community.

At the grave, there waited half a dozen women of various ages who regarded our arrival with curious interest. After several moments, I realized that these were the unfortunate souls who were forced to sell themselves to survive—the falshaii. At first, it seemed as though they had merely gathered there to gossip, but as we stopped at the side of the grave, they covered their heads with threadbare shawls. I looked back at the group that had followed us and saw that the few women among them had covered their heads as well.

Along with the falshaii was a small man with a hunched shoulder. He bobbed his head and grinned a gap-toothed smile at us.

"An honor, Saahadi! An honor, to be sure!" he greeted. He cackled briefly. "Shua's not here yet. I'll lay you a free round he doesn't show."

One of the falshaii scoffed. She looked as though she might be the eldest but they nearly all looked as though they had aged somewhat before their time. "Oh, he'll be here, Vash, don't you worry!" She turned to us with a knowing look. "In his sort of own way, he's a good man, our Shua."

The hunchback lifted his mismatched shoulders indifferently. "I'll believe it when I see 'im."

"I would imagine he would be here if he had gone to the trouble of informing you all," Bozidar reasoned.

"Oh, not him!" one of the other women replied. She jerked her thumb toward yet another of their number. "Her girl Katri, the one Shua took off her hands, she's the one who came and told us."

"Nice of her to visit her ma once in a while," this woman sighed, then let out a little chuckle.

"Eyes big as the moon, she had," the first woman said. "She couldn't believe anyone could beat down Shua." She pointed at me. "She don't like you much."

"She don't much like anybody," Katri's mother replied with another laugh.

This seemed more like a festival atmosphere than a funeral. I supposed allowances ought to be made, considering the company. If I was to continue in my mission to minister to these people, I would need a better understanding of them. I was beginning to think that would take more of an effort than I first imagined.

"You must be that bright spark young Dejan told me about."

I turned to face the old woman who had been carried here. She stood propped up by one of the men and she regarded me with one ruby eye. The other was a pale, milky pink. "Don't pay too much mind to what Katri thinks," she went on. "You did our Dejan a kindness, and for that I thank you. He's a good boy."

"He's got more heart than brains, I'll grant you that," the hunchback remarked.

"Oh, hush, djaari!" one of the falshaii scolded. She seemed younger than the rest. "I'd take heart over brains any day you like!"

The hunchback cackled. "As if you've had any offers!"

The women jeered back at him with coarse good nature. Then they all grew quickly silent, nudging each other, some of them pointing in the same direction with a jerk of their chins. My master and I both turned to see Dejan come walking up, followed by Katri. Shua trailed along behind them. His aspect was strained. He looked as though he had not slept for days and his complexion, as tawny as any Ishvalan, seemed pale. When he took in the crowd gathered by the grave, he stared with consternation and muttered an oath under his breath.

Dejan gave me a nod of acknowledgement, which I returned. Katri gave me a glare and went to stand by herself, her arms folded tightly.

Dejan approached my master. He gave an awkward little bow and cleared his throat. "Um…doishteve, Saahad," he mumbled. "Thanks for coming."

My master searched Dejan's face, which was still bruised. He gave a nod. "Uvar did a good job," he remarked. "Does it still hurt?"

Dejan reached his fingers up to his stitches but didn't touch them. "No, not so much, thank you." He drew himself up. "I'm still going to pay him, you know. I promise!"

"After you pay me for my glasses!" the hunchback retorted. "Eight hundred cenz those cost me!"

Dejan let out a weary sigh, and my master raised his hand. "Your debt to the temple is less worldly than that, my son. Don't concern yourself overmuch about it."

Turning to face Shua, who still lingered on the outskirts of the gathering, my master stretched out his hand. "Step forward, my son," he said gently. "Our temple did you a disservice by not inquiring further after your needs."

Shua stirred his shoulders dismissively but otherwise did not move. "Nobody asked you," he muttered back.

"Even so," my master replied. "Today we make amends."

He reached down and slipped the sandals from his feet. He turned to me and gestured toward the box in my hands. I opened it and held it as my master gathered the brass bowl, the bag of myrrh, and a small box of matches. He poured a generous amount of incense into the bowl and lit it with a match. Soon, a sharp tang filled the air as smoke rose from the bowl. Lifting one end of his chuva, he carefully placed the bowl there so as not to burn his hands. Murmuring softly, he slowly paced around the grave three times, holding the bowl out before him to consecrate the ground. This done, he bent down to slide the bowl from his chuva to rest on top of the grave itself.

All this time, the group around us had maintained a silence of surprising reverence, not just out of curiosity. My master glanced at me as he stood back up and, after slipping off my own sandals, I joined him at his side. He began the chant of invocation and went on to the litany. I supplied the responses. Those gathered should have done so as well, but it was questionable whether any of them had even heard these prayers before. Shortly, however, after the tones had been repeated a few times, some of them joined in. Others even broke into quiet harmonies. I had forgotten that most of them were musicians of a sort, and if they could not manage the ancient tongue, they at least hummed along.

The funeral rite progressed much like any other. From time to time, I stole a glance at Dejan to see how he was holding up. I could hear him singing softly in the responses, and this seemed to offer him some comfort. I had already come across him singing beside his mother's grave, and now here were so many others doing just that.

I also glanced over at Shua, who had not come any closer than where he stopped. He avoided looking toward the grave and only stared at the ground, his face pale and his jaw set as though in pain. It was possible that he may have been trembling, but it was not a cold day. I was distracted enough to miss the change in tones and my master was forced to wait for a second or two as I gathered my thoughts. I stopped looking around and applied myself to concentrating on the task at hand.

We had entered smoothly into the third of the five litanies when we were interrupted by a curious sound, a short, strangled groan. I faltered in mid-response as I looked over at Shua. He had covered his face with his hands and it seemed as though he was slowly collapsing, doubling over on himself. From between his hands he sucked in a breath and let out a low, tortuous moan, ending with a coughing sob. Drawing in another great breath, he dropped to his knees, weeping loudly and brokenly.

Everyone present stared at him. Dejan seemed transfixed, a look of dismay and near-horror on his face. Katri ran to Shua's side and seemed to dance in place, alternately reaching toward him and flinching back.

"Shua!" she cried. "Shua!" He could make no reply to her and she turned on me. "What'd you do to him?" she demanded with frantic anger. "What'd you do? He don't never cry!"

I couldn't take my eyes off Shua. Yes, of course I had witnessed displays of grief at the side of a grave, some more heartfelt than others. It wasn't even so much what I was seeing. This man's anguish came off him in waves like heat that I could feel on my face. It seemed as though I could even feel it through the soles of my bare feet. When I could tear my eyes away, I looked at my master for some kind of guidance.

He merely gazed back at me with the patience of the ages. "Answer the child, Andakar," he instructed me quietly.

It was all on me, then. I turned back to Shua and slowly approached him. Katri glared daggers at me, tears leaving dusty tracks on her cheeks. I looked down at Shua. I didn't know what to say, but my master was expecting an answer, even though I was sure he already knew it. I had to piece it together on my own.

I was visited by a feeling of shame. I still felt in my heart that what I had done was right, but somehow, something seemed wrong. I had been proud, but now I felt humbled. I had thought that this man crouched before me was cruel, but I had cruelly misjudged him.

I lowered myself to one knee before him. I reached my hand out cautiously, fearing that if I touched him, he might shatter. I laid my hand on his shoulder.

"You have—" I almost couldn't speak and I swallowed. "You have never allowed yourself to grieve," I said, coming to this realization even as I spoke it. "To do so would mean to acknowledge her death, and you could not bring yourself to do that."

Shua wept harder, as though my words tore the sorrow from his very soul. I went on, searching desperately for what little wisdom I could offer. "You must, in your heart, release her into Ishvala's keeping. You cannot bear this burden alone."

It was all I could think of, and it sounded trite, the simplest of counsels. But this time it rang so deeply true, and I had not, until this moment, expected it to ring true of this man. He reached up to his shoulder and gripped my hand. I thought perhaps that he was going to tear it away, but he gasped it tightly and held onto it. He then lifted it from his shoulder and brought it with both his hands to press it against his forehead.

I froze. This may have been a sign of respect, but my face burned with shame. Our roles should have been reversed.

Shua's weeping had quieted, and he still held my hand in place as though it afforded him some comfort. He could not speak, but the gratitude in his gesture was clear. I gently laid my hand against the back of his head, and bending closer, I whispered my own thanks.

As he finally relinquished his hold, I stood. Katri dropped to her knees beside him, wrapping an arm across his back, gentler than I had yet seen her. Dejan came up to kneel at his father's side as well, and I left Shua in their care, all three of them crying softly.

I returned to continue with the funeral rite, certain that Shua wished us to do so. As I joined my master's side, he gave me a brief look of approval, and he began the third litany again. The rest of the ritual flowed smoothly, and those gathered there had picked up the rhythm and cadence to the point where together we sounded as solemn and glorious as a gathering in the Great Temple.

At the conclusion, Shua and his little family remained huddled together. But this time, Shua had his arms around them, and Dejan and Katri wept healing tears. A few of the people had quickly slipped away. The rest went to Shua and his children to give them reassuring pats on the head or back.

The old woman, with the help of her escort, hobbled up to them, laying her hand on Dejan's head. "Tears are not always bad things, lahaat," she murmured with a quiet little chuckle. She reached into the folds of her clothing and produced a coin. Turning to my master and me, she held it out to us. "Thank you for your kindness, Saahadi."

The falshaii came forward as well, holding out coins. "Thanks, Saahadi," the eldest one said.

It was, of course, customary, but my master considered the coins being held out to him. "Are you sure you can spare this?" he asked. "Truly, we need no recompense."

The woman smirked. She took my master's hand and pressed the coin into it. "Then let it pay for Dejan's stitches."

My master bowed his head. "Then I will not insult you by refusing."

He accepted whatever coinage the others offered him. Even the hunchback shuffled up and handed us a couple of copper coins. With a bob of his head, he turned away. As he passed by Shua, he gave him a clap on the back, then did the same to Dejan.

"Forget about the glasses," he told them. "Come on over later and we'll have ourselves a bit of a shindy to remember Maya."

Bozidar tipped the coins from his palm into the wooden box. It did not even add up to much, but it seemed like a great treasure. Our work here being concluded, we put our sandals back on and made our departure. Shua rose stiffly to his feet, wiping a sleeve across his face. He looked at us, one after the other. He opened his mouth to say something, but he seemed to struggle for the words.

My master pressed his hand against the man's shoulder. "Will you be all right?" he asked.

Shua nodded. "Yeah," he murmured. "I guess so." Dejan and Katri had risen along with him and he held them close. "We'll be all right."

"Good," Bozidar said with a nod. "My pupil here will call on you again soon."

Shua gave me a look with ebbing sorrow and growing wry humor. "Aye, this one won't leave us alone, I daresay." Then he frowned. "Uh…I've got no money on me…"

My master shook his head. "No, my son, we've been sufficiently rewarded." In turn, he placed his hand on their heads. "Ishvala's blessings on all of you."

We left them to themselves and their lost loved one. Our surroundings hadn't changed, but there was a palpable difference to this place. It was not a desperate refuge for society's castoffs. It was not a place of dust and despair. It was a home. I groaned to myself.

My master laughed quietly. "You have learned what you have learned."

"I have, Saahad," I admitted. "I made such a point of everyone being equal in the eyes of God, and all this time, my own eyes were blind. Oh, Saahad, what you must think of me!"

"Ah, my son, did I not tell you that the voice of your heart was the clearest because that is where you hear Ishvala's voice the best?"

I shook my head despairingly. "I wonder about that sometimes."

My master laughed. "Well, truthfully, so do I. But don't ever stop listening."

"Hai! Wait up a second!"

We paused and turned to see Dejan jogging up behind us. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his smile displayed a lighter heart.

"Dad wants you to come over to Vashto's tonight! I mean"—he cast a self-conscious glance between Bozidar and me. "—if it's all right to ask you that." He gave a bit of a shrug. "It's a tavern, you know, and…well…it's also a…you know…"

Bozidar clapped a firm hand onto my shoulder. "Andakar will be honored," he replied. "I must decline. My aged master is ready to enter into Ishvala's bosom and I would like to be at his side."

Dejan looked at me hopefully. I couldn't possibly refuse.