2. The day of departure dawned hot and stifling. Not a cloud could be seen in the sky. Even in the early morning, the ground burned under the pitiless sun. It was no day to be setting out for a desert crossing.
The yearly Tribute Caravan had no choice in the matter. They had to reach the Temple of the Sun Gods in two months, during the days of the Festival of the Sun. The tributes had to be given then, or else the Sun Gods would reject them. A long and terrible journey lay ahead – but one they could not back out from.
That morning, the twelve members of the caravan were waiting for their newest addition. Kassir came eventually, led by Rashed. The caravan master looked at the young Light-tender, completely unimpressed. True, Kassir was only a child, not a full-fledged Light-tender. He had yet to be fully trained in the Temple of the Sun Gods. And that was what bothered him the most. He did not want to be responsible for a young lad who had not been further than a day’s walk from his village. Such untrained folk had no business going deep in the desert.
Tar, the caravan master was a middle-aged man, well-build with long hair tied back in a golden band – the only ornament he allowed himself. His face was sunburnt from the many desert crossings – he was the oldest caravan master and the one who had survived his job the longest. Scars covered his face and arms – testaments of previous confrontations with desert beasts. He was a practical man to the point of being irreverent. He held the Gods in a high enough regard, but knew very well that, in the desert, man had to rely first and foremost on himself. In the days to come, Kassir would soon realise his status as a Light-tender did not impress Tar at all. In his caravan, the master’s word was law - everyone had to obey him, from the caravan guards to the tribute bearer and the Light-tender. Those that did not were punished. One could not afford anarchy when crossing the desert.
“Master Tar,” Rashed greeted as he and Kassir approached the caravan that morning, “I entrust to you my son, Kassir, future servant of the Gods. May he serve them well.”
Tar nodded impatiently.
“Save that for the temple priests,” he said harshly. “The only one he must serve well while in my caravan is me. Beyond that – it is not for me to care.”
Rashed eyed the rough man hesitantly. He did not know if he was ready to trust the caravan master with the life of his firstborn. But he had heard only good things of Tar – people said he was competent and the fact that he had survived so many desert crossings was proof enough. He was also duty-bound to deliver Kassir safely to the Temple of the Sun Gods. And anyway, Rashed had given up the right to worry about his eldest son long before Kassir was born.
“You mind the caravan master now, Kassir,” he said gruffly, patting him on the back. “And good luck.”
He left, striding swiftly towards the village. He did not look back. Kassir watched him go, feeling despondent. He turned and looked at Tar. The caravan master had a shrewd glint in his eyes. He did not reveal anything though about what he thought of the last parting between the young Light-tender and his father.
Tar showed Kassir his camel. The boy had never ridden a camel before. The animal was smaller than the others and rather placid, but Kassir still had a hard time figuring how to climb on its back. He did not ask for help though, but attempted to do it by himself, conscious of what the caravan members would say if the mighty Light-tender, chosen of the Gods, could not manage the simple task of getting on a camel’s back.
“Now, you’d better lead me right,” he mumbled to the beast. “Don’t go running off with me.”
The camel turned to look at him scornfully, as if to tell its rider he would do well to let it do its job. Once more, Kassir felt a strange connection with the beast, as he had with the shadow bear a year ago. He patted the camel apologetically.
“All right. All right, I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sure you know very well what you have to do.”
The caravan members witnessed the exchange between the Light-tender and the camel without saying a word. Most of them were well-travelled, and they had encountered Light-tenders before. They knew about the strange bond Light-tenders shared with animals. An animal was more likely to obey a Light-tender than any other human being and that could prove useful deep in the desert where the burning sun and scorching heat made beasts disobeying and unruly.
The Tribute Caravan now arranged itself in single file, with Tar in front and Kassir with the two camels laden with tributes for the Sun Gods in the centre. Tar gave the signal and they were all in motion.
As they moved away from the village of Red-stones, Kassir felt tempted to look back. But all his partings had been cold. His own father had walked away from him without a backward glance, even though he knew they might never see each other again. So he kept his eyes resolutely forward. He was leaving who he had been in his former village behind. He was no longer Kassir eldest son of Rashed and Malna, born on the second rainy night of the year. Soon he would be Kassir the Light-tender and it was better to look ahead to his new life than to think back on the life he was leaving behind.
3. For many days the caravan moved only slowly as it passed through the cluster of small settlements that were near Red-stones, pausing in each for a day to collect the tributes. As they would advance further into the desert, the villages would be fewer and further between. In one of those villages, Kassir caught a glimpse of Ruana, a girl he had met often with his friends. Linir fancied her, but she only had eyes for Kassir. She barely looked at him now, knowing he was for the Gods and not bound to linger too much among mortals. But Kassir did not really mind, for even though Ruana was tall and golden and proud, it was Lusa he thought of, small dark Lusa, with her quaint ways. He realised with a jolt that he missed her – more than anyone else from the village.
As the days passed, Kassir began to grow familiar with the members of the caravan – with some more than others, as many avoided him and kept a respectful distance from him, due to his status as Light-tender.
Tar, of course, had no such sensitivities. Tar treated Kassir just as he treated the rest of the caravan. He gave the boy chores and expected him to see them through. Whoever wanted to travel with him, he would say, was to do his bidding or else try crossing the desert on his own. There was no danger of him sending Kassir away, though – that would have been against the wishes of the Gods – but Kassir did not feel too inclined to disobey him.
The chief of the caravan guards was Tar’s own son, Batar. He was a man of twenty-seven summers, tall and strong, very much like his father, only less harsh. He was a good leader himself and, even though he obeyed his father to the letter concerning the paths they had to take and the stops they made along the way, only he could command his guards – and he commanded them well. Batar was more patient when it came to Kassir. He was the one who spent time with the boy in the evenings, teaching him the ways of the empty desert, how to set up camp, how to feed and tether the camels, how to bring forth water from hidden underground springs.
There was also Rhea, the tribute carrier. People usually gave her a wide berth. Her red hair, unlike the golden colours of the people of the desert made folk wary of her. Many claimed she had been conceived through some unholy union. A demon surely had hair like her. Such notions had caused Rhea’s mother to have her sent to the Temple of the Rain Goddesses. She grew up there and proved quite skilled – enough so that she was now entrusted to gather tributes for the two temples.
Rhea seldom smiled, even when they were all sitting around the fire in the evenings, telling amusing stories to pass the time. She did not like it when people did not show what she called proper respect for the Gods and Goddesses. The others were always wary of what they said in their presence. She was equally harsh to the villagers, inspecting the tributes with a watchful gaze, quick to demand something else if what the villagers offered did not seem good enough to her. Kassir she treated with a mixture of reverence and authority. She always addressed him as Light-tender, never by name, and told him often that the two of them had a hard job making sure no one strayed from the path appointed to them by the Gods. Kassir did not know what to make of her.
The one that Kassir liked best of his travelling companions was Run, one of the caravan guards. Although not much older than Kassir, he was quite well-travelled. He was the son of a merchant and his father had taken him on many trips. He had been to the World Without twice. He had many stories to tell, and Kassir was eager to listen – much to Rhea’s disapproval.
“Such an interest in the World Without is unholy,” she claimed.
A few of the guards exchanged pointed looks, then glanced at Rhea’s red hair, as if to show that she was not the right person to talk about what was unholy. It was strange, but with all her devotion to the Gods, Rhea wore her demon-like red hair proudly.
“I do not see how knowing them could harm us,” Tar said. “It is always good to know how your enemy’s mind works.”
“Well said, master Tar,” Run agreed. “Only, I would not call all those from the World Without enemies. They are people just like us.”
A few of the caravan members muttered darkly. Some looked uneasily at Rhea. She was downright furious.
“They are demon spawns,” she cried, once again oblivious of how the entire caravan looked at her red hair. “They pay no tributes to the Sun Gods and Rain Goddesses. They do not know their names. They do not even know our Gods exist.”
“They are ignorant of the true path, I will give you that,” Run conceded. “But not knowing does not make them evil.”
“Are you suggesting,” Rhea began coolly, “That the Gods abandoned them unjustly? That they did not deserve to be forsaken?”
Run shrugged.
“I leave such matters in the hands of the priests.”
The way he spoke hinted he wished Rhea would follow his example.
Kassir did not know what to think. He had heard many people talking of the World Without. The goods brought from there were worthy of praise – wine and cloth and many strange tools. But the people were shunned. When merchants talked about those living in the World Without they mentioned dark spectres and savages who lacked all sense of civilization. Run talked differently. He talked fairly. And Kassir found that he believed Run more than the others.
Two evenings after the confrontation with Rhea, Run told Kassir about the City of White Marble.
Rhea was not present during that talk. She had taken to retreating from the group in the evenings, as if to show she did not enjoy the company of such godless men. At times she asked Kassir to join her and when he politely declined, she frowned at him and shook her head, like he was breaking some contract with his refusal.
It was a pleasant evening, cool, after the scorching heat of the day. The stars shone bright in the silent sky. They were all gathered around a small fire, eager to hear one of Run’s accounts of the World Without.
“I have never actually seen the city myself,” Run was saying. “The closest I came to it was the Merchants’ Citadel, where traders are held in high regard and most people have strange dark skin and dark hair. It was there that I have heard the stories, for the Merchants’ Citadel and the City of White Marble are tied closely together.”
“What is the City of White Marble?” Batar wanted to know. “I’ve heard of it myself several times, but only from priests cursing its name.”
“I’ve been told quite a bit of that myself,” Run said. “Priests warned us against going there. They said that if we found ourselves in such a fortress of darkness, the Gods would surely forsake us. Not that there is much risk of this. The City of White Marble is far to the North. Not even with one of their fastest horses would we be able to reach it and be back in the desert before our dispensation expires. A pity, really. A tradesman could make plenty of gold, I think, in such a place.”
“Rhea were to hear you, she’d give you a piece of her mind about you greed,” Kassir interrupted cheekily. “Especially when it goes against the decrees of the priests.”
Run winked.
“We won’t be telling her, then, will we? Anyway – the City of White Marble. We’ve heard many speak of it. The way they talked, you could guess it was the wonder of the northern world. They spoke of a great citadel, strong, capable of withstanding any kind of attack. No one, they said, could conquer the City of White Marble. No one could even enter it, if they have evil intentions, for the magic that guards it is strong.”
“I do not like much what I’m hearing,” Tar muttered darkly. “Should these people decide to become themselves conquerors, anyone in front of them would be hard put to it.”
“I shouldn’t worry myself too much with that,” Run said. “Whatever else they might be, they are not conquerors. They love learning and art and they sing in the streets and make beautiful things. They buy beautiful things, too, which is why I say that trade with them would be good. But that is not all that I’ve heard about the City of White Marble. No, the best thing is about the construction itself. It is grand, they say, and more beautiful than you can ever imagine. You may travel far and wide and not lay eyes on its equal. There are no walls as white, no buildings as elegant, no decorations as exquisite. It is a song, they say, the very song that sung the rest of the world into being. The people of the North believe the world began with the City of White Marble, and while the city still stands, so will the rest of the world.”
An uneasy silence fell over the camp. Run’s words were eloquent and beautiful, but they made the caravan anxious. It did not do to marvel so about what lay in the World Without, nor was it good to repeat their blasphemous beliefs.
“That is nonsense,” one of the caravan guards said. “Everyone knows the world was created by the Sun Gods as a gift to their sisters and wives the Rain Goddesses. Such talks of songs and cities are only the words of heathens ignorant of the truth.”
“Perhaps,” Run agreed. “I would still like to look upon the city, if only to determine if it is as great as people describe it.”
“I wouldn’t put much stock in traveller’s tales,” Batar said dismissively. “They all make things grander than they actually are.”
But that night Kassir’s dreams bore him to a tall city with white walls – almost silver in the moonlight. He walked cobbled streets, passing tall buildings made of stone. The images were blurry and they faded and shifted, yet they filled him with a sense of great longing. When he woke up, the only thing that remained was the sense that the City of White Marble was extending its influence across the many miles of the desert, calling his name.
Copyright Simina Lungu 2022
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