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The Quartz Key Chapter Sixty-Six
by Lianne Burwell
June 2003
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The army set out at sunrise, and Nemir rode at their head, 
garbed in gold and white, unmatched in beauty and arms. 
Karsa pranced, head lifted high, tail streaming in the 
breeze, and like his rider, there was no mount in the army 
to match him.

Limon and his troop rode with him as his honor guard. Nemir 
had little need for a guard; no one in his army would be 
foolish enough to try to harm him, and no assassin would 
ever make it through the army to reach him. But his 
position demanded an honor guard, and he trusted Limon. The 
man had brought him to his destiny, after all.

"How did you know?" he asked Limon, just from curiosity.

"My Lord?"

"How did you know where to meet me to bring me to the 
capital?" Nemir asked. It was a question that had nagged at 
his mind for many days. On the one hand, his presence was 
inevitable. If he had not been there, who would have led 
the army south? Who would have protected the Kingdom? And 
yet, how could have been mere coincidence that had brought 
Limon to him?

"Word came from the temple and the High Priest. We were 
sent to meet you and escort you to the temple, for that was 
where you were needed. Do you disagree?"

For a moment, Nemir considered rebuking him for his tone, 
but did not. The Captain was his most valuable servant. 
"You did exactly as you should have," he assured the man. 
Indeed, as time went by, he found it more and more 
difficult to remember the time before he came to the 
temple.

>>>~~~<<<

On several occasions as they traveled south, he caught 
glimpses of Markus and Dansen in his retinue, but never 
close enough to speak to them. They looked worried to him 
for some reason. Perhaps they were worried about the 
outcome of the battle they rode towards. They need not be. 
There was no way that the clans would be able to raise a 
force that might possibly be a danger to the armies of the 
Kingdom. He would squash them like a hill of ants. Then he 
would ride on to their great city and this time he would 
leave no two stones still standing together. He had been 
generous before, but no more.

>>>~~~<<<

Each evening they camped well before sunset. It might waste 
valuable travel time, but Nemir needed the chance to 
immerse himself in the warmth of the sun without the worry 
of being on horseback. His connection to the sun was what 
sustained him. The priests raised his tent and prepared his 
evening meal while he sat and turned his face skyward, 
welcoming the sunlight like a lover's touch. The sun filled 
him with a strength and purpose.

Then as the sun set, he retreated into his tent. With the 
sun gone from the sky, unease settled on his shoulders. He 
could see the campfires of his soldiers and hear them 
singing his praises, and it helped to keep the darkness at 
bay. It was only at night that his doubts started to 
surface.

Night was also when he thought most of Judas. During the 
daytime, his Companion seemed so far away, but at night, it 
seemed as though he could just close his eyes and see the 
young man lying next to him on his pallet. He seemed close 
enough to touch.

It was at night that he missed Judas the most. During the 
day, events kept him distracted, but at night, with the 
lantern doused and the tent silent around him, he wished 
for him. He could have opened the tent flap and beckoned 
for anyone he wanted, but in the end, it was Judas he 
wanted and no other.

And it did not matter if every southerner stood between him 
and Judas, he would get him back.

>>>~~~<<<

It was the second night of the full moon when the fever 
hit. The sun had gone down, and Nemir was deep in sleep 
when something woke him. He lay on his pallet, staring up 
at the canvas of the tent, trying to identify what it was 
that had woken him from a sound sleep.

Then the pain struck him. His stomach cramped up, as though 
it were trying to turn itself inside-out. Nemir pulled his 
knees up to his chest, trying to contain the pain. He was 
sweating profusely, and for a moment he thought he might 
die. He tried to call out for help, but his throat closed 
up, chocking off the sound before it could escape. Every 
muscle seized, holding him in place.

Nemir closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he 
could, calling on all the techniques he had ever been 
taught for dealing with an unwilling body. The second 
breath was easier, as was the third, but the pain refused 
to release him. Sweat streamed from his forehead, stinging 
his eyes.

As time went by, he was drawn into the pattern of his own 
breath. Each inhalation centered him, and each exhalation 
pushed that center away from his body and the wracking pain 
it was experiencing, until finally it was as if he were no 
longer subject to his own flesh. The perfect darkness of 
the tent was no longer so perfect. He could see sparkles of 
starlight through the vent at the center, and even through 
the seams where the pieces of canvas were sewn together.

The starlight drew him, and suddenly he was no longer in 
his tent. He stood on an empty plain, lit only by moon and 
stars, and the only sound was of the wind. And yet the wind 
also sounded like music; a single, pure note that went on 
forever.

Like the starlight before it, the note drew him away. The 
landscape around him did not change, but he felt a 
sensation of movement, smooth as Karsa's purest gait. Easy 
and effortless. The pain remained, but he barely noticed 
it. It felt like it was being experienced by someone else. 
But its presence was disturbing, and he began to wonder if 
it were an attack. Could the South have found a spell to 
cripple him, or perhaps even slay him?

The moon, which he saw rarely anymore, rose higher, 
illumination the landscape around him, and he realized that 
what he had thought to be a plain was not. Billows of 
white, like foam on a rushing stream, surrounded him. Then 
the whiteness rushed towards him, and he plunged through it 
as if it were the foam it resembled, leaving him feeling 
chilled and damp, although that sensation disappeared 
quickly.

Then he saw a true plain, far below, and he realized that 
the whiteness was clouds, and that he had touched them. He 
had never realized, looking up into the sky, that they 
could have so much substance.

There were lights on the plain, he suddenly saw. The lights 
of many campfires, and he realized that what he was seeing 
was the army of the south. He tried to count them, but did 
not have the chance too. He was being drawn down, faster 
and faster, and if he were not suddenly certain that he was 
dreaming, he might have been fearful for his life.

He was drawn to a single tent at the center of the army, 
and through the vent in the center, just as he had been in 
his own tent.

Inside, a single lamp burned. The ground was covered in 
ornate carpets and cushions, and on the cushions was Judas.

Judas moaned and shifted. The robes he was wearing were 
soaked with sweat, clinging to his body, and his face was 
blotched with red. Seeing him, Nemir realized that the pain 
and fever he felt was not his own. Somehow, he was feeling 
what Judas was.

Nemir moved to Judas, but something seemed to be trying to 
force him back. A blaze of heat was between him and his 
companion, and for an instant all he wanted was to flee the 
tent, to flee the pain that would be inevitable between 
them. After all, wasn't it because of Judas that his father 
was dead, a voice deep inside of him asked. Wasn't it 
because of Judas that he had been forced to flee across the 
width and breadth of the land?

And yet, how could it be Judas' fault> He was blameless for 
the fact of his own birth. And it was through Judas that he 
had felt love. It was through Judas he had found his place 
in the world. He had grown beyond the confines of Ajantha 
and the small life he had led there. Ajantha seemed so far 
away.

Then Judas cried out and clutched his stomach, and all 
doubts fled for the moment. Nemir pushed through the 
barrier to his Companion's side. He reached out to touch 
Judas, but his hand went through the other man. He stared 
at his hand in shock, then realized anew that this was not 
real.

But Judas was still in pain, and unable to touch him, all 
Nemir could do was will his own strength to the other man, 
for while his emotions were still conflicted, he could not 
bear to see Judas in pain.

The pain he felt from Judas was almost overwhelming, and 
the force trying to separate them was back, but Nemir 
refused to surrender. He pushed against the resistance 
until he felt it give way, and he fell forward, drained of 
all strength.

But it was not on Judas he landed on, or the cushions that 
his Companion lay on. Instead, he hit the ground with a 
bone-jarring thud. And he was no longer in that distant 
tent. There was no lamp lighting the space, but he knew 
where he was; he was back in his own tent, lying on the 
ground next to his pallet, and he was alone.

Or was he? A pale light filled the tent, and when he looked 
up, for a moment he could see a woman standing over him, a 
gentle smile on her face. He had never seen her before, and 
yet she felt familiar. He opened his mouth to demand to 
know who she was.

Then the first light of dawn started to creep in through 
the seams of the tent, and a glow filled the tent. The 
woman's expression turned sad, and she vanished from sight.

A beam of sunlight worked its way through one of the seams 
to strike him directly in the eye, and he blinked, coming 
fully awake. Another day had started, bring him a step 
closer to his destiny.

END CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX