“It must be a hard thing for you,” said Alaric, “to have such a son.”
Piros watched the low flames for a few heartbeats. “Most of the men know how to deal with him. Otherwise, I would have lost him long since.”
Alaric picked up a ladle that had been used to stir porridge for the evening meal, and, reversing it, he poked at the fire. The embers flared into dancing life for a moment, the warmth pleasant against the night’s chill. “Has he always been like this?”
Again, Piros was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Not always. I thought he would take my place someday. He was a good rider. He learned to race early and bested most of the men in this caravan. But that was before.”
“Before …?”
The caravan master sighed. “I suppose I’m a little surprised that none of the others has told you. That they’ve all kept their oath.”
Alaric waited.
“I’d ask for your oath, too, but I can’t believe you’d give it or intend it. Not after hearing your songs. Do people recognize themselves when you sing?”
Alaric smiled a little. “I’d be a fool to put too much truth in my songs. I care a great deal for my skin.”
Piros selected some fragments of dried camel dung from a pile not far from his hip and fed them to the fire. In a moment, it flared up. “I thought that might be the case.”
Alaric leaned an elbow on his knee. “People can recognize themselves in any story, whether it’s about them or not. I’ll give you my oath that no one else will recognize you. Or your son. And whatever song I sing of this journey will be far away, where no one will even know your name.”
Piros shrugged. “I don’t know why it matters to me. But it does.” He looked at Alaric sidelong. “And yet, there is a part of me, a vain, greedy part, that wants to hear what you’ll make of our story. That wants the immortality you offer. At my age, I think that’s the only sort of immortality I’ll ever have.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the tent where his son slept. “Not grandchildren, that’s certain.”
Alaric reached for the kettle that rested amid the flames. There was a bit of liquid in the bottom, and he poured himself half a cup of the strong desert tea. “I make no guarantee of immortality.”
Piros took the kettle from him and filled his own cup. “Don’t be modest, minstrel. You already have songs that are older than the two of us together.”
“Tell me your tale, then. Or tell me the version you want me to hear.”
“Not … the truth?”
“No one ever tells the truth about himself. We tell what we want others to judge, for good or ill. And when I have heard your tale, perhaps I will make something more of it.” He blew on his tea to cool it before taking a sip. “Perhaps I will sing of our visit to the sky-touching towers of the lost city. Does it have a name?”
Piros swallowed a mouthful of his own tea. “I’ve heard it called Haven,” he murmured.
“A fine, romantic name,” observed Alaric.
“And what do you think we would find there?”
Alaric smiled just a little. “Our hearts’ desires, of course. Isn’t that what we’re all seeking?”
Piros rolled his cup between his hands. “Perhaps that’s why it always retreats beyond our reach.” Again, he glanced toward his son’s tent. “He blames me for that. He blames me for most things.”
“I’ve heard that isn’t uncommon among sons,” Alaric said.
Piros looked down into his cup for a moment, as if he could read something in its contents. “If I had never taken him to the caves … perhaps our tale would be very different.”
“The caves?”
Piros nodded slowly. “Some would say it was fated to happen, because of the kind of boy he was. Headstrong. Of limited obedience. If his mother were alive, she would despise me for not beating it out of him. She believed very much in beatings.”
“So you were the soft one.”
“For all the good it did, yes.” He took another small sip of his tea. “He was twelve summers old when she died. Afterward, I kept him by my side. Except for the trip to the caves. That waited until he was sixteen.” He shook his head. “I should have let it go longer. But he wanted to know. He was curious in those days.” He finished his tea, set the cup down by his thigh, and leaned forward with elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. For a moment, he pressed his chin to his fingers, and then he straightened his back once more and sighed. “I warned him. But in the end he did as he pleased. You’ve seen the result.”
“The caves are … dangerous?”
“Deadly dangerous,” said Piros. “The vapors that rise within them are poisonous. But something highly coveted by the people who live on the far side of the desert grows there. And so there is profit to be made in conveying it to them. My father did it, and his father, and before him there was the merchant who passed the trade to my family.”
“But if the caves are poisonous,” said Alaric, “how is this substance obtained?”
“The people who live nearby know the secret of harvesting it without dying.”
“Then it’s a plant of some kind.”
Piros shrugged. “It might be a moss, or it might be a mineral incrustation. No one quite seems to know. It’s not easy to study something that exists in a poisonous mist.”
“So … Rudd was poisoned.”
Piros shook his head. “That would be a much simpler fate.” He took a deep breath and seemed to squint at something far beyond the fire, though there was nothing to see but the dark and starry sky. “I knew I would have to tell you when I asked you to join us, but now it seems more difficult than I expected. Still …” He looked at Alaric sidelong. “When we reach the salt mines, there will be another journey of two days, for just a few of us. Myself. Hanio. And Rudd, because he will refuse to stay behind.
“Our destination will be the caves, and we will return with a considerable quantity of a certain powder, which will be in my charge, although Rudd will be given small amounts from time to time. Under its influence, and knowing we have renewed our supply of it, he may urge you to try it. As you value your life, do not.” He sighed heavily. “He will praise it. He will tell you it will make you feel like a king. One would think he would not, that he would wish to keep as much of it as he could for himself, but under its influence, men tend not to consider the future. For the sake of your own future, do not accept it. Believe me when I tell you this. You will think you are gaining the world, but you will be losing yourself.”
“I have no desire to do that,” said Alaric.
Piros sighed again. “What man would not want to feel like a king?”
Alaric allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “I’ve observed a few kings. It’s not as enviable a life as one might think.”
Piros glanced at him. “On the far side of the desert, they pay well for it. They call it the Powder of Desire.”
“An interesting name.”
“It’s a fine grind, blue-gray in color, and not unlike thyme, but with an even sharper scent and a more pungent taste. It goes well with fowl.”
“You’ve tried it?”
Piros looked back to the fire. “I was young and foolish, and there was a wager. I have not wagered since. Rudd has shown me what I might have become.”
Alaric nodded slowly. “I take your warning. But I do wonder … why not withhold it from him? Surely its power fades with time.”
The caravan master’s interlaced fingers tightened until the cords stood out on the backs of his hands. “On the far side of the desert … I saw a man accustomed to it die for its lack. It was a long, slow, painful death.” He closed his eyes and bent his head. “Shall I lose even the shadow of my son?”
Alaric glanced toward the tent where Rudd slept. There was a man at the entrance, rolled in a blanket, his head pillowed on a camel saddle. Alaric knew there was another at the rear. “It’s a sad tale,” he said at last. “But it needs more shaping before it can be a song.” He avoided saying that it needed an end.