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.He had consulted Tamuk's maps, still rolled securely in onesaddlebag, and knew that the oasis the Jailor inhaled was two-thirds of the way toward the settlement towhich Hamaan had gone to bring Sanda's husband Yesquz back to Ala'arat.As it happened, thissettlement was not far from Mas'jahan, but Moichi knew that in Duk Fadat with no food or water thedistance might as well be that of the ocean that separated Iskael from the continent of man.He had been elated to find the co'chyn alive but now this might prove to be a cruel jest - merely aprolongation of misery and slow death.Time was his most precious commodity and he determined to make the most of it.Accordingly, hepressed the co'chyn to its limits and past it as he headed ever northwest.The pace he chose was not theswiftest, for the intensifying Duk Fadat obliged him to make less frequent directional sightings than he wascomfortable with.He resisted the temptation to spur his mount on faster for he knew well the worst fatethat could befall him was to become lost, only to find that he had chased his co'chyn's tail in a circle fordays.Sun and stars were only visible sporadically through the thickening hail of sand and, as the daysprogressed, they became ever more faint, until at last he could have believed he was back in Jailor'sunderground lair.Still, he urged his mount on a steady pace day and night.He fell asleep, swaying, slumped over hissaddle, remaining there only because he tied his wrists tightly to the pommel with the reins.Once, hisco'chyn found water, using its trunk to burrow in the sand where a patch of dune grass clungprecariously, but Moichi was unable to find it with fingers and dirk.He pushed on, dehydration draining him of energy and, finally, of consciousness.He awoke, choking onsand and knew that if his journey continued in this manner he would perish in less than a day.With the utmost reluctance, he drew his dirk and slew his mount with a swift, merciful slash across itsthroat.He drank its blood but that merely made him more thirsty, so sprawled in the lee of a dune,half-covered in cascading sand, he carefully made an incision along the skin of its underside.He slid outthe three ovals of its stomachs, opened the third one and drank the fluid inside.He made a bladder of thesecond one, also filled with precious fluid, then set about butchering the beast as best he could.He ate slowly, mindful of his last meal.After he had eaten his fill, he threw out everything in Tamuk'ssaddlebags, loaded one side with the bladder, the other with choice slabs of co'chyn meat wrapped inskin.He slapped it over his shoulder and continued his trek northwestward.The spoor of the Makkonwas stronger in his mind and this drove him on, past even his tolerance for pain and fatigue.Pain-racked days passed and he pressed on, into the Mu'ad, into the teeth of the Duk Fadat, measuringout rations of water and meat until both were gone.Still, he put one unsteady foot in front of another, hiseyes all but plastered shut against the stinging sand. But, at length, even his mind and iron will gave out and he collapsed upon the breast of the Mu'ad.Soon,in the height of the Duk Fadat, his form was layered with whispering sand until only a creature indigenousto the vast, shifting wasteland would recognize the cairn upon the dune as something alive.EIGHTRED VEILOne bright spark in the darkness danced, its gyrations expanding into a recognizable pattern that wasspeech: 'The Black Angel is shut away.Evil is as evil does.Darkness is as Darkness will.The livingtestament of Zarathus, of He Who Walks Alone, shall be done.'Scrims of sand resolved themselves into swirling arcs of brightly patterned fabrics.Blue, green, yellow,the turquoise of a bay, the jade of a storm-tossed ocean, the amber of the sea at sunset, all these shadesand more spun by him like wheels on fantastic vehicles.He opened eyes which seemed to him to have been glued shut for weeks and saw the robes and skirtsbillowing and whirling past him.At once, he grew dizzy and he shifted his gaze overhead.He was in anenormous tent of some thick natural muslin.Tentpoles of polished wood rose up like a copse of treeswherever he looked.He became aware of odors next: the strong scents of broiling meat and stewingfruit, rich and astringent all at once.Now and again, through these mouth-watering smells came the acridstench of unwashed bodies.Moichi closed his eyes.Perhaps he was dreaming.Perhaps he was dead, having been buried in the DukFadat and this was some afterlife the Iskamen had not imagined.Then the swirl of color, motion andfabric became recognizable for what they were: dancing.He was among the Catechist dervishes.He groaned a little as he tried to rise up from the pallet of soft goatskins upon which he lay andimmediately a heavy woman was at his side, squatting, smiling down at him benevolently.She lookedoddly familiar despite the fact that he had never before met a Catechist.She was quite beautiful
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