"Stephen Goldin - Storyteller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

CHAPTER 5

The Mission


Beyond the Holy City of Ravan, stretching for many parasangs eastward, lay the vast wastes of the
Kholaj Desert. The Kholaj, bane of travelers, accursed of merchants, a portion of purgatory lying along
one of the most important trade routes in all Parsina—the route from the eastern lands of Indi and Sinjin
to the center of the world itself, Ravan. Each year untold millions of dinars worth of merchandise crossed
through those forbidding tracts—and each year the tales grew of travelers who didn't complete the
crossing. Many were the caravans that vanished entirely within the treacherous sands, and many more
were the individual wayfarers who succumbed to the snakes, scorpions, and other vile creatures of
Rimahn that plagued this barren land.

Near the center of the Kholaj Desert lay the oasis of Sarafiq. As one of half a dozen oases scattered
throughout the vast wasteland, it was a popular stopover for travelers, a respite from the monotony of
sand and oppressive heat. Here was abundant water for horses, camels, and men. Here was a major
bazaar where merchants from more fertile lands surrounding the desert brought in food to sell at
exorbitant prices to improvident travelers. Here were rich gardens whose many blossoms and delicate
scents provided momentary beauty to ease the wanton defilement of the region by Rimahn. Here was
quiet and peace, and breezes cooled by the splashing waters of the fountains.

Also in Sarafiq was a shrine, a place so holy that its importance dwarfed all the oasis's other functions.
The shrine dated back so far into history that no man could state its origin for certain. Some said it was
founded by the great mage Ali Maimun shortly after the climactic battle between the forces of Rimahn
and the forces of Oromasd at the beginning of this Cycle of the world. Other historians disagreed, saying
the shrine had already been ancient in the days of King Shahriyan and the great battle.

The shrine of Sarafiq had a madrasa connected with it, noted for the quality of the students it turned out.
Umar bin Ibrahim, high priest of Ravan, was a graduate of Sarafiq's madrasa; so was the wizard Akar
just a decade later. If the shrine of Sarafiq had done nothing but turn out great scholars, its fame would
have been secured.

But the shrine had even more than that, for at the shrine dwelled a prophet. There had always been a
prophet at Sarafiq for as long as people could remember. Each prophet reigned for ten, twenty, thirty,
sometimes even forty years or more before yielding to his successor with never a trace of a fight. The
secret of how a prophet gained his powers, and how each prophet selected and trained his successor,
was a total mystery to the outside world—but the system worked, and Sarafiq always had a prophet in
residence.

The prophet of Sarafiq would grant to any man who came before him one vision of the future. The road
to Sarafiq was arduous, and the path to the prophet himself was even more so—but so great was the
reputation of the prophet of Sarafiq, and so accurate (if ambiguous) were his forecasts, that more people
came to the oasis for his wisdom than for the life -giving water.

Eight years earlier, Umar bin Ibrahim had returned to Sarafiq seeking a vision—not for himself, but for
the young and recently orphaned Prince Ahmad. At that time the prophet told him if Prince Ahmad ever
left the city walls of Ravan before his coronation he would never return to rule there. For years Umar had
jealously guarded the prince, telling no one of the prophecy in hopes of thwarting it—but now, after the
ambush by King Basir, it looked as though the prophet's words were to be proven accurate one more