Salima's Pass meandered for sixty miles through the jagged Wedawed Mountains. At the widest point, the pass measured a hundred feet across. At the narrowest, a small cart could barely squeeze through. Along the sides of the pass, rust-colored rock cascaded downward like melted candle wax. According to legend, when Taal Eos the Sun King set the giant Epros Bull on fire for trampling his grandson, the maddened beast had plunged through the mountain to scorch the land of Hareez before expiring.

Later, the people of Hareez had named the pass after Salima, a Prophet of the Pale Lords, who had fled religious persecution in Epros only to attain martyrdom at the hands of savage nomads on the opposite side.

Jaska led them into the pass, keeping to himself and saying nothing more than he must. When he wasn’t brooding about the past robbed from him or the evils he had done, he thought about Salima's sigils. At regular intervals, the prophet had carved intricate symbols whose meaning had been forgotten after two centuries.

When they stopped at one of the many springs that ran along the wall, springs Salima was said to have created with her tears, Jaska examined one of the sigils up close. The circular pattern seemed haphazardly carved but was strangely familiar to him.

Zyrella approached. "Can you read them?"

"No, but somehow they speak to me. The Pale Lords that Salima worshiped, do you know what they’re supposed to look like?"

"According to the stories I've heard, the Lords of Retribution wear silver armor, ride horses of fire, and wield swords of silver flame which seems right since most believe them to have been Avida-djinn, children of the Bright Moon, hunters of shadows."

"I have felt powerful beings riding on the winds above us, and sometimes out of the corners of my eyes I will catch a glimpse of beings like you describe. But when I look, they’re gone."

Zyrella furrowed her brow. "I haven't experienced anything like that or sensed any presences."

Jaska shrugged. "Perhaps I've lost my sanity."

"Maybe it’s the mark of the Tigress. Some of her essence flows through you, transferred there when she revived you. I can see it when I open my witch-sight, and when I peer into the Shadowland, you glow with a brilliance twice my own."

Jaska traced the symbol with his index finger. A trickle of power flowed into him. He could feel the presence of the Pale Lords, like whispered secrets he felt he should know. And they sparked his desire for defeating Salahn, for destroying the tyrannical order he had helped to create.

"The symbols seem so familiar to me."

"You have been through here before many times," Ohzikar replied. "You said so yourself.”

"But I never really paid any attention to the drawings. To me, these were the marks of demons. I'm surprised I didn't try to destroy them."

"They can't be harmed," Zyrella said. "Many zealots have tried over the years."

Jaska traced the sigil one last time. "The depth of the carving varies, seemingly with purpose. I know I have seen them somewhere else." Jaska stared at the mark for a while longer then shook his head. "We should keep moving."

* * *

Their wan firelight flickered within the traveler's niche, one of three natural, bow-shaped hollows cut into the walls. Cold winds howled through the narrow pass as always, but the niche provided some shelter. Ohzikar and Zyrella huddled upwind from the fire. Jaska sat downwind near the horses, oblivious to the smell of burning dung. With his arms around his knees, Jaska stared through firelight and darkness, eyes focused on one of Salima's spiraling signs. Faint sparks meandered through his qavra.

Ohzikar whispered to Zyrella. "He's a haunted man."

"What man wouldn't be in his situation?"

"Yes, but it's more than that. He sees things in this pass. I've watched his eyes, wild and wandering. He looks for more than enemies. And these visions of the Pale Lords…"

Zyrella glanced at Jaska and noticed the activity within his qavra as it responded to his meditative state.

"He'll never recover, you know. No matter what he does, he'll always be scarred."

Zyrella admired Jaska's stern, handsome face. He reminded her of a majestic desert hawk. A wounded hawk that she wished she could nurse back to health.

Ohzikar's voice grew cold. "Ella, why are you drawn to him?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play games with me. You're attracted to him."

"And why should it bother you if I am?"

"Why should it not? It's unnatural to be drawn to a murderer."

"That was someone else."

"This man lives with the weight of all those deaths, and that weight will break him in the end."

"I think you're wrong," she said. "And my attraction to him doesn't matter. It means nothing."

"If you say so. But I think it’s odd, and you should be careful." Ohzikar put his arm around her. "I'm sorry, Ella. I don't want to be overbearing, but I'm worried about you."

She snuggled up against him. "I know. Trust me, I wish I wasn't drawn to him. It's not something of my choosing."

"Promise me you won't act on this desire."

"Ohzi…" She thought of many promises, but what she felt for Jaska dizzied her senses, clouded her thoughts. "I can't promise that anymore than I can help being drawn to him."

* * *

Jaska dreamed of Mardha. With her eyes lit by dark passion, she straddled him. He entered the smooth warmth between her legs. She arched backward, and he admired her unusually pale skin and ornate tattoos. She rocked back and forth with increasing intensity, matching the rhythm of his thrusting hips. Her full breasts swayed and bobbed. He thrust his head back against the pillows. His eyes rolled back, the lids closed.

Moments later, still thrusting, he opened his eyes. The tattoos had disappeared, but the skin tone remained unchanged. The same athletic build, the same charged presence, but it wasn't Mardha.

He lost his rhythm. His hands slipped from her breasts.

She leaned forward and dark hair fell over her shoulders and onto his chest. Her face was less angular than Mardha's. Her eyes were larger, her lips fuller. Wickedness didn't twist her features, and wisdom softened her eyes.

Zyrella…

She playfully raked her nails down his chest and whispered, "Please don't stop."

She teased his ears with her tongue. His mind whirled with the scent of her hair, like lavender in the summer heat. He thrust again but with greater vigor while his hands explored her back.

He kissed her with a desperate urge to pull her into himself, to merge their bodies into one pure orgasm. Their climax built into a series of raspy shouts followed by release. Trembling, she slid down into his arms. He met her smile and words of love crept into his mind, neared his tongue. His eyes closed again.

He opened them…

Blood stained a lush courtyard. Children wailed. Crows cawed from the trees, demanding their feast. Four naked women lay in a pile, broken and silent. A living woman fell onto them. Jaska loomed over her. She whimpered and begged to be killed. Jaska didn't know her, didn't know any of them. Bruises and cuts marred her smooth, aristocratic skin. The other palymfar stood behind Jaska and cheered him on.

A smile was plastered across Jaska's face. No matter how he tried, he couldn't remove it. He gripped his bagh nakh and towered over the woman. Dozens of children watched nearby, destined for slavery. On the walls of the fortified manor, their fathers hung by nails, torn and writhing but alive and forced to watch. The woman wailed as he plunged his bagh nakh into her belly, ripping and tearing.

Slowly her features shifted.

He was killing Zyrella.

Jaska awoke, uttering a tortured scream. He stood and drew his saber carelessly, with a scraping that rang through the pass. His knees threatened to buckle. Despite the cold air, sweat drenched him. He struggled to catch his breath.

The nightmares must end. His evil must cease.

He reversed the saber and pressed the tip against his stomach. But before he could plunge the blade inward, strong hands seized him.

"That will solve nothing.”

Ohzikar's calm gaze met Jaska's wild eyes. Jaska wanted to cut the templar's head from his neck. His heart pounded. His muscles tensed. Yet he allowed Ohzikar to pull the saber from his hand.

And with that, his strength faltered and he fell to his knees.

"No, it won't," Jaska said in a soft whisper, coming to his senses. Ohzikar squatted beside him and sheathed the saber. Jaska sucked wind and stared at his trembling hands. "The nightmares overwhelmed me. I was willing to die to be rid of them."

"I can't let you do that. Zyrella says we need you."

"Don't ever trust me as she does, templar. I can't promise that madness won't overtake me."

"You need not worry about me trusting you."

Zyrella joined them, a blanket wrapped around her body. She put her hand on Jaska's shoulder to comfort him. He recoiled and moved several steps away. Jaska knelt again and refused to look at Zyrella. And now Ohzikar could imagine what sort of terrors Jaska must have dreamed of.

Zyrella frowned and handed Jaska a cup of warm tea. He took it apprehensively without meeting her eyes. "Are you all right, Jaska?"

"I am now."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I never want to speak of any of my nightmares. I only wish to write my reply to them in the blood of my enemies, then I will deal with myself."

Jaska finished his tea then stalked to the back of the niche and curled up on the ground. Zyrella gathered his blanket and started to follow but Ohzikar stopped her.

"I think he needs to be alone."

"I was only going to cover him up and see if I could do anything else for him."

"He can comfort himself now. The tea is enough, and I think he wants to keep you as far away as possible."

"Why?"

"Ella, think of what this man has done to innocent women and what sort of nightmares must have plagued him that he would recoil from you."

Zyrella shivered. She felt empty inside but ached to comfort him.

Seeing her frown and bite her lip, Ohzikar said, "I'll give him the blanket for you."

"You're a wonderful man, Ohzi."

"No one is perfect."

* * *

On the close of the twelfth day, they reached the western slopes of the Wedawed Mountains. The pass had grown dark from shadows cast by the descending sun. One sliver of light caught the last sigil. When he saw it, Jaska was mentally rehearsing palymfar katas and attack maneuvers to keep his mind occupied.

Jaska reined in his horse sharply and vaulted from the saddle. He rushed to the first sigil Salima had etched and traced the lines with his finger. He tried to envision a three dimensional version laid out on the ground.

He was right! He did know the sigils from somewhere else. He even knew their sequence, only he'd been seeing it in reverse by riding through the pass westward.

"What is it?" Zyrella asked as she and Ohzikar rushed to his side.

"I do know the sigils after all. In fact, I know them well.” They stared at him in amazement. “Do you know the origins of the palymfar?"

Ohzikar shook his head, and Zyrella replied, "No, I don’t."

"Neither do I. Neither do any of the palymfar, save perhaps Salahn, though he has never spoken of it."

Jaska stepped out into the middle of the pass and lowered into a stance. He began the first kata of the palymfar martial art. Each form followed a precise spiraling course. The practitioner could begin at any point and then end upon completing a cycle. The silent moves drew in energy from the environment and focused power within the practitioner. The katas also instilled meditative calm and prepared the body for physical rigors.

"Watch the pattern of my movements," he said, noticing Zyrella and Ohzikar were mystified. "Then compare them with the sigil on the wall."

After some time Ohzikar replied, "The gods be damned."

Zyrella shot him a stern look for cursing. "What does this mean?"

Jaska shrugged. "The original palymfar must have based their forms on these sigils. Even the height variance during each kata matches the depths of the carvings. Of course, the match of katas to sigils isn't exact with all the ones I’ve seen."

Ohzikar stroked his chin. "You know, that actually makes sense to me. The palymfar styled themselves as saviors of the people and stood for justice, just like Salima did. Only they were aggressive while she was passive."

Zyrella asked, "But why hasn't someone noticed this before?"

"Salahn may have suppressed the information," Jaska replied, "and I can only assume the spirit of the White Tigress within me has given me this revelation denied to others. It couldn’t be mere chance."

"You said some of the forms are different from the sigils," Ohzikar commented. "I would think that mirroring the forms precisely would be better for bringing the power of the Pale Lords into the martial artist, especially if one understood the meaning of the symbols."

"Over the years,” said Jaska, “various grandmasters must have adjusted the forms to improve their effectiveness, probably in combat.”

Jaska looked back into the depths of the pass. "I wish that I could go back, trace each, and learn the original forms. I feel it's important, but we can't afford to go back."

"The library in Hectyra will have catalogues of sketches depicting all of them," Zyrella said. "Some may even have depth measurements. You need only hire a scribe to make a copy, though that would take some time."

"Halskari may already have one," Ohzikar said.

"Halskari?" Jaska asked.

"A book merchant," Zyrella replied. "And a friend."

"Then we must speak with him when we get there."