As a matter of fact, the fireworks inside his head as the god and he and Jihan and her father came together blotted out the simulacrum of last winter’s pillar of fire, rising up to heaven from Tasfalen’s home, which had been left unscathed then.
He was later told that, as it rose, the doors and windows of Tasfalen’s flew open of their own accord and something fiery -something with huge bird’s wings flew out. And flapped and circled high above the place where Tasfalen lived.
And disappeared into the smoke which billowed everywhere-too much smoke to credit to burned ox thighs and jugs of oil; smoke that went up from, or down to, the chimney of Tasfalen’s house, as if the light spewing from every window was the light of something burning bright within.
But what burned in Tempus was a light unto itself.
Jihan was his match in all things physical: When they lay quiet, able to hear more than their own breathing and see more than their own souls, she whispered to him, with her head buried in his neck, “Oh, Riddler, what took you so long to come and reclaim me? How could you do this to me? And to Randal?”
“I’ll take care of Randal. He’ll understand. I want you, Jihan-I want you with me. I…” This was hard to say, but he had to say it, not just for Randal’s sake, but for the sakes of all who put their faith in him. “I… need you,
Jihan. We all do. Come north and east and everywhere with me-see this world, not just its armpit.”
“But my father…” The Froth Daughter’s eyes glowed red as the light he was just beginning to notice from across the street.