The Day's Wake

by Erik A Otto

  The grasslands started to roll, and a great span of hills rose up on each side of them. They passed by a large signpost that was held under stout mooring lines.

  “What does that sign say?” the princess asked, finally breaking her extended silence.

  “The Long Gate. It is the pass than runs through these hills. The sign was a monument to all who died defending the passage against Belidorans.”

  “Ah. We call this Believer’s Pass in Pomeria. It was said that you could only get through with Matteo’s divine intervention. I guess he only listened to us the one time. There are countless graves with the words ‘Believer’s Pass’ written on it in Pomeria.”

  “Navigating through the Long Gate has nothing to do with Matteo. It has more to do with avoiding rolling logs and flaming arrows.” Then he added, “We have many graves with ‘Long Gate’ on it as well.” Including Zahir’s father, but he didn’t say as much to the princess.

  “You don’t think Matteo has influenced these wars?” the princess asked. “Are you or aren’t you a believer? Or maybe you believe in a different god. I heard in Jawhar some people pray to another pagan Forefather god.”

  Zahir glanced at her sidelong. He had a suspicion she was trying to be crafty again, trying to get under his skin. “Be careful what you insinuate with your ignorance, Princess. Yes, at one time there were splinter groups in remote parts of Jawhar that adopted different faiths, but these have diminished like a wyg without water. No one has prayed to this pagan god you speak of—this Allah—for hundreds of years. As for me, well, if I didn’t believe in Matteo, we wouldn’t have been tied to the hearthstone, and you would be dead.”

  Her jaw clenched, and she didn’t respond.

  He continued, “I know why you’re having trouble understanding. It’s because us Jawhari serve Matteo without expecting anything in return. Matteo may want us to go to war but he cannot help us win it, not like the Belidorans and Pomerians who think they can pray to win. Our fate is in our own hands, whereas you grovel for his benevolence like spoiled children.”

  Hella shook her head. “Our faiths aren’t so different. We’re all from the same party that the Shepherd guided across Matteo’s lands from the north. You must know that Usaim was a deputy of the Shepherd in the beginning. We would do well to remember that. Maybe then we wouldn’t have so many tombstones with ‘Long Gate’ or ‘Believer’s Pass’ on it.”

  It was Zahir’s turn to shake his head. “No, there is a vast difference between our faiths, because of the very Shepherd you speak of. You Belidorans are, what is the word…pretentious? You think because the Shepherd arrived first at the Bone Mountain, what you call the Old Keep, that it makes you the center, that your faith is right. Yes, the Shepherd has a place in the Usaim Doctrine, and Usaim was in that party that came from the north, and he did stop at the Old Keep. But the Shepherd was a cruel man, a vicious tyrant. This is why Usaim formed the Doctrine and took his people west to Jawhar. Just as other deputies of the Shepherd’s party ventured to other parts of Matteo’s lands to found other nations, like the Cenarans, Valderans, Sambayans, and the Yensuni. Ask yourself this, Princess. Why would all of these others in the Shepherd’s party leave if the Shepherd was so righteous? It’s convenient that your Canons mention nothing of this, of course.”

  Hella frowned. She looked chastened for once. “In truth, what I learned about the Jawhari faith came from reading old texts in a span of less than a month, and maybe a little more from what Paykal told me in our discussions. I can’t claim to know much.”

  It was a rare moment of contrition for the princess, and he wondered if that would quiet her. Indeed, she was silent for a while. Twice in one day, he marveled. But it didn’t last.

  “The statue of the gargoyle in Judud Jawhar, near the temple—we have one like that in Pomeria. Ours is a Matagon Monk slaying a sleeping gargoyle. I’ve always thought this strange, but the one in Judud Jawhar is different. Why does the man sleep while the gargoyle attacks? Is it meant to instill fear of the gargoyles?”

  “I don’t know what the statue maker intended, but unlike Belidorans, we Jawhari don’t fear gargoyles. It is said that one came to my village once, when I was young. I didn’t see it. No one was seriously hurt. I don’t know if it’s true, but no one seemed to care.”

  “So it’s true that you…worship gargoyles?” she asked incredulously.

  “Worship is too strong a word. We accept them. The Usaim Doctrine states that gargoyles may come in the night, but we aren’t to harm them, which is why your monk statue is blasphemous to us, just as ours seems blasphemous to you. Even though I’ve never seen one, for us the gargoyles are a part of life, like rain and the wind and Matteo’s moon.”

  Zahir was getting annoyed with the princess’s questions. “I know that it’s not the same in Belidor, Princess. This is another example of your misguided faith. Your Canons shun the gargoyles because of the people’s fear of something they don’t understand—and because your precious Sandaliers can’t stand having having similar beliefs to ours, even if ours are right.” He knew he should be careful not to say too much, but this was a topic he was passionate about. He hated the arrogance of the Belidoran faith, and couldn’t help himself.

  “You seem to have strong feelings on the subject, but does it really matter whether the gargoyles are to be feared or not?” Hella asked. “Do you really believe they exist at all?”

  He looked at her and could see it was a genuine question, not an attempt to patronize. He tried to curb his passion, knowing his charge wasn’t to make her see reason, only to escort her to Belidor. If he persisted too strongly it might push her away. “I haven’t seen one, but I trust in the Usaim Doctrine,” Zahir said. “Certainly more than I would trust your Book of Canons, which is just plain false.”

  “How do you know so much about Belidorans and their faith, Zahir?”

  He stared at her for a moment. Again she appeared to be sincere in her inquiry, and it was one that she had made on several occasions. But it was another invasive question that made his skin feel clammy. Zahir could speak for a long time about the difference in Belidoran and Jawhari faiths, but this question, in particular, might reveal too much about his past.

  So he lied. “I studied it in a school in Judud Jawhar at Wahab’s request.”

  There was a pause. Then Hella said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you learned it somewhere else. You know, I’m not going to keep marching if you don’t start telling me the truth. Why would I follow someone I don’t trust?”

  “None of my concern,” he said. He moved his horse away from hers, ending the conversation.

  But her words did linger. This princess was impetuous. She might try to escape if she lacked faith in her escort. He would need to find some way to gain her trust. In this case, however, he was quite certain it would be better to stay silent on the subject.

  At the end of the Long Gate, he found the farmhouse. It had all the mooring lines still strung about, and there were no signs of inhabitation. The red insignia he was looking for was emblazoned on the side of the nearby barn—the symbol looked like two boots splayed out heel to heel.

  “We stay here to rest,” he told the princess.

  “How do you know no one is here?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer her.

  “And after today where do we go?” she asked.

  He ignored her questions and wandered inside, escorting her to one of the bedrooms. There she let her discontent be known by unpacking with exaggerated movements.

  He left her in her room and made his way through the house, up a dusty ladder to the attic, and found the box with the same red insignia inscribed into the top. After turning the circular bone latch, he opened it and found a parchment inside. He moved the latch in a circle again, and the bottom fell out, revealing another parchment. The second parchment had Wahab’s seal on it.

  “I would sneak back and try t
o find that later,” the princess spoke from the top of the ladder, “but I’m sure it’s in Jawhari, so it wouldn’t matter.”

  Zahir stood and held onto the pommel of his sword, cursing himself for not waiting until later.

  A long silence ensued with Zahir glaring at the princess. She stayed on the ladder and looked back at him defiantly.

  He could show it to her, and maybe he could reword anything sensitive as he read it, but she might be pretending not to know how to read Jawhari. Perhaps more importantly, as much as he disliked the notion, he needed to give her some comfort that he was on her side.

  He relaxed his hand and stretched out the tension in it, then motioned with a tilt of his head for her to come to him. “I will tell you. If you give me enough time to read it first.”

  She climbed the rest of the ladder and stepped over cautiously, sitting close enough for her eyes to reflect the dim wyg lamp he’d brought up with him. There she sat with uncharacteristic patience as he read the message, and read it again.

  “The one named Battia is still in Judud Jawhar,” he said. “She says you planned to kill the Herald, and she stays in the court in Jawhar to advise, but Wahab says she is mostly not trusted and kept under guard. Relations between Jawhar, Pomeria, and Belidor aren’t going well after the incident. There is talk of war but no action yet. Pomeria has named you a treasonous traitor and kaifhur, and they have formally apologized to Jawhar. Belidor has also condemned your action.”

  The princess’s eyes were wide and her body tense while she listened. All she said was, “What is a kaifhur?”

  “It is a Jawhari word for nonbeliever. Someone who defies the true faith.”

  “An infidel,” she said.

  He shrugged, not understanding the word she used. “I will still bring you back. You need to tell Pomeria and Belidor about the situation so they can work with Jawhar to avoid war. The kaifhur and traitor labels might not be believed by the people in power. It could be just politics—to publicly condemn the attempt on the Herald’s life.”

  She nodded in understanding, but looked dour. His assurances weren’t giving her any comfort.

  “There’s more. Wahab says they stopped the active search in Jawhar, but there’s still a warrant out for your arrest. He says we can’t cross the border at the Deep Well, on the Sea of Pomer, via Belidor, or through Niknak. People are being searched and screened.”

  Zahir weighed whether to tell her the rest. She appeared despondent, and understandably so after being labeled a kaifhur by her own people. It might be best to not confuse her with even more bad news. But again, if she read it, she might figure it out on her own.

  And maybe he would learn something new about her. The letter gave him less reason to trust her, so her reaction would be telling.

  “There is more,” Zahir said, watching her carefully. “It says that the wine that Habib gave to you was taken from the Herald’s personal selection only minutes before it was given to you. The wine was poisoned, but it hadn’t been tampered with before it arrived at your quarters.”

  “What?” she said. She looked genuinely confused, her jaw dropping open. “You’re saying that…but Habib must have found some other way to poison it.”

  Zahir shook his head. “I can’t see how.”

  “But…so you think I did it?” Her head recoiled in disbelief.

  “Tell me what other explanation there could be,” Zahir responded calmly.

  Her body was tense again. Her eyes flitted, and she looked down, deep in thought. “It…it must have been Battia. There’s no other explanation. Since she’s making these ridiculous accusations about me, she must have poisoned the wine after it was opened.”

  It had occurred to him, even before the letter from Wahab. Something about the girl didn’t seem right. “I acknowledge that it’s possible, Princess. But why? Why would this Belidoran scribe do such a thing?”

  “I…I don’t know.” She held her head in her hands, looking defeated. “Maybe Habib paid her off, or maybe she was some kind of Belidoran radical.”

  Zahir stared at her, weighing her expressions, trying to discern any falsehood in her words.

  She looked up at him pleadingly. “I will get to the bottom of this, I promise. You must know me well enough by now, Zahir. I’m not some petty assassin. I wouldn’t do this, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t mess it up this badly.”

  She sounded sincere, but he couldn’t be sure. He might have trusted her when he was a younger man, before he was jailor, but he’d learned that there was no one you could truly trust. For the time being, however, he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Wahab seemed to believe she was innocent, so he had to do the same.

  “We shall see,” is all he said, but he kept staring at her.

  She looked side to side, beleaguered, trying to find more to say. Perhaps for lack of any other defense, she moved on. “Where do we go next?”

  “We go to Managash, where you’ve been before, and to Calvek Hayzan, who you know. He should be able to help us.”

  He thought she might be comforted by the prospect, but her face contorted with even more disappointment.

  Chapter 3

  The Naustic

  When it stopped, Nala opened her eyes. She was in the pen, and the muddy ground was still in front of her. It looked less viscous, though, with a bluish tint. The earth seemed to shift, rippling like the ocean, but she knew it was an artifact of the vertigo she’d experienced—her mind must be playing tricks on her.

  The rotten wooden blocks that her hands had been manacled to lay beside her, unearthed. The weight of them had almost torn her apart when they were awkwardly uprooted and fell into the sky. She’d been fortunate that manacles had been applied to her feet as well. Otherwise, she would certainly be in Matteo’s embrace. Instead, aside from bruised ankles, she was still in one piece. The three other chained naustics beside her had also survived. Or at least the two who’d been alive before the rotation began. The last one confirmed his lifelessness by landing in an inhuman configuration of rag-doll limbs.

  While her eyes gave her some relief, her ears didn’t. The screams in and around the Old Keep commenced at the beginning of the revolution and only became worse when it was over. One of those came from the naustic beside her.

  Nala tried to cover her ears but the manacles only allowed her to place her hands on one side. The noise was so harrowing that she succumbed to a surge of emotion. Her own sobbing joined the symphony of anguish, but only for a few minutes. She reminded herself; she was one of the lucky ones.

  When the cacophony finally died down, she mustered the nerve to look beyond the confines of the pen.

  The road from the keep had been empty for the whole Day except for one mad naustic man who’d heckled the battlements of the keep and run off. She wondered what had happened to him. Had he escaped the Ascendancy, or did Matteo’s justice thrust him into the sky as it did so many others?

  Beyond the road, the bog seemed surprisingly intact. It had the same bluish tint she’d seen in the mud near her. The Old Keep was still there, tall and imposing. The only noticeable damage was the Matagon Spire. It had fallen off of the side of the largest tower and shattered on the battlements below. She could see bone masons inspecting the hole made in the sheer face of the wall already. Otherwise, the massive edifice and surrounding battlements were solid, the staunch mooring lines defending them proudly.

  Another building nearby wasn’t as fortunate. There was a barn that was used as a stable overflow down the road that, for whatever reason, couldn’t withstand the forces. The foundations and entryway remained, but the rest was gone. A few horses that had been tied down were still ruminating behind the doorway, shaky and agitated, but hundreds of others were not, forever lost into the sky.

  Nala sometimes wondered if maybe the naustic label that was cast upon her was true—if maybe she hadn’t been devout enough. But with Matteo’s grace she’d lived through the Day, and because of this she vowed to be piou
s like Sebastian and Perenna and the greatest Sandaliers. She would follow all the teachings of the Shepherd and the Book of Canons without question.

  She prostrated herself in the direction of the keep as best she could in the awkward manacles, and prayed.

  offensive than hygienic.

  She didn’t ask why she’d been gifted with this sudden bout of civility for fear it might be taken away. The other two naustics were also given this privilege, and Malthus finally worked up the nerve to remove the dead one. They even received new rags to wear, starched and without stains.

  When he was refastening Nala in her manacles, he said, “Try to look good for him. New laws are to come about after the Day, I wager, so don’t be surprised if your indenture gets extended…or worse. Best to leave if you have the chance.”

  In the early afternoon, Malthus escorted a man in brown robes around the pens. He was unquestionably a Fringe man, tall and lanky, his head mostly shaven to a rough stubble, capping bushy eyebrows and a stubby nose. He had two horses in tow to his own, and one of them was weighed down with odd items. Although only partially visible through the fabric of the bag, these items gleamed and made harsh clanging noises; some of them were clearly made of silverstone.

  Every once in a while people would come and purchase the rights to naustics that were held in the pens. Those that were bought wouldn’t be completely free—they would still have to complete an indenture, usually by doing some menial form of labor. That must have been why Malthus cleaned them up. This Fringe man must have been looking to purchase one of them.

  With Malthus at his side, the Fringe man stopped by each of the naustics and asked questions. They were simple questions about where they were from or what they knew how to do. While the man wore the attire of a Fringe, he was much less rugged than the Fringe she’d seen near home. He pondered their answers thoughtfully and held his hands together in a cribbed fashion. It was a countenance she’d seen in some Apostles. In fact, in different clothing she could have mistaken him for one of the higher level Sandaliers, except, of course, that he never mentioned the Canons or Matteo.