by P. K. Lentz
Arixa didn’t recall the exact history, but her grandfather had expelled the Ishpakians at one point. Then, years later, he had reached an agreement allowing their preachers to return and remain free from persecution so long as they got permits or some such imaginary product of city-thinking.
Apparently, Orik still honored the arrangement, because here was an Ishpakian street preacher in front of her, packing up his small satchel to leave the marketplace.
Arixa ran up and grabbed the sleeve of his robe, turning him to face her. “Brother?”
The man was startled at first, but then he smiled as if Arixa were someone he knew, which seemed unlikely to be the case.
“Yes, nomad,” he greeted. “How may I help you?”
The sight of his face gave Arixa momentary pause. He was perhaps in his thirties, with pale but intense greenish eyes and light brown hair cut even closer to the scalp than Arixa’s own. But his most striking feature was a jagged scar along his jawline. With one look, Arixa knew that the preacher had been a warrior at one time in his life, just as he had perceived the nomad beneath Arixa’s covering cloak.
It was widely known that many yellow-robes were veterans of war bands.
“There are matters I would discuss with you,” Arixa answered. “Is there someplace private we might retire?”
The invitation visibly pleased the preacher, who was probably more accustomed to being told to go bugger himself.
“I have no residence within the city,” he said. “But at this hour, soon there will be no one around to disturb us. I know a place.”
Belatedly, Ivar arrived. The preacher gave him a welcoming smile which the Norther met with a sneer, as he sometimes did simply to amuse himself. It appeared to amuse the preacher, too.
Gathering up the satchel which likely contained all of his possessions, the Ishpakian began to lead them off of the market street.
“May I know your name, nomad?” he asked.
“Arixa.”
“And I’m Doomaxe,” Ivar named himself. “Doomaxe Skullcrusher.”
“Arixa?” The preacher halted to regard her. “You don’t mean... Yes, you must be. I heard talk of your return today. Welcome.” He resumed walking. “I am Brother Phoris. I rode for eight years with Wind Talon before taking the robes. In my final year with the Talon, we fought Goths alongside the Dawn near Chounari.”
“I remember it!” half-drunk ‘Doomaxe’ exclaimed. “That was a good one! Some ex-Wind Talon ride with us now.”
Arixa offered no comment. She had not come to make a yellow-robed friend, even if it did potentially serve her purpose that the Ishpakian she’d found happened to feel a connection to the Dawn.
Phoris led them into an unlit public garden. “Just over here.”
This late in the day, the place was empty but for shadows and whatever might skulk in them. They went to a grotto where stood a small shrine dedicated to Tabiti. Small fires that shed little light burned at its base. In the ancient times, Scythians had built no shrines or temples to the gods. To a nomad, all of nature was the gods’ temple.
On reaching the shrine, Phoris took a pinch of cannabis from a pouch in his satchel and dropped it into one of the small fires. He raised his eyes, stretched out his arms and spoke in prayerful tones, “Sun-mother Tabiti, accept my sacrifice in gratitude for sending Arixa to us! May your divine fire light her path!”
While a bored Ivar wandered away to sit on a nearby stone, a brief warmth passed over Arixa. The sun-like caress of a goddess, perhaps, or maybe a natural response to the preacher’s uncommonly kind sentiment. She had never felt fondness for Ishpakians and never shared more than two words with any. Often the words were shut and up. But she couldn’t help but start to like this one.
His prayer complete, Phoris asked Arixa with plain and honest interest, “Now what does the daughter of a king wish to discuss with a simple street preacher?”
Arixa answered him with a question. “Would your sect count it as blasphemy if one claimed that the gods had sent him the same visions they gave to Ishpakai?”
Phoris’s interest grew visibly deeper, yet he remained cautious. “Such claims are not that uncommon. However, most involve cannabis and are easily discounted. Is someone making such a claim?”
The manner in which he asked left no doubt that the preacher grasped who the ‘someone’ in question was. He was no fool. Arixa would not treat him as one.
“I had such a vision,” she revealed.
“Tell of it. In detail, if you please.”
“I saw a great god-ship descend from the clouds over an ancient city. From out of the god-ship came many skyboats which captured men and women like animals. Then lights shone down which withered all flesh that they touched. Another beam reduced the homes and temples to ash. When nothing and no one remained, the god-ship departed.”
Phoris pondered and said, “That matches quite closely the known descriptions of Ishpekai’s prophecy. But that only tells me you’re well-read—as one might expect of a princess.”
“She has a fork!” half-drunk Ivar called out from his stone.
Arixa ignored him. “The beings who gave me this vision changed me,” she said. “I can prove this if need be, as I already have to the Shath. But I had thought perhaps the Ishpakians might be eager to accept the public conversion of a royal. I thought we might help each other. But—” Arixa took a step away. “—if that is not the case...”
Phoris clasped her wrist. “Oh, it is!” he said with undisguised excitement. “I apologize if I implied otherwise. Your interest in our faith is most welcome, Arixa Agathyrsi. If you bring a vision with you, all the better. You are right. Let us build on a foundation of faith, not proof. Tell me more.”
Pleased with the success of her bluff, Arixa explained, “The god-ship shall return to devastate Roxinaki within the year. I intend to empty the city before it arrives. Settled folk will be unwilling to leave their homes, but they must be compelled to. I wish for your sect to spread word among the people that a sign will come. When it does, all who wish to live must leave Roxinaki. Tell them that the Dawn will provide for them.”
As the preacher absorbed this, Arixa could sense his doubt. She set a hand on the sleeve of his yellow robe.
“I sense you’re a good man, Brother Phoris,” she said intensely. “I’m telling you that your faith has been justified. Ishpekai’s prophecy was true. The beings I met told me so. The Devastations of old did come from the heavens, and more are soon to come. If we don’t save Roxinaki now, there will be nothing left to save. Help me.”
By the time she finished, she could see by the preacher’s eyes that she had won him.
He nodded. “Of course. But...” He smiled. “Don’t you mean our sect?”
“Yes,” Arixa agreed. “Preach in my name. My support for you will be open.”
“The initiation rites are simple,” Phoris said. “Would you perhaps take them in a public ceremony?”
Arixa pondered and chuckled before answering, “Can you arrange it for tomorrow in Tevtar Square?”
“Is tomorrow not a feast day in honor of your return?”
“Yes,” Arixa said. That was why she had laughed. “All the better.”
Twelve
The following morning, Leimya visited the campground. Her armed male chaperon found himself the subject of harassment by the Dawn before Arixa arrived to dismiss the harried escort to a waiting spot outside of taunting distance.
She walked Leimya into the camp.
“Is it true you want me to come away with you?” Leimya asked eagerly. “Mother and everyone else say I can’t.”
“You must. No matter what anyone says,” Arixa told her. “Roxinaki will be destroyed along with all who remain in it. I intend to save as many as I can, but our brothers and sisters may be beyond reach. I doubt I could convince them to go against Orik.”
“Why can’t Father just command everyone to leave?”
“He could. He might. But he doesn’t see th
e danger as I do. Few do.”
“I believe you.”
Arixa smiled and caressed her sister’s cheek. “I know. I thank the gods for you.”
“When must we leave?”
“I’ll go very soon. But I think it best that you remain here a while longer. Your mission will be to convince your brothers and sisters to leave Roxinaki, even if it’s in defiance of our father. I will come for you, but if for some reason I can’t, leave the city before first snow. I pray we have at least that long.”
As Leimya nodded glumly at the ground, Arixa tugged her into an embrace. “People might say bad things about me,” she said. “Especially Orik. But know that everything I do, I do for them, and for you.”
She sniffed. “I know.”
After showing her sister around camp and letting her shoot some arrows at a practice post—she was skilled for a city-girl—Arixa said a warm goodbye and returned Leimya to her chaperon.
“Sweet girl,” Ivar said after Leimya departed.
Arixa growled at him, lest he get ideas. The Norther raised his hands in surrender, eating the words.
* * *
All morning, the city was occupied with preparations for Arixa’s celebratory feast.
There would in fact be two feasts held simultaneously. One would take place in the palace for Orik and his family, the chieftains and their families, and various high-ranking officials. The second feast would be for the public, with palace cooks roasting two dozen or so goats and distributing the meat in Tevtar Square. To ensure that no one claimed more than their share, overseers would dye the hand of each who received his meager portion. The Dawn, meanwhile, would be served with more generous portions and side dishes in their campground.
Arixa was meant to attend the event in Agathyr palace, naturally. Instead, an hour before it was to begin, she made a point of vanishing, so that anyone Orik sent to fetch her would fail in the errand.
Cloaked and hooded, she made her way to Tevtar Square, which was packed to bursting with residents of the city come to eat. Portions were already being distributed. Arixa navigated the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd until she found a cluster of yellow-robes. One was Brother Phoris, who met her with a gleam in his eye.
“Welcome, Arixa,” he said. “We managed fourteen on short notice. This is Father Eliy, who will give you the rites.” He introduced an older man with a well-trimmed white beard.
“Let’s do it,” Arixa said. “The rites first. After, I will address the crowd.”
She led a line of yellow-robes through the packed bodies toward a low platform on the north side of the Square, where four men of the Shath’s Guard casually stood watch over the peaceful proceedings and a few musicians played lively music. Throwing back her hood, Arixa mounted the stairs to the platform.
The intrusion caught the attention of a guardsman, who moved to block her.
“You know who I am,” she said threateningly.
She grabbed the man’s right wrist in her left hand and squeezed, employing her augmented strength to cause him pain while stopping short of doing damage. She hoped. His fingers trembled, and his face showed fear and confusion.
Noticing the confrontation, the other guards hurried over.
“Step aside,” Arixa commanded. “Resist, and in the best case, you will kill or injure a princess and some unarmed Ishpakians. More likely, I’ll be forced to harm you all.”
“We can’t simply—”
“You can! Fetch reinforcements if you want, but you will leave this stage. If you want a fight, I will start by breaking his hand.”
“Do as she says!” the guard in Arixa’s grip urged his fellows. “By Aresh, her grip is as iron!” Then to Arixa: “Let go! I yield!”
“The rest of you?” Arixa asked.
She waited until the guards had begun to file down the stairs, past the waiting yellow-robes, before releasing her hostage. One by one, confused musicians ceased playing and headed down the stairs against the flow of fourteen yellow-robed preachers on their way up.
Arixa seized the drummer as he passed and bade him get the attention of the crowd, most of which remained unaware of this small commotion at its north edge.
The man slapped his drum loudly in short, rapid, unmusical bursts that filled Tevtar Square. The hum of voices slowly died down, and eyes turned by the hundreds to see on the north platform a row of Ishpakians with a woman warrior at their head.
“Arixa!” a few people called out in recognition. As word spread, the crowd began to cheer, putting aside for now the oddity of her entourage.
Raising one palm, Arixa called out, “Silence, please!”
She repeated the request until it was heeded. When it was, she beckoned Father Eliy to join her at the front of the platform. He instructed her to kneel, and she complied.
“Arixa of tribe Agathyr, daughter of Shath Orik, King of all Scythia,” Eliy pronounced loudly, “do you accept as truth that the goddess Tabiti bestowed her holy wisdom upon the prophet Ishpekai?”
“I do!” Arixa declared just as loudly.
“And do you heed as true the prophet’s warning that it displeases the gods when stone is dragged from the earth for the purpose of raising temples and dwellings?”
“I do!”
“And do you, Arixa, attest that when men and women displease the gods by failing to live simple lives of itinerancy, they invite Devastation upon their communities, and further that such Devastations have in the past befallen those who fail to heed the gods’ will?”
“I do!”
“And lastly, do you pledge to live in a manner that pleases the gods and to enjoin others by word and deed to do the same?”
“I do!”
Father Eliy produced from his robes a pouch from which he took a pinch of gray powder. He smeared a line of it down Arixa’s face from hairline to chin and down to her neck. She realized by the smell that it was ash.
“In the name of shining Tabiti, I hereby pronounce you, Arixa, daughter of Shath Orik, a right and true follower of the prophet Ishpakai.”
Eliy traded the pouch for a small water-skin. Unstopping it, he drew Arixa’s hands toward him before pouring a trickle of water over each upturned palm.
“I welcome you, Arixa,” he said. “May you please the gods and inspire others to please them.”
He beckoned Arixa to rise from kneeling, which she did before sending him to rejoin his fellow preachers with a quiet, “Thank you, Father.”
She next addressed the quiet and gently shifting sea of faces.
“With this feast, you honor me today!” she yelled. “And you honor the Dawn. We are grateful! But I did not come to Roxinaki for honors. I bring warning that Devastation is near! I have witnessed the threat and know with certainty that it will come within a few short moons. The lucky will die instantly. The unlucky will live on in a dark realm full of unimaginable terrors. The wise among you will take your families and flee to the countryside. So long as you are not in sight of this city, you will be safe. Go, be with your cousins and tribemates if you can, but if you have no one else, seek out the Dawn. We will provide for you.
“Your Shath, my father, is a good man and a wise king. He loves this city and his people. But in this one thing, if he commands otherwise, you must disobey. For the good of Scythia, save yourselves from the coming Devastation. These priests of Ishpakai will help and guide you. Listen to them! Heed their warnings!”
At the eastern edge of Tevtar Square, at least two dozen riders of the Shath’s Guard appeared. They began carving a slow path, two horses wide, through the crowd in the direction of the platform. Arixa had expected it and made no move to depart. She went on speaking.
“The gods have revealed to me that a portent will presage the coming destruction. Wait for this sign if you must, but when it comes, waste no time! For your children and your nation, you must be ready to flee. Mistake not my warning for cowardice! Never have I shied from battle except to lure my enemy to its final destruction. And never shall I. I
would strike even at a god if he threatened Scythia!”
The mounted column made its way steadily closer to the platform, picking up speed as the city-folk in the Square took note of its approach and gave way. Arixa made deliberate and unyielding eye contact with its lead rider: the Captain himself, her half-brother Skulis. He was not armored but dressed in finery as if he had come straight from a banquet table, which he surely had.
“Beloved people of Scythia,” Arixa concluded loudly while the guards completed their approach. “I gave up the comforts of a palace to live in the saddle, to live by bow and iron, for the sake of your safety. You have depended on me. Now, it is I who depend upon you to choose well and save Scythia by saving yourselves! The Shath’s men come to arrest me now. I thank you for lending me your ears. Return to your well-earned feast. Enjoy it not in my name but in your own, and give thoughts to my warning as you lay down to sleep tonight with your families.”
Drawing and raising the dagger which was presently her only armament, she screamed, “Long live Scythia!”
The crowd did not echo the refrain, for the riders of the Shath’s Guard had formed a ring around the platform on which she stood and commenced clearing the area around it with shouted commands and gentle repositioning of their horses. Sheathing her dagger, Arixa walked to the stage’s edge and looked down upon Skulis.
“Sister,” he said evenly. “Based on what I saw yesterday, I suspect it might be a challenge for even twenty men to detain you. I hope you have no wish to test that. Please come peacefully.”
“I won’t resist you,” Arixa said. “What of the preachers?”
“They must come, too.”
“They only did as a princess requested.”
“There is an agreement with their sect,” Skulis observed. “They will be warned and released. You have my word. Their supporters in the countryside would give us too much grief if we did otherwise. It’s what to do with you that will pose the greater difficulty.”
* * *
