by Marcin Wrona
Chapter 17: Memories
Leonine scowled. The trail had grown far too confusing.
At first, it had been easy, even if the Huntsmen had left far earlier than he’d expected. He was hours behind them when he heard the news.
Still, horses did not pass without trace.
He followed, and from a hiding place in a thick bed of reeds had watched as the horses turned back towards the city.
That had worried him at first, but the trail was not lost. Hoof prints gave way to footprints in the springy earth, and shortly after into furrows and troughs in deep mud.
He had been able to follow obvious signs of passage for the entirety of his first day in the swamp. As that day drew to a close, deep mud turned to an ankle-deep pool of water, and the prints disappeared. He had resolved to continue onward, following the line he had already taken, in the hope that a trail would reassert itself. His panic at the prospect that it might not was short-lived. As night fell, he became aware of a thin but constant stream of sorcery far to the southeast.
Exhausted – when was the last time he had slept, anyway? – Leonine had allowed himself an hour’s rest near midnight, but no more. By morning, the trail was again cold, but he’d followed it long enough to be convinced of its destination. The chariot ruts, the footsteps, the faint sorceries – they were an arrow, straight and true, pointing to the heart of flooded Alu-nin-hura.
That afternoon, everything started to unravel. He could feel once again the flows of sorcery, somewhere in the distance. As the hours passed, they grew stronger and stronger, until they were as insistent and shrill as shrieks echoing in the alleys of Sarvagadis. Then, abruptly, they were no more.
He had heard nothing since then. A cacophonous evening gave way to a night that was catacomb-quiet. When morning dawned, Leonine realized that he had no idea where he was or where he was going.
That had been four hours ago. The shadows had grown shorter since then, and Leonine, despairing of the trail he had again lost, found himself sitting with his back to a mangrove, head in his hands, praying to any god who would listen that Ilasin might still be alive.
He had thought the gods indifferent to his plight – they could hardly love him, not after the life he had led – and yet, moments later, he felt a new flush of powerful sorcery, built up and released in a single burst, like a shout. It was closer now than it had been. Another answered from deeper within the swamp, as though echoing the first.
Two trails – but which was which?
Ultimately, Leonine supposed, it did not matter. He would investigate the closer source. If it was Ilasin – dared he hope? – then all was well. If it was the Hunt, Ilasin would either be there, or they would lead him to her.
And if it’s neither? The conversation with the Kardash Umamum weighed on his mind. The Crescent was here as well, nesting, no doubt, somewhere in the ruins of Alu-nin-hura. What better place for Nin’s cult than the ruined city? Sarvagadis had been Nin-nishi once. He wondered what foothold the Crescent had in that city, so close to the centre of the Merezad's power.
Think later. He pressed on, marching on legs weary from days and nights without rest. A part of him thought it would be prudent to sit a while and marshal his strength. If he needed to fight, or make a hasty escape, his struggle to find Ilasin might end all too abruptly.
Yet he pressed on, ignoring the pain and the exhaustion, a cold voice whispering that any moment could be her last.
When he next felt sorcery, much nearer than he had anticipated, Shimurg was directly above. This time, there was no answer from deeper in the swamp. Two hours later, the call repeated, closer once again.
This time, he recognized it.
Ilasin. Ila, I’m here.
He could not see her face, but her shoulders moved. She breathed, lived. His chest was tight, his heart raced. His head was light, euphoric.
They were three, her guardians, around the campfire. One, seated beside the fire, he recognized as Akosh, the Stone of Lanapish. The other two were the Hound’s soldiers, faces half-remembered, glimpsed over a shoulder during the breakneck chase in the streets and sewers of Inatum.
Leonine fingered the hilt of his knife, his breathing measured, steady. He could probably kill the soldier before either of them knew he was there. With luck, the old man would be surprised, and could be killed before he managed to stand up. If not? Well, at the very least he could buy Ila some time to escape.
Escape? Why has she not simply killed them?
But no, that would have left her alone in the marsh, at the mercies of cultists and crocodiles alike. She was probably biding her time, at least until a city was in sight. He would spare her the trouble.
He drew his knife, cautiously, lest the scrape of blade against scabbard give away his position. He could not risk sorcery any longer. Not here, with the Hound’s men so close. There was no knowing where their handler might be. Here, he would rely on bronze.
The blade cleared his scabbard, and he was moving, creeping slowly to the end of the little grove of rushes in which he stood, to the point at which the safety of concealment would vanish, replaced by a desperate run and blood.
The last of the rushes. Leonine took a deep breath and readied himself, feeling exposed. He would have only one chance at this.
The silence broke. “I can’t believe all this trouble started over one little girl. Barsam must be mad.” Akosh said, looking down at Ilasin.
Barsam? Barsam? A flood of memories. There was laughter, once.
Then Farshideh, in the desert, staring with blind eyes at merciless Shimurg.
Barsam? It was not possible. Barsam was dead. He had killed him, had felt the impact of his knife burying itself deep in the Hound’s eye.
Leonine felt his veins grew hot, heart pounding in his throat. He wanted to scream.
In her blanket by the campfire, Ilasin’s power stirred. She bolted upright, looking in his direction.
Too slow, idiot. Later! The first soldier was a fast one. Before Leonine had crossed even half the distance, he’d turned on him, bringing the spear down from his shoulder.
Leonine was faster still. He feinted to his left, as far from his opponent’s spearhead as possible. The soldier did not step back as expected, instead swinging the butt end of his weapon in a tight arc that would have ended at Leonine’s jaw. So much the better. Leonine made to dive at his feet instead, then felt a hard knee clip his jaw.
A feint. He whirled away, trying to keep his eyes on his opponent, and felt his shoulder painfully strike a stone. The other man approached, spear in hand, and Leonine scrambled to his knees.
“Kamvar, no!”
Ilasin!
The man stopped, a strange look in his eyes. Leonine heard a rustling behind him as he tried desperately to make sense of the situation. Ilasin’s voice rang out again.
“Don’t you dare! If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”
Akosh and the other soldier loomed a few feet away. Suddenly, other men came into view, wearing the livery of Nerkut.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. In his haste, in the dark, Leonine had failed to notice a war tent hidden in the trees, far too large for only three men. He tried to count the newcomers, but suddenly Ilasin was all he saw. She ran to him, and then she was in his arms, weeping. Leonine cradled her head in his hands, kissing her hair, her forehead, her cheek. He too wept.
You’re not safe yet. He took Ilasin’s hands from around his neck, and stumbled awkwardly to his feet, looking to his left and then right. The other men had drawn no closer. Akosh looked bemused. The man he’d fought trained his eyes on Leonine, his expression difficult to read.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked Ilasin.
“No,” she replied, squeezing his hand. She was smiling now, radiant through grime and matted hair. “No, they captured me away from the others. From the Hound. Said they were going to take me back to town. I knew you’d come after me.”
Of course I came after you.
�
��Ila, there are many people after you. Who knows who this bunch is working for? We cannot trust them.”
Ilasin shook her head. “No, Navid. These men are friends.”
It was idiocy, lunacy. Why was he considering it? And yet, there was no question that an escape from so many armed and trained men was likelier than not to end badly.
Leonine took a deep breath and closed his eyes. So many questions. Where to begin? From the beginning. Start from the very beginning.
“Your Hound’s name is Barsam?” he asked.
The man Ilasin had called Kamvar regarded Leonine, his large brown eyes set in a face that looked too care-worn for his still few years. “Was Barsam. He is no longer my Hound.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s seen some fifty summers, maybe more,” said Kamvar. “Stocky, well-built. Missing his right arm and eye. Scarred face. His nose looks like it was broken many times.”
Leonine remembered a sword whistling through the air, then the clang as it fell from nerveless fingers. He hadn’t cut that deeply – the arm must have grown gangrenous. Serves you right, you son of a bitch. It was scant consolation. Barsam should be dead. He should have bled his life away into the sands. Leonine remembered the fierce joy he’d felt when his knife pierced deep into the Hound’s eye. How that joy had been stolen when he realized that it was too late, that Farshideh was already gone. Barsam had killed her. He’d given his own sister to Shimurg.
His face must have displayed the chaos roiling inside him. He knew that. There was no controlling it, not now.
“Did Barsam come for me, or the girl?”
“He – we, I suppose – came for Ilasin. My name is Kamvar. To my left is Tahmin. I believe you and Akosh have met. The rest of the men will introduce themselves to you in due time. They are the High Priest’s soldiers, and came here to liberate Ilasin and take her back home.”
Leonine smirked and shook his head wearily. This was not at all what he’d expected. “Ila, I know this man they’re speaking of. His reach is long, and he will not give up. We must be away from here immediately. He must know where we are, after your spells.”
Kamvar was visibly taken aback. His eyes widened and came to rest on Ilasin. A few of the soldiers muttered to each other. Did they not notice her magic? She was not exactly subtle. What is going on here?
“Ilasin, why did you use your sorcery?” Leonine asked. “Was there danger?”
The girl gave him a lopsided grin. “To find you, of course. I knew you would not leave me, Navid.”
“Ila… but…” Horror began to dawn. “You should not have risked that with a Hound so close. Not this Hound.”
“He’s not that close,” said Ilasin. There was no hint of worry in her voice. “We stole their boats, and chopped holes in the ones we couldn’t take. They’ll be far behind by now. Besides, I can sense him, too. Can’t you?”
Leonine shook his head. “Yesterday, the first time I felt you drawing close, I felt another spell, farther away. I take it that was him?”
Ilasin nodded. Behind her, Kamvar and the other Sarvashi, the one he had called Tahmin, whispered furiously.
“But I haven’t felt anything since. Can you sense him still?”
Ilasin nodded. “It’s a warding spell, I think. The people who captured me used one also. There are ghouls everywhere in this swamp, but they can be scared away by magic. I… I was afraid that they would find you.”
“Ghouls?”
“Monsters,” Ilasin said, disgust apparent in her voice. “They say they’re evil men cursed by Nin to rise up after death. They need to drink blood, because they don’t have any of their own.”
“Pleasant,” said Leonine.
“You didn’t have them in Sarvagadis?” Ilasin asked. “I mean… I didn’t think they existed here, but now that I know, I would think the same happened to the dead of Nin-Nishi.”
It surprised him, sometimes, how much Ilasin knew of such things.
“I suppose we might have,” he said. “I’m not sure. The Sarvashi talk of a creature that needs to eat flesh to appear human. I always took it for a legend.”
There were too many legends, Leonine decided. Entirely too many of them were coming true.
Kamvar cleared his throat.
“Excuse me a moment… but what exactly did you mean by ‘other spells’, earlier? From Barsam.”
Leonine regarded the man quizzically. “What do you mean? He’s a Hound, isn’t he?” Kamvar’s brow furrowed and he closed his eyes, as though deep in thought.
They don’t know.
“The Hounds are sorcerers. How else did you think they could feel and protect themselves against magic? I can do the same. So can Ilasin. We all can. I thought your order knew that.”
“All this time…” Kamvar trailed off. “No, we… we did not know that.”
“Then consider yourselves enlightened. You’d catch more Daiva within your own ranks than any place else.”
“But why…?” The other soldier, the one named Tahmin, struggled to form a question that betrayed his lack of imagination.
“Ask them. If you think they won’t burn you for heresy. Anyway, I have not come to discuss your religion. Thank you. Genuinely. I thank you for what you’ve done. Come, Ilasin. Let us make our own way.”
He offered his hand to Ilasin. She clasped it and got to her feet. As Leonine moved to turn away, an Ekkadi voice called out for him to halt. Soldiers surrounded him.
“I don’t think they’re too keen on letting the High Priest’s daughter run away with some murderer,” said Akosh, a smirk on his face. “You won’t be going anywhere.”
Ilasin’s grip tightened against his outstretched hand.
“Call your men off,” said Leonine. “I have no idea what your orders are, but I have no intention of allowing you to fulfill them. Ilasin is safe only with me.”
“Oh, aye,” said Akosh. “You’ve obviously had her safety well in hand. She will be returned to her father, and that’s that… unless you think you can defeat us all.”
“I will not go back to Nerkut!” Ilasin shouted. “I’m staying with Navid, and don’t you dare try to stop me.”
“But child, your father himself asked us to save you,” said one of the Ekkadi. “He wishes for nothing more fervently than to see you one last time. Do you not want to see your father again? It will be safe, I promise you.”
“My father threw me out! Navid is the only father I need.”
“Your father loves you,” Kamvar said softly. “He loves you as much as I love my own child. Please, everybody, put down your weapons. Let us explain this, from the beginning, while we march. We have lost too much time already.”
Kamvar spoke of a meeting with Ananta, High Priest of Kutuanu and Ilasin’s father, and as he did so, the pieces began to fall into place: Ilasin’s escape with Uchu’s help; the Hounds called in from Sarvagadis at the Lugal’s behest; Uchu’s subsequent betrayal. It was political theatre, according to the soldier – a squabble between a Lugal who wished to court the Merezadesh and a priest loyal to the old ways. A game of shukasi, nothing more, played with Ilasin in the footman’s space.
As Kamvar’s explanation came to its close, Ilasin began to cry, hiding her face. Leonine held her hand and listened intently as the Sarvashi soldier explained his growing disgust with the orders the Huntsmen had been given, his decision to break faith with his order, and the role Lubash and his men had played.
“I… I didn’t know,” said Ilasin into Leonine’s grimy tunic. “Why did he never tell me?”
After a moment of quiet, Leonine asked, “Do you want to see your father, Ila?”
She nodded in response.
“So be it, then. We will go with you.”
“Under one condition,” said Ilasin, glowering at Kamvar through her tears. “I don’t care what Navid has done. He’s a good man, and I would be dead a hundred times without him. If any of you have plans to hurt him, think again. I’d kill myself before I let anyt
hing happen to him.”
Kamvar was momentarily taken aback, then he softly smiled. “I am willing to accept that I may have misjudged… Navid.”
“I’m not,” grumbled Akosh. “But so be it.”
“Now that that’s settled,” said Leonine, “I suppose we will be traveling together. At least for a time.”
As evening fell, they turned northeast, heading away from the river that had drowned Alu-nin-hura.
Ananta, it was explained, would even now be awaiting them, hidden away in a loyal noble’s homestead a day’s march east of Nerkut. Returning to the city without the Hound or the Lugal’s soldiers in tow would raise too many questions.
The Lugal would of course suspect High Priest Ananta’s hand when he learned of Ilasin’s disappearance and the treachery at Nin’s temple. As long as there was no proof of his involvement, Lubash explained, he could plausibly claim the culprits were linked to whoever had stolen Ilasin away from Barsam in the first place.
Privately, Leonine had misgivings, but he did not voice them for fear of upsetting Ilasin. The High Priest had, in his estimation, escaped the Weeper once already, when he allowed Ilasin to escape Nerkut rather than face a Hound’s trial. A second reprieve seemed too much to ask for. Ananta had to know that death was at the very least a strong possibility.
But it would be his, not Ilasin’s.
All in all, he decided, the High Priest’s plan had almost certainly turned out for the best. They had an escort now, of armed men. Ilasin would, with luck, be reconciled with her father. Leonine would convince the High Priest that the Hounds would not stop coming, and was sure Ananta would agree that she could only be truly safe outside the Merezad. With any luck, he would help them get that far.
Barsam... that was another story. One that whirled about his mind, finding purchase in the moments between other thoughts.
They made camp atop a wide sandbar that rose above the water, shielded by a curtain of cattails, and ate a meal of cold, hard bread. Even to Leonine, who had barely eaten anything since entering the marsh, the meal was distinctly unsatisfying. He went to sleep hungry and tired, but Ilasin’s rhythmic breathing chased away his pains.
Leonine did not, in the end, sleep very long. He woke to the shuddering call of a night creature. Groaning, he looked up at the sky. Shimurg’s feathers were low to the ground, but they were still visible. Several hours remained until dawn.
He heard voices nearby, and recognized the first of them as Kamvar’s. His whispers were not quiet enough to escape Leonine’s notice.
“… I know, Tam. Do you really think I’ve forgotten?” said the soldier. “Ahamash, if you only knew how ready I was to put a spear into him.”
I wonder who they’re talking about.
“I wish you had,” said Tahmin.
“He killed our brothers because we tried to kill him. And you saw the way Ilasin ran to him, and the way he held her. He loves her. It’s plain as day. Do you think I would hesitate to kill a man that threatened to take Ashuz?”
“No… I know, I just… he even killed the servant, Kamvar. In Ila-uanna’s manor. What possible wrong could that man have done.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he heard Kamvar’s voice again.
“His past is between him and Ahamash. I don’t know that I can find fault in his present. Leave it be.”
A chuckle.
“Besides, you heard Ilasin. If she decides you’ve a too-dangerous gleam in your eye, she may kill you on the spot.”
“How do we get into these messes, Kam? Ah, to hell with it. I’m going to bed.”
Leonine tried for a time to fall back to sleep, until it became clear that this was a challenge beyond his capabilities. He gently wriggled out from beneath Ilasin’s arm, which had come to rest on his pained shoulder, careful not to disturb her sleep.
The sentries they had posted turned towards him. Kamvar waved him over. Shrugging, Leonine went to him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Kamvar.
“I could, until moments ago. Marshes are noisy.”
Leonine sat down beside Kamvar. The man beside him, one of Lubash’s, scowled and turned his face away.
“I had hoped to have a chance to speak with you,” said Kamvar.
“Oh?”
“I have learned, quite recently, that much of what I know is wrong. I suppose I have you to thank, in part, although Barsam’s… nature is really just one more rung on the ladder.”
“The joys of adulthood,” said Leonine.
“Something like that. I talked to Barsam, you know. One night in Nerkut, he was stinking drunk and melancholic. He talked to me that day about ‘lies to children’. He was talking about doubt, and crises of faith… but maybe the Hounds are another such lie. In retrospect, it’s so obvious that they’re sorcerers. Why the pretense? I’ve been wondering that all night.”
“And what have you come up with?” This Kamvar seemed thoughtful; at the very least, he was sharp enough to be an interesting diversion on a sleepless night.
“Several possibilities, I suppose. One: politics. The Temple fears sorcerous power even as it covets it. They kill sorcerers they cannot tame, and spare the more malleable in return for their service as Hounds.”
Leonine nodded. “Continue.”
“Two: pragmatism. The ‘lies to children’ bit. Sorcery is damned by Holy Writ, and – begging your pardon – it’s too dangerous to be freely used. The Temple cannot admit to employing sorcerers for fear of being seen as hypocrites, but cannot root out other sorcerers in any way except through employing their own.
“Three: The Temple higher-ups are simply unaware of sorcery on the part of the Hounds. They think it a gift from Ahamash, and draw a distinction between ‘good’ witchcraft and ‘bad’. Perhaps ‘or draw a distinction’. So… do you know the answer?”
Leonine shook his head. “I don’t. But I have a fourth possibility for you to consider. Barsam was not always a Hound. He was just a sorcerer, albeit a fearsome and well connected one. He…”
Leonine shuddered. It was difficult to talk of the man that he wanted dead more than any other, the man that until recently he had believed was dead. He remembered an alleyway, and Barsam – two arms, two eyes – grinning cruelly at a woman who kneeled in front of him. Her eyes blinked away rivulets of sweat, as the knife in her own hand drew inexorably closer her own throat.
“… he had the power to break wills, to force people to do his bidding. Not long after we met, a Hunt took him. He returned, several weeks later, a Hound in training. He fervently believed that he had been given a second chance, that his sins would be forgiven and his damnation averted if he used his sorceries only in the employ of the Temple.”
Kamvar thought about that a moment. “And he told you all this?”
Leonine nodded.
“What was he to you?”
A friend. Then family. Then … Then…
“Family,” he said, his voice cracking. “I married his sister.”
The reaction from Kamvar was more dramatic than Leonine had expected. His eyes widened, and for a moment his mouth worked soundlessly. Finally, he took a deep breath to steady himself. “And then he killed her.”
Sightless eyes stared into cruel Shimurg’s vast sky. Her stomach, her swollen stomach in which their child was growing, had already been torn open by carrion birds that even now sat atop a nearby rock, waiting for the newest interloper to leave so that they could continue their feast. Navid – in those days, he was only Navid – had carried her away. He had built her pyre.
Farshideh, my light.
“Why?” asked Kamvar, softly.
“She had a child inside her, and she would give neither of us up. I had no magic at first, when I met Farshideh. I was just a musician. One day, during the Feast of Lamash, I played an Ekkadi war song before a crowd that had gathered in the market square, and something happened. I remember a heat pooling in my veins, something I had never felt before, and then the crowd ju
st… lost their minds. They turned on each other, Ekkadi against Sarvashi, and tore each other to shreds.”
Stop! What are you doing? Stop this! Nobody had listened; nobody even acknowledged his presence. Blood ran through the gutters as men and women alike clawed and bit and bludgeoned each other to death.
“I knew enough about sorcery then to understand what I had done. I ran home, to Farshideh. I knew what was coming. We had to leave immediately… but we did not even manage to finish throwing whatever was in the larder into sacks before the door was kicked down. Farshideh threw herself at Barsam and screamed at me to run… and I did. I went through a window and ran. I… I never thought he would harm her. His own sister.”
Leonine flinched at a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Kamvar quickly withdrew it.
“Forgive me,” the soldier said. “I… I’m sorry. I have a wife and child, and…” his face contorted, “and I fear I have endangered them as well. By freeing Ilasin, I mean. I have sent a letter, and I’m sick with worry that it might not be received, that they might not leave Sarvash as I bid them to.”
There was pain in the young soldier’s eyes. Leonine found himself pitying him, even as he admired his courage. Admiration? How long had it been since he’d felt that?
“I wish I had your courage. I escaped with my life, and yet perhaps I could have traded it for hers. Had I known… had I only known… But I realized too late, much too late, what sort of man he was.”
“You destroyed him, you know,” said Kamvar. “Barsam, I mean. He is crippled with self-loathing.”
“Good.”
“I… I know this comes as no consolation, but… never mind, I’m sorry.”
“What?” asked Leonine.
“He truly regrets what he did… to Farshideh, I mean.”
“You’re right,” said Leonine after a moment’s pause. “That comes as no consolation. I only wish I’d managed to kill that bastard when I took his eye.”
“So you did that. I suppose that’s not surprising.”
It was strange, talking of old times. For six years, he had studiously avoided any thought of Barsam. For six years, he had taken no lovers but Ila-uanna, for fear of being reminded of the wife he had lost. He had avoided drink, mostly, knowing that it brought to mind images of black days. And yet, here he was, baring his past to a man who had only days ago been an enemy.
“Do you… do you think Farshideh was able to cross the Shinvat?” Leonine asked. “I have this nightmare, sometimes, that she was damned because of me.”
Kamvar laid a hand on his arm. This time, Leonine did not shake it away.
“I cannot know the mind of Ahamash, Navid… but did the Prophet not tell us that Ahamash is love, that he knows and forgives the imperfections of this sinful world? I do not believe myself damned by my actions, even though the priests might disagree, and I have done far worse than your Farshideh. She was acting out of love. Surely that is enough.”
We will dance in the cold.
“I pray that you’re right.”
For a moment, Kamvar was quiet. Then he said, “You know, you are not at all what I expected.”
Leonine laughed and shook his head.
They ate a hasty breakfast the next morning. After the food disappeared, Kamvar and Tahmin said their morning prayers while Lubash’s men packed the last of the tents.
“Ila,” Leonine said, pulling himself laboriously to his feet. “It’s time to go.”
Ilasin didn’t complain, which was to her credit. She was no stranger to hardship, not any longer, but Leonine could not help but notice the sluggish resignation of her movements.
“Come, Ila. Take my hand. We do not need to hurry, but we must at least start moving.” He held out his hand, and she took it, nodding. There was some strength yet in her grip. He felt a certain pride in that.
“I feel like all we do is run from people,” she said wearily.
That was difficult to argue with, even for a man who’d spent as much of his life escaping as Leonine had
They marched until dusk, making poor time, although speed no longer seemed to be of the essence. Ilasin had not felt Barsam’s sorcery since the last morning. And had Ananta’s men not destroyed whatever boats they did not need? They were likely safe, now. They probably had been since before he rejoined Ilasin.
Still, it would not hurt to press onward. Barsam was too fearsome an enemy to be taken lightly. Leonine would not feel safe until he was in Haksh. If then.
The soft-packed mud of the last day had given way once again to stream, ponds and rivulets. They were no doubt nearing the Shalumes. With luck, they would find an island of good, solid ground before the night grew too dark. Leonine did not relish the thought of sleeping in ankle-deep water.
He felt a sting at his neck, and slapped at the source. I wouldn’t complain if we could leave all these damn flies behind, either.
Not that it was likely. Even if they were nearing the open plain, fetid water and weedy mangroves remained all that the eye could see, for leagues in every direction. It was strange to think that man could create such a thing, that flooding Alu-nin-hura would turn a grassy plain into a swamp so completely and so permanently. It was not the great salt marsh outside Hatshut and Sarvagadis, perhaps, but the Flooded Land had its own terrible grandeur.
Ilasin stopped, suddenly, her hand tugging at his.
“Navid, do you feel that?” she asked. She pursed her lips in concentration, and closed her eyes.
“What? No, I hear nothing but flies buzzing.”
“It’s something else. Like a sorcery, but really faint.”
Sorcery?
He concentrated, shutting out the insects and the mossy smell of rotting vegetation, and felt nothing.
“No, Ila, I can’t feel a thing.” But then, her power was far greater than his. “Where is it coming from?”
She shook her head, looking scared. “I’m not sure. Everywhere, I think. It feels like we’re surrounded. Most of it is that way,” she said, pointing straight ahead, at their destination. “But it’s not like usual. It’s more like a crowd, more spread out.”
His heart sank. To come so close. Were there more Hounds? Could it be the Crescent cultists that Kamvar and his men had fought with? He turned to the soldier, only to see that the apprehension in his features was every bit as obvious as his own.
“Not good, Ila. I cannot feel it yet, but whatever it is, it is unlikely to be friendly. You must be careful to make sure we do not get too close to the source. You need to tell us the instant you feel any sorcerers coming. Can you do that?”
Ilasin looked at him as though he’d asked her if she knew how to walk. “Of course I can.”
They would have to keep moving, and trust in fate. If the crowd was as thinly spread as Ilasin’s sorceries indicated, perhaps they could simply evade it. They were few, after all, and turning back into Barsam’s grasp was not an option.
“What should we do?” asked Kamvar.
“Keep moving.”
Night found them perched atop a small hill rising between two nearly parallel canals that looked far too straight to have been natural – a legacy of the flooding, he guessed, though Leonine was not the sort of man who knew such things.
He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, concentrating on what lay beyond them in the swamp. The sorcery of which Ilasin had warned them was plain to him now, and it felt like nothing he’d experienced before – it seemed to be everywhere, all around them, as though the whole swamp was magical. Perhaps it was at that, though he had not noticed the hum of activity until Ilasin pointed it out. She said that it seemed fainter now than before. That, at least, was something to be happy about.
The constant buzz of the swamp’s too-many flies was now echoed in Ilasin’s reedy snore, a thin sound Leonine found amusing even as it kept him awake. She slept comfortably, with her head propped against his thigh.
Oh, for a clean bed and a pipe.
Somewhere in the distance, a swamp owl
hooted and took flight, in search of dragonflies, shrews, or whatever other creatures could be found in a place such as this. Leonine’s stomach rumbled. The morning’s bread was all gone, and nothing else remained in their packs. If they did not find something decent to eat soon, he too would be eating shrews, and happily. Perhaps cattails were edible?
Another hoot, further away now, then a second, a third. The owl sounded frustrated, if birds felt such things. Perhaps it was no better fed than he.
Or perhaps there’s danger?
Leonine’s hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. It was probably nothing, but in a place like this, with enemies behind and potential enemies ahead…
Leonine stood up, gently laying Ilasin’s head down on the ground, and drew his knife. Tahmin was their sentry this night. He seemed blissfully unaware of danger. Leonine tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to be silent, then pointed to the shadows beyond and bade him to stay put.
He crept towards where he’d heard the hooting, keeping low to avoid being silhouetted against the hilltop.
Leonine made it to the bottom of the hill when a wail split the air, a terrible keening that twisted his gut into knots. He became suddenly aware of a faint energy, but had no time to consider this before the foliage ahead of him exploded. A dark shape bounded towards him on four legs – no, two. It straightened as it leapt, and its silhouette was that of a man.
An arm arced towards him, and Leonine jabbed with his knife, stepping backwards. He felt his blade sink into flesh, but if his attacker was bothered by it, he made no sign. Another punch, and this time Leonine ducked low, dodging to the man’s – the creature’s? – side. The knife caught his attacker just beneath the ribs, and Leonine ripped it through, leaving a jagged tear.
No blood. Whatever he had attacked, it was not bleeding. Then it was on top of him, knocking him hard to the ground, battering him with its thin arms. He tried to hold it back with his left while the knife gouged and stabbed, but the creature was possessed of an inhuman strength.
He caught a glimpse of the ghoul’s wide yellow eyes reflecting the Serpent’s Eye, and then the head darted in as if to bite. Leonine dropped his chin in a desperate attempt to shield his neck, and felt a shooting pain in his shoulder. The head rose again for another strike, and he lashed out with his forehead, felt the painful impact of bone on bone. He tried to work his legs between himself and the beast.
“Navid!” He heard Ilasin scream his name, and then felt sorcery rush into her, until she was a beacon of power at the edge of his consciousness. Then he heard a sharp crack, and the ghoul flew back. A man stood over him, spear in hand, calling for help in Sarvashi.
Protect yourself! Ilasin was a flare, a fiery presence somewhere behind him, a coruscating power he could never hope to match.
He opened himself in a panic, wide and without a care for safety. His veins burned, and he burst into the Rahavashaska.
“Rahava, heed my words, and jewels I will give!” he sang, and he saw the Crone try to coax Rahava into sin, first with gifts, then threats. The beast leapt back at the man standing over him, impaling itself on his spear. To his horror, it tried to pull itself forward. But Huntsmen were strong, bred to a life in battle. A fierce kick sent the beast, spear and all, spiraling to the ground. It splashed where it landed.
Sing. Do not stop singing!
“Crone, I have no need for jewels, my kingdom is the mountain!”
The beast tried again to stand, then fell over as the butt of the spear embedded in what should have been its lung caught against a stump.
Then Ilasin screamed.
Waves of power battered against his feeble defense, first a few hard strikes and then a relentless assault that threatened to constrict him, to steal the breath from his lungs.
Sing. Sing!
He sang, offering and refusing slaves, thrones and kingdoms, until his voice was ragged and he knew nothing but the incandescent creature at the edge of his mind, life and death hiding in the shape of a little girl. Then, that too faded from view, and there was nothing but the black sky.
“Navid? Navid, wake up!”
The fog cleared, bit by bit. Ilasin sobbed and shook his shoulder painfully.
“Ow. Stop,” he said, weakly, trying to bat her hands away.
“Navid! Oh, thank Anki.” She took his hand in hers, squeezing hard. “I… I thought I killed you.”
It certainly feels that way. His head was shrieking at him. Over its noise, he could feel, just barely, a throbbing pain in his shoulder.
“I think I almost did. Drew in too much… too much power for the Rahavashaska.” There had been no time to be careful. That he was still alive was a blessing.
So powerful. Ilasin, you are so powerful.
Something gnawed at his thoughts. Something important.
Why is she still drawing power?
“Navid, come on,” said Ilasin. “There are more. We have to go! We have to go now! Back to the boats. I have a wall up, but there are too many. It won't hold long!”
Leonine nodded and tried to stand. His head spun as though he’d had too much to drink. Then Kamvar was there, trying to help pull him to his feet. Leonine tried to reach out to steady himself, then realized he could barely move his left arm. He looked at it quizzically, and realized that he was bare-chested, his shoulder wrapped tightly in the cut-up remains of his tunic.
“Come on. I’ll help you walk.” Kamvar pulled at him, and he followed, passing the corpse of the beast that had attacked them. Now that it was lying still, killed – again? – by Ilasin’s magic, he could get a closer look at the thing.
“It looks like a man,” he said. It did, at that. Too pale, too gaunt, with too-long arms, those horrible pale eyes, and teeth sharper than any man’s had a right to be. Still and all, it looked like a man. He dimly remembered a story Ibashtu had once told him, about men deep in the forests of her homeland who filed their teeth to sharp points.
“Now, at least, we know what the sorcery was. This monster stinks of it.”
Ilasin squeezed his hand and shook her head.
“Navid, something’s not right here. I… I saw these before, and there was nothing magical about them. It’s almost as though a spell has been cast on it.”
It did not matter. Not yet. He had neither the time nor the presence of mind to consider yet another variable. They had to go.
Running. Always running.
They returned to the boats and rowed until shoulders burned, and when the water grew so shallow that keels scraped against mud, they ran a mile, walked a mile, ran another, walked another.
Day had not yet broken when it became clear that the noose was tightening. Taking to the water had bought them a respite, but it had not shaken the ghouls from their pursuit. Sorcerous residue was everywhere around them, and Ilasin's barriers had fallen.
“Wait,” he whispered, placing a hand on Ilasin’s shoulders. She stopped, and looked up at him curiously.
There! Splashing sounds. And loud. Whatever created them had no care at all for secrecy.
“Do you hear that?” Ilasin whispered back, eyes wide. He nodded.
“Keep moving,” Leonine said. “It might be nothing…”
Lies to children.
“… But be ready to run, at my signal.”
Ilasin looked afraid and weary, but resolute. Behind her, Kamvar whispered a prayer, knuckles whitening against the haft of his spear. Still, he and Tahmin appeared calm, determined. The Huntsmen were no strangers to the things that walked the night.
Lubash’s soldiers – and Akosh, who appeared to have aged ten years overnight – fared much worse. They had all known danger, but this was not a battlefield.
A keening screech rang out behind Leonine, then another. A third answered it from further away.
Ghouls. It was no surprise, and yet Leonine felt his stomach lurch. To have come so far, only to face this…
“Run!” he shouted, pulling Ilasin along. He felt her collectin
g power once again, but did not have time to consider where she had found such control over her sorcery.
Terror guided their steps, a headlong flight through blurred reeds and churning water. Any pretense of stalking had been abandoned. Creatures came into view behind them, screeching and hooting like apes, gleeful in the chase, tearing down one barrier of light after another.
Ilasin stumbled, jerking Leonine’s hand backwards hard enough that he too almost lost balance. He pulled back with all his strength, turning as he did so, and Ilasin collided with his chest, hard. He grasped at her and felt the shooting pain in his shoulder.
Not like this. It will not end like this.
She was not heavy. Not now, not with beasts that had once been men chasing behind them. Perhaps she could kill them all. It was a possibility, but not one he wanted to risk, not with a Hound – not with that Hound – so close.
You’ll not have a choice.
Leonine’s foot sank into soft mud, and he stumbled, pain flaring in his ankle. He hopped jerkily in an attempt to stay upright and succeeded, though he now half-ran, half-limped, Ilasin still in his arms.
Suddenly, Tahmin’s hard shoulder was there, steadying him as he ran.
“I’ll take her,” gasped Tahmin. “I’m stronger.”
He did not want to give her up. Not now, not in such danger. He wanted to clutch her even more tightly, to tell her everything would end well.
If it comes down to it… But it would not. They would escape, outrun their pursuers. Any other outcome was unthinkable.
… you cannot let them take her.
“I’ll carry her!” repeated Tahmin. He was right. Leonine thrust Ilasin into his outstretched arms.
“Navid!” Ilasin’s voice was as loud as his breathing, which came now in sharp gasps. He could not run faster, not now. He was so tired. A week, a month. How long had they been running?
“Navid, watch out!”
In front of him, the solid ground fell away. Leonine skidded to a painful stop on his twisted ankle, and turned to his right. The drop was precipitous. In the desperation of the moment, he had not noticed that they climbed a jagged hill that rose above the marsh.
More screeches, closer now.
He skirted the edge of the hill, lungs panting and gasping like a bellows. His legs burned.
He was a child again. A boy of twelve years, scarcely older than Ilasin was now, he tore at breakneck speed through the bazaar, the guards behind him howling at anyone within earshot to stop the thief.
There were no words among the shrieks, this time, but their meaning had not changed. He’d spent his entire life running. The shouts were always the same.
Keep running! Never let them catch you.
Trees disappeared, one by one, until the hill was naked of any vegetation but knee-high grass. A voice at the edge of his consciousness rebelled at the phenomenon. “Wrong!” it cried, but he had not the time to heed it.
We’re free! The howls of his pursuers had fallen further behind, and their timbre changed. There was a frustration in the cacophony, a thwarted bloodlust. What does this mean?
“Ilasin… l-look back,” he said, gasping for breath.
She twisted in Tahmin’s arms. “They’re… they’re gone.”
He did not slow, could not. A euphoria borne of relief came over him, washing away the pain, the fear. They were free, and he ran headlong into the realization, expelling his doubts, his fears.
Why? Why did they stop? He was not thinking clearly. Something strange had happened, something not easily explained. What was it they feared?
Leonine slowed, panting, while Tahmin lowered Ilasin to the ground. Then he sat and listened to his pounding heart.
“Navid, look!” Ilasin said, pointing. He followed the line of her finger to a stone tablet that lay cracked into two pieces ahead of them. It was etched with something that had once been writing, softened over the years and melted away in the damp swamp air. Further away, ancient bricks were stacked in a heap that looked as though it had once been a wall.
Oh, no. Not this. Leonine looked to his left. From their vantage point atop the hill, he could see silver lines of water. They had come over time to bleed like dye, but he could still see traces of a regular latticework.
No. Please, no. Once, before his people came to Ekka, men had tilled the soil here, raised dates and kamut and barley.
Far away, silhouetted against the Eye, were the colossal steps of a temple. They sat atop the skeleton of the dead city in the marsh, the city that starved and sank and ultimately fell when the fields were made to overflow.
The city that Ilasin had just recently escaped.
We’ve been herded. The meaning of the wizardry that had affected his attacker was now all too clear.
“Listen,” he said. The company turned to regard Leonine. He steeled himself, then delivered the awful news. “We’ve been herded. The ghouls did not just cut off our escape. They turned us around, I don’t even remember when, and left us only one path through the swamp… they did not overrun us, because they had been ordered not to.”
“Barsam,” whispered Kamvar. “Ahamash, we’re being guided back to Barsam. You’re right. This is a different part of the city than we were in, but the walls, the fields... it’s unmistakable.”
Leonine nodded.
“What do we do?”
“What can we do?” It was not a question. Leonine shook his head wearily. To have come so far. “You saw how many there were. To try to fight our way through those beasts would be certain death.”
He weighed possibilities in his mind, bad against worse, until finally a path emerged from the chaos.
“Either we wait for daybreak, or we kill Barsam and hope it breaks the spell.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” A voice, mocking and unfamiliar, followed by the blast of a horn.
A scarred man stepped out from behind the wall.
“Yazan,” said Kamvar, his voice flat.
“You keep strange company, Kamvar,” said the man. His face was like dripping wax, melting into a scowl. “You bastard. I knew you were faithless, but this? To betray your brothers, to join with that man. I’ll enjoy giving you to Shimurg, Daiva. Maybe I’ll show you what it is to have your face set aflame before you go.”
The sewers. A Huntsman. A torch. Leonine remembered.
“I’m sorry, Yazan,” said Kamvar. “Our orders were unconscionable.”
Leonine stepped in front of Ilasin, dropping a hand to his knife. Ekkadi soldiers had come running at Yazan’s call. They were many. So many.
You’re our only hope now, child.
“Unsconscionable?”
He knew that voice. He hated that voice.
“Are you the Prophet now, to tell me what is and isn’t allowed? This is not what I had in mind when I told you to think for yourself.”
Barsam. He had aged, greyed, and he was bathed in sweat, barely standing erect after the exertions of his sorcery. But it was Barsam. The Hound's gaze moved towards Leonine, and he froze.
“You,” Barsam said, his voice barely above a whisper.
There had been joy, once. Coin earned with craft, a simple home, love and the promise of children.
“You!” Barsam roared, and suddenly his veins were red-hot bronze screaming to be given shape.
“Ila!” Leonine cried, opening himself to the meagre power that he could wield. She already knew, had already done the same.
For the second time that night, the Rahavashaska came to him, fury granting it strength beyond what he thought he possessed. Sightless eyes, staring up at a heartless sky. A stomach rent by carrion birds. He poured his anguish, his companion for so many years, into a song to protect Ilasin.
The power that struck him was beyond his reckoning. Barsam’s sorcery, that had so faithfully served the Temple, had nothing of the holy left in it. There was no prayer, no Ahamash, only a guttural chant in a language he could not understand. Barsam the Hound was Barsam the
sorcerer, the man of a decade gone by, shattering minds with his black magic. Leonine fell to his knees, head flaring with pain. The shield wavered, but held.
He caught a glimpse of horror in Kamvar’s face before the next roaring wave threatened to shatter the flimsy defenses he placed in its way. The former Huntsman still lived. How is this possible? Had he protected them all?
No. Ilasin. Barsam’s second attack was thwarted, dashed against a barrier that Leonine could feel but not see. Ilasin staggered from the exertion, but kept her feet.
Such power. Where in hell did you seize such power? He had known Ilasin was stronger than he, and that she grew more powerful still with each passing day. But was it enough?
Sorcery is like a great river, he’d once said. Maybe that was true of Ilasin, but Barsam’s sorcery was like a tidal wave sweeping in from the ocean, that snapped centuries-old trees like twigs and carried away everything in its path. It terrified him.
“Charge!” somebody screamed. A rank of Ekkadi spearmen shouted their battle-cries and advanced, only to be blasted to cinders by powers they could neither see nor comprehend. Behind him were strangled gasps and invocations of Ahamash. Before him was that hateful Hound, preparing another bone-shattering assault.
Ilasin cried out in pain, falling to her knees. The shield wavered, but held. It would not hold much longer.
Ilasin cannot survive. Not alone, not if he were to add all of his paltry sorceries to her own. An idea came to him; a desperate, foolish idea.
“Kamvar,” he said, choking back tears. “Kamvar, tell her… tell her to never stop running. And, for the sake of your own life, get away from her right now!”
He did not wait for acknowledgment. There was no time. One more attack could destroy her.
“You will not touch her!” Navid screamed, and then he was running headlong at Barsam, knife in hand, bellowing the Rahavashaska.
Crone, I have no need of coins. My daughter is my treasure.
He heard a shout behind him, in Kamvar’s voice, bidding the soldiers to scatter. Good. Barsam leered contemptuously, sword in hand.
“Navid!” shrieked Ilasin, and his mind was seared by incandescent light. Her fear was her true power. It always had been.
A terrible force buffeted him, from ahead and behind. He was a leaf caught in the wind, at the mercy of powers greater than his own, but his shield held. Miraculously, it held. He lunged at Barsam. Suddenly there was uncertainty in the Hound’s face. He intoned the Hound’s prayer. His was the shield now under assault, wavering beneath the terrible force of Ilasin’s scream.
Barsam’s shield held. He knew it would. Of course it would. His power was beyond anything Leonine had ever seen.
Soldiers were now at Barsam’s side, spears extended as though to stop a charge. The Hound’s shield was no defense against bronze, but it would not have to be. He would never get close enough to take that second eye.
It did not matter. The knife was but a showman’s trick, an illusion to conceal the true danger. Just a little closer.
A spear thrust took him in the shoulder that had already been injured. Somewhere behind him, Ilasin screamed, burning bright in his mind’s eye.
Goodbye, Ilasin.
Navid desperately threw himself open to a power he knew he could never control, and took a deep breath. He saw a guard in a manor, shouting soundlessly, an axe cracking tiles without a noise. He attacked not Barsam, but the very air around them.
Barsam’s prayer vanished, momentarily. He mouthed the words, but there was only silence. It would not last. Navid’s sorceries were feeble. But Ilasin’s fear was power, and against such power even an instant was enough.
Ahamash can’t hear you.
For a moment, a too-brief moment, Navid relished Barsam’s dawning horror.
Then, the world went white.
Epilogue
Kamvar, tell her… tell her to never stop running.
He did not understand – could not possibly understand – what was happening when Navid charged, but his words had plainly been those of a man who faced his own death.
“Run!” he cried, to Tahmin, to Akosh, to Lubash and his men. He did not wait for a reply. Ilasin screamed, and he remembered a desperate flight through the sewers, and the all-consuming fear that he would never see Ashuz or Sahar again. That fear was real once more. He would die here, in this terrible ruin, torn to shreds by a power he did not understand.
He heard another scream, the heart-rending shriek of a child in agony, and turned back, in spite of Navid’s orders. What he heard then was nothing. Barsam’s intonation of Ahamash – how many times had he heard Majid utter those same words? – was suddenly cut short. Only Ilasin’s scream was real.
He watched Barsam’s mouth open in a silent wail, his one eye wide enough that even from this distance Kamvar could see the white of it, and then he fell, clawing at his own face. He died the same way Manoush died, so long ago, in the sewers of Inatum. Kamvar did not know what horrors Barsam had seen.
But he could guess.
And Navid…
Navid? Oh, Ahamash.
He watched as Navid jerked and flailed, a marionette on tangled strings. Light flared from his eyes and his mouth, as though a fire consumed him from within. Then he fell, never to rise again.
Ilasin ran to Navid’s side, heedless of what remained of Barsam’s Hunt. None of the survivors challenged her. To a man, they turned tail and ran.
“It’s over,” said Kamvar to nobody in particular. He walked to where Ilasin lay over the body of her fallen guardian, and held her while she wept.
“Kamvar? Kamvar, are you there?”
“Huh?” He opened his eyes to find that he lay face down on an open scroll of parchment. “I must have fallen asleep reading our dear missionary’s sermon.”
Sahar laughed. He looked up to see that Tahmin stood behind her, crestfallen.
“It’s fine, Tam. I’m just weary from last night’s revel, that’s all.”
“Maybe you’ll make it through this one,” said Sahar. She handed him a clay tablet imprinted with a familiar seal that depicted men loading boats with lumber. “A ship came in today from Ekka. We heard about it at market.”
“Read it aloud, Kam,” said Tahmin.
Kamvar nodded, squinting down at the angular Ekkadi script. It was cleaner than usual. Perhaps Akosh had finally hired a scribe.
Dear Kamvar,
Good health to you, to Tahmin and Ilasin, to your family.
The wedding went off splendidly. I wish you had been here. Ila-uanna – perhaps I should call her Lashuga now – stocked the larder with more food than I’ve ever seen in one place, and enough beer to drown a village (and we very nearly did; that no drunken brawls broke out is as much a miracle as anything else I have seen in my too-many years).
Things have changed here, in the cities at least. The temple in the swamp has been torn down once more, but I swear it only angered the people.
There is talk of rebellion, and Nin-worship is almost in the open. There have been Hounds, of course, but they are fewer now, and many meet bad ends at night, when your god is not watching.
They lose control, maybe have done already. Men more knowledgeable than I swear that Nin’s church will be reinstated, that Sarvash must either accept her or prepare for a struggle – not an open war, on a battlefield, but a spiritual battle, with Ekka at stake.
I am too old to believe this. I told you once that Ekka will rebel the moment Sarvash grows weak, but I do not believe that moment has yet arrived. There will be retribution, then repression of a sort we’ve not yet seen. Still, a man can dream. Even if that man’s seen enough years to know better, and enough that he likely won’t live long enough to be proved right or wrong.
In answer to your previous question, I have not faced any difficulties. The men that returned to Nerkut told the whole story – garbled though it must have been – but I think our little adventure may have enhanced my stature. Some men scowl at the
Stone of Lanapish, but many more call him a hero, a figure of glorious rebellion in the face of the conqueror. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s very stupid. Ananta has fled, by the way. I think you convinced him that Kutuanu's Temple was lost. Sarvagadis has installed a puppet, as expected, but Ananta is safe. At least for now.
I’m glad I took your advice and cast the Stone aside, even if my new name feels unfamiliar in my mouth. We sold the old manor to one of Ila-uanna’s former suitors, and bought a new one outside Hatshut. The city is beautiful, but I rarely go there any longer. Everything I need is within these walls.
I pray that you are well, and that some day you will be able to return to us. Give my love to everybody else.
- Akosh.
Kamvar smiled and laid the tablet atop his desk. Akosh’s story had ended happily. So had his own.
“I’ll finish your sermon later, Tam, I promise,” he said, throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Unless my nose deceives me, it’s time to eat.”
He left his room, and opened the door of their modest home. Outside, Ashuz giggled as their big yellow dog took off at breakneck speed after a stick. He never tired of the game. Neither did the dog. Ilasin sat nearby, watching him play.
“Ila, Ashuz, come inside!” he called. “It’s time to eat.”
The children came running, leaving their playmate to pant alone in the hot Hakshi afternoon.
Afterword
In lieu of the usual acknowledgments that nobody reads, I thought I might take an opportunity to speak directly to readers.
Fantasy, I believe, is the descendant of myth – heroes and villains, gods and magic, tales of the wonderful and the strange and the horrific, all of them a reflection of how we see the world. We don’t believe that Gilgamesh slew Humbaba, of course, not any longer. Perhaps we never did. But we can still relate to the fear of death, the bonds of friendship. And we still joke about women civilizing men today, four thousand years later.
Myth inspired the Moonlit Cities – Hatshut, the Numushes, Nerkut – and history did as well. Amateur historians may recognize ancient Mesopotamia in Ekka, at a time when the Achaemenids swept down from Persia to build the largest empire the world had yet seen. But then, they might not. I have taken many liberties with history, some consciously and others because my knowledge of history is amateurish at best.
The greatest of these liberties is the theme of religious and cultural repression that permeates the book. To do justice to the Dariuses and Cyrii of the world, I feel I should point out that the Persians were really as benign as invaders get, if imperialists can ever be described that way.
And in any case, religious repression is a more modern conceit. When Persian kings invaded Babylon, they made a show of accepting Marduk into their own prayers, partly to smooth over any discontent at their invasion, and partly because the idea that other people’s gods were nonexistent had not yet registered in the world. Foreign gods could be weak, certainly, or evil, or undeserving of worship, but the concerted eradication of Nin’s cult depicted throughout Pale Queen’s Courtyard is an anachronism.
But it makes for a good story.
I hope you’ve enjoyed our time together, and I hope these are but the first hours of many. There will be more books about Ekka, and they will share the Moonlit Cities series name, but they are not a fantasy series as we think of them – each book is self-contained, and follows different characters. Some of the events that touch them off are the same, and some themes will be revisited, but Kamvar’s story has been told. I wish him a good, long rest.
Golden Feathers Falling is the next book. I hesitate to predict when it will be available, as such things always seem to take longer than expected, but check back in the summer or fall of 2011. When on High will come after that.
There will be other stories also, in Sinmalik and Haksh and France and Toronto. I hope you’ll be as excited about reading them as I am about writing them.
Marcin Wrona is a Polish-born Canadian author, a multiple immigrant, a passable chef, an awful guitarist, and many other things besides. Visit marcinwrona.ca to read his musings on writing, learn about upcoming books, or follow him through the Twitters of the world.
