Azaria

by J. H. Hayes

  Dogahn was speechless. He’d found most of her admission understandable, but her last statement shocking. Even given what had happened, it was out of character, especially since her father was Ta’araki. "Azaria," he finally said, "I don’t know why your father-"

  "I don’t mean father," she interrupted. "Of course I love him. And Hadir too. I mean the whole group of them. What they’re capable of, when they get together."

  "Ohhh..." Dogahn answered, not sure what else to say. She was right of course.

  Azaria knew the conversation was getting very grim. It wasn’t what she’d intended and decided to turn it in a direction she thought he’d appreciate more. "So what I’m really wondering... What made you think you could face down a group of Ta’araki? And how did you convince Tiriz to come with you?"

  Dogahn laughed. "Well as far as Tiriz, I lied. I told him a pack of wolverines had been spotted near the Temple and we’d be heroes if we drove them out."

  "That was only a half-lie," Azaria laughed.

  "The truth is, I didn’t really know what I was going to do. But I remembered what they did to Jesenia... and, well... I had to try something."

  Azaria reached up and rewarded him with a lingering kiss before asking, "What about Yumineh? Why was she at the Temple?"

  "You haven’t heard?" Dogahn asked. "That’s the one part everyone knows. She said she was following me and Tiriz..."

  "I don't think she had any interest in following Tiriz."

  Dogahn's face turned red. "Yeah, well..." he answered, "she'd made a habit of it."

  "I noticed."

  "But we won't have to worry about that anymore."

  Azaria smiled back. "That's true."

  "Azaria, I'm sorry about Yumineh. I don't know what I was thinking."

  "Shhh..." she answered. "I know now it was mostly her fault."

  Afraid to say anything which might change her mind, Dogahn kept silent, returning his gaze to his feet. Azaria knew why he didn't speak, but wondered why he'd felt the need to apologize again. She'd already forgiven him. She thought he understood that. She decided to change the subject. "So they're banning her from the Summer Gathering?"

  "Yeah, ours anyway. She'll be allowed to go to one of the other ones. But they won't let her anywhere near you."

  "Hmm... Why didn't they banish her completely? She's dangerous."

  "People are saying the Ta'araki decided she was serving the interests of the Watchers. Because of her, the offering was made on the altar, sort of. But they think the Ta'ar decided They didn't want you yet. And since it was all part of the Ta'ar's Plan, they think it was the best possible outcome. And some even think Yumineh should be praised. So they're going soft on her."

  "That's so wrong..." Azaria said, making sure not to direct her anger at him. Nothing made sense anymore.

  "Yeah, I know..."

  Dogahn stood for a long moment with his head down, staring at her feet, wondering if she’d ask anything else. But Azaria kept silent. Convinced she would stay that way, he came to a decision. He lowered himself down to his knees, taking both her hands in his.

  He gazed up into her eyes. "Azaria, I first kissed you in this very spot. It was the best thing I've ever done. But I've made so many mistakes since then. I've hurt you so much. Beyond forgiveness. What I did was horrible. The worst mistake I've ever made. I want you to know I love you and I'll never hurt you again."

  "I know, Dogahn," Azaria whispered.

  "I want to be with you forever, for the rest of my life. Will you tie with me?"

  Azaria smiled, tears welling up. She did want to tie with him. "Oh Dogahn, I love you too. So much. But no... I'm not ready yet. I want to be with you... I don't love anyone but you... but not yet. Will you wait until I'm ready?"

  He lowered his head, disappointed, yet hopeful some sun his dream would come true, if only he could master his desires. "Yes, of course I'll wait for you."

  Back inside his mud-brick shelter, Azerban stood, his head writhing, pounding in pain. The headaches had been worsening of late. Although he knew not the cause, he suspected he was being punished. He felt it just sanction for his crimes, and he endured the agony gladly. It was less than he deserved. The bout had woken him early before the dawn and had gradually risen in intensity until growing into a throbbing, pulsating wasps’ nest rattling around inside his skull. The agony was so severe he'd been close to vomiting. It was only when he'd conceded he couldn’t even meditate that he allowed himself the comfort of mild medication.

  He swirled around the shelter, searching desperately for the valerian root, even though he knew he wouldn't find it. He'd already been through his medicine bag three times, its contents now splayed out carelessly across the rug floor. Had he used up his last stock? Or had Quzo been rummaging through his things again? He damned his son in silence, before guiltily castigating himself, half a moment later. No, it wasn’t the boy. It was more likely he'd neglected to restock. His fault, not his son's. Why was it he'd recently been so quick to blame him, so swift to ire, so ready to chasten? Since the Equinox, he'd been irritable with almost everyone, but his son took the brunt of his fury, although he knew the child didn't deserve it and was even partially responsible for saving his sister. Everyone except his daughter had felt his wrath. With her he'd had infinite patience, boundless guilt-filled tenderness.

  His thoughts turned to her once again. There was no reason not to let her go off with Dogahn. He couldn’t keep her in the shelter forever. He’d told himself he was protecting her, but it was really himself he was protecting. Dogahn would tell her everything that had happened. How her father had put a blade to her throat, had almost cut it, had almost killed her. In his mind he had done it. In his vision atop the altar, he had.

  She would now know everything. And she would hate him for it. She would never comprehend his reasons. He didn’t understand them, how could she? How could he explain that he was protecting Quzo? How does a father tell a daughter he chose his son over her?

  Azerban spun around the room once more before dropping to his knees, sobbing, his head tight within his hands. The pain was piercing, smothering. There was no choice, he'd have to find more of the root, or use a substitute, something more potent. But he wouldn't allow himself anything stronger. He would not tolerate such luxury. He would not slink away from penance. He would endure it, with honor.

  Kneeling on the floor with his ears covered and his eyes closed, and pondering the unsettling paths in front of him, Azerban did not notice his son walk in or pause in front of him, eyeing him cautiously. Nor did he see him walk over to the water bowl and attempt to tip it over enough to fill his cup. Normally, the boy would’ve asked his father for help, as he was still not yet strong enough to handle the heavy container on his own, but he’d recently become wary of bothering his father. His father had become erratic, unpredictable. The safest course was to proceed alone, making as little disturbance as possible.

  When the young boy lost control of the water bowl, its contents spilling across the floor, his eyes had already flooded, even before his father felt the invasion of cool water on his feet. Shocked, Azerban turned and instantly coming to furious conclusion, exploded. "Quzo!!! What have you done, boy?"

  Terrified, his son fled the shelter, tearing through the camp to his aunt Shaledar's, the one place he knew he'd find protection and understanding. Azerban leapt after him, determined to punish. Almost immediately though, he made a different decision, one which would alter the lives of Boar Camp forever.

  Facing him is better, Azerban decided, than terrorizing my son for every little infraction. Quzo was probably only afraid of asking for help, seeing me wallowing on the floor. How can I blame him, given the manner in which I've behaved? His mind set, he made his way to Takur's shelter and slapped on the leather flaps, stowing his hatred for another sun. He needed assistance, not a confrontation. That could wait for later. When no answer came, he slapped again, harder. And when only silence continued to greet him he circled, search
ing for his elder, but found no sign of him. Azerban stood for a long moment, thinking his options through. He could hunt him down. Ta’araki was probably at Sakon’s, strategizing. Or he could enter the First's shelter unpermitted. It was a lowly offense, but nearly unheard of. It would be exceedingly embarrassing if caught, but Azerban had little patience for the social customs at the moment, especially with Takur.

  With a final cautionary glance over both shoulders, he ducked his head inside and slipped the rest of the way in, simultaneously attempting a stealthiness he was not accustomed to and a confidence he did not feel. Once inside he peaked through the flaps, just to be certain he hadn't been seen.

  While the great muscle inside his chest thumped wildly, Azerban surveyed. Fortunately, Takur was much more orderly than his late mate. There wasn’t a litter of unfinished projects strewn about the floor. No distasteful fumes shocking his nostrils. Takur's hearth was tidy, its contents arranged with a deliberate formality. Azerban's eyes immediately found the subject of their search. Takur's medicine bag waited front and center on a low-lying shelf, surrounded by an assortment of bone and wooden bowls, carefully set.

  He made to pick up the sleek otter-skin bag, when he noticed another, similar purse sitting by itself at the back of the table, leaning against the shelter wall.

  Fahim's medicine bag.

  Although he had no idea from where his curiosity sprang, its pull was undeniable. Without thinking, he took Fahim’s bag and worked the drawstring loose. For a moment he sat there, staring down at its contents, his attention set on one familiar item over all others. It was a small leather pouch, tied tight by a short strand of dried sinew. Azerban recognized it before he picked it up. The pouch contained the medicine she had used to treat Zephia. Tears of anguished memories filled his eyes as he held the pouch in his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the leather, as gently as if it'd been her soft cheek. Without a second thought, he stuffed the pouch into an inside pocket of his tunic. He doubted the treasure would ever be missed by Takur. And if at some point it was, Azerban would deal with the theft then. Ta'araki should have given him the item anyway when Zephia died. It was more hers and therefore his, than anyone else's. Or so Azerban convinced himself.

  He was ready to close Fahim's medicine bag and return to his original search, when he noticed a second item. Another, twin container was tucked just underneath the first. It only caught his attention because it was so unusual for a healer to keep two identical pouches. They were the same size, the same shade of gazelle leather, even the sinew ties were of even length. In fact, there was no way to tell one from the other.

  Mystified, Azerban took the second container out and then pulled from his pocket its sibling, holding one in each hand. For several long moments he sat there like that, confused, completely forgetting his rush to leave before Takur returned.

  He suddenly heard footsteps outside the shelter. His eyes swept to the entrance, an expression of childish guilt painted on his face. The footsteps ceased and Azerban heard a slap on the leather flaps. He caught his breath, his hands trembling holding Fahim's medicine bag open. It was not Takur, but a visitor. Panicked, Azerban froze. And waited. A second slapping sound, louder now, resonated across Takur's hearth. Azerban dared not draw a breath, until finally the gentle patter of retreating footfalls greeted his red ears.

  Safe again, for a moment at least, Azerban turned his eyes back to the twin pouches in his hands. A fresh perspective often presented an advantage, and in this instance, the old adage proved true. The slightest of differences between the two pouches made themselves apparent. He was surprised he even noticed them. The sinew cords holding the pouches closed were twisted in opposite directions, with one following the path of the sun, and the other one counter. So there was a difference, Azerban realized. They weren't just redundancies of each other, as he'd suspected. That would have been the only reasonable explanation, even though it was an inefficient use of space to keep two pouches of the same ingredient in the same bag, and a practice he'd doubted Fahim would engage in.

  But if there was a difference between the pouches, then the contents must vary too. His curiosity fully peaked, Azerban opened both. Visually, the ingredients held within were also identical. He sniffed at both bags, and thought he could detect a slightly more acrid odor to one. He poked a finger into each and tasted. It was obvious. There was a definite difference in flavor. One was more pungent. It was a slight disparity, but observable to his experienced tongue nonetheless.

  Azerban closed the two pouches, his wonder quenched. Fahim must have been using subtle variations in her applications, hoping to find the most effective treatment. It was an uncommon approach, one he rarely employed, but he was not surprised Fahim had been experimenting. Her confidence in her abilities was unwavering, and deservedly so. She was a Master Healer. Satisfied, he stuffed both of the small pouches back into his tunic pocket and began to pull the drawstring of Fahim's bag closed. Then another find caught his attention. Beneath the second pouch was a small, smooth riverstone with apparent markings. Curious again, Azerban reached in and picked it up, turning it over once and again in his hand, realizing each side had its own similar pair of markings.

  Each side had an arcing line, punctuated by a small upward tick forming an arrow like shape. To the right of the first symbol was a diagonally straight line, also ending with an arrow-like tip. Unlike the ingredients inside the pouches though, the difference between the pair of markings was clear. On one side, the arced line ended to the right, symbolizing the path the sun made across the sky. The straight line following it went diagonally up and to the right. On the second side, the symbols were reversed. The arcing line on the other side started on the right, with the tip ending to its left, symbolizing a direction opposite the path the sun followed. The tipped-line next to it also followed a path to the right, but it pointed diagonally down.

  The meaning of the two symbols, along with the repercussions, came to Azerban immediately, almost as quickly as his boiling fury. The implication was obvious, and horrifying. The first symbols on both sides referred to the direction the sinew cords were twisted around their respective pouches, and therefore told Fahim which pouch the second symbol pertained to. The second symbols, although perhaps indecipherable to others, were immediately clear to Azerban. They referred to Zephia, more specifically, to her condition. Fahim was using the stone to remind her which mix of ingredients each pouch contained. One marked a beneficial mixture, indicated by the upward leaning arrow. The other side then, with the downward leaning arrow, marked the pouch with a pernicious mix.

  Azerban was aghast as he came to conclusion. Even he had trouble believing she could be so evil, so malicious. For a moment, he swallowed his rage, forced himself to rethink. Could there be some other explanation? But no, the meaning of the symbols was as clear as a cloudless sky. Fahim had been controlling Zephia's recovery. That's why her health had oscillated so. When she wanted his mate to recover, she'd apply one mixture. And when it fit her needs to see Zephia decline, she'd use the other.

  As the blood within his veins seethed, he had another thought. Perhaps it was the fact she was no longer present to wring his fevered hands around her neck that brought his thoughts to her co-leader mate. Did Takur know of this? Could he have been as equally malevolent as his dead mate? A couple of moons ago, Azerban wouldn't have been able to stomach the idea of suspecting Takur, even despite their past differences. But now, he could barely keep himself from outright condemning his old friend. How could Takur not have known? How could Fahim have carried out such treachery without his knowledge?

  Instantly, Azerban's attention was brought back to the first medicine bag, the one on the front end of the small table. The one he'd originally come for. Takur's medicine bag. He tore it open as if it were Fahim’s throat. His hands trembling, the contents dropped to the floor. And there, glaringly obvious, as if all the other strewn-out items were just peripheral interference, were three items that matched the one
s in Fahim's bags. Two small pouches, exactly like the one he’d seen Takur treat his daughter with, and a small riverstone, with markings identical to Fahim's.

  Azerban stood at the peak of Sunset Hill, where his adored mate Zephia loved to watch the setting sun. He had no idea from where he'd found the restraint to control himself back in Takur's hearth. Instead of raging like a wild bull, tearing the shelter down with his bare hands, he’d remained tranquil, meticulously placing each item of Takur's bag back into its proper position. Before he'd finished, he stole a few bits of the valerian root. He needed them now more than ever. He'd also returned the items he'd taken from Fahim's bag and delicately placed them back where they'd sat upon his entrance. Then, he'd slipped back through the flaps, careful to make sure he left unseen.

  But instead of returning back to his shelter to fix his head-soothing brew, Azerban found himself calmly inclining the gentle hill, the tumultuous pain within his head mystifyingly lessening of its own accord. Although outwardly he appeared settled, within a storm of rage whirled. He knew which course his fury would lead him down. There was no denying it. The only matter left was laying the correct path. As he gazed out into the vast horizon, he noticed the great orb's reddened tones bleeding into a white, milky sky. It was a fitting scene. And prescient. For Azerban knew the summer ahead would be a bloody one.

  That night, after they’d eaten a late, silent meal, Azaria lay in her furs. Hardly a word had been spoken since she’d returned. Even Quzo was silent, still fearful of his father’s wrath for upsetting the water bowl.

  Azaria wished her father would talk to her. She felt it was his responsibility to bridge the chasm. It was too difficult for her to breach the subject. She still wanted to know why she’d been placed on the altar. If Dogahn didn’t know, only her father could tell her.

  But she also understood why it might be hard for him. She could see how troubled he was, and that the tempest brewing within him had only worsened since that morning.