by R. T. Donlon
“Why are you telling me this?” Jennison had asked.
The King had simply stared at him with foreboding eyes.
“Because you now have the most important job I have ever asked a diplomat to do. You must convince the Portizu Chieftain that this was an accident. If you fail, and he knows what we have done, we have created a great enemy—one that we cannot fight right now.”
“How could this have happened?” Jennison had asked. “If you had listened to me—”
The King’s open palm slammed hard against the table, stopping the diplomat mid-rant. A simmering rage pooled in the Giant’s eyes.
“I am your King! Must I remind you of that? You will do as I ask and you will do it without question. Am I making myself clear?”
Jennison had nodded hesitantly, but more out of terror than acceptance. The time had come and passed. He had known, in that moment, that what the King was asking him to do was nothing less than a lie. The real question was—could he do it? Would he? Out of loyalty? Allegiance?
This is what he pondered as the Portizu Territories rose into the great Portizu mountains directly in front of him. He approached the line of dense jungle canopy and lowered his eyes to watch his every step, careful to avoid any sudden noises, any hidden traps. He had learned this from the last time he had entered the jungles. One wrong step and it meant the end of diplomacy, the end of him.
The silence of his hesitant steps only lasted a few hundred yards before he noticed the quick, accentuated movements of a pack of Portizu shifting behind trees and low-hanging branches. Jennison continued to walk as if not to acknowledge their presence until one of the many emerged from the path ahead with spear in hand.
“Where is Relu?” a Warrior asked.
This time, Jennison seemed immune to the unnecessary bravado in the Warrior’s voice. This one sported a mess of dreadlocks, falling to the small of his back and tied with seven intricately placed elastic bands. The spear he held in his hand was one of the largest Jennison had ever seen. The width of the handle barely fit against the man’s grip, polished and finished to give the shaft a distinctly different feel. If this man wanted Jennison dead, one pull of the spear could rip him open without question.
“I have urgent news to tell Chieftain Zazana. By now, you must know who I am?” Jennison asked.
The lead Warrior nodded, but with unblinking eyes. It was in this moment that the diplomat recognized him—a guard in the Chief’s Palace Army. He had changed significantly. Creases in his forehead meant concern. Lines under his eyes meant worry. The stress in his shoulders. The caution in his gait.
There is panic in the Highlands, Jennison thought. It’s been too long for Relu.
“All will be known shortly,” Jennison spoke, trying to alleviate the stress in the Warrior’s expression, “but right now, I must speak to your Chieftain. Can you take me to him?”
Seven other Portizu emerged from the vegetation and turned their backs to the diplomat.
“I see nothing has changed,” Jennison sighed.
“You are still ferrila,” a Warrior spat from the rear of the Pack. “We must only follow the wishes of our Chieftain.”
“If the wishes of your Chieftain provide me sanctuary, please do your job and bring me to him.”
There was a flurry of hesitant nods, then a flurry of legs as they began running wildly through the jungle. Jennison struggled to stay close, so much so that he nearly lost sight of the Pack in the distance, but held true to his unalterable, albeit slow, pace and came into a clearing at the Highlands’ Gates. They reached the streets of the Palace and were met with the boisterous clatter of noise made by arrhythmic footsteps and work. The streets flooded with people. The focus of the collective mass never shifted, however, never deafened into the immediate silence as they had during his first appearance. Instead, they reminded the diplomat of his home—the clutter of metropolis, the lack of space.
It seemed they waited at the Palace doors for far too long. Eventually, the hinges squealed open the wooden panels and Jennison, along with the others, walked unceremoniously through a series of unmoving Palace Guards, standing erect against the angle of their spears.
“Chieftain Zazana,” the one named Drale addressed from the entranceway. The Throne Room was empty save the figure of a weary man at the back. “Jennison Fairtherre of the Light City wishes to speak with you. He claims it is urgent.”
“Let him enter,” the Chieftain spoke. “You may wait outside the door.”
The Warrior bowed into minjori, then fell away, ushering Jennison into the emptiness of the room.
“Chieftain Zazana,” Jennison began. “I come bearing—”
“Is he dead?”
Jennison faltered unexpectedly.
“Is Relu…dead?”
The Chieftain’s words cut through Jennison’s pseudo-regret. He mirrored the fatigue in the Chieftain’s eyes. It was the best he could do.
“Regretfully…yes,” the diplomat faltered. The moment quickly changed Jennison’s perspective, “but I am here to tell you how your greatest Warrior lost his life. I owe him that. I owe you and all of the Portizu that.”
Zazana remained silent with his head pressed heavily against his chin. Silence remained. The Chieftain never faltered in his grievance.
“Chieftain,” Jennison spoke. “Do you wish for me to continue?
A single nod seemed permissible.
“Relu left the Light City four days ago in an attempt to return to you as quickly as possible. I offered to join him on his return trip, but he politely declined, citing that he could make it home sooner if he were left alone. I acknowledged his request. As is customary in the summer months of the Light City, our guards complete a closed perimeter check to make certain our city is safe from impending threats. One of our best guards—Curran Lerue is his name—discovered a body of a foreigner just outside the outer limits of the City. He reported this death to King Altruit, who confirmed that the body was indeed that of Relu.”
Zazana began pacing from one side of the room to the other.
“How does something like this happen?” the Chieftain asked. “Relu has fought his way through a litany of the most strenuous situations. Certainly something else was at play here.”
Jennison lowered his gaze.
“Of course, this is only speculation,” the diplomat continued, “but the King launched an investigation before sending me here. He believes that a pack of jungle cats had surrounded him. We’re talking a pack of ten or more. When Lerue found the body, it had been—”
“That is enough, Jennison,” the Chief interrupted.
By the emptiness in the Chief’s words, the diplomat could tell he had just fallen dangerously close to overstepping his grounds. Otherwise, the Chieftain showed no suspicion, no unwavering gaze, no leap in thought.
“My apologies, Chief Zazana. If it is not my place…”
The Chieftain adjusted his robes and folded his arms at his chest. Only a Portizu could notice the subtle change in Zazana’s gait as he continued pacing.
Liar, the Chieftain thought.
“I would like to thank you,” Zazana spoke softly, “for coming all this way to address me. This is tragic news for our Portizu community, but news needed to be heard in person.”
“Unfortunately, before I head for home, there is still one last piece of business to take care of,” Jennison continued. “Unfortunately, I must bring it up while I am here.”
Zazana listened.
“The King wanted to make you aware of our decision formed during our time in the Light City meetings. With your permission, of course, King Altruit would like to send five hundred of his finest soldiers to the Tension Fields to eliminate the Shadows. He feels it is his responsibility to take care of this problem now that you have already lost one of your most distinguished Warriors. Can I tell him of your willingness? Your acceptance?”
“And what of Relu’s proposition?” the Chieftain asked. “The wall? It is what we discus
sed before he left. Surely you were there. What did Relu think should happen?”
Jennison cleared his throat, biding himself a few additional moments of time.
“He made his opinions clear at the meetings. He agreed that the wall will not be necessary with this new proposed plan. Save your resources and look toward the future. King Altruit is pleased to have you as an ally now.”
Zazana ascended the Throne steps, still standing in front of Jennison with unassuming eyes.
“Join me,” he spoke.
Jennison did as he was told and joined the Chieftain atop the Throne. Zazana placed a hand on the shoulder of the diplomat—a gesture that meant something different for either of the two men.
“Thank you. If there is nothing else to discuss, please send your King my kindest regards.”
Jennison did his best not to sigh out loud. It seemed as if he had pulled it off, but the Chieftain had other plans. The diplomat had made a fatal error in his explanation of Relu’s death—one that told the truth about Jennison’s distrust.
“I will offer him your sincerest thanks. Farewell, Chieftain. I hope our people can continue to better our relationship, despite what has happened.”
Zazana nodded, although suspiciously now, watching as the diplomat exited the room. Jennison suspected nothing. He watched as the Throne Room doors sealed shut behind Jennison’s exiting silhouette.
“Drale!” the Chieftain called when the diplomat was safely out of hearing distance.
The guard at the Throne Room’s entrance hurriedly rushed to the Chieftain’s side, angling his eyes to show true attention.
“The diplomat is lying. He cannot fool me,” Zazana whispered. “Follow him. When you are deep enough into the jungle, apprehend him. Mark the perimeter and make certain he cannot escape. We must find out the truth about Relu.”
Drale nodded and, without a word, broke away into an immediate sprint.
Zazana waited for the silence of the empty room to take hold of him. His chest filled with a sense of terrible anger.
Jungle cat, he grimaced. Relu would never succumb to jungle cats!
That idea alone was enough to convince him that Jennison was lying. Relu had never come across a cat that did not surrender to his gentility. He had been odd that way. Most Portizu killed the threats of the jungle, but Relu was different.
The King of Cats, they had called him.
I will hurt him, Zazana thought. In the name of the Portizu, I will make him pay for what he has done to my people. Only then, after I have discovered the truth, will I allow him to die.
“I will honor your death, Relu,” the Chieftain proclaimed. “I will honor it in blood.”
The sun fell quietly during the final hours of daylight, especially as Drale and his Pack crouched against bent knees, watching Jennison from a near-distance with unwavering glares. The diplomat wriggled against his ties, but the rough coil only dug deeper into the skin of his wrists. The friction had irritated them to the point of bloody wounds.
“You can try all you want,” Drale spoke calmly. In his hands, he ripped a sapling apart string by string. “You will not escape.”
“If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” Jennison barked.
He had resorted to baring his teeth, but Drale continued to stay silent against Jennison’s attempt to raise the tension. He simply picked at the sapling with calculated fingers.
“Just do it,” Jennison screamed. “Do it!”
“We’re alone,” Drale finally replied. “Your screaming will not help you here.”
“My King will wonder where I am. He will send the Legionnaire to search for me. He will not stop until—”
“That will be enough, Drale. Thank you for this.”
The leaves of several blended trees parted to Jennison’s left, unveiling a very casually dressed Zazana, holding a worn, leather roll-up case under his right arm. He did not look up at the diplomat as he entered the enclosed space, but simply walked toward him with a face stern enough to melt glass.
“Drale stays with me. The rest of you will watch the perimeter. Should someone come looking for me, send them back. This will only take an hour.”
An hour, Jennison repeated. Dear Albrien! What is he about to do?
The Warriors dispersed into the jungle, then ultimately disappeared into the darkness of its shade. Drale kept his eyes fixed to Jennison’s pale, terrified face.
“Whatever reason you have for doing this,” Jennison pleaded, “we can fix this. We can make it right.”
Zazana remained desperately quiet for several, unhinged moments, then lifted his eyes to the Light City diplomat.
“Tonight I am not here as the Portizu Chieftain. Tonight, I am here as a Portizu Truthseeker. I only seek what you have not told me.”
Jennison fiddled with the restraints behind his back, wincing at the pain that crept up his arms as the ropes continued to grind into the skin of his wrists.
“I told you everything I know! I told you everything the King has told me.”
“And yet you continue to lie,” Zazana replied.
The Chieftain redirected his attention to the leather case. He flipped it open, spread out onto the ground in front of his captive. Inside of it, seven handcrafted, flattened wooden tools rested side by side, held in place by tight leather straps.
“I have trained for decades to run the Portizu Lands, to strengthen my people. I have led those same people into peacetime and, now, because of your people, into a time of war. I am not asking you to confess to your lies. The time for that has come and gone. I only seek the information you have not told me, so until you do that, I am forced to take matters into my own hands.”
“Please,” Jennison begged. “I’ve told you everything!”
“Do you know what a Portizu Truthseeker is?” Zazana asked.
Jennison, suddenly quiet against his own thoughts, shook his head. Panic riddled his brain.
“A Truthseeker is a Warrior trained in the art of lying, so that when he comes into contact with a liar, he will know exactly what it looks like. Some Warriors dedicate their entire lives to learning this craft. I, on the other hand, mastered it in two years. Do you know why?”
The Chieftain did not offer Jennison time to answer.
“Because I have the gift within me. It is part of the reason why my people have elected me Chieftain. I lead my people because they know I will keep them safe. It is this same gift within me that allows me to unequivocally know that you are lying when you tell me how Relu died. Make no doubt about it, Jennison Fairtherre. You are in my world now. There is no one here to help you. You are in the prison of the Portizu Truthseeker.”
“I swear—”
“From this moment forward, the pain you experience will only be of your own doing. All you must do to stop it is tell the truth,” Zazana continued. “It is very simple. The more you lie, the more pain you will feel. Now, let us start. Tell me what happened to Relu.”
Silence.
A momentary upward flick of Zazana’s wrist cut Jennison’s left wrist restraint with a pointed knife. The diplomat squirmed, but Zazana caught his flailing arm and held it straight out between them.
“What happened to Relu?”
Jennison hesitated, saying nothing.
The first, and skinniest, of the flattened Truthseeker tools pushed slowly into the soft skin underneath the nail of Jennison’s left index finger. At first it met no resistance, but as the wood caught, Zazana pushed with force until he felt separation between skin and nail. Jennison screamed out in blinding white pain. It burst into his brain like a flood of fire ants running from the tip of his finger to the rest of his body. His vision blurred. A thin stream of warm urine drained from his leg as he lost control of his bowels.
“Tell me what happened to my Warrior,” Zazana spoke calmly, “or this will only get worse.”
He held the second wooden tool up to Jennison’s eyes, showing the distinct change in width between the second and the first.<
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“Is your loyalty to the King worth such torture?” the Chieftain continued.
The pain had flattened the diplomat’s voice. He spoke monotonously. Bubbles of panicked spit formed at the corners of his mouth.
“Please,” he bubbled. “I am only the messenger…”
With his remaining strength, Jennison propelled forward to press the thumb of his left hand into the eye of the Chieftain. It was his last attempt to break free, but Zazana had anticipated this nicely—almost without thought—and caught the diplomat’s thumb with one fist.
“It seems that you have not understood the rules of the Truthseeker,” the Chieftain continued, “and with rules, there are always consequences.”
Zazana broke the thumb bone cleanly from its joint with a swift turn of his wrist. Jennison screamed through pain even wilder than the wooden tool under his nail.
“All you have to do is tell me what happened to Relu and I will end this.”
“I am not your enemy!” Jennison screamed. “If you will just stop—”
“There are only two ways you can make this stop,” Zazana interrupted, “so tell me.”
“Two ways? Tell you or—”
“Death.”
Somehow, the tone of the Chieftain’s voice—not the pain roaring through his hands—put his situation into perspective. The heat behind the Chieftain’s words burned through the flesh of his brain. There was a gleam in the Portizu’s eyes that Jennison had never seen before—not until now—a bit of pleasure swimming in a sea of guilt.
He likes this, Jennison thought. He’s suppressed it for so long. He’s been waiting for a moment like this…a person like me.
Zazana flipped the wood panel through his fingers so that, at any instant, it hung horizontally against his grip. He crept in slowly towards Jennison’s middle finger, allowing the tension to take hold. Zazana had learned many things as Truthseeker. The psychology of a victim’s mind had always been a favorite.
But Jennison’s panicked flinch never came.
“I really hoped it would not come to this,” the Chieftain whispered, “but you have made your choice.”
