by K. C. Julius
Whit remained where he was, still struck by something Teca had said. A boy needs a father he can look up to. His own father had commanded respect from his vassals, who’d sung Lord Jaxe’s praises for his distinction in the Long War. But Whit’s abiding memories were of his father’s stern, austere nature. He couldn’t recall the man ever touching him, and Whit hadn’t shed a tear over his passing, not even at the funeral. When he thought of his father at all, it was from the same unemotional distance at which his father had kept him. The thought that this was their one shared attribute was disturbing.
He sank into a chair by the flickering candle and lifted the leather cover of Georgiana’s journal. A folded piece of parchment slipped from between the pages and into his hand. Opening it, Whit scanned the lines written there and released a long, slow breath. Then he set the paper carefully aside and began to read Georgiana Fitz-Pole’s version of how Fynn Konigur came to exist.
Chapter 9
Borne
Borne spent the lion’s share of his long, exacting days under the Olquarian sun instructing the Companions in the use of their new armaments. Initially, the elite fighters grumbled—not bothering to lower their voices—about what a janabi could possibly have to teach the mighty Seven Thousand. Especially a janabi who didn’t speak their language. Their snide comments lessened, though, after Borne and his men demonstrated the advantages of the newly designed corseque in a mock melee. While the Companions fought mainly with sabers, they quickly acknowledged the superior qualities of this three-headed spear, which made their poleaxes appear antiquated by comparison.
But it was the arquebuses that fully won over the hazar’s forces. Although less accurate than a crossbow or a longbow, the matchlock weapons were more easily mastered. And with the Jagar already making forays over Olquaria’s western border, time was of the essence. For years now, the nomads of the Lost Lands had posed no threat to their more powerful neighbor, but the tribes had recently chosen a new vaar, around whom sinister rumors swirled.
It was the Basileus’s wish that his imperial troops be ready to use their new arms against the marauding Jagar before saminu, the highest lunar celebration of the Olquarian calendar. Privately, the emperor had confided that if they delayed their march west beyond this early summer festival, the fortress cities of Nalè and Menoon might well be lost. The Gralian company was to accompany the Companions on this march.
In the days leading up to their departure, Borne was much in the hazar’s company. Despite their frequent interactions, the hazar, Kurash Al-Ghir, maintained a cool demeanor and repeatedly rebuffed Borne’s attempts to discuss tactics for the upcoming campaign. When Borne reminded him that leadership had been conferred on them jointly, and that it was only prudent to discuss likely scenarios beforehand, the hazar merely grunted and left the training yard.
Kurash’s disdain for the Gralian herald placed a few obstacles in Borne’s path at court as well, but he ignored the snubs by the hazar’s supporters. It helped immensely that he’d found favor with the imperials, particularly the Basilea. Her Majesty Shareen often signaled him to her side during the evening entertainments to explain the meaning of a dance or to hear his impressions regarding the quality of the music, and she enjoyed teasingly testing him on his language skills, which were, of necessity, very slow to progress.
Not all court members were deterred by the possibility of provoking the hazar’s displeasure. Before the end of his first month in the capital, Borne had lost count of the number of servants who’d appeared at the barracks bearing invitations for him to join in a late-night tête-à-tête with one highborn lady or another—many of whom were married to noblemen soliciting his supposed influence with the imperials. So far he’d succeeded in refusing their thinly veiled invitations without making any new enemies. Or at least none that he knew of.
Outside of the intrigue of the palace, Borne found Olquarians to be a most welcoming and gentle people. Wherever he wandered, Borne was greeted with soft words and friendly smiles. Mir, the friend he’d made on the journey from Rizo, often accompanied him on his night-time jaunts through the sprawling city. It was during the first of these rambles that Mira introduced Borne to yaraket, a form of acrobatic running that made use of whatever obstacles presented themselves to make the run more challenging. The two men passed many carefree hours scaling walls and clambering over gates, swinging up and leaping down from whatever arose in their paths.
“When you’re an eniyara,” Mir explained, “it’s not just about getting from one place to another. You must use your strength and weight efficiently, ever testing its limits to keep your body and your mind balanced and strong.” He gave Borne’s taut belly a playful punch. “So it’s to your advantage that you already train so hard.”
Always ravenous after a run, Mir also delighted in taking Borne to all his favorite food stalls and introducing him to such delicacies as spiced lamb skewers drizzled with minty sauce, and domlahs, little pockets of piping hot bread stuffed with ground meat, topped with a fiery pepper sauce. And while Borne suspected that Mir had been assigned to report back to the hazar on his movements, he figured it was better Mir than someone else. The fellow was an entertaining, informative companion, and good-natured to boot, giving freely of his coins to the bands of urchins who tried to follow them while they practiced their yaraket.
Still, Borne was careful to keep his private matters private—in particular, his admittance to the House of All-Knowing. This he visited alone. And regardless of the time of day, he always found a few of the al-imtirta in erudite discourse on the nature of numbers, the metaphysical theories of Bran fe Nalar, or the eternal question of free will versus fate. Taqui-Rash, for whom Borne had developed a respect bordering on reverence, was almost always among those present, leaving Borne to wonder when the man made time for sleep.
The night before his company was to ride west to confront the Jagar, Borne slipped out of the barracks to say farewell to his scholarly friend. Mir, along with his comrades-in-arm, was at prayer in the saljada, no doubt exhorting his gods to bring them victory in the upcoming campaign. As luck would have it, when Borne arrived on the street of the House of All-Knowing, he met the sage man on his way home.
Taqui-Rash clasped Borne’s hand warmly. “Ah, my friend! I hear you are leaving the city. May I ask you to come with me now? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Borne fell in step beside the older man. The evening was mild, and a light breeze carried the dank, murky scent of the river from the east. The streets were empty, for the business of the day was over for most. Taqui-Rash led them to a southern sector of Tell-Uyuk that Borne hadn’t yet explored, for it was here that the old elite of the city resided, and janabi could enter it only by invitation.
Borne wondered if perhaps his companion had forgotten this. He was about to propose they head back when the guards at the tall, grilled gates swung them wide. Taqui-Rash greeted the men with familiarity, and Borne was admitted without comment into the restricted zone.
They proceeded to a handsome villa with a bright blue door. Taqui-Rash produced a key, then ushered Borne inside. A barefoot servant paused in his watering of plants to bow to his master as they passed under the graceful arches of the patio. Borne breathed in the delicate perfume of roses, and the gentle sound of water playing took him back to the secret garden he’d tended for Lord Heptorious. The last time he’d been in that secluded place had been with Maura, who was a woman wed by now—indeed, likely a queen—and as far out of his reach as the hidden stars in the heavens above.
“Your siren is calling again,” Taqui-Rash said quietly.
Borne covered his surprise with a little laugh. “You are mistaken. It’s only the music of the fountain I hear.”
With a curious tilt of his head, Taqui-Rash bade Borne be seated, then settled on the pillows opposite him. “There was no fountain on the day we met, yet your eyes had that same faraway look, as if
your heart seeks something it has lost and still longs for.”
Borne gave a dismissive wave, then at once regretted his rudeness. “I beg your pardon. I—”
“You have it,” Taqui-Rash replied mildly. “If my observations have called up unwelcome memories, I ask your forgiveness in return.”
Borne was saved from having to reply by the entrance of a soft-slippered serving girl bearing a chaydelin, the double pot in which the Olquarians brewed their beloved chay. A little boy trailed after her and set two small glasses and a dish of lokkam, sweet powdered confections flavored with pistachios and rosewater, before them.
Taqui-Rash invited Borne to sample the refreshments. “We have not known each other very long, guwade,” he said, warming Borne’s heart with the use of the affectionate familial term, “but you have come to seem almost a son to me. Or perhaps I should say grandson,” he amended with a smile. “One forgets how young you are, particularly when your brilliant mind is on display.”
“I am honored, tebeye.” Seeing the surprise in Taqui-Rash’s eyes, Borne asked, “It is a proper form of address?”
“It is, indeed,” the older man assured him, “but I’m not deserving of the honorific. I would not count myself among the wise. A sager man would have listened more closely to his heart and risked everything to follow it.”
Borne sensed this comment was in pursuit of the topic he’d hoped they’d put to rest, but his friend merely sipped his chay, then set his cup down and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Still, I’ve learned some lessons in life that have proven useful enough to pass on. You see, before I became one of the al-imtirta, I served the former Basileus as a kurban, one of the seven High Justices of the land. Oh, I was a very important man,” Taqui-Rash said with a chuckle. “Or so I thought at the time. I had the power to banish wrongdoers, to sentence them to a life of conscription on one of the imperial ships, to order the amputation of a hand or a foot, or even an execution.
“One day I returned home from the Hall of Justice to discover an anonymous threat had been made against my family, I suspected it came from a relative of someone I’d sentenced. Oh, yes,” he nodded, in response to Borne’s surprise, “I had a family in those days.” He lifted his cup again and drank deeply before continuing. “Outwardly, I scoffed at the threat, but it nibbled at my peace of mind. I would be presiding over a court session, and the image of my daughter Yasri’s broken body, or my son Gahli’s pummeled face, would loom into my thoughts. More and more, I was shadowed by foreboding, until I spent most of my time in the harrowing halls of despair. I rose weeping from nightmares, astonished that I still possessed my good wife and healthy children. Night after night I lost them again, as their murders played out in my dreams: suffocated in mire, poisoned by tainted fare, cruelly held down and drowned in the river, or waylaid and sold into a life of slavery.
“When one of my children arrived home later than expected—delayed perhaps by a passing shower—I feared the worst, never considering the possibility they were simply living their lives, running in playful abandon, discovering the tenderness of a first kiss, splashing with friends in pools of silver light. In my tortured thoughts, their brains had been dashed against stone. And if I crossed our threshold and my wife did not at once answer my call, I imagined her dragged screaming from her chambers and spirited away, my favorite dogs butchered as they tried in vain to defend her.”
He pressed his fingers over his mouth, shaking his head. “Not a moment’s respite did I have, and so neither did my family. Near the end, I forbade them to leave the house, making our home—once a haven—their prison. My fear conquered me so completely that I lost myself to it, and nothing those dearest to me tried could bring me back.”
For a long moment, the old man’s gaze rested on the water trickling down into the marble basin. When he spoke again, his voice was so low, Borne had to lean in to hear it.
“I paid the ultimate price of loving when they stopped loving me. Fleeing my obsessive madness, Mahrya took the children to Fayidah, where her people were from. Only my eldest son—” Taqui-Rash drew a small, sharp breath. “Only Tahful stayed on with me here, at his mother’s insistence. But then, once they were taken, he too abandoned me.”
“Taken?”
Taqui-Rash lifted his cup and cradled it in his hands. “My family was swept away by a flash flood on their way to Fayidah. It was I who, by destroying our loving home and driving them away, caused their deaths. After that, I vowed never to let myself love again.”
Borne realized then where this was going. He set down his cup. “It’s late. I should not keep you longer from your bed, tebeye.”
Taqui-Rash continued to study the dregs of his chay. “Now, of course, things are different. My grief is such a part of me that to lose it would be like parting with an old and constant friend. But my sorrow no longer defines me.”
The soft clack of the beaded curtain forestalled the curt response on Borne’s lips. Alima Nina, wrapped in a long white robe, stood before them.
Taqui-Rash held out his hand to her. “I hope we didn’t wake you, sayang.”
Borne levered himself to his feet. “My apologies, Alima. I was just leaving.”
The little woman smiled. “I hope not on my account.”
“I’m afraid it is on mine.” Taqui-Rash sighed, rising as well, and patted Borne’s shoulder. “Come, then. I’ll see you out.”
At the blue door, Borne started past the older man, but Taqui-Rash laid a hand on his sleeve.
“I just wanted to remind you that many have journeyed with the winds of sorrow in their sails. I don’t know what haunts you, guwade, but I do know this. If you choose to hold yourself in abeyance from the fullness love brings to life, it will do you as much good as it did me. And that is none at all.”
He released Borne’s arm and stepped back. “It is time to acknowledge where your solace lies, guwade—so you can make peace with those for whom you grieve. And peace with yourself.”
* * *
Borne urged his droma to the front line, and the shiver of a thousand harness bells drifted across the plain as his men followed. The company was combat-ready, experienced and fit, although when he’d met with his officers the previous night, Nargoret had expressed concern about fighting against an unknown enemy. In Gral, the rebel knights they’d engaged with fought from horseback and used the same weapons as they did, while the Jagar preferred to fight on foot, with a sword in one hand and a short dagger in the other. But since Borne had incorporated these weapons in his training sessions, he had confidence his contingent would perform well.
The hazar had scoffed when he’d seen Borne’s men wielding the short swords. “Only barbarians fight on foot, and with such crude tools.” Kurash seemed to have forgotten that before the Gralian embassy arrived with Crenel’s gifts, his Companions had been using the same armaments that their great-grandfathers had employed.
Borne looked back at the city of Nalè. The earth surrounding its walls had been trampled to a mire, and reeked of the waste of man and beast alike. Over the past week, he’d overseen preparations in the event of a siege. His army had secured the additional stores of food they’d carried overland from the capital, and Nalè’s granaries were well stocked. On the fortress’s ramparts, the new cannons, brought by sea, were in position, the soldiers manning them on full alert. But there were still fortifications in need of bolstering, and now there was no time. The Jagar force had been sighted the previous day, camped behind the far dunes sweeping away to the west.
Hopefully, the seagoing arm of the Basileus’s force, which had arrived a week before the Companions, would not be needed, for there was as yet no sign of the vaar’s rumored armada.
Kurash was in command. He would ride at the head of the left flank, while Borne would lead the main body of the troops in the first charge. Jazid, the hazar’s second, waited on the right with two thousand Companions for hi
s orders.
The air wavered over the hot, arid ground as a long line of Jagar warriors crested the dunes. They were clothed all in black, save for their white pillowed helms, which glowed in the early light. An eerie ululation preceded the pounding of their war drums as they marched forward, then a shriek rent the air and the Jagar began to run, swinging their shining blades in spirals above their heads.
On the hazar’s signal, the combined force streamed out to engage the enemy.
At the fore, Borne surged to meet them, his spirit charged and ready for battle. A horn blared, and a rain of arrows arched overhead, hissing past as Borne raised his sword high. His company galloped after him, closing the distance between them and the advancing foe.
Fifty yards.
Thirty.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Borne leaned low over his droma’s neck as they plunged into the Jagar infantry, his greatsword slicing through two men before the archers sent their second round of arrows into the Jagar back lines. A pikeman swung at him. He reeled back, but recovered to jab his sword into the man’s unprotected rib cage before his adversary could take a second swipe.
Blood pounded in Borne’s ears as he advanced deeper into the enemy force amidst the clash of swords and glint of daggers. In the instants between assailants, he looked to the dunes, expecting at any time to see more of the Lost Lands tribesmen pouring over them.
A hand grabbed his leg. Borne broadsided his attacker with the flat of his blade, then ran him through. Another took his place and got a better hold, managing to half-unseat him before Borne’s dagger slashed off part of his nose. The man reeled away with a scream, blood spurting from the wound. Gralians and Companions streamed past, Mir flashing him a grin before sending the noseless Jagar’s head tumbling in his wake. Steadily, the defenders were pushing the invading force back, easily overpowering their unmounted foes.
