by John Marco
“Just the same as my regular name,” said the woman. “It means ‘little one.’ Now. . . .” She directed the children toward Trog. “Wait with Trog while I speak to Kahan Kadar, all right? I shan’t be long.”
The children obeyed, going to Trog and standing beneath his tall, protective shadow. Ela-daz turned and went toward Kadar, looping an arm through his and leading him away from the children.
“It’s good to see you, Shalafein,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
Kadar was happy. He enjoyed being called shalafein, a word that in his dialect meant “great protector.”
“It’s been too many months, my friend,” he agreed. “I had begun to think you had forgotten us.”
She laughed at the absurdity of the idea. “It was time to come and visit.”
“Yes, the little ones,” said Kadar. “Will you be leaving with them soon?”
Ela-daz shook her head slightly. “No. I’ll send them on without me. I’ll be staying here a little while. I have . . . things to discuss with you.”
Kadar stopped walking. “Bad things?”
The little woman’s face became grave. “Shalafein, there is trouble coming from the continent. We must prepare for it.”
43
Condors wheeled in the desert sky, sailing the winds above the hot sands. A breeze blew across the shifting, golden earth, forever changing the horizon. It was high noon, and the sun was a relentless ball of fire burning the backs of the drowas and cooking the men in the tall, cloth-covered wagons. Behind them, Ganjor and its pools of clean water were a desperate memory. Ahead, the Desert of Tears taunted them with its shimmering heat. The caravan had traveled for two days now, leaving Ganjor and its safety for the scorching unknown of the desert. Headed by a desert leader named Grak, the caravan had six of the unusual desert wagons and twelve drowas, all heavily laden with waterskins and goods for Jador. Grak’s eight children hung from the sides of the wagons, talking and laughing as the caravan slowly crawled across the desert. And in the last wagon, crammed between sacks of grain and water skins, a trio of northerners shielded themselves from the blistering sun, having spent their last few pennies on passage to Jador.
Upon Cassandra’s death, Gilwyn, Lukien, and Baron Glass had fled Liiria as quickly as possible. They had met Breck at his little farm in Borath, telling him what had happened and warning him that Akeela would soon be after him, too. Knowing there was nothing to do but flee the farm he’d spent years building, Breck and his family abandoned their home, heading north into Jerikor to escape. Before doing so he gave his friends what little money he could spare, enough to get them to Marn. Baron Glass and Lukien had enough gold for the rest of the trip, and assured Gilwyn that they would make it safely to Ganjor. It had been an arduous trip. They had only two horses between them, because Tempest was too old to make the trip. So they hitched Gilwyn’s library cart to a pair of geldings given to them by Breck and headed south, first to Farduke and then on to Dreel, carefully avoiding the Principality of Nith. All the while as they traveled they looked over their shoulders for Akeela. They took turns driving the wagon, and even one-armed Baron Glass did his best. He was a stoic man and Gilwyn had come to like him in their brief time together. Since the death of Cassandra, he was the only one who spoke to Gilwyn. Lukien generally said nothing to anyone. Cassandra’s death haunted him. He spoke only when necessary and ate very little, and he did not seem at all perturbed by their predicament. Rather, he seemed bent on reaching Jador, no matter the cost. With his golden armor still locked safely in the chest Breck had given him and the Eye of God wrapped in a burlap sack, Lukien was like a dark messenger, bent on delivering his bad news to the Kahan of Jador and returning the amulet that had caused so much misery. Of the few things he had told Gilwyn on their trip south, one still rung in Gilwyn’s mind.
“This amulet has destroyed me,” he had said one night in Marn. “I will see it back to Kadar, and if he kills me, then so be it.”
The gloom of those words haunted Gilwyn now as he spied Lukien, sitting apart in the wagon, his head bobbing in half-sleep. Gilwyn sat near the opening, alternatively watching Lukien and the blue sky above. Between them sat Baron Glass, also silent and half asleep. There was little to do on the long trek through the desert, and talking wasted precious strength. They had paid Grak the very last gold they had for passage to Jador, and Grak had happily agreed. He did not strike Gilwyn as a greedy man, but his eyes had lit up at the sight of the Liirian coins. For that he promised safe passage to Jador, food and water along the way, and no guarantees when they reached the white city. Jador, Grak explained, wasn’t open to foreigners any more. Only Ganjeese were allowed in the city, and only then in manageable numbers. The Ganjeese of Jador kept to their own ghettos, too, little pockets of the city that had sprung up in the past decade. But northerners, whether from Liiria or Marn or Reec, were strictly forbidden in Jador. Grak had been honest enough to warn them that they might be killed on sight. Lukien had merely shrugged at the suggestion. And Baron Glass, who had done almost all of the bargaining and planning on their trip, agreed to the passage with his usual stoicism.
Gilwyn turned away from Lukien to stare at the ever-changing sands. Even with the shade of the wagon, the heat was choking. Like Glass and Lukien, he wore a dark gaka to stave off the worst of the sun, but beneath the cloth he itched and perspired. Teku was asleep in his lap. Being from Ganjor herself, the little monkey had taken well to the heat, spending much of her time sleeping and eating dates. Gilwyn stroked her lightly as he watched the desert, rocking gently with the motion of the caravan. In the wagon up ahead he could hear two of Grak’s sons arguing, but he didn’t understand the words. Of the family, only Grak spoke the tongue of the north, another reason Glass had chosen him for the journey. At first, the children had been curious about Gilwyn and the others, especially Glass. They had stared at the stump of his arm, making the baron bristle. And they had been enamored with Teku as well, but only for a short while. Monkeys like her were common in Ganjor. Eventually they had all settled down, leaving the trio to the dreary confines of the wagon where Glass always slept and Lukien never said a word.
It had been weeks since they had fled Liiria, but to Gilwyn it seemed like years. He had never expected his life to take such turns. At the library he had been happy. He’d had a good life there with Figgis. Now he was an outlaw. And Figgis? Dead, probably. Baron Glass had explained it to him. Mercy, he had said, should not be expected from Akeela. Lukien had silently concurred. To both of them, Akeela was a monster beyond redemption. Yet even as he fled his home, Gilwyn couldn’t quite believe that. He remembered what Cassandra had said about King Akeela, how he was mad but still sweet in his own, demented way.
The caravan continued through the day and into the night, finally stopping when the sun dipped below the sands. As the wagon came to a halt, Lukien finally stirred. They were all eager to stretch and so vacated the wagon, dropping down into the hot sands and watching as Grak and his family made camp. The desert became remarkably cool at night, so Grak’s three sons began making a fire while his wife and daughters prepared food. It was the best part of the day and Gilwyn’s stomach immediately began to rumble. He had trouble walking in the soft sands, even with his strange boot, but he approached the boys and helped them with the fire. While they worked, Lukien leaned against the wagon, absently watching the stars appear. When the food was ready he sat apart from the others, leaving Gilwyn and Glass alone to eat with Grak’s family. Gilwyn watched Lukien take his plate aside, sitting against one of the tall wagon wheels and picking at his food. He looked old and miserable, and Gilwyn felt sorry for him. Baron Glass noticed his expression and jabbed him lightly with his elbow.
“Don’t worry about him,” he said softly. “He’ll come around.”
Gilwyn gave Teku a date then sent her off to play with Grak’s daughters. “He blames me for Cassandra dying,” he said.
Glass shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“No, he does,” replied Gilwyn. “And I don’t blame him. I told him that the curse was a hoax. But I was so sure. . . .” He shrugged and stared down at his food. “I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s not for you to know, Gilwyn,” said Glass. “It is the Fate that decides such things.”
The notion made Gilwyn scoff. “I don’t believe that.”
“No? Well you should, because it’s true. We’re all given a purpose in life. Even Cassandra’s death has a purpose. If Lukien believed in the Fate, he would not be so miserable now. He would take solace in the knowledge that there’s a reason for everything.”
“If you say so,” replied Gilwyn. He wanted to ask the baron what possible purpose there could be for losing an arm, but he thought better of it. “I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that Cassandra is dead, and Figgis is probably dead, too, and Breck and his family had to leave their home and here I am on my way to getting beheaded.”
Glass laughed loudly, and suddenly Gilwyn was laughing with him. Grak looked at them across the camp fire and smiled. Lukien heard them, too. The knight cocked his ear in their direction without turning around.
“I don’t think Lukien cares what happens to us in Jador,” whispered Gilwyn. “I think he wants to die.”
“If you think that, then you do not yet know Lukien,” said Glass.
The answer perplexed Gilwyn, but he decided not to pursue it. Instead he ate his meal in silence, satisfied with the good food and the gentle music of the desert. When he was done he set down his plate and went to Lukien. Hovering over him, he noticed at once that the knight had hardly touched his supper.
“You should eat, Lukien,” said Gilwyn. “It does no good to starve yourself.”
Lukien set his plate down on the sand. “Gilwyn,” he said, “I heard what you told Thorin, about me blaming you. I don’t.”
Gilwyn flushed. “No?”
“No. I did, but not anymore.” Lukien patted the soft sand beside him. “Sit with me a while. I haven’t talked much, I know, but I’m ready for some company now.”
Grateful for the invitation, Gilwyn sat down at once. Near the campfire he saw Baron Glass look at him and smile before turning away. Lukien stared up at the sky. There were thousands of stars and a bloody red moon.
“Lukien?” asked Gilwyn.
“Yes?”
“What will you do when we reach Jador?”
Without hesitation, Lukien replied, “I will give Kadar back his blasted amulet. Then if he wants to kill me, I’ll let him.”
“You won’t fight?”
“I won’t fight Kadar.”
“But you brought your armor,” Gilwyn observed. “Why?”
“Because I owe Kadar a debt,” said Lukien. “And I’m going to repay it, any way he wants.”
There was no more to say, so Gilwyn said no more.
For two more days the caravan traversed the desert, suffering in its heat and obeying its fickle whims, until at last Jador appeared on the horizon. It was much as Lukien had remembered, and much different, too. The first thing he recalled was its beautiful white towers, rectangular works of limestone that reflected the sun like a beacon across the sands. The towers had hardly changed at all, but there were more of them now. In the last sixteen years, Jador had sprawled. It seemed taller to Lukien now, and far less compact. Sixteen years ago, the sight of Jador had impressed him. Now, sadly, it frightened him. He leaned out over the side of the wagon, marveling at the city and watching Gilwyn. The boy’s fair skin was sunburned, despite the gaka, and redness surrounded his eyes. The trip had exhausted them all, but the sight of Jador heartened them. Thorin leaned over with them, struggling to support himself with his one arm. They had pulled back the canvas cover to get a better view, and the sun was hot on their backs. Grak’s family chatted happily among themselves, pointing at their destination and smiling. They had all fared well, even the youngest children. Their heartiness surprised Lukien, who himself was spent from the long voyage and eager to see fresh water again. Remembering Jador’s fresh, sparkling fountains, he let out a languid sigh. It would be good to take a bath, just one at least before Kadar killed him. He wondered if the desert ruler ever granted final wishes.
Thorin whistled as Jador grew on the horizon. “Amazing. I never thought it was so big.”
“It’s grown,” Lukien admitted. “It wasn’t that big when I was here.”
“Are you ready?” asked Thorin gravely.
Lukien shrugged. “It’s a bit late to turn around now.”
None of them really knew what to expect in Jador. According to Grak, Kahan Kadar was still in charge, and didn’t take well to foreigners. Lukien wasn’t sure if the kahan would remember him by sight; he had aged badly over the years. But once he turned over the amulet, he was sure Kadar would remember him. After that, who knew? They might all be killed simply for setting foot in Jador. Even Gilwyn. Lukien glanced at the boy, who wore a peculiar expression. Lukien couldn’t tell if the boy was afraid or simply awed by the city.
“I’ll do the talking when we get there,” Lukien explained. “I’ll try to get Kadar to listen to me, and hopefully spare the two of you. You’re innocent, after all.”
“If we get that far,” said Thorin. “The Jadori might kill us on sight.”
“I don’t think so,” said Lukien. “They’re a peaceful people, or at least they were. And once they see the amulet, they’ll let us see Kadar.”
“Peaceful? That’s not what Grak says,” said Gilwyn. “They’ve changed, Lukien, remember.”
“He’ll speak to us,” said Lukien. “Even if it’s just to spit in my face.”
It took another hour for the caravan to reach the outskirts of the city. The tall towers and elaborately turned spires of central Jador dropped off into collections of squat brick homesteads and marketplaces. Around the old city towered a giant stone wall, while the outskirts themselves were unprotected, with barely a shadow of the old city’s beauty. The Ganjeese lived in the outskirts, Grak had explained, because foreigners weren’t welcome inside the city proper. Lukien and his companions kept their faces hidden as the caravan entered the narrow avenues of the outskirts, choked with traders and running children and stray dogs. Grak had promised to take them directly to Kadar’s palace, but had warned them that they might be searched at the city gates. They made no sound as they neared the gates, trying to look inconspicuous inside the wagon. Better to be taken directly to the palace, Lukien had decided, but if guards stopped them at the gates he wouldn’t fight them. Beside him, Gilwyn held Teku in his lap, silently stroking her. The avenue widened as they approached the iron gates, revealing four guardians, all in black gakas trimmed with crimson cloth. Two of the guardians were mounted on kreels. The sight of the enormous lizards startled Lukien. They looked nothing like the docile beasts he remembered. These were far more muscular and fierce, with heavy armor plating and stout bridles fixed in their fanged snouts. The mounted men held spears. Long, coiled whips dangled at their sides. Their reptilian mounts blinked slowly in the heat, hardly stirring.
“Are those kreel?” whispered Gilwyn. “They don’t look anything like the ones in Ganjor.”
“No,” agreed Lukien, “they don’t. I don’t know if we’ll be able to get past the guards.”
“Let’s wait and see,” suggested Thorin.
Lukien went to the back of the wagon where he kept his iron chest. Opening it, he found the burlap sack with the Eye of God atop his bronze armor. He took the sack then quickly closed the chest and went back to his companions. Gilwyn looked at him curiously.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“An invitation to the ball,” said Lukien, then sat back to wait.
The caravan wound its way to the gate, led by Grak atop his drowa. There, he stopped the caravan and began talking to the guards. The two who were on foot listened and nodded. Lukien and his companions strained to hear the exchange. It was in Jadori, so he didn’t understand a word, but there seem
ed to be trouble. He spied Grak through the confines of his cowl. The desert man was cajoling the guardians, obviously trying to explain that his caravan carried nothing dangerous. The mounted guardians moved their kreels closer to the caravan, peering into the wagons from the backs of their reptiles.
“We should get out there,” Lukien told the others quickly. “I don’t want to put Grak or his family at risk.”
“No,” said Thorin. “Wait.”
The mounted guards drew closer, inspecting each wagon in turn. Lukien listened as they questioned the people in each one.
“They’re going to discover us,” he said. “Let’s not make this any harder than we have to.”
Holding the burlap sack, he climbed out of the wagon and into the street. One of the mounted guards noticed him and turned his kreel.
“Lukien, get back in here!” hissed Thorin.
Up ahead, Grak’s eyes went wide. The guardians at the gate pointed at Lukien, asking questions that made Grak stutter.
“It’s all right, Grak,” Lukien called to him. “This is far enough.” Then, with the Jadori guards watching, he unwrapped the cowl from his face. The Jadori looked at him in astonishment, but made no threatening moves. When he was sure it was reasonably safe, Lukien called to the others. “Thorin, Gilwyn, come down,” he said. “There’s no sense going on.”
Sputtering in anger, Thorin was the first out of the wagon. He helped Gilwyn down the best he could, then turned to face the Jadori. With Teku perched on his shoulder, Gilwyn removed his facecloth and smiled nervously at the guards. Thorin did the same, still muttering at Lukien.
The mounted guards moved cautiously closer. Lukien stood firm as the kreels sniffed the air with their tongues and narrowed their dark eyes on him. He expected the men to raise their spears, but instead they merely watched, shocked and fascinated. Grak’s family had fallen silent, too afraid to make a sound. Grak himself was still talking to the foot guards, hurriedly explaining the presence of the foreigners. He shot Lukien an angry glare.
