Emissary

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Sixteen years,” Lazar said with feeling, swinging back to glower at Pez. “Painful, all of them.”

  “Were you not ever happy amongst us in Percheron?”

  Lazar waved away Pez’s question as if it had no relevance. “Do you have any idea what it takes to renounce one’s heritage? Lineage? Realm? Crown?”

  “No, Lazar. But that was your decision.”

  “That’s right. It was also my decision to keep it a secret.”

  “You shared it with me.”

  Lazar intensified his glare, exasperation flooding through the fury he was barely controlling. “I see I have learned a lesson tonight. A secret is no longer a secret once it is shared.”

  “How true!” Pez snapped, his own anger, fueled by the frustrations of the day, also spilling over. “Why tell anyone anything if you don’t anticipate that you are empowering someone with that knowledge, Lazar? Jumo deserved to know the truth, and you and I had an agreement. I followed it to the letter. You were dead, as far as we knew. He was heartbroken—can you imagine how it felt to hear that the man he called his master and friend had died? And that his body had already been disposed of? And him not much more than a bystander to your suffering?”

  “I have some idea,” Lazar replied, effort in his voice. “I’m allowed this anger. I was not privy to this decision to appear dead. It was made for me.”

  “And I made another one for you. I told your closest and most loyal friend the truth. No one deserved it more than Jumo, not even Ana.”

  At the mention of her name, Lazar’s head snapped back as though slapped. “And you will tell her nothing!” he commanded.

  “There is always danger in knowledge, Lazar, but be careful your precautions don’t drift into cowardice.”

  Pez’s spoke kindly, trying to take away his friend’s rage. Lazar’s head dropped, his chin almost touching his broad chest. “When did Jumo leave?”

  “The morning after the night of your purported death.”

  “I am no coward, Pez. I have kept that secret to protect those I care about. You were already well protected by your madness—and Zar Joreb proclaiming you above almost all palace law. But Jumo is in danger.”

  “From your family?”

  “Possibly. I can’t be sure, but now I know where I must go.”

  “You’re going back to Galinsea?” Pez stated his own shock so baldly that Lazar flinched. “You’re leaving her?”

  When the former Spur turned his gaze this time on Pez, there was only grief in his eyes. “I am no good to her anymore. She is the Zar’s woman.”

  Pez could not bear the disguised self-pity in that statement, nor could he tolerate Lazar’s denial of Ana for a moment longer. It was time to tell the whole story. “She is so much more than that. Ana only masquerades as an odalisque. She was never a goatherd’s daughter in anything more than accidental name.”

  Genuine pain claimed Lazar’s expression, stunning Pez. He had known this man since his arrival in Percheron and had watched his subsequent rise from prisoner to the city’s top security position. Lazar was so self-contained that no one, not even Pez, could successfully guess what thoughts were going on behind those intelligent eyes. But the very mention of Ana could shatter the invisible yet seemingly implacable fortress that Lazar had built around himself. Her very name seemed to have a magical quality, as if it were some sort of touchstone that opened the gates of the fortress, allowing the tightly imprisoned emotions to rush out.

  Pez understood suddenly: it wasn’t the drezden that would be Lazar’s weakness in life. It was Ana. Since he had first laid his love-starved eyes on that young woman, she had become both his salvation and his potential destruction. Only time would tell which.

  Lazar bridled at Pez’s challenge. “What do you mean she is so much more? I know Ana as well as anyone else—better, in fact. I found her. I know who she is.”

  “You know nothing, Lazar,” Pez said, and watched a shiver pass through his friend as if he were cold. But Pez knew he wasn’t trembling from a chill; Lazar was finding the courage to ask his next question and Pez was ready for it.

  “Who is she?” the former Spur demanded.

  “I believe she is Lyana, the Mother Goddess, incarnated in the flesh.”

  A silence stretched between both men. Pez knew Lazar would neither ridicule nor try to counter his claim; probably he knew his friend felt the truth of those words strike like a knife in his heart.

  It was a long time before either spoke. Lazar broke the silence. “How can you be sure?” he finally whispered.

  “Who can ever be sure about the gods, Lazar? But I feel it. I can’t deny it any longer. I’m Iridor and she’s Lyana. That’s why we’re together in the palace. You know the old story, I presume?”

  Lazar nodded, still seemingly choked with emotion. “But that’s all it’s been to me. A story. The foundation of my faith, the tale that was too seductive to ignore, passed down through centuries. Although the story tells us that Lyana was vanquished by Zarab, a few of us still believe she will rise again and prevail. I certainly felt a kinship when I saw her likeness in Zafira’s temple. Galinsea has no specific deities. It worships the land and the sea, the sky and its firmament…” Lazar shrugged. “I feel I belong in Percheron, where some still cling to the faith of the Goddess.”

  Peg smiled gently. “But Nature is what Lyana stands for, of course, so Galinsea, although it thinks it has moved on, is still true to her in its way. Lyana is about the land and the forces that impact on it—sea, sun, desert, storm. She does not put herself above the natural forces of our existence as Zarab does. He claims godliness over everything, power over the land and its forces, its—”

  “But Lyana is not real…not in the flesh, anyway. She is part of our shared history; she is myth.” Lazar’s final words sounded like a plea. He continued: “No one knows if Zarab is real but most Percherese pray to him. In this, neither Lyana nor Zarab is any different. They could both be myth.”

  Pez’s passion evaporated as he turned grave. “The story that founded your original faith is true. But there is also a cyclical aspect to that story—every few centuries, when Lyana feels strong enough, she rises again to fight the demon who serves Zarab…to claim back her rightful place.”

  “Yes, I know the tale. And you think that Ana…?”

  “She is part of the new cycle. I believe that, for the coming battle, Ana is the mortal reincarnation of Lyana.”

  “And what if you’re wrong?” Lazar demanded. “What if Ana is no more than a young woman trying to survive in the Zar’s harem?”

  “No newborn, left alone in the desert, survives the much-feared Samazen windstorm, Lazar,” Pez reminded softly. “No young woman can communicate the force of power that I sense in Ana unless she is truly enchanted by something greater than any of us. Even you would have to be surprised by her knowledge of the Stones of Percheron. She knows every statue and its history…tell me how a goatherd’s daughter could have learned this? And what about her ability with language? Perhaps you don’t know how talented she is with tongues—why should you, you hardly know her? But it’s extraordinary. And her composure, in one so young? Ana is an ancient soul, Lazar. You must accept it.”

  “I won’t,” Lazar growled at the dwarf. “You’ve given me nothing but conjecture.” He ran both hands through his golden hair in a rare show of anxiety. “I want fact, Pez. Give me something real, something that is unequivocal.”

  “That’s easy, Lazar,” Pez said, mindful of the pain he was inflicting. He wondered fleetingly whether this conversation might set Lazar back in his recovery—or act as a catalyst. This could galvanize him into action, and though Pez wasn’t sure what that action might be, he’d had a quiet feeling of dread ever since Ana had said that this time Lyana’s battle would be different. What if the difference was the Prince of Galinsea? If that were true, he needed Lazar strong. “It is easy,” he repeated. “Here’s an undeniable fact. I can suddenly change at will into a white owl.
Lyana’s messenger of old has always been a white owl. The owl is called Iridor. He rises before she does. He is the trigger that the demon senses, the sign that it is time to begin his grim work for his god. You speak with Iridor regularly; you have witnessed his transformation. You know who I am. You have heard of the black bird of omen?”

  “The Raven. I knew him as the bird of sorrows.”

  “That’s right, he is known as that, too. He is drawn to her as well.”

  “And he’s shown himself, I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

  “Kett is the Raven. He said as much to me.”

  Lazar looked as though he had been slapped even harder this time. “He told you he was the Raven?” His words came out strained.

  “To my face he called himself the black bird. Do you still think this is all a coincidence? Or will you believe, as I suspect Ellyana and Zafira do, that Ana is the Goddess? Why else did she run to the statue of Lyana at the temple when she escaped the harem? Admit the facts, as I have had to. Ana is the Lyana incarnate…even her name suggests as much.”

  Pez stopped talking, watching Lazar carefully. The former Spur lifted his chin, his eyes raised to the heavens, and let loose a groan of such torment it tore at Pez’s heart. When he had exhausted his emotion, Lazar slumped to the ground, burying his golden-haired head in his knees and wrapping his long arms around them. From between his knees Lazar croaked one word. “Maliz?”

  Pez sighed privately, pleased to move on. “He, too, has…become. I know he is searching for me.”

  Lazar uncrossed his arms and raised his head to turn and face his friend. His expression was naked; there was a mixture of fear and alarm spreading across his face, frightening Pez. “You know that for sure?”

  The dwarf shrugged mirthlessly. “I feel him, too. He is amongst us at the palace.”

  Now the soldier looked horrified. “That close! Ana’s that close to danger?”

  “He has no idea of her existence yet,” Pez assured him, but he could see his words had little impact. “What I mean is, he may have seen Ana but he hasn’t connected her to the Goddess. We still have some time.” He sighed. “Ana knows who she is. We talked about it this evening.”

  Grief flickered across Lazar’s already hurt expression. “Had she any idea previous to tonight?”

  Pez shook his head. “I don’t believe so. That said, Ana is very perceptive. But if she did have any notion, she wasn’t letting on. She accepted it more calmly than you have. She knew I spoke the truth…as do you.”

  “How do I protect her?” Lazar asked, standing.

  Pez didn’t want to destroy what heart his friend had left. He needed him to remain courageous, so he chose the words of his response with care. “You can’t, Lazar. This is a much bigger game we now play. It’s no longer palace politicking; there’s no enemy you can brandish a sword at. We have no idea from where the fight will come, or in what form. We are all somehow players on the board, as you described, and we need to work out our roles. We must simply trust one another to do our duty as it unfolds and as our duties reveal themselves.”

  “I’m involved?” Lazar asked, aghast.

  Pez frowned. “You must be. Or why would you be linked with us?”

  “Chance, surely.”

  “No, no, no,” Pez said, pacing now, warming to his own thoughts. “Ellyana’s interest in you was far too keen for you to be a chance or innocent bystander. She orchestrated the whole situation surrounding your apparent death. It’s baffling.”

  “She wants the palace to believe me dead, you mean?”

  “Yes, except I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why Ana must be kept in the dark either, especially if she is Lyana.”

  “There is only one reason for that kind of secrecy,” Lazar replied, “and that’s protection.”

  Pez nodded. “Who is she protecting Ana from, though, by keeping you secret, unless it’s Maliz? But what does Maliz fear from you?”

  “Death?”

  “You can’t kill him, Lazar. You’ll need magic to do that, and even though you’ve all but risen from the dead, I know you possess no enchantments. You are merely mortal, my friend. No, Maliz does not fear you.”

  “But Maliz does not know me either, presumably. Perhaps it’s the secret of my being alive that is important.”

  “Perhaps. I shall think on it further. But I would say this is all the more reason for you to remain in Percheron. Rushing off after Jumo into Galinsea is unwise. Whatever has happened, has happened.”

  “Is that more of your twisted dwarf logic?” Lazar asked, scowling.

  Pez was pleased by the scowl. He needed Lazar angry, with all of his sarcasm and arrogance—and above all, courage—intact. “Well, what I mean is that what’s done is done. Jumo left almost a year ago to cross the ocean. If he has made it to the Galinsean royal family, they already know of your death.”

  “Pez, you’re missing the point. I may have walked away from my crown, and my parents may well have considered me dead for all of these many years. But Jumo’s revelation will tell them I have been alive serving the Percherese Crown and that that same crown has just put me to death. I’ll give you one guess what comes next.”

  “War,” Pez said in a whisper, horrible understanding dawning now.

  Lazar nodded grimly. “And swiftly. Beloved or not, my family will not sit idly by if the Percherese Zar has slain their son and heir. We know the Zar didn’t have much involvement, but that’s not how they’ll view it. Believe me, retribution will be sought. Revenge will be taken. I would suggest time is short. Jumo left a year ago, near enough…two moons to sail, perhaps another moon or more to get an audience.”

  “Weeks of arguing,” Pez said grimly.

  “They’ll need time to assemble their army.”

  “And two moons to sail back.”

  Lazar grimaced. “They are upon us within weeks at best calculations.”

  “They will send diplomatic messengers, surely?” Pez reasoned.

  Lazar nodded. “Probably. And if we follow that reasoning, then those people will be entering the city at any moment.”

  “What can be done? We cannot fight both mortal and godly wars.”

  Lazar frowned in thought. “Against Ellyana’s advice I think I must declare myself.” He strode up to the edge of the cliff, speaking quickly. “It is fortunate I am well enough to travel. I must show myself to Boaz—he must understand what we face now from Galinsea. I shall have to dream up an excuse for my long absence.”

  “Stick with the truth of how sick you’ve been,” Pez suggested.

  “Yes, but Zafira claimed me dead, given to the seas. I need to counter that.”

  “Zafira expects no quarter. Let her take the blame. You can say she said what she did of her own accord. That you gave no approval for such actions and you’re only now well enough to present yourself. We shall give her warning for escape. I will go to the temple now.”

  “Yes, but what could be the reason for her deceit? Boaz is too bright not to ask for that reason.”

  “Make one up. It doesn’t matter. I leave to warn Zafira.”

  Lazar nodded.

  Pez felt obliged to ask the obvious. “Ana?”

  Now Lazar scowled. “I can’t help her finding out.”

  “It will break her heart.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Pez. Just moments ago you were arguing her case for knowledge. You can’t protect her from the injury of that knowledge.” Pez nodded sadly as Lazar continued: “More importantly, if Maliz has yet not recognized his nemesis, then I have some time. You must see to it that you are not found out, so that I can make the journey to Galinsea the fastest way and prove that I am alive…hopefully avert war.”

  “The fastest way?”

  “Across the desert.”

  “In early summer? Do you have a death wish?”

  Lazar gave a derisive snort. “I’ve stared at death’s hungry eyes, Pez. It doesn’t scare me.”

  “Did
it ever?” Pez asked, but didn’t expect a response; nor did he get one. He carried on his previous line of thought. “Jumo could be back any day now.”

  Lazar shook his head. “He has no reason to return to Percheron now. He will likely head north…home. In the meantime we must prepare. Expect me in Percheron in two days. Warn Boaz.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Pez swallowed, feeling his stomach tighten. “We’ve had a falling out.”

  “What happened?”

  Pez explained briefly.

  Lazar scratched his head. “I didn’t think you two could ever fall out. Still, I shall be the gift you bring back to him to appease his anger. Boaz listens to me.”

  Pez shook his head. “You can’t be sure that he will listen. He takes new counsel these days.”

  Lazar nodded slowly. “You mentioned that Tariq has ingratiated himself.”

  “Oh, it’s much worse, Lazar. Grand Vizier Tariq now all but controls the Zar’s waking thoughts.”

  “You’re overreacting, Pez. Like a jealous woman.” Lazar found a grin, much to the surprise of them both.

  “I wish I were. Tariq is dangerous.”

  “Tariq is a sop. I’ve known that man—”

  “You don’t know this one.” Pez cut off his friend. He gave a painful frown. “Tariq has changed, Lazar. He is so different you would hardly recognize him now.”

  “No man changes that much.”

  “This one has. It’s remarkable. He even looks different. He certainly sounds different—not in his voice but how he voices his thoughts. They’re intelligent, inspired, clever. There’s new cunning in those eyes now, Lazar, that has nothing to do with the stupid self-importance and social climbing that the Tariq of old was known for. This Tariq is totally self-possessed. He requires no one’s sanction…nor does he look for it.”

  Lazar shook his head. “I can’t imagine you’re speaking about the same man.”

  The dwarf threw up his hands in disgust. “It is as though someone has possessed Tariq,” he claimed angrily. At those words he felt his blood turn to ice. He looked at Lazar, seeing his thoughts reflected in his friend’s ashen face.