Emissary

by Fiona McIntosh

  The group returned to camp triumphantly and everyone watched with fascination as Salim threaded a piece of cotton through each of the bird’s lower lids and tied the ends at the top of its head, drawing the lids up so the falcon was blinded.

  “How long does it take to train him?” Herezah asked, fascinated.

  “Depending on her intelligence, she can be ready in a week.”

  Sounds of surprise came from the audience.

  “That fast?” Lazar asked, incredulous.

  Salim nodded. “I promise you, meat in a week.”

  That night, everyone slept well and happy at the thought of fresh meat—everyone, that is, except one: Ana did not eat birds.

  PEZ FELT UNUSUALLY RESTLESS. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, and looked with awe at the canopy of stars winking in concert. Pez knew it was impossible but it felt to him as if a storm was brewing. He had always been sensitive to weather changes–as a child, he would start acting oddly, become agitated, unable to concentrate or be still, hours before thunder and lightning occurred. That’s how he felt now, and even though he had—in private, at least—grown out of the immature behavior of running in circles or making a lot of noise when a lightning storm was coming, he had never lost the sensation of inward turmoil.

  It had not happened that often over the years, if he was honest. Living in Percheron meant temperate weather most of the year, but from time to time a storm would hit, bringing with it the fire in the sky that so excited him and yet also gave him a sense of doom…the sinister thunder rolls in the distance always suggested to him that something ominous was coming.

  There was no lightning and certainly no thunder now—just a supremely clear and starry night that was frigidly cold despite the heat of the low fire the Percherese slept close to. The Khalid preferred to sleep alongside their camels, using the warmth of the beasts to heat them. Pez could see that even Lazar was snoozing—no doubt lightly—but the rhythmic rise and fall of the man’s chest suggested he was asleep. He sat up and smiled to himself. He might be one of the few people, ever, to see Lazar relaxed in slumber. In repose, Lazar looked younger, the flames of the fire smoothing out the lines of his face and the hollows in his cheeks that had so deepened with his illness. In truth, this journey, despite all of its danger, was helping Lazar to recover better than any potion or quiet existence on an island ever could. Lazar was a man of action. Pez nodded—yes, the journey itself would do him immense good, but he still appreciated the un-troubled, no longer grave countenance that the quiet suspension of sleep brought to Lazar. He almost wished he could wake Ana and show her how friendly Lazar could look…so long as he wasn’t awake.

  He silently stirred himself and climbed to his feet to stretch. The thought of Ana prompted him to get up and climb out of the warmth of his blankets—he had no idea why. Now that he was up he thought he might as well move.

  Glancing at Lazar, he noticed that his friend’s eyes were suddenly wide open.

  “Ah,” he whispered. “And there I was thinking how peaceful you looked.”

  No one else stirred. Jumo was snoring and the royal tents were still. None of the Khalid moved.

  “I was—you woke me.”

  “I was silent,” Pez hissed.

  “You’re like one of the Zar’s elephants moving around.” And the edge of his mouth creased in a grin but was gone as swiftly as it had arrived. “What are you doing anyway?”

  “Going to relieve myself.”

  Lazar nodded, closed his eyes, and rolled over. “Don’t go far,” he murmured.

  Pez hadn’t known he was going anywhere until this moment. Pulling his blanket around his shoulders, uncaring of its dragging along the sands, he made for the closest dune that was still well away from the main camp.

  He turned to look back. In the tiny circle of light that the small fire threw out, everyone appeared fast asleep. He cursed his luck that he wasn’t sleeping as well, especially as he had felt tired enough to be one of the first to snuggle beneath his blankets, singing a lullaby to himself about cranberry sherbet. Pez slipped into the black void behind the dune and decided he might as well relieve himself now that he was there. As the stream of hot liquid brought the familiar sound of all things normal and his bladder thanked him for this unexpected comfort, a voice spoke to him. Both bladder and its flow froze with fear.

  “Pez, thank you for coming.”

  “Who—”

  She materialized beside him, her own glow giving him just sufficient light to recognize her.

  “Ellyana.”

  “Are you done?” she asked, smiling so kindly that he didn’t even register any embarrassment as he covered himself.

  “How did you—”

  “Always so many questions. Come, we have things to discuss.”

  “Come where? If I’m gone for more than a few moments, Lazar will—”

  “He will not know. Trust me.”

  She led him deeper into the desert toward a nearby dune, which, when he arrived closer, he realized held some sort of rocky cave at its base.

  “Why didn’t we see this when we made camp?”

  “You don’t have to whisper, Pez. No one can hear us.” She smiled. “The sands hide and the sands reveal, as they choose. There are plenty of rocky outcrops and cave systems in the desert but most are covered by the sands.”

  “What are you doing here?” He had lost his initial shock and decided to be direct. Ellyana had a talent for being vague.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Why not the others?”

  “Well, to begin with, I suspect Jumo wishes to stick a blade into me.”

  He frowned. “You may be right.”

  “Although I also suspect that deep down he’d admit that he’d go through the same pain and ordeal if it meant life for Lazar.”

  “I suspect he would. Jumo is loyal to the death.”

  “Yes, he is. Poor Jumo,” she said, looking at the sky, her tone wistful.

  “What does that mean?”

  She shrugged. “He is a good man.”

  “What do you want, Ellyana?”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Your tasks have a way of turning nasty. You know about Zafira, presumably?” There was no friendship in his tone now as he recalled the devastating moment when he discovered his old friend, impaled on her own temple’s spire. All for the sake of her faith and the demon who hunted his followers.

  “That was the work of Maliz.”

  “Your hands have her blood on them, too, Ellyana. You put her into that danger. She had nothing to fight him with, no wings, no magic, probably no idea he was even coming for her.”

  “Zafira went to her death willingly, Pez. She was brave, she was old, and she was ready to sacrifice herself for Lyana.”

  “Lyana! I’m sick of hearing her name! She is not Ana. You have led me wrong. You have lied and cajoled and gotten us all to do your bidding, but I’m no longer your servant, Ellyana.” In his anger and frustration he startled himself as he realized that he might begin to weep.

  She noticed it, too. “This is a cause worth weeping over, Pez. Your memories as Iridor will tell you that lives have been lost in many ways and on so many occasions that for their sake alone—for their endeavors and their bravery—we must fight on. We have no choice, my friend. You are Iridor and you have a reason for being.”

  Pez hung his head. “She calls him friend now.”

  “I know,” she replied, her voice tender again. “But she is safe for now.”

  “How? How can he spend time with her and touch her and not know?”

  “I warned that this time it would be different,” she replied, more cautiously now, he noticed. Pez had learned that when Ellyana took this approach, she was usually not telling the full truth, using her talent to divert him.

  “Why can’t you just be honest and tell us what you know?” he demanded.

  “Because you must trust. The less each knows, the better…and
Pez, I am but a servant, like you. Don’t presume that I have all the answers.”

  “But you never give us any answers, only questions.”

  “I am not your enemy.”

  “Sometimes it feels as if you are,” he grumbled.

  “Please, Pez, trust me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She whispered something to him then. His eyes widened and his mouth opened in disbelief.

  “I cannot,” he murmured. “I will not.”

  “You must!” she insisted. “For her sake, you must. It is her protection.”

  He began to look around wildly, desperate for someone to save him, ridiculously hopeful that Lazar would step around the dune now and demand to know what was going on.

  “Pez, you are Iridor. You are the messenger, the go-between, the only conduit we have.” She tried to give him something but he let it slip to the sand.

  “I cannot,” he repeated.

  Ellyana picked up what he had dropped and pressed it into his gnarled hands. “You must,” she urged. “Trust me,” she beseeched, and her expression was one of such supplication that all that was Iridor within him responded and he clutched her gift to his breast, tears leaking down his misshapen face.

  “Go now, my precious one. This time we fight the battle with stealth and cunning.”

  “And we shall win,” he said, trying not to make it a question but a mantra to cling to.

  “We will win,” she assured.

  He watched Ellyana fade into the darkness of the night desert until he was alone, suddenly cold again. He looked at what he clutched near his heart and felt a stab of fear at what he had been charged to do.

  Pez didn’t know how long he stayed in that position or when he finally decided to pick his way back to the camp, but as he pushed himself deeper into his blankets Lazar spoke.

  “That was quick,” he mumbled. “Now sleep, Pez.”

  The little man wriggled closer to the fire, but no amount of heat was going to smother the chill he felt in his heart at Ellyana’s bidding.

  30

  The next week passed in a slow cycle of repetitive days. Herezah no longer complained and was one of the first to rise, dress carefully in her desert robes, and be ready to travel. She now ate walking, on camel back, or whenever she was hungry—she no longer demanded ceremony, although Lazar had to admit she maintained a great elegance in all that she did, even here in the desert. He allowed each member of the royal party one bowl of water every three days to wash and appreciated how hard this was for someone like Herezah, who had known daily bathing rituals since she was a little girl. But the Valide did not complain. It seemed the release from the harem that this journey afforded her had offered her a glimpse at how life could be without plotting and cunning, without always looking ahead to where the next iota of power could be gained over the people she was forced to share her life with.

  Lazar understood. The desert was a great equalizer. As he had told her, there was no status out here. Survival meant everyone helping one another, respecting one another, sharing…all concepts the Valide had forgotten or gradually had had squeezed out of her in the selfish, single-minded existence of the harem.

  Ana was quiet and eating little. Lazar asked Herezah how the Zaradine was faring and she simply waved her hand and told him not to worry.

  “All new wives become broody and introverted. She’ll get over it.”

  “She’s not eating much.”

  “Are you keeping such a close eye, Lazar?” she asked, eyebrow arched. She meant it in jest but of course Lazar wasn’t used to genuine lightheartedness from the Valide. He was accustomed to her fluctuating between viciousness and lustful-ness—there had never been an in-between.

  “She is the reason for this perilous journey, Valide,” he answered gravely. “Of course I’m keeping a close eye on her.” In fact it was Pez who had told him that Ana was not eating much, for the dwarf liked to be around the cookpot for the evening meal and the group allowed him to stir the broth or cook the flatbread—a simple enough task, even for an idiot. He shared the duties with the mute called Salazin, who was in charge of supervising the preparation and presentation of all the royal food. Pez liked to dish the food out, too, and he always bowed rather comically to the Zaradine before handing her a bowl and bread, urging her to eat, watching her take her first ladleful or bite, but somehow managed to spill the Valide’s broth on the rare occasion one was cooked, or drop the Grand Vizier’s bread in the sand.

  “Well, you have no reason to fret. She has complained of an upset belly but I have given her something for that. It will ease.”

  “Perhaps she will brighten with some fresh meat.”

  “I think we all will. This diet is excellent for preserving one’s figure but it makes me feel weak. I need blood now and then, Lazar,” she said, eyeing him directly.

  Lazar left it at that, for the conversation was going in a direction he didn’t like, but he intended to keep his own watch over the Zaradine. She appeared to have faded these past couple of days. She no longer watched him, and he didn’t believe she had spoken more than a few words to anyone recently. If she was sickening, Lazar needed to know.

  He asked the Valide and even the Grand Vizier, but if either had suspicions, neither of them shared their thoughts as to why the Zaradine was so suddenly off color.

  ON THIS EVENING THEY were sitting around the usual three campfires. The Khalid sat around their own conversing in their curious language that sounded as though they were always arguing with one another. Lazar, Jumo, and Pez tended to range between either the Khalid’s fire and that of the royal party. The Elim kept themselves entirely separate around their own fire, although never far from their two female royals.

  Tonight Lazar and Jumo sat with the royals. Pez was dancing a jig for the Elim, who sang for him. The royal party watched the Khalid, particularly Salim with his falcon.

  “Have they named him?” Herezah asked.

  “It’s a female falcon. She’s simply called Shahin,” Jumo answered.

  “Why do they stroke her all the time? I don’t think that man has been separated from the bird since he trapped it. He even sleeps with it tied to a post near his face.”

  Jumo nodded. “That’s right, Valide. When they are training a bird to the lure, the person who is taming it must give it every moment. He talks to her, touches her all the time, keeps her close. The bird gets used to the particular man but also the talk of men, the movements of men, so she will not be startled by us. They will brand her soon on the beak with Salim’s mark and she will then be fully his—companion, provider, friend.”

  “So the falcon can definitely hunt?” Herezah asked, her eyes glittering in anticipation.

  “She is magnificent on the wing.”

  Both Herezah and the Grand Vizier sighed. “It will certainly be nice to taste some fresh meat again,” Maliz admitted. The flatbread diet was wearing on everyone now. The cheese and fruit were dished out sparingly and had become such a treat that Herezah admitted she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to sit down to a palace meal again with all of its decadence and sophistication.

  “How much longer, Lazar?” she said to the Spur, who was deep in thought, his hollowed face even more handsome in its gauntness. His guarded expression looked more vulnerable now and the chin he no longer kept rigorously shaven had a thin close growth of hair. He was beginning to look like one of those priests they’d heard about who did special penance by living in the desert for weeks on end.

  But then Lazar always looked as though he were doing penance. Nevertheless, when he raised his eyes to her to answer, she felt the familiar thrill of being close to him and his attention given to her. In the past she would take that attention whether it was accompanied with his usual gruffness or just his disdain. Since she had realized she had no allies and was making an effort to cooperate, she had noticed a slackening of that cool aloofness he maintained. She had discovered he was even capable of conversati
on and had been stunned a few days back when he had joined herself, Ana, and the Grand Vizier and spent an hour talking about desert life, even reminiscing about his first experience with it and making his escape toward Percheron.

  It had been so tempting to ask why he had needed to flee Galinsea, but the truth was that Herezah was, for a rare time, enjoying the simple pleasure of conversation and the even greater pleasure of seeing Lazar relaxed in her company—even smiling, praise Zarab—so much that she was not prepared to risk the moment in curiosity. She knew what would have happened. He would have thrown down the shutters of his mind, his face taking on that sober, blank expression as though chiseled in stone, and he would have made some excuse to leave them. And so she had promised herself to do nothing but listen and revel in his refreshingly easy manner for however long Zarab granted it last.

  Lazar replied after several moments of calculation. “If we continue at this pace, which is relatively good, I imagine at the new moon.”

  “Twenty-two more days of this?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he answered her.

  She shrugged but noticed the surprise flit across his face at her complacency. Perhaps the desert was doing her a power of good.

  “Zaradine Ana, are you keeping up your water intake?” Lazar continued gently.

  She nodded wanly. “Yes, of course. You gave us strict instructions.”

  “You are very quiet.”

  “I am fine, Spur, thank you.”

  “Perhaps we can offer you some dates. The sugar will help.”

  “I couldn’t eat anything more,” she said softly.

  Looks passed around the fire. She hadn’t eaten anything of substance, barely nibbled at her bread.

  “I think we should all get some sleep,” Lazar advised. “We will get up a little earlier than usual tomorrow as we’ll need to give some time in the cooler hours of the day to hunting the desert bustard.”