Emissary

by Fiona McIntosh

  She frowned. “Maliz did touch me.”

  “Which is why I don’t believe you are Lyana. Poor Pez.”

  “He keeps telling me that you are involved, too.”

  He grimaced. “I don’t see how. I think once he discovers the real Lyana, he’ll forget about us.”

  “Who can she be?”

  “If she exists at all,” he warned.

  “Ellyana is real. She obviously believes Lyana rises.”

  “Yes, none of it makes sense,” he admitted. He sighed as he unfurled his arm from around her. “Time will tell.”

  “Lazar.”

  “Yes?” he replied, distracted by pulling her robe over her shoulders, keen to get them both dressed and out of danger of discovery.

  “I have loved you since you came down that incline to our hut and laid claim to me.”

  “Ana. You are so young, you have—”

  “Don’t. Tell me the truth. There are no witnesses, just us.”

  He stood, robed himself, and then pulled her to her feet, taking the long pause as some precious time to formulate the words he had wanted to say to her since that same moment when his very breathing had been arrested at the sight of her. He also remembered Jumo’s dying words—owed it to his beloved friend to honor that request.

  “I have known what I thought was love only once before. It brought me nothing but grief. But what I feel for you I now realize is true love because it never stops hurting. It hurt to first meet you, first fall in love with you. It hurt so much more to love you from a distance, but now that I have loved you physically, I know the pain will never soften and blur as it did with Shara.” He kissed her hand. “But if this is all we can have, then I accept and take the pain and I thank all the gods of the world for giving me this time with you. Yes, I love you, Ana. I always have and I will continue to do so from a distance until I take my last breath. You never need to doubt me.”

  He allowed her to throw herself once again into his arms and they remained in that embrace, fighting back their tears, for several minutes before he disentangled himself. “What we have had, no one will ever take from us. I wish I’d had more courage to resist you so that neither of us need feel such loss, but I will never regret these hours and I thank you for giving me such a gift.”

  Before she could speak again, he pushed her toward the camp. “Now go, I beg you. Return as silently as you came.”

  “And you?”

  “Soon, I promise.”

  He watched her retreat down the dune, waited until he lost her in the darkness before he turned his back on her and wept. He had lied to her. He was not grateful; the fleeting gift of herself was a curse and it would haunt him forever with an unrelenting taunt of what he had once tasted but would never taste again.

  As his tears dried, he became aware of another presence, a presence in his mind. The voices were back, calling strongly to him now. He heard them more clearly at this moment than he had ever heard them previously. Until now they had sounded distant, unintelligible, as if muffled. Now, as Ana left him, they rumbled clearly in his mind.

  Release us, Lazar, they called to him.

  In his ire, in his frustrated understanding that Ana had given herself to him once and once only, in his fury at losing Jumo in such helpless circumstances, he lashed out: Tell me who you are or leave me alone!

  He hadn’t expected a response, and when it came he wished he had never posed the angry question.

  I am Beloch.

  I am Ezram.

  I am Crendel.

  I am Darso.

  I am…the list continued, all names of the mythical creatures of the Stone City of Percheron that he had always admired.

  MALIZ STIRRED. HE HAD never been a deep sleeper, but these hot days and cool desert nights, as well as all the fresh air and constant activity, were combining to ensure he slept far more soundly than he could ever remember. Still, something had disturbed him, and as he lay in his small, suffocating tent, he considered what could have woken him. There were no sounds outside, save the gentle spit and crackle of the fire. It would be out by morning and no doubt Lazar would be sending people all over to scour for anything combustible. He had already warned that they might have to live from then on without warmth at night or any heated food. The Spur had urged the Elim to cook up stocks of flatbread in case the lack of fire material became reality. Maliz shook his head clear of the mundane—he was really beginning to think like a man, he berated himself—and focused on what had disrupted his sleep. He had been enjoying these cool desert nights of slumber but had also learned long ago to trust his instincts. If there had been no sharp noise to awaken him, what had shaken him from pleasant dreams? And now that he thought about it, he had not come to from his unconscious state gradually. He had been woken abruptly. He had simply opened his eyes in shock as if reacting to a loud noise or a nudge.

  He knew it was useless trying to probe. Imprisoned so completely within Tariq, he had almost none of his magics to call upon. He almost wished he could inhabit some old wretch again, one of those temporary, disposable hosts he used in his dormancy—simply to have the freedom to range outside of his body, just once even. How frustrating that he had committed to the Grand Vizier and so had to rely on wit and cunning…and touch, until Lyana herself had risen and provided his power.

  And that’s where this thought dwelled. Lyana. Had something occurred with her that had somehow fractured the status quo of the present spiritual world? She could not have risen or he would have instantly felt his magic quicken within him. And yet something niggled, something he couldn’t latch on to, as if it hovered at the periphery of his vision. He sat up, shaking himself fully from the dozy sense of comfort beneath his blanket, and tried to pay attention to what was ranging through his mind.

  Lyana. He tracked back through past centuries. Her rising had always triggered the same response—a violent one—an arrival of his magic that made him suck in air as though gasping for his last breath or as if someone had punched him hard in the belly. But Lyana’s rising had not woken him or he would be feeling the effects and the orgasmic sensation of his powers coming fully to him. And yet this disturbance had the hallmarks of Lyana. It was abrupt, it had not announced itself, and now it remained hidden. He desperately wanted to believe it signaled her rising but he remained impotent, so it couldn’t be.

  Now he did hear a soft footfall outside. Quickly he pulled back his tent flap, all of his frustration poured into the action.

  Ana jumped. “Oh, you scared me, Grand Vizier.”

  He frowned. “What are you doing, Zaradine?”

  “Relieving myself,” she said airily, her expression suggesting it was none of his business. “I had hoped not to disturb anyone. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He considered. “Did you make a noise?”

  She frowned in thought.

  Maliz carefully modulated his tone, made his voice friendly. “It’s just that something did wake me, and I was just trying to work out what it was.”

  She gave a sheepish shrug, all but her eyes hidden behind her veil. “Forgive me, I did trip over your tent rope on my way to that dune.” She pointed to the near distance. “I’m so sorry.”

  He waved his hand toward her. “It is nothing to forgive.” He yawned. “I was just enjoying a nice dream, I think, and was sad to be pulled from it.”

  She giggled softly. “Can you remember your dreams? I rarely can.”

  “I remember everything, Zaradine. In this one I was a god, with immense power, and I had just persuaded a horde of beautiful nymphs to visit my mountain palace in the sky.”

  In the dying glow of the fire, he noticed her eyes widen slightly at his words. Possibly she was shocked by the image he described, or was it the mention that he was a god? He noticed the hesitation before the smooth answer. “And now you tease me, Grand Vizier.”

  He smiled indulgently and for good measure touched her arm. Nothing, as before! This girl was definitely not Lyana. “I do. Actually, I
was an old man, chasing after a rather lovely young creature who was understandably running from me with all her might.”

  He saw her eyes reflect soft amusement now. “I think you’re far more charming and attractive than you give yourself credit for Grand Vizier. There are plenty of women, I’m sure, who find you irresistible.”

  But only one interests me, my young Ana, he thought. And you are not her…but you will interest me when I become Boaz. “Oh, I do hope so, Zaradine, and once this mission is done with and we are returned to Percheron, I might try to find them.”

  She nodded her approval and then disappeared silently into her own tent.

  Maliz had to wonder whether his instincts had sent him a ruse. And whether in chasing off after Pez, he had actually left behind the real trail in Percheron, where Iridor existed and could lead him to the hated Goddess. He grimaced. Lyana was cunning this time. But he would find her and he would take his time killing her. His mind moved again to Ana. No. Not her. But if not Ana, who?

  NOT FAR AWAY, YET distant enough not to disturb the sleepers, Pez was retching violently but with no idea why. His grief over Jumo aside, he had not partaken of any of the meat. The nausea had suddenly come upon him—no warning, just a violent surge through his body before a darkening of the sand where he stood.

  What was it? What could have disturbed his body so? His head throbbed and he sat down to lean against the dune.

  “Pez,” a voice whispered.

  He leaped up, startled but still dizzy from his exertions. “Ellyana,” he murmured, “don’t creep up on me like that.”

  “I cannot use magic to reach you or he will sense it. He is very alert just now.”

  Pez knew to whom she referred. But didn’t know how she would know the demon’s state of mind. He stole a glance around the dune to check that Ellyana could not be seen from the campsite. “I am unwell.”

  “I can see that,” she said softly. “It is not what you think.” She could see his heavy brow frowning in the moonlight. “You are not ill. It’s because you are Iridor.”

  “I don’t understand,” he groaned quietly.

  “You will. I am here to tell you that our previous agreement regarding Ana is no longer necessary.”

  He ignored his aching head to stare at Ellyana, not that he could make out her features in the darkness. “Why?”

  “Just do as I say, Pez.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he growled in a low voice. “Is she Lyana?”

  He thought he might have caught a ghost of a smile across her face but there simply wasn’t enough light with the moon intermittently shrouded by clouds. “Have patience, Pez. All will be revealed.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?” Pez persisted.

  “For your protection,” she murmured, angry now. “Just let Ana be. Iridor knows. Search yourself, and you will find the answers you hunt.”

  Pez looked to the sands, and shook his head with repressed frustration. When he looked back up, Ellyana had disappeared. So had his headache. He felt suddenly fine—the smothering pain had gone as fast as it had come, and the nausea was nothing more than a memory. He glanced over and noticed the dark patch of sand. He hadn’t imagined it; he had been sick.

  None of it felt natural, and Ellyana’s curious arrival, timed perfectly to coincide with his disturbance, told him his nausea and headache were somehow linked to the Goddess. Something had happened…but what?

  32

  It had been two days since he had lost Jumo, and although leaving the region of the quicksand and his death had helped to clear the morbid atmosphere that had pervaded everyone’s waking thoughts, it had done nothing to improve Lazar’s grim countenance. If anything, the latter had seemed to worsen into a dulled, impervious expression. Pez knew everyone assumed it was grief. But he suspected it was terror at Lazar’s dark thoughts of longing for the Zar’s wife.

  Lazar, in his withdrawn state, hadn’t realized that Ana had begun vomiting most of the meager bread and fruit she tried to eat in her bid to keep her side of their agreement, or that Salim was becoming decidedly nervous as they entered a part of the desert known simply to the tribes as the Empty. It took Pez and a hissing, angry exchange on this second night after Jumo’s death to finally get Lazar to take notice of anything more than his camel or the horizon.

  Pez found Lazar in the black of night sitting alone on the top of a dune well away from the campfires.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, anticipating hostility. They had not spoken directly to each other since Lazar had banished him from his side after Jumo’s death.

  He received precisely the animosity he expected. “I have nothing to talk about,” Lazar replied coldly.

  “Do you mean in general or with me specifically?” Pez asked, prepared to go along with the fight that was certainly due between them.

  “Both.”

  “Lazar, I think something’s happening that we don’t know about. Whether or not you want to talk to me, I’m the one who has to make you understsand. For all intents and purposes, you’re not aware of much at all just now.”

  “Go away, Pez.”

  “I will not.”

  “I don’t wish to discuss Iridor, Lyana, this battle, or Maliz. In fact I don’t wish to discuss anything. I want to be left alone.”

  “This has nothing to do with any of that, Spur. This solely concerns your job for your Zar.”

  “What is it?” Lazar said through gritted teeth.

  “It’s Salim. He’s not saying much, but the language of his body and the tension he is creating amongst his own is saying plenty.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’re all feeling it. That’s why I’ve brought it to you. There’s an uneasiness.”

  “I’ll need more than that to go on.”

  Pez shrugged in the dark. “It’s hard to say. Salim seems overly watchful, nervous. He keeps looking this way and that. I swear he looked over his shoulder earlier today. It’s certainly giving me a sense of unrest and I know the others feel similarly, from eavesdropping on their conversations.”

  “Have you spoken to the Khalid?”

  “How can I? The Grand Vizier has nothing to focus his attention on at the moment except me, I feel.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Listen, Lazar, pay attention to what I’m saying. I think something dangerous is afoot.”

  “Does your big nose twitch from the Lore and tell you this, or do you have any facts to give me?”

  Pez knew Lazar was being deliberately provocative, determined to goad him into the fight the Spur clearly wanted. He wouldn’t bite, not yet. “Salim senses trouble but he’s not telling us anything. You need to talk to him.”

  “Why should I? Simply because you feel something in the air?”

  “Lazar, it’s more than that.”

  “Well, I don’t feel anything,” Lazar said dismissively, obviously hoping to end their conversation.

  “That’s because you are in an Empty all of your own, Lazar,” Pez snapped, his temper no longer in check. “You arrogant fool. Prince or not, you are all Galinsean. Don’t ever say I didn’t try!”

  Lazar surged to his feet. “You dare talk to me like that!” he warned, turning now to stare angrily at the dwarf.

  “I think I’m the only one who isn’t scared of you, or that look that I can’t see in the dark but I know is on your face. If you want to hit me, break my jaw again, do it. I can heal myself again if I have to.”

  “You seem quite at ease with using the Lore on yourself, or for Ana.” Lazar sneered, dropping his voice low now.

  “Ah, so now we come to it. I understand what this is all about. This is not about Jumo. This is about me refusing you. Even after I helped Ana to have some time with you when I thought you both deserved it.” Whatever else he thought about that moonlit night he left unsaid.

  Lazar sighed and in that sound Pez heard the gratitude the Spur clearly felt. “Go find another playmate, Pez,
” he urged. “I don’t wish to talk about this.”

  “No, but then you never do. You run away from anything and everything that pricks at your emotions or requires you to open yourself up to others. What have I done, Lazar?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done,” Lazar replied, almost a whisper, deep sorrow in his voice.

  Pez knew his recent lies would follow him for the rest of his life. He was glad Lazar could not see his face or the despondent expression written on it. “I explained to you already, I needed to touch him. How was I supposed to do that without perishing myself?”

  “Well, even in my panic at that moment I could imagine you turning yourself into the owl and hovering over Jumo’s head if you had to. You could have touched him easily that way.”

  Pez had not thought of that, curiously enough, and now, feeling even more hollow—if that was possible—he grasped at a fresh deception. “I…I cannot use the Lore when I am Iridor.”

  “I think you’re lying, Pez.”

  “I am not—”

  “I’ll tell you why I think you’re lying and why you chose not to save the life of someone utterly loyal to Percheron, and very close to me. No one should die like that, swallowed by the earth, slowly drowning in a dark mass in front of an audience that couldn’t…or in this instance, wouldn’t help.”

  Pez felt his belly clench, praying inwardly that Lazar had not seen through him. “Listen to me, I could not use the Lore—”

  Lazar continued as though Pez had not spoken. His voice was calm but edged with ice now. No one could hear or see them. “I think you lied to me and to Jumo and you continue to lie to me and even yourself because you chose a dream over reality. What do we really know of Lyana? And yet for her you allowed one of the best men to have ever walked at your side to die an agonizing death of suffocation. Jumo showed more courage in death than you have ever shown in life, Pez.” Reluctant, angry tears were rolling down his face as he pointed at the dwarf who could not see the tears but could make out his accusing finger. “In your stifling fear of Maliz, you killed my closest friend.” Pez’s expression turned from dismay to despair, his large head moving from side to side in denial. “You might as well have, Pez. You could have saved him but you chose not to, and I only worked out why on the way back to camp. You couldn’t risk Maliz sensing your magic, could you? Jumo died to keep you safe from the demon.” Lazar’s reasoning was right; he had hit on the truth but the accusation was unfair and Pez hoped he knew that, too. But Lazar didn’t care, obviously. He clearly wanted someone else to suffer this pain of loss alongside him. Pez understood that most of the others were carrying on as though Jumo were already something of the past, a distant memory soon to be forgotten, and of no real importance.