For more than an hour, they hiked along the base of the cliffs, calling out for their missing companions, but no one called back, and there were no signs of life anywhere along the beach. And so with a stern look and a sterner voice, Veneka called off the search and they turned back north, following Kiya along the narrow paths up through the rocky heights, making their way inland to find the road to Shivala.
Several times Adina or one of the healers offered to carry Nadira for a while, but each time Zerai shook his head.
Whatever has happened, this child, this little girl, is still alive. And whatever else happens, she’s going to stay that way.
No more risks.
No more dying.
No more of this holy war shit.
We’re going to live.
They hiked up through the icy passes of the Imaya coast until they reached the edge of the White Desert, an expanse of pale sand salted with ice that stretched out to the horizon where Zerai could see four black peaks at the edge of the world beneath the midday sun. And closer, to their left, stood the white walls of Shivala.
The falconer followed the clerics along the edge of the desert, speaking to no one, watching the dunes for signs of danger, and clinging tightly to the little girl on his hip.
Chapter 11
“I’ll wait out here.” Zerai cast an uneasy look at the doors of the audience chamber. He remembered them, dimly. Eight years ago he had walked proudly through those doors with Nezana perched on his fist and asked Negus Salloran to let him become a magi warrior. He tried to imagine that he took the rejection better than he remembered it.
“Why?” Veneka looked at him.
“I’m not a cleric. I’ll just wait here, with Nadira.”
“The queen asked about you,” Kiya said. “Just before we left, she asked me to find out how you were doing. She might like to see you again.”
Zerai frowned.
“And they’ll want to see Nadira,” Adina added.
Zerai frowned a little deeper. He looked at the four Sophirim warriors flanking the doors in their gray tunics and massive gauntlets, and then he glanced at the slender ministers in blue and white whispering halfway down the corridor. There was nowhere to sit in the corridor. “Fine. I’ll go.”
The doors opened and an elderly man in blue led them into a large room filled mostly with desks and tables where clerks and scribes and ministers were all bent over their papers, talking in hushed voices, and looking generally exhausted and anxious. Few eyes glanced up at the newcomers.
Beyond the sea of bureaucracy, they came to an open space around two white thrones where the master of Shivala sat, glowering at a sheaf of papers in his hand while two clerks stood uneasily before him. Salloran, Negus of Shivala, clad in white and black, his hairless scalp untroubled by any crown, clawed at his long beard with a massive, veined hand. After a moment of silence he handed the papers to the clerks and nodded, and they hurried away.
Zerai stared at the old man, despising him a little, pitying him a little more, and mostly wanting to avoid speaking. But the Negus’s gaze swept across the newcomers and fixed on him immediately.
“Ras Zerai? Zerai Djonn!”
Zerai stepped forward, still holding Nadira in his left arm, and he bowed his head. “Zerai Saqir, your highness.”
“Oh?”
“There never was a Zerai Djonn. I was… mistaken.” He knew he should explain more, explain that he had never been the prince of Azumar, that his closest friend Kaleb had been the true lost prince, that he was merely a falconer in the sometime-service of the Razielim, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to explain anything.
“And this is your daughter?”
Zerai paused, then chose to ignore the question as he nodded at the woman beside him. “Your highness, this is Veneka Mahova, the first of the new Razielim. She and her healers have come to help you and your people.”
And at that he stepped back and let the others talk. He ignored the introductions, the explanations, the recounting of their journey, and the condolences for those they had lost. He passed the time watching Nadira, who seemed to be fascinated with everything around them, staring in silence at the people and the papers and the light streaming in through the tall windows.
A hand touched his arm, startling him slightly, and a voice said, “I knew you would find your way back to us one day. Although I had hoped it would be sooner than this.”
He turned and found the Nigiste herself standing beside him, elegant and imperious in black and white silk. Her silvery hair was cut quite short now, but her face had not aged a day and her scarred arms looked just as powerful as they had eight years ago.
“Your highness.” He bowed his head.
“You’ll have to forgive my husband. He did read the account of your journey to save Raziel, but he must have forgotten the details. I, however, have not. Come. Sit with me.”
Zerai glanced around and saw that Veneka and the Negus were still deep in discussion about the djinn attack and the state of the city, so he turned and followed the Nigiste across the room to sit on a marble bench beneath a window.
“So, Zerai Saqir, it seems that you found your place in the world after all,” the queen said. “Warrior. Hero. And father.” She reached out to stroke Nadira’s fat cheek.
“Not exactly. Her mother died and I…” he trailed off, shaking his head a little. “Actually, if you don’t mind, the ministers gave us water and fruit when we arrived, but if I could get some milk or maybe some bread and honey, I’d like to try to feed her again. She’s a little picky.”
“Of course.” Makeda summoned a servant to fetch the food. “She’s very quiet.”
“She never cries. Not even when she fell into the sea.”
“She must be very special.”
Zerai nodded.
Special? She’s impossible. Half human, half djinn, and stronger than both.
“I’m sorry for everything that happened,” he said abruptly. “The attack, I mean. I know you lost a lot of good people.”
“We did. As did you.”
He nodded. The servant returned with a platter of finely cut pieces of bread and fruit and cheese, as well as an assortment of very small cups containing water, milk, tea, and a variety of juices. Zerai thanked him and held the tray in front of Nadira, who instantly pulled her thumb from her mouth and began feeding herself, smashing the food across her cheeks as much as between her lips.
The queen laughed. “She’s adorable.”
Zerai smiled. “Yes, she is.”
“What will happen to her now?”
He looked up at her. “Nothing. Nothing’s going to happen to her.”
She studied him a moment. “You’re going to keep her?”
He paused. All the long hours walking from the cliffs to the city, and through the streets to the palace, as he had held the little girl he hadn’t let himself think anything at all. The hours had passed one moment at a time, and in each moment all he cared about was making sure his tiny companion was safe.
He hadn’t thought about the future.
But now he did, for all of an instant. “Yes, I am. I’m going to raise her.”
Makeda nodded as she continued to pet the girl’s soft curls, and the girl went on smashing fistfuls of fruit and bread into her mouth, and onto her cheeks, and into the little rolls of fat around her neck and wrists. “I am curious why you were bringing her here. We just sent hundreds of children to you in Naj Kuvari. I’m surprised to see you bringing one back with you.”
“Her mother, Talia, she…” He hesitated, wondering how much he was willing to reveal about the child’s miraculous origin. “Talia wanted a seer to examine Nadira to make certain she was all right.”
“Why? Is she ill?”
Zerai shook his head slowly. “No. It’s… complicated. Very complicated.”
“I see.” The queen eyed him carefully, making it clear that she understood more than he wanted her to, but then changed her demeanor as she looked
away. “Well, most parents want to believe their children are special or different, that’s no surprise. But it’s terribly sad that she lost her life over it.”
Zerai swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes it is.”
“But I’m sure this little angel is in good hands now. I hope you’ll consider taking her out of the city, though. I don’t know how safe it is now, with the djinn threatening our walls.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“And now I should probably rejoin my husband. It’s dangerous to leave him alone on the throne for too long. He starts to obsess about every little thing if I don’t remind him to leave the details to his ministers.” Nigiste Makeda stood.
He stood beside her.
“I’ll have rooms arranged for you and your friends,” she said. “And I’d like to see you again, and this little one too, when there’s time.”
“Of course, your highness.”
He stayed on the bench under the window with Nadira in his lap, watching her eat, and occasionally helping himself to a single grape, or a sliver of cheese.
Eventually, Veneka came to find him, to say that the meeting was over, plans were being made, and it was time to go. He set aside the empty tray and stood up with Nadira on his hip.
“I think there’s a nursery in the palace,” she said. “We can leave the baby there. She’ll be in good hands.”
“No. I’m going to look after her.”
“Look after…?” She stared at him. “But we have so much to do.”
“I don’t. I…” He winced, trying to find the right words. “I’m keeping her.”
“Zerai, are you saying you want to adopt her?”
“Yes.”
She paused. “Well, we can talk about that later. But right now we need to help take care of the wounded from the attack.”
He looked her in the eyes and saw an unfamiliar person staring back him.
She cares for her healers, and she cares for her patients, and she cares about doing her duty, and saving the world, and… That’s all. That’s what she is now, who she is now.
And she should. She’s good at it. I should be glad.
Should be.
He nodded. “Right. You should go as soon as you’re ready. They need you. I’ll, uh, I’ll be here, I guess. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“No, you wouldn’t—”
“It’s fine. Really. I think I’ll take Nadira to the Arrahim, like Talia wanted,” he continued. “I’ll see what they have to say about her. If there’s anything I should know, or need to know, then… I want to know. She’s different, and she’s all alone, and I…”
“It’s not your fault,” Veneka said. “Talia wasn’t your fault.”
“Partly, yes, she was.” He didn’t look at her. “But that’s not important right now. Nadira’s important, and I’m going to take care of her. Don’t worry about us. You have a job to do.” He tried to smile at her, and managed a lopsided grin that only lasted a brief moment. “Go save people.”
She hesitated, her expression unreadable. Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek, said they would talk more later, and she left.
The next hour was spent following pages through the palace, finding their rooms, and asking for the clothes, food, and other supplies he thought he would need for Nadira. But then Zerai finally found himself alone in a small room, holding a small yawning person in his lap, with nothing to do. So he fashioned a silken sling to carry Nadira across his chest and he headed out into the city.
When they first arrived in Shivala that morning, they had entered by a gate facing the sea and so their route through the city did not take them near the shattered walls and ruined buildings and they had seen no signs of the brutal djinn attack. But now, after asking for directions several times, Zerai found himself heading east in search of the library, which served as home and temple to the Arrahim, the holy seers.
At first, the falconer walked through quiet city streets between pristine white mansions and walled gardens, and the avenues themselves were traveled only by a handful of gentlemen and ladies on slender white horses, or by stern-eyed merchants guiding their wagons and mules in dignified processions, carrying sweet-smelling fruits and fiery spices in small jars that clinked softly as they passed.
But then Zerai turned a corner and found the edge of the rubble, a house half-collapsed, two walls and part of the roof now lying in the street like a great mound of pebbles, the bricks broken to pieces, and scraps of silk and cotton cloth fluttering in dusty heaps. A few people passed him here, and none paused to look at the ruined home. It was silent.
The farther he went, the more devastation he saw. Buildings stood leaning against one another, their walls veined with dark cracks, or else they lay in piles of clay and stone and sand, studded with the broken remains of furniture and clothing and food. Flies buzzed around a few glistening puddles where jars of honey or pickled vegetables had fallen in the shadows.
Zerai paused at one intersection to stare down at a dark stain in the pale dusty road. It was a rust-colored stain, a ragged circle with one lone thread of color reaching out toward the middle of the street. He stepped carefully around it and hurried on.
In the distance he could hear people working. They shouted orders to each other, directing the lifting of stones and beams, and telling carts to come and go. He heard the deep crunch of stones moving and sliding, and the loud clatter of broken timbers being tossed aside. But he did not see the people at work, and he did not go looking for them.
The road spilled out into a wide open square surrounding a rectangular pool and fountain, but the golden statue in the fountain lay in pieces in the muddy water, and half the buildings lining the square had crumpled against one another, not quite falling into the road but threatening to do so at the first stiff wind. Their broken windows glinted in the sunlight, and their splintered doors creaked in the gentle breeze. A deep, jagged chasm had opened in the earth, slicing like lightning across the wide marble stones paving the square on the south side. Zerai gave the chasm a single look and steered away to the far side of the square.
A few minutes later he found his destination. The Sanctuary of Arrah was a pale gray building, set back from the street by a long rectangular portico filled with sun-drenched benches and tables, and two paths leading to the veined marble doors. All the walls and columns and window casements were adorned in intricately carved circles and ovals that conspired together to form other, more wondrous shapes and patterns as the observer looked closer, or stepped back to see it all at once.
Zerai merely glanced at the decorations, taking care to note the recent cracks in the paving stones and the walls, and knocked sharply on the stone doors. He paused, then knocked again. When no one answered, he pushed the doors open and stepped out of the sun and into the cool shadows of the library, saying, “Is anyone here?”
He was answered by a soft chorus of hushing sounds, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he saw that the interior of the sanctuary was one vast circular chamber capped with a simple dome that admitted the sunlight through six curving windows, all but one of which were broken. But in the pools of light below the dome, there were many tables and seated at each table were a handful of men and women, each one bent over a scroll or tablet or leather-bound book.
Zerai looked left and right for some sign of a person in charge, a person to speak to, but none seemed to be nearby, so he walked up to the first table and tapped the first reader on the shoulder. “Excuse me. I’m looking for an Arrahim.”
“Then you’ve succeeded,” the young man said, looking up in weary exasperation. “We are all Arrahim. And judging from your clothes, you are… from Naj Kuvari, yes?”
Zerai nodded as he moved sideways into a shaft of bright sunlight, because Iyasu had once explained that a seer could see more in the shadows than in the light, and right now he wasn’t sure that he wanted any or every seer to see Nadira too clearly.
“But you’re not a Razielim, I take it. The ang
el didn’t take you? That must have been disappointing. Still, you seem to have kept yourself busy.” He nodded at the child. “I suppose you’ve just arrived with a group of healers from the green city. That’s good. We need them, badly, as you can imagine. Not sure that we need the girl, though.”
Zerai frowned. This young man wasn’t much older than Iyasu had been when he first met the little seer, but he didn’t remember his friend being this unpleasant. “Is there someone I can speak to, someone in charge?”
“Naturally.” The youth rolled up his parchment, slipped it under his arm, and walked away, heading for an alcove across the room.
The falconer followed.
“You’re looking for a book? Some particular information?” the young Arrahim asked.
“Not exactly. It’s… private.”
“Mm.” The youth stopped at an open doorway, gestured to it, and then promptly strode away, back toward the central chamber.
Zerai raised an eyebrow and knocked on the frame of the doorway. “Hello?”
“Hello?” A middle-aged woman looked up from behind a small desk. She was surrounded by books sitting in piles on the floor, and Zerai saw that the wall behind her was cracked and the broken edges of several book shelves were spearing out into empty space just above the woman’s head.
“Excuse me. My name is Zerai Saqir. I’ve just arrived with the healers from Naj Kuvari.” He came into the room and stood by the desk. “And I’m looking for someone who can help me. It’s a… personal matter.”
The woman didn’t seem to hear him. She didn’t even look at him. Her dark green eyes were fixed on the child in his arms. After a long silence, the woman asked, “Where did she come from?”
Zerai looked down at Nadira. “Odashena.”
“But she’s not a djinn, not quite, but not quite human, either.” The seer stood up and came around the desk, her eyes never leaving the child’s face.
“I know. Her father was a djinn, and her mother was human.”
Now the seer looked up at him. “I didn’t think such a thing was possible. But there’s more to tell, isn’t there?”
Angels and Djinn, Book 3: Zariel's Doom Page 11
