The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “Couldn’t make the Governor happy, no more, heh?” Her voice sounded like an untended door, creaking shut.

  Nehrea didn’t answer. She stared at her mother sadly. At one time her mother had been amongst the most beautiful women in all of Nal’Dahara. There had been laughter in their house and love. Now she was a bitter woman, aged before her time by the demands of poverty and the well of regrets she would never empty.

  When Nehrea had last seen her mother, the day she was taken away to the palace, they both had long since given up on ever loving each other as a mother and daughter should. Her mother spent every day of her adolescence bemoaning the turn her life had taken and blaming Nehrea for all that had been lost. Because of her own feelings of accountability, Nehrea had silently accepted her mother’s despite, carrying the burden as a penance she felt she owed. Now looking upon the woman who had given her life, Nehrea could only weep with pity. She didn’t blame her mother for hating her. Not anymore.

  “What’s that? Why are you crying?” her mother sneered. She waved her hand dismissively. “I haven’t got any sympathy for you, girl. Take your sob story and sell it to someone who cares.”

  “I forgive you, Mother,” Nehrea said. She didn’t know how much time this dream would last. She needed to have a reckoning.

  “You forgive me? For what? What did I ever do to you?” her mother asked angrily.

  Nehrea walked over to her mother and knelt in the damp earth beside her chair.

  “For blaming me, Mother. I forgive you for forgetting that as hard as our life became after father was taken, I was still just a little girl who needed her mother’s love.”

  The admonition seemed to startle her mother. She grimaced as though she wanted to slap Nehrea, but couldn’t bring herself to follow through.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, girl. This is all nonsense.”

  “In spite of all the hateful things you’ve said to me, in spite of blaming me for everything that went wrong in your life, and most of all, for giving me over to a man who beat me and raped me night after night for five years, I forgive you. I want you to know that. I need you to know that.”

  For a moment, Nehrea’s mother looked as if she were going to run as she shifted around in her chair uncomfortably, trying feebly to avoid her daughter’s compassionate stare. Then tears welled up in her tired brown eyes. She looked deeply into Nehrea’s face and began to openly weep.

  “I love you mother. I will always love you.”

  She reached up and took her mother into a tight embrace, feeling fleetingly like a little girl again when her mother arm’s wrapped around her firmly.

  “I’m so sorry, Nehrea. I never meant for any of this. I never…”

  “It’s alright, Mother. You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I love you, Nehrea,” she cried.

  When Nehrea pulled away, everything changed, and she found herself standing in front of the kettle of simmering water, alone in her tent. The body of Governor Cantor was gone, not even a trace of blood left behind as evidence that it had been more than just a dream. She looked down at the ladle, still clutched in her right hand, and carefully placed it back in the kettle. Then she fell to her knees and began to weep. Tears fell in waves as she let her body lie on the soft grass that composed the floor of her tent. She cried for the fear she had vanquished when she fought back against Governor Cantor. She cried for the doubts she had answered when she spoke to her Father. She cried for the weakness she had conquered when she forgave her Mother. Most of all, she wept for the woman she had been, and the woman she hoped to become.

  As the wave of absolved emotions swept past, Nehrea stood and confidently faced the door. It was time to begin the next journey of her life. She was to become the Collora, voice of the Dahara.

  ********************************************************************

  Sim’s jaw dropped when Nehrea emerged from the tent. Her naked body, perfectly proportioned, elegantly curved, glistened wetly in the dying rays of sunlight, as the day slid behind the horizon to the west. Her black hair clung from dampness to the sides of her face and neck. She was a vision of pure ethereal beauty, innocence and seduction, harmoniously existing in her short tan frame. He knew he should look away, any decent gentlemen would have, but he could not. He was captivated by her alluring radiance, and confused by the awkward imprecations that bellowed in his mind.

  As she strode toward the open circle, formed among a thousand stoic Dahara, with a confidence that was both unexpected and yet, completely natural, Sim noticed the tears that stained her cheeks. What had she faced within that tent, he wondered? The Mierentheon had been cryptic when Sim questioned him about what would happen to Nehrea when she began to bathe. All Sim knew was that she would be challenged, but he didn’t know what that meant.

  During Nehrea’s time in the tent, the Mierentheon and the Uellade had given Sim instructions on what he must do once the Ritual began and what to expect. He was supposed to draw on his power and add it to the flow of energy that would be created by the circle of Dahara. The Mierentheon had been confident that Sim would do well, but he didn’t know that Sim had little, if any experience, handling the power. To the Mierentheon, Sim was a Harven of legend, and his abilities were an afterthought. Watching Nehrea walk through the rows of horses to the center of the circle, Sim felt as nervous as he could ever remember feeling in his life. He didn’t want to fail.

  He stood with the two great horses in the center of the circle and watched Nehrea step up before them, unabashed by her nakedness. She met Sim’s eyes brazenly as if to welcome his gaze. There was something different about her. She appeared stronger somehow.

  “Nehrea Alla’Dushura,” the Mierentheon called out, in a voice that echoed across the entire valley. “Do you come before us, free of fear?”

  She took her eyes away from Sim and answered. “I come to you free of fear.”

  “Do you come before us, free of doubt?” the Uellade asked with the same booming resonance as the Mierentheon.

  “I come to you free of doubt.”

  “Do you come before us, free of weakness?” the Mierentheon asked.

  “I come to you free of weakness,” she answered.

  As one voice, all of the Dahara spoke in unison. “Can you sacrifice your pride in service to your calling?”

  “I will know no pride,” she answered.

  “Can you serve without shame?”

  “I will know no shame.”

  “Can you purge your heart of envy?”

  “I will know no envy.”

  The Mierentheon and the Uellade trotted to opposite sides of the circle. For a moment Sim stood watching her uncertainly. Then he turned and took a position at the edge of the circle, directly across from her.

  “Dahara, hear me,” the Mierentheon cried out. “Nehrea Alla’Dushura comes before us, naked and humble, willing to sacrifice her own desires for the good of the clan. Do you accept her as your Collora?”

  “Mai thirra day, du Collora,” they answered in one voice.

  Sim couldn’t explain why, but he understood what they said. We name you, our Collora.

  There was a pause of silence. The wind that had steadily gusted across the open valley, suddenly seemed to stop. His own uneven breathing was the only sound that Sim could hear.

  Then a vibration, humming in the ground beneath his feet, began to tickle the soles of his boots. It started low and soft, and for a moment Sim believed it was his imagination. Then the buzz started to gain strength, gently shaking the ground, building from a soft rumble to a bone rattling crescendo. As the Earth shook, the Dahara appeared unaffected, staring solemnly at Nehrea as if nothing were happening. But Sim and Nehrea had to fight to remain standing. They stumbled in place awkwardly, each watching the other with wary trepidation.

  Abruptly, the quaking stopped. Sim looked around apprehensively, wondering what to expect next. Nehrea smiled at him faintly, an arbitrary reassurance.


  Then a glow lit the ground at the feet of every Dahara standing around the circle. Tendrils of light, soft, iridescent, and yellow, rose up from the Earth like thousands of ivy vines climbing the walls of a castle, snaking and curling up the legs of each horse, until their bodies became enveloped. Cast in the light, the horses took on the image of giant fireflies, and as the strength of the glow gained in intensity, the circle merged. Sim could no longer see the individual Dahara. The circle of horses had become one single light, changing from a soft yellow, to a fine white.

  Wind began to swirl, filling the circle, accompanied by an audible hum. Debris from the ground, nothing more than dead blades of grass, twigs and pebbles, joined the sweeping wind, pelting Sim’s exposed arms and face, causing him to shield his eyes.

  The light sprung three arms that reached up into the sky, from points within the circle. Then those arms of light reached down in great arcs, one settling around the Mierentheon, another around the Uellade, and the last encompassing Sim.

  At once Sim could feel the energy. It pulled at him, pushed him, and demanded his strength. He felt powerless and invincible all at the same time. It drove him to his knees, compelling him to submit to its intrinsic puissance. Voices called to him, whispering in tongues he couldn’t recognize, imperative and urgent. He looked down at his hands, glowing with the white energy that flowed throughout all of the Dahara, and marveled. The gem against his chest, began to increase in heat, until he was certain it must be searing and burning his skin, but he felt no pain.

  From the Mierentheon and the Uellade, streams of white light shot suddenly at Nehrea, enveloping her in the energy. Her back arched and her feet left the ground. Impossibly, she hovered, wrapped in power, just above the earth.

  Sim knew that he had to direct his own flow of power at her. He held out his hands and focused on taking control of the massive force of energy that had driven him to his knees. For a moment, it pushed back, enacting dominance, elusive as smoke. But he fought. His every ounce of concentration, every ounce of will, was forced into his hands and formed into a radiant ball of pure light. Then he pushed it toward Nehrea. Like a raging river breaking a dam, it erupted from his outstretched hands and joined the streams that flowed from the Mierentheon and the Uellade.

  Nehrea let out a scream of anguish as the last flow of light took her. Wrapped in so much earth power, Sim could no longer see her. He wanted to run to her. He needed to know that she was alright. But the demands of controlling the roiling flow of earth power, coursing through him like a raging tide, was all that he could stand to manage. If he gave in, relinquished his mastery of the current, he knew he would be swept away and the Ritual would fail. To persevere was all he could do to aid Nehrea.

  The Ritual continued for some time. Sim held onto the power and kept his focus directed into Nehrea as the world around them sank into night. From the strain and exertion, he began to feel as though consciousness were slipping away. Voices called out all around him like the loud, indecipherable chatter of a crowded tavern. He tried to shut out the sound, to remain focused on his task, but could not. The demands of the force of energy became too great, and unable to hold on any longer, Sim let go.

  The world around him melted away, and he found himself floating weightless within a sea of white. Above him scenes played out, one after the next, too quickly to count, too numerous to remember. Though hundreds of scenes flashed before his eyes, he was able to remember only a handful.

  Sarimus sat behind a desk in what appeared to be the captain’s quarters of a ship. He spoke, but Sim heard nothing that was said. Sarimus held a curved piece of metal, the same as the hilt on Sim’s sword, and waved it at a man whose face was shielded from view. Then Sarimus handed the piece of metal over, with doubt plainly etched into the lines of his weather beaten face, and the scene faded away.

  A woman, aged but strong, stood in a snow covered field beneath a sky, dark and heavy with storm clouds. She was wrapped in thick furs, dressed for the cold brutality of winter’s heart. With apprehension she watched the horizon as though she feared what might approach far more than the blizzard that loomed above.

  Maehril ran along a forest road as though something terrifying followed in pursuit. The old man with gills kept pace at her side, a terrallium dagger, glowing white, clutched tightly in his right hand. An overweight boy, not much older than Maehril, also ran with them. He held a magnificent battle axe, engraved with markings and runes. His eyes looked eager, and he alone among the three, appeared emboldened by their situation.

  Farrus and Givara sat side by side at the crest of a gently sloping field, having a quiet conversation. Their hands touched ever so slightly in the grass between them. The sky above them was impossibly split with day and night. The sun shone brightly over Givara. The moon, surrounded by thousands of stars, glowed above Farrus.

  Thousands of men, unlike any Sim had ever seen before, stood mustered on an immense plateau surrounded by mountains. They had pale white, hairless skin, and eyes, unnaturally large and round, and completely black. Their backs were hunched and their long arms caused their fingers to touch the ground beside their feet. One stood at the front of the horde calling out commands which drew a soundless ovation.

  The streets of Carleton were overrun by throngs of rabid people, all with the same cloudy gray eyes and feral faces. Men and women in fineries ran alongside servants and the impoverished in a mad scramble of chaos that made no sense to Sim. They all looked sick and desperate as they trampled those that fell to the ground and pushed each other frantically.

  Nehrea slept in a plain bed, in a small non-descript room. Her dreams seemed troubled as she tossed and turned. All the while, the shadows of two men loomed on the wall behind her, one large, the other small.

  Enaya sat alone in a chair looking out of a grimy, four paned window. Her cheeks were stained with the remnants of tears, and in her hand she clutched a kerchief. Desperation and loss weakened the perpetual fire that Sim had come to enjoy in her sapphire eyes. After a moment of longing, she put her hands over her face and began to weep anew. Something caught her attention from behind because she suddenly looked up hopefully, but the abrupt slumping of her shoulders defined her disappointment.

  The Dahara grazed in the valley Sim recognized from the Ritual of Cerseay. Over the mountains behind them, a single black cloud hovered above the highest peak. Lightening shot down blasting the mountain apart piece by piece. Despite the awesome display of force, none of the Dahara seemed aware that something was happening.

  His old friend Raelin worked intensely on his sword forms alone in a great stone room. As he spun and struck at imaginary foes, bathed in the sweat of his exertion, a thin wisp of black smoke shadowed his every movement. A malefic green light pulsed within the smoke as though the thin cloud were alive with something malign.

  Sim stood before a lake of pure Earth blood deep within an enormous mountainous cavern. Stalactites, glowing with a soft orange light, pointed down from the vast ceiling like sharpened daggers. All across the wide expanse, standing on the surface of the white Earth blood, were specters with warm expressions of welcome on their ghostly faces. Nearest the shore, with his arms reaching out toward Sim like an invitation, stood Sarimus.

  There were so many other visions. Some were of events that he knew existed in the past, others that were possibilities for the future. When he awoke, all of his memories of those scenes slipped away, save for just those small few.

  He found himself lying amongst some warm soft furs laid out on the ground of a tent. A low fire in the center of the tent warmed a large black kettle, which simmered with water. There was a plate of cooked rabbit, a few pieces of hard flat bread, and a wooden chalice filled with milk on a tray next to the bed.

  Sim sat up and looked around realizing quickly that he was alone. For an instant, he wondered what had become of Nehrea after he'd passed out during the Ritual, but the smell of the rabbit impressed upon his voracious hunger, and without thought or care, he t
ore into his meal. He inhaled the rabbit and bread, barely even bothering to chew, then breathlessly swallowed all of the milk.

  When he finished, Sim stood, stretched and yawned. The food had not been enough. Though he felt better having something in his stomach, he still desired more.

  His limbs were weary, and he briefly considered lying back down and falling asleep, but he had questions. Now that his hunger and thirst were under control, the fear that he had failed the ritual began to plague him.

  When he stepped outside the tent, the sky was lit up by the two moons, providing enough light to see. Off in the distance, he made out the forms of a few Dahara lying in the grass beneath the stars. He walked toward them and was relieved to find the Uellade, still awake, resting with several other horses.

  “Your strength has returned, Siminus,” she greeted him. With a swing of her great head, she motioned for him to have a seat. “You are troubled?” she asked when he sat beside her.

  “How is Nehrea?”

  “The Collora is fine. She is resting in her tent,” the Uellade told him.

  “Then the ritual was completed?”

  “Of course. Did you believe that you had failed her?” the Uellade asked.

  Sim didn’t answer. He sat with his legs crossed, picking at the grass off-handedly.

  “I sense infinite strength in you, Siminus, but also much doubt. You must learn to conquer your fears if you hope to fulfill your destiny,” the Uellade said.

  “What do you know about my destiny?” Sim asked, allowing frustration to seep into his voice. He was becoming tired of being reminded about his supposed fate.

  “We are the Dahara, Siminus Kelmor Harvencott. We are the living embodiment of earth power. Though my life will span only three hundred years, my memories will exist throughout the whole existence of my race. I share the memories of the very first Dahara as the very last will share mine. We read the tides of fate in the winds that sweep our plains just as you might read a book. Long ago the winds told us of your coming and what possibilities you could bring to the world. Do you believe it mere chance that you travel with the one who would be named Collora?”