by John O.
Zach Sen was aware that his leader had just saved him the trouble of commenting on his feelings for Rahel. With a grateful smile, he returned to the Hall.
14
A befuddled Oracion navigated her way through the complex maze of over a thousand books. She couldn’t quite place her finger on it, though she suspected that the clue was no more straightforward than it seemed. She knew little of Icasa history and her only hope was that the true tree was in no way related to a family tree of some sort. She had been through nearly one hundred books already, and it angered her that Hinary Rosento had seen to it that the books were arranged in no particular pattern. A wide variety of books existed here; from benign prose to poetry, historical accounts to medicine. Until now, she had not known that the Icasa were truly an advanced community long before Hinary discovered the Island. In time, curiosity got the better of her and as a result, she picked up a book that appeared to document a civil war between multiple Icasa communities that, in the end, resulted in an unprecedented depletion in their population.
In what seemed to be five hundred years before the arrival of the migrants, the Icasa existed as societies scattered freely, each ruled by a council of elders. Each society excelled in a craft and bartered with other societies as a means of livelihood. Inter-societal unions were commonplace, with no strong feeling of allegiance to any one particular society. The population density was evenly spread along the coast lines, while the central region was virtually uninhabited. Peace reigned supreme so none at the time could foresee what was to come, not even those who had the Sight.
It came to pass that a certain council elder, Bakura of Nukamchi, who had nurtured an ambition to ascend to the helm of affairs throughout the Island, hatched a plan that would eventually deteriorate the peace that was taken for granted. In time, he roused his entire clan to his cause and they secretly began to develop advanced weapons of warfare. When the time seemed right, they launched an attack on the nearby Tsubana clan and virtually destroyed their entire region overnight. As directed by Bakura, the Tsubana men were slain while the women were raped and taken for slave wenches. When word made way to the other clans of the Nukamchi aggression, there was little the nearby clans could do, as many were not equipped for warfare. Without restraint, the Bakura onslaught continued along the Northern coastline, decimating all who stood in their way. The carnage soon attracted crows from alien lands that came alive and fed to their fill on a daily basis at a time now referred to as the Crows’ Hour.
And that was how the northern clans continued to fall; the Mazuki, the Rivosha, the Libaku, all previously buoyant clans now laid to waste. What Bakura did not realize was that his victories had so intoxicated him that the strategy that had won him so many battles would begin to prove ineffective as the southern clans rallied together in anticipation of his arrival. The Nimusha, a southern clan that dealt mainly in lumber and woodwork were particularly influential among their peers and, soon, the southerners rallied around their leadership and began to develop complex warfare tactics. A particular type of wood, developed from the Washiwa tree, as hard as a rock but malleable as metal, proved to be pivotal for the south as they crafted all varieties of aggressive and defensive weapons that would prove too powerful for Bakura and his men, whose weapons were made of much less durable materials. The clash that ensued left scores dead, for in addition to the lives that were claimed in battle, diseases and famine began to take their toll. Eventually, the blights became so intense, that the war naturally waned as the remaining inhabitants retreated into solitary confinement in an attempt to avoid falling to the inexorable contagion. In the end, an island of what used to be over forty thousand people was reduced to a mere three hundred. As is typical of mass extinctions, after the dust settled and the blights ceased, the leftover populace embarked upon an excruciatingly slow recovery; so slow that by the time Hinary Rosento arrived with his throngs, there was nothing they could do to withstand the might which he used to transform the Island to his vision of a nation.
Oracion was amazed at how poor her knowledge was about the Icasa. The story had shed quite a bit of light as to why the Icasa were the way they were in present times. Will the Aishe learn that his plan could deteriorate Lionea as Bakura’s had done in the past? she wondered. Not likely. For unlike Bakura who employed outright aggression, theirs was a plan so subtly crafted out, that the nation wouldn’t blink an eye during its transformation to the Aishe’s vision, she concluded. Besides, with the advent of metals which pervaded the entire island, it was virtually impossible for any one province to annihilate another. Rare trees, such as the Washiwa she had just learnt of, would be no game changer in this world and, hence, only full exploration of the ‘Arts’ could prove useful as the Aishe had suggested.
That was when it hit her. Rare tree. Books were made from materials extracted from trees. “From a branch it comes, but grows not on trees. Yet from the one true tree, wherefore it comes.” Was it possible for a book to be made from a tree that bore hard materials suitable for warfare? She concluded that while this was unlikely, what was plausible was that the cover of the book could be made in such a material in order to better preserve the internal content. Furthermore, to waste such a material on a book could only mean that the content was too valuable to allow degradation with time. Excited and simultaneously worried that her body would soon call her back, Oracion set out to find the book she sought by examining the cover of every book arranged row after row in the massive vault. She hoped that the book was unique in its cover as she no longer had time on her side. With luck, she discovered the almost indistinguishable book hidden within a set of scrolls and manuscripts on the six hundred and thirty-fourth row she had checked. Relieved, exhausted, and excited, Oracion spoke words of enchantment that enabled her extract the content of the book into her mind and proceeded to make her way back to her hideout. Later, she would sort through the information to satisfy the areas for which she had immediate need.
Set, Sin, and Jin hurriedly made copies of the painting as Set had ordered. Sin could not understand the need for the rush but decided against questioning his leader. Bored with the doldrums, he decided to strike up conversation.
“Set, we are yet to know what caused you to depart Lionea. Do you mind sharing, lest I lose my mind making these copies so you can please your newfound darling princess?”
“Leave? How I wish. Truth is I barely escaped! I will tell the story later, perhaps in our cabin on the morrow. For now though, let’s finish these copies before nightfall. It never pays to disappoint a lady on your first promise,” he replied offhandedly as he focused intently on the task at hand.
Surita Stone was intrigued by the tale she had just heard. When Sido took her before his mother, Osaio had begun by recounting a part of Icasa history she hadn’t heard before. She had no idea how ignorant the migrants were about the Island they had effectively appropriated. How vile were the Nukamchi to have reduced the Icasa to such a miserably low population in comparison to what it once was.
“How come I have never heard this before? Icasa history is a compulsory training aspect for people of my rank. I’ve always thought myself to be well versed in your people’s lore. So where is all this coming from?”
Osaio Minabi nearly spat, “What history? The accounts that depict us as an unintelligent lot who were too dim-witted to explore the riches of the Island? History is often subjective and written in the biased views of the conqueror. Hinary new nothing of us, and if he did, he chose to bury it along with all our works in whatever place he did. We were a vibrant culture, rich in arts, crafts, and even literature. That man, no offense to your people, all but denigrated us in order to found his precious Lionea. Be that as it may, we have come to accept our lot in your society. After all, we have cross-bred so much that only vestiges of our original culture remain.”
“I see. I must find out more, when all this is over. However, what I do not understand is why you have told me this. How is this aspect of your history conne
cted with my current plight?”
“That, I cannot truly say. What I do know is, for whatever reason, the Nukamchi are after you. You see, after the war was over, the Nimushan leaders worked at weaving certain arts into its remaining population; arts that enable us to sense when the Nukamchi may strike again. Over years, the effect has waned and with the cross-breeding and near Nukamchi silence, only very few of us can still discern the sense. While I know nothing of what they may be plotting, I do know that you must feature in it somehow. In contrast with what Sido would have you believe, my main goal in keeping you here was to figure out a way to hide you from them. For whatever it is they are plotting, it is sure to end with bloodshed. As a Nimushan, I think it my duty to put a cog in their wheel, irrespective of how small it is.”
Surita was surprised, for she couldn’t see any connection between her and the Nukamchi. “Are you absolutely certain? There is no apparent reason why I would be hunted by them. None whatsoever!”
“Mother,” Sido ventured, “perhaps you can touch her and divine more information that may help us. A face, a name, anything at all.”
“I might be able to try, that is if Surita is willing to let me,” Osaio regarded Surita as if to seek her permission.
A reluctant Surita nodded slightly with a resigned countenance which clearly showed her understanding that the situation could not be helped.
Placing a finger at the center of Surita’s palm, Osaio shut her eyes firmly and began to sing an eerie song that raised the hairs on Surita’s back. After what seemed to be an eternity, Osaio opened her eyes with a vacant expression, got up, retrieved some stationery, and began to draw. It was as though she was possessed by a spirit, for though her eyes were open, it was evident that she was focused on nothing. Minutes passed before Osaio’s eyes returned to the present. Smiling at Surita’s discomfort, she handed over the drawing for her inspection.
With a loud gasp, two words escaped the Spyinme’s lips, “Loila Even!”
Morgaine, or whatever she called herself these days, stood in corner of the center city brothel while advertising her endowments to whoever was willing. Unlike the other girls, she wasn’t selling her body for money. Her goal was information; there was nothing more priceless than information from such a closed border nation as Norwaland. Her only regret was the price of dignity that her job cost her. Why wasn’t she as lucky as some of the others who had infiltrated more respectable places such as King Franz XVIII’s palace? On account of her ill luck, she would have to dabble with the soldiers in bed, as she had done for most of the years she had spent in this alien land since the middle of the last war. She was getting older, and soon, she would be cast aside by the brothel owner for lack of lucrativeness due to her obsolescence. When that happened, she wondered what would become of her. Would she be able to make it back home to Lionea? Would she be recognizable? Would she be able to reintegrate into a society she had not seen for years? Questions for another day, she thought as she took a swig from her cup of ale.
This evening, her target was a firmly built blonde soldier who she suspected was resident in the King’s Palace itself. He was likely a treasure trove of information, especially now that there were increasing rumors about a possible offensive on Lionea. Surely, the other Spyinmes who operated in Norwaland must have also heard and sent word back home. Nonetheless, since she was kept in the dark with knowledge only about herself, she had no way of knowing and hence could only hope that her prey would un-guard his tongue after a good time in bed.
With a provocative sway, she made her way towards his table and smiled charmingly. “Hello there, handsome soldier, perhaps I can keep you company as you drink?”
“Be my guest, wench,” he replied passively.
Incensed, she maintained her smile as she took her seat and said, “My, aren’t you quite the grumpy one? If you let me, I can turn your mood around.”
“Oh really? How exactly do you intend to achieve this?”
“In whatever way you want, champion. I can be whoever you want me to be.”
“Will you stay and talk with me then?”
Morgaine could barely contain her joy that this one was going to be easy and she would not have to be defiled one more time on this day. “Of course, if you please.”
He began to relay what happened at the palace the previous day. From the sudden order to prepare for attack, to the equally sudden order to disregard the previous order. It seemed to him that the King was once again blowing hot and cold within a moment’s notice, and this did not bode well for the Nation at large. Morgaine picked up every detail as she tried to make out what could possible be going on in the Palace. Smiling, he concluded by asking, “Any chance you still want to sleep with me after boring you with all these details?”
Morgaine had warmed up to the burly soldier who seemed to be a gentleman on the inside. With a practiced poise, she took his hand, led him to her inner chambers and began to undress them both simultaneously. The sensual touch of her hand seemed to arouse him until he was as hard as a rock. Happy that she still had the touch, she lowered her lips towards his member, eager to please him such that he would become her regular patron and steady source of valuable information.
That was when she felt the brief prick behind her ears. She instinctively tried to raise her hand to feel where it hurt, only to discover she couldn’t move them. Cold horror crept up from within as she realized that her end was nigh. With a surprised look, she looked up at her murderer to see a smile so heartless that it seemed to accelerate her demise.
“Why?” she barely muttered as the poison spread implacably.
“You’re the last of them,” He answered. “Now that we have rid ourselves of you Lionean serpents, your nation will come to know its rightful place as an annex of the great Norwaland.”
With that, the assassin donned his clothes and left the room, oblivious to the choking gasps of the last Spyinme on the shores of Norwaland.
Prisca Foté rode towards the Ispri’s temple alongside two Aisprises in the cool evening breeze. Shortly after waking from her nightmare, she had briefed her Aisprises on what she’d seen, took care of a few things, and prepared to visit the Ispri. She had locked herself in her room for some time in order to gain her composure, after which she preened herself and set out for the Ispri’s temple. The Ispri happened to be right in front of the temple as they rode into the front yard.
“My Father, it gladdens me to see you after so long,” Prisca began.
“So long? Why child, we barely saw each other a few days ago!” exclaimed the Ispri with joy.
“I know. It just goes to show just how fond of you I am.”
“Indeed. And hello to you two,” he addressed the Aisprises who replied likewise.
Switching his gaze back to Prisca, he asked, “To what do I owe this visit?”
“I had a very strange dream, holy one.” She proceeded to narrate all she had seen as she could remember it, shuddering the whole way until she finished.
“This does not bode well, dear child. Isn’t it true that your dreams always come to fruition?”
“Yes Father. Never before have they failed me.”
“To be sure, you saw that he was dead? Did you check for a pulse?”
“Believe me I checked; he was dead indeed.”
“You should know that my dreams also never fail to come to pass. The last dream I had concerning him all those years ago seemed to me as if he was dead. I had this dream before he and his siblings fell ill and, as such, I was almost sure Jorraine Sint would lose all three. The dream came to pass quite alright, but Yosi was not dead. He was just near death as I stretched forth my hands to lift him up. This is why I asked if you were absolutely sure. But then again, you saw him by a gravestone in the cemetery, you said?”
“Yes. It was as vivid as can be.”
“I see.”
After a brief silence, he continued, “My visions, whenever they are centered on a particular person, seem to come to me over a
one-week period, after which I tend not to dream about that person again. It seems to me that the dreams summarize the encounters I am to have with that person all through the person’s lifetime. This held true with my dreams around HN Sen Rosento and his son HN Ruki Sen. In the last dream I had about Yosi, I saw him leaving the Island. If you saw him dead, then how can this be possible?”
Prisca considered both outcomes and surmised, “It could mean that that was the last time you saw him, not necessarily that he wasn’t meant to die on this Island. Although as the HN, he typically shouldn’t leave Lionea. But the trying times ahead, if my dreams are to be believed, could have warranted a temporary expedition off the Island whereby he is murdered upon his return. I really hope my vision fails me this time around, for I do not think I can imagine a world without him.”
“For people like us who have the Sight, we know that whatever will be, will be, despite all humanly efforts to prevent it. Hence, at this point, the best we can do is hope and pray.”
“Yes Father,” Prisca replied in a rather glum tone.
“Not to worry, child. If there is anything we know, it is that the Almighty Spirit does answer our prayers,” the Ispri said as he patted her comfortingly, although deep within, he was just as troubled as she was.
King Franz XVIII sat on his throne, flanked by his mother, first wife and personal advisers. He had ordered all his sons to appear before him for no apparent reason. Since the fiasco at the end of the nine-year war, the King had increasingly grown restless and unpredictable. Benign words would sometimes engender a reaction so severe, that it often resulted in the death of the person who spoke those words. It was for this reason that the room was eerily silent, the only sound being the loud breath of the King.
