Sennar's Mission

by Licia Troisi

  “What are you trying to say?” Nihal asked.

  “What do I know?” The old man shrugged. “My eyes see, but my mind doesn’t always understand. That part’s up to you.” He smiled. “Anyway, what happened to all that burning impatience of yours. Don’t you have a friend to rescue?”

  Nihal leaped to her feet. “Bring me to them,” she said firmly.

  The old man made his way to the cave’s exit. As she slipped her sword back in its sheath and made to follow him, Nihal took one last look at the stone’s pearly brilliance. It seemed to be calling out to her.

  12

  The Count

  By the time she reached his cell, Ondine was breathless.

  Sennar pressed against the bars. “What’s going on?”

  “They’ve made the decision to execute you!” The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “The people here are afraid of you, and the guards want you off their hands.”

  “It’s not possible,” Sennar muttered. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Ondine was crying now. “Your execution date will be announced tomorrow.”

  Sennar reached his hand through the bars and touched her shoulder. “Don’t cry. Listen to me. Is there any way to stop the execution?”

  The girl dried her cheeks and nodded.

  The capitol square was overflowing. Count Varen’s reception day was a holiday and people from all over the county were pouring in.

  The count, a man somewhere in his fifties, cut an imposing figure. A great and menacing aura seemed to emanate from him, aided perhaps by his broad chest, his thick, sizeable hands, and his bullish neck. The top of his head was bald and shiny, and the few hairs he had left were tied into a thin ponytail with a silk ribbon, in the manner of his countrymen. The grave lines in his face made him resemble a rough-hewn statue, as if he’d been carved from a large stone block with only a few, vigorous hammer strokes. Seated on an elevated bench, he exuded boredom. His distant gaze wandered among the crowd at his feet. Another tedious assembly. Another afternoon of complaints and quarrels.

  There had been a time, many years before, while he was still young and hopeful, when he’d truly believed in his office, when he had been certain his actions would bring about change. He’d dreamed of lifting up his subjects, of forging conscious individuals prepared to make decisions and, perhaps, even govern themselves again as they had in the past. In his annual hearings, he saw an opportunity for growth, but his optimism was rebuffed by the indifference of his people. They wondered what was taking so long, why he couldn’t just dispense grace and punishment the way his predecessors had. The people weren’t after freedom. They wanted to take orders. They wanted someone to kneel before. Someone to save them from the trouble of having to think for themselves. In the end, he’d conceded. He’d become precisely what his subjects desired him to be: a despot.

  That afternoon, he’d already settled a pair of border disputes and a family squabble over a petty inheritance and listened to a string of hysterical wives pleading on behalf of their husbands.

  The count signaled to his spokesman, who stepped forward and announced: “Today’s hearing is adjourned! Exit the square! The hearing is adjourned!”

  “Wait! Wait, I’m begging you! Let me speak!” came a shrill, female voice, persisting until the words reached the ears of the count.

  Someone was pushing her way through the crowd, squeezing through the sea of chests and backs.

  Gradually, the crowd parted and a delicate girl appeared before the count.

  “Come forward!” he called out.

  It was the first time anyone so young had requested a hearing. She could have been his daughter. As the young girl stepped up to the marble podium holding his bench, the entire capitol square fell into a dead silence.

  “My name is Ondine, Count,” she said, gasping for air. “I’m from Eressea, the village just outside of the whirlpool, and I’ve come to ask that you spare a man’s life.”

  The count noticed her trembling. “Is this someone from your family?”

  “No, sir. He’s a prisoner.”

  “And what is his crime?”

  She hesitated. Standing at the foot of his throne, she seemed even tinier. “He’s … he’s from Above, sir,” she said feebly.

  The crowd backed away from the girl and broke into chattering. The count scowled.

  “He risked his life to come this far,” she continued. “He’s a young ambassador.”

  “Has he told you his purpose for coming?”

  “Yes, sir. A tyrant is seeking to conquer the Overworld. And this tyrant, he believes, will soon attack even the Underworld.”

  The count smiled. “My dear child, have you any idea how untrustworthy they are, these people from Above?”

  “No, Count,” the girl blurted. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m only a naive little girl. But this boy’s done nothing wrong. All he’s done is ask to speak with someone in command. He wanted me to show you this.”

  She held up the medallion, which the spokesman snatched from her hands and passed to the count for his perusal.

  On one side was etched a large eye, and the other bore a symbol that the count recognized immediately as the emblem of the Land of the Wind. How could he have forgotten it?—it had been the Land of his ancestors.

  It was the first time Varen had ever stepped foot in a prison—typically, prisoners were brought before him during the public hearings, out in the open—and the reek of mildew growing along the walls invaded his nostrils.

  With a respectful bow, the guard let him in.

  “My apologies, Count, for this unfortunate visit. We have no intention of opposing your decision to condemn this infiltrator to death—”

  Varen interrupted the soldier with a brisk wave of his hand. “Well, then. What exactly are we dealing with here?”

  The guard gave him his report. “He was discovered by two children, just outside the whirlpool, sir. I caught him wandering about in Eressea, and as soon as I recognized him as One from Above, I locked him up in a cell. We believe that someone must have harbored him for some time; no one crosses through the whirlpool unhurt. We’re investigating this further. The guilty parties will be punished accordingly.”

  The count nodded impatiently. “Of course, of course. Bring me to him.”

  In front of the cell stood an elderly sorcerer with long white hair. The count recognized him as Deliah.

  “The prisoner is a sorcerer, sir, but I haven’t had the opportunity yet to assess his capabilities,” the old man rattled. “I took the precaution of stripping his powers with a suspension seal before he could do us any harm, though he’ll be back at full strength again in a day or two. I would recommend executing him before then.”

  “That’s up to me to decide,” Count Varen broke in. “I’d like to meet him now.”

  The guard opened the bars and the count made out a figure in the shadow of the dark cell.

  “What are you standing there for, you imbecile? Bow!” the soldier shouted.

  The count shot a scathing glance over his shoulder. “Treat a prisoner like that again and you’ll be finding yourself another job,” he said sternly. “Go on, now. I’d like to speak with him alone.”

  “But, Count—” the guard began.

  “Go,” he said again, in a tone that did not need repeating.

  The guard consented, followed by the venerable Deliah.

  The count observed the prisoner, who stood stock still in the center of the cell. Ondine had described him as young, but this was nothing but a lad. The count suppressed an instinctive reaction of disgust for the boy’s dark skin, his fire-red hair, and his long, threadbare tunic. “Speak. I’ve come to listen.”

  “Thank you, Count, for granting me this hearing,” the boy began with a firm voice. “My name is Sennar and I represent the Land of the Wind on the Council of Sorcerers. The story I must tell you is a long and painful one. I don’t mean to test your patience, but it is indispensable in under
standing the plight of my world.”

  Once Sennar had finished his tale, the count let out a derisive laugh. “You mean to ask military aid from the very people you attempted to conquer?”

  “Please, listen to me. For the past year, I’ve fought alongside the Army of the Land of the Wind. I’ve watched our youth die by the thousands in the fight for a better future. The situation at our encampments worsens every day. It’s not only the blood, the casualties, the lost battles. It’s the sense of powerlessness, of discouragement. We’re at the end of our strength, Count. We will lose this war, it’s clear. Which is why I’ve come here. We’re outnumbered, outmatched by the Tyrant, and his army will stop at nothing. All we have left is the will to resist surrender, the desire to return again to a peaceful existence.”

  “A peaceful existence!” the count retorted sarcastically. “What does your world know about peace? You’re forever putting individual interest before the collective good. This is just one more absurd war to add to your savage history. And you somehow think it’s our business?”

  “Those who I’ve watched die were not concerned with individual interest. They were fighting for the entire Overworld, for the living and the dead, for the armed and the defenseless. This war isn’t like the others. It’s the assault of a single man against all the Lands. Our people are brothers and sisters, Count. Our Lands are the Lands of your ancestors, and their past desire is our present hope: peace and freedom.” Sennar was red-faced, staring intently at the count. “And trust me, the Tyrant won’t stop at the Overworld. If I was able to come this far, what’s keeping his army from doing the same?” Sennar paused to catch his breath. “All I ask is that you let me speak with the king.”

  The count remained pensive for a moment, then turned and stepped toward the cell door. “Guard!”

  “Think about it!” Sennar shouted as the bars slammed shut in his face.

  Seated on the edge of his cot, Sennar thought through his meeting with the count. It had been his chance to save the Overworld, and he’d wasted it. Everything he’d done had been pointless. The risk, the hope, the suffering …

  The bars opened slowly and Ondine entered the cell. The door clanged shut behind her and she stood there, tray in hand.

  “I asked the guard if he would let me come in.” She blushed. “I just thought that maybe … that maybe tonight you’d want some company for dinner.”

  “I’m sorry, Ondine. I don’t feel like eating tonight,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Don’t give in so easily, Sennar,” she urged him. “You convinced me. Why shouldn’t your words reach the count, too?”

  The sorcerer smiled. He was happy, after all, that Ondine was there in front of him, and not standing behind the cell’s heavy bars. He stepped closer. “Thank you,” he said, “for everything you’ve done for me.” He stroked her hair lightly.

  Ondine was startled by his touch, but she remained still.

  Despite the protests of his stomach, Sennar ate. He felt grateful to Ondine—she’d helped him, she’d trusted him, she was there to keep him company in the squalor of his cell.

  Nestled beside one another on the cot, they prattled on for an eternity, as they always did. In the hum of their chatter, the last of daylight faded and on came the abyss of night.

  As the evening dark settled in, Ondine stood. “It’s late. I should go.”

  Sennar didn’t move from the cot. He didn’t want to be alone, not tonight.

  Ondine leaned down, looking him in the eyes. “You did everything you could. The gods will hear your prayers and grant them,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

  Sennar grabbed her by the hand.

  “Please, Sennar …” she whispered, but the sorcerer pulled her toward him and held her as if there were no one else in the world.

  Ondine fell back onto the cot and leaned in to his arms. Sennar could smell her scent, feel her body’s warmth. He kissed her hard and she kissed back, joining him there in that frozen moment. Sennar’s mind emptied. He kissed her greedily, running his hands over her body.

  What am I doing? He let go of her at once, blood rushing to his cheeks, and Ondine leaped off the cot, looking around to make sure that no one had seen. In a rush, she fixed her rumpled clothes.

  “Forgive me,” Sennar murmured.

  She quickly grabbed the tray and called the guard. Then the bars opened and she disappeared into the darkness.

  Sennar hardly slept that night, and when he did his dreams tortured him: battle scenes, his father, Nihal wounded. And then Ondine, smiling above him, her mouth, the softness of her body.

  He was almost grateful when the soldier came to wake him.

  “Get ready. We’re leaving,” the guard ordered.

  Sennar jumped to his feet. Had the hour of his execution come already? “Where are we going?” he asked, his voice tense.

  “To the count. He wants to see you.”

  Maybe there really were gods up there somewhere, watching over. In a minute or two, Sennar was ready. The guard shackled his wrists in heavy chains and led him out of the prison.

  They were met by a crowd. The entire village had gathered at the roadside to see this stranger from a distant land.

  After so many days cooped up in a cell, Sennar was unaccustomed to the light. But though his eyes burned and his wrists ached under the chains’ heavy burden, he still felt a keen sense of renewal.

  They’d only just left the village when they heard the voice of a girl calling after them.

  Sennar’s spirits lifted. “Ondine …”

  The girl was sprinting after them.

  His lance couched, the guard ordered her to stop. “What do you want?”

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “That’s none of your business, you little floozy.”

  At the guard’s words, Sennar could feel his anger mounting. He held himself back with everything in him; it was no time to make trouble. “I’m going to the count, don’t worry. …”

  The guard gave him a violent tug, forcing him to move forward.

  Ondine caught up to Sennar. “What do you mean, you’re going to the count?” she asked nervously. Her chest was rising and falling from the effort of her sprint.

  “Don’t worry,” Sennar repeated.

  The soldier turned about-face and pointed his lance at her waist. “That’s enough! Go back now or I’ll arrest you.”

  Sennar gave her a pleading look. “Please, just do what he says. Go home.”

  “But I want to know …”

  “I’ll tell you everything, I promise,” Sennar said as the guard dragged him away.

  The count resided in a separate ampoule, and to reach him they were forced to cross through one of the long corridors Sennar had noticed from afar. The sea was everywhere: above their heads, below their feet, at their sides. He couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering. Walking along the pathway’s thick glass, surrounded by the water’s deep blue, Sennar felt as if he were swimming and flying at the same time. The guard was forced to prod him along now and then to keep him from coming to a complete stop.

  After a half-day’s walk, they arrived at their destination. The villa featured a sober-looking building sitting on a patch of land raised significantly above street level. They reached the entrance by way of a long flight of stairs, which reminded Sennar of the Academy of the Dragon Knights, in Makrat.

  The guard accompanied the sorcerer into a bare room. Shortly thereafter, the count entered and seated himself on a large stone bench.

  “Remove his chains and leave,” he said to the guard.

  Once Sennar was free, the count beckoned him to approach.

  Sennar obeyed, all the while rubbing his bruised wrists. The brief silence that ensued seemed to last an eternity. His life, the lives of all the inhabitants of the Overworld hung in the balance.

  The count spoke candidly. “Thanks to you, Councilor, I passed one hell of a night. Your words struck me. And it struck me even more that you’ve com
e here alone and unarmed.”

  “From the very beginning, mine has been a mission of peace, Count.”

  “I hardly doubt it. That much is clear. But how can I be assured that your compatriots don’t have other intentions in mind?”

  “You have my word. And you have this.” From his tunic, Sennar pulled the piece of parchment and handed it to him. “A proposal of alliance, signed by all members of the Council. As you can see, the document makes explicit mention of our peaceful intent toward your people. In any case, believe me, our military forces are already so diminished that any attack on the Underworld would be beyond our means.”

  The count stood and began pacing up and down the room. Sennar followed him with his gaze, awaiting his decision.

  At last, he paused before Sennar. “So be it. I’ll transport you personally to the king. Whether he agrees to see you or not will be up to His Majesty.”

  Sennar could hardly contain his joy. “You have no idea how much your decision gladdens me.”

  The count cast him a look of sympathy, though his expression immediately grew stern. “Don’t fool yourself. Convincing him will be no simple matter. The king’s duty is to his subjects first and foremost.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “In our fairy tale, the bad guys are all from the Overworld, do you understand that? The people of Zalenia are raised to hate the Ones from Above. You’re up against an entire way of life.”

  “I have to trust that your ruler will err on the side of justice.”

  “Politics are not guided by justice, Councilor,” the count argued. “Often those with the power to govern are at the mercy of others less concerned for the future. Trust me, I know it well.”

  “Is that really the way you see it? I believe that without justice, all politics descends into meaninglessness.”

  The count shook his head. “I only pray that life may never disillusion you or squelch your enthusiasm,” said the count, taking his leave. “It will be a long journey. We leave tomorrow morning.”