by Brian Braden
“Find the truth.”
Ghalen and Ro-xandra returned only a few moments later. Ghalen held out his arms, burgeoning with wads of leaf-wrapped fish.
A stone settled in Aizarg chest. The moment he feared, but hoped would never pass, had finally arrived.
“Ba-lok, he is one of yours. What do you recommend?”
Aizarg wanted Ba-lok to say something, anything that would allow him to spare Alad’s life. But the sco-lo-ti’s unsure expression gave Aizarg no hope.
Kus-ge touched her husband’s arm. “The food belongs to all the clans. Perhaps it’s best to let the Uros decide.”
“Yes,” Ba-lok nodded quickly, obviously relieved. “The food concerns all clans. I defer judgment to the Uros.”
A shadow emerged from behind the mob. “Did not the Uros decree any caught stealing or hording faced exile?”
“Be quiet, a’gan!” Kus-ge hissed at Virag. “You have no say here.”
“Contrary, patesi-le, I do have a say. My belly growls as loudly as any. Alad stole from me as much as he stole from you. The Uros was clear. We all heard him. Exile should be his fate.”
“No, Aizarg!” Atamoda beseeched. “Don’t do this. Confine him to his boat. Cut his rations to the bare minimum. Do anything, anything, but do not do this. Have we not endured enough pain?”
“Father,” Kol-ok stepped forward. “Alad is my friend. I believe him. Is there another way?”
Arms outstretched, Virag pleaded to the crowd, as if advocating the most reasonable course of action. “Did Alad not know the decree? Is his belly any more important than the orphans? Because that is what he did, he stole from orphans.” Virag raised an eyebrow toward the heap of fish in Ghalen’s arms. “And it appears he’s been stealing for quite some time.”
Tears rained down Alad’s face, mucus running from his nose, as the man-child search Aizarg’s eyes for any sign of mercy.
Aizarg knelt down. “Why did you steal?”
“I didn’t! Please believe me, Uros. I don’t know how that food got there. You must believe me.”
Aizarg turned to Ghalen, Okta and Levidi, who stood behind him. “What do you counsel?”
“We’re all hungry. If we let one steal, what will stop others?” Okta whispered.
“I have men guarding the food day and night, but Alad was one of them.” Ghalen said. “He must have taken the fish during one of his shifts. I should have been less trusting. I am partially to blame for placing you in this situation. I am sorry, Uros.”
Aizarg shook his head. “Alad’s choices are his own.”
“I support you regardless of your decision.” Levidi put his arm on Aizarg’s shoulder. “But the fish will return. We should remember that.”
The eyes of the Lo nation fell upon him, their weight every bit as heavy as the power in the staff.
Aizarg realized he’d left the rod on the Köy-lo-hely. He flexed his right hand, craving the staff’s weight.
If I delay, the decision will only become more difficult.
Alad stole the food, of that Aizarg had no doubt. The people wanted a decision, a quick resolution. If he delayed there would be grumbling, and judging by the rage on their faces, perhaps even violence.
“I will return this to the Supply Barge,” Ghalen said turning away.
“Stop.” Aizarg took three fish cakes from Ghalen. “After you return them, ready the most seaworthy boat you can find.”
Alad released a mournful wail and pressed his head to the deck.
Atamoda slid between him and Aizarg, as if shielding the boy. “Reconsider! This is irreversible. There is no exile to a marsh teeming with life, a meal as simple as an upturned root, or a fate as a Scythian slave.” She pointed to the Deluge beyond the canopies. “This is death.”
“There is no other way.” Aizarg summoned all his strength under her withering gaze.
“There is always another way.” Atamoda sank to the deck and cradled the boy’s head in her lap. Alaya and Su-gar joined her, but Alad drifted beyond consolation. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he sobbed into her lap.
“The mighty Uros lets the sea do his dirty work.” Atamoda glared up at him. “You might as well take a knife and slice his throat now.”
Never before had Atamoda looked upon him with scorn. A great weight settled on his chest, a dreadful pressure squeezing his heart.
“The Uros has spoken.” With an impassive expression, Kus-ge turned away. Without a word, Ba-lok and the rest of the Minnow filtered away, abandoning one of their own to his doom.
Virag grinned and bowed before melting into the shadows.
Aizarg knew he’d made a mistake, one from which he could not escape.
And neither could Alad.
Someone brushed against him. He looked down to see Sana staring up at him, steel in her eyes. She whispered forcefully where only he could hear. “If you love your people, show no remorse!”
The Scythian girl vanished through the rain curtain.
***
Ba-lok pushed Alad’s boat away into the rain with only three fish cakes, a canopy, and a small bailing pot. By Aizarg’s decree, they denied Alad a paddle or a sea anchor, anything which could provide him steerage to return to the arun-ki.
Kol-ok held his mother, who would not look at Aizarg. Silent tears streamed down Atamoda’s face as the boat slipped away into the downpour.
Alad’s screams floated across a flat sea for two days, penetrating the rain and settling across the arun-ki like a vengeful spirit. At first, he begged for mercy, calling upon the Uros to take him back. As the first night fell, his pleas turned to curses against the Uros, Doinna and the Lo, each accusation a dagger.
Crying unceasingly, Atamoda never left the Supply Barge, trying to shut out Alad’s voice. Furious at Aizarg, she could not eat. Occasionally, Su-gar or Alaya kept her company, but little conversation ensued. Even Bat-or spent most of his time with Sana.
Throughout the second day Alad’s voice faded, perhaps to the south, perhaps the west, Atamoda could not be sure. In the end, Alad only repeated his mother’s name over and over.
A prayer, a hope, a delusion...Atamoda did not know.
A powerful storm rolled down from the north, finally summoning the Uros from the Köy-lo-hely. The men fought wind and sea throughout the night and well into the morning. By dawn, the tempest had washed away three stormwall boats and two Minnow boats, though no one perished.
While others settled to sleep, hungry and exhausted from the night’s battle, Atamoda knelt on the downstream edge, straining to hear Alad’s cries. But the storm had washed the Minnow boy away.
To her left, a boat slipped away into the rain. She couldn’t see the fisherman clearly, but knew by the way he paddled, it could only be Aizarg.
Sana joined her and put her feet in the water, softly splashing with her heels. They both sat in silence until Atamoda finally spoke.
“You think we’re weak, don’t you?”
“I am not Lo. My ways are different.”
“Your people embrace death. You are hard.”
“My people did what was necessary to survive. You have been kind to me, Atamoda. I will not speak ill of you or your people.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because he cannot be here.” She pointed to Aizarg’s ghostly figure in the distance, throwing and retrieving his net.
“I see.” Anger flashed in Atamoda’s heart at the haughty girl who assumed she could council a mother and wife.
“You are angry at me.”
“I am not.”
“You are also a bad liar.” Sana grinned in a knowing way, with eyes far older than her young, strong body deserved. “All of you Lo are bad liars...” her grin suddenly vanished. “…almost all of you.”
Sana pointed to Atamoda’s necklace. “What is that?”
“It is called a li-ge.” Atamoda lifted it from her chest.
“May I touch it?”
Atamoda hesitated for a moment, wonde
ring why the a’gan wanted it. Then she lifted it over her head and placed it in Sana’s palm.
The Scythian lightly traced the stone where the white and black symbols intertwined into one complete circle. “‘There is peace when the souls of man and woman flow together like water.’”
The Scythian’s knowledge of the Lo proverb surprised her.
Sana held the amulet tenderly, almost lovingly, before giving it back to Atamoda.
“I did not mean too insult you by interloping in your affairs,” Sana said. “I am your captive and have never known a man’s love.”
“You’re not our captive, I’ve told...” Atamoda interrupted.
Sana held up her finger. “I am a captive, but I have come to call you friend. I have come to love Ba-tor like a brother and will lay down my life to protect him. This is why I tell you these things.
“I am the daughter of Sawseruquo. A mightier war chieftain has never lived, nor a wiser one. A Scythian war council is a gathering of wolves, men who kill as easily as others breathe. To lead such men, my father had to be a wolf among wolves.” She leaned closer to Atamoda. “My father killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of men. Many skulls rattled against his saddle. But he killed not for conquest, or gold, or pleasure, though many of my people did just that.
“My father killed to protect what he loved, his family and his tribe. The Uros killed to protect what he loves. He is a great man.
“He killed to protect you. He killed to protect Ba-tor, Kol-ok and everyone aboard the arun-ki.
“Great men only truly fall when abandoned by those they love.”
Atamoda’s knees suddenly ached, arms heavy with the memory of her battle against the demons. The screams rose in her mind, fresh and terrifying, as did the terrible decisions she made during those dark days.
“I’ve hurt him,” she whispered.
“My father once told me that demons cannot rend what forgiveness has fortified.”
Atamoda couldn’t reconcile such a hope-filled message with a people as bloodthirsty as the Scythians.
“A Scythian war chief said that?”
“My grandmother did. Her wisdom was cherished among my tribe.”
Atamoda reached out and took her hand. “I would have liked to have met your grandmother.”
Sana smiled and stood to go, but looked back at Atamoda.
“Kus-ge...”
“What of her?”
“She walks like a Scythian.”
***
From a patched boat, he tossed the net into a sterile sea. Skin numb and clammy under the rain’s torment, Aizarg needed to throw the net. With every breeze, Aizarg imagined he heard Alad still crying in the distance.
Levidi tried vainly to discourage him from taking a boat alone, asking what they would do if something befell their Uros.
He’d sent enough men out looking for fish, he told Levidi. Now came his turn.
Obeying his own edict, Aizarg remained within a spear throw of the arun-ki. The braziers flickered brightly through the sheets of rain. The arun-ki seemed to sit lower in the water than he remembered. The raft and boat deck lines seemed closer to the flat surface.
He heaved the net, watching the stones spin outward into a nearly flat circle. Aizarg kept the tag line just slack enough not to interfere with the spinning net.
Down the net sank until the line pulled tight.
Twenty feet and no bottom.
He wondered if it even had a bottom.
The rain continued its unending dance on the water. Many of his people hated the Days of Rain, because the unending roar on the flat water grated on their nerves, stoking tempers.
Hand over hand, he retrieved the empty net, dangled it over the side and gave it a little shake to clear any snags.
Sana’s words still haunted him. Those were the first words she’d spoken to him since they reunited with the clans. He knew she’d been spending a great deal of time with Atamoda, but her uninvited counsel surprised him.
Setenay’s voice. He’d yet to tell anyone of Sana’s relationship to the Isp.
Atamoda still didn’t know. Aizarg wasn’t sure if he should tell her.
Once again, the stone went spinning. Once again, the net emerged empty.
Sarah’s voice.
The Mourning ceremony did nothing to salve the wound in his heart. Aizarg didn’t talk about the girl who would have been Atamoda’s daughter, and she didn’t ask. Aizarg wanted to talk about her, tell her about the girl who should not be forgotten. The proper time, the right moment, never materialized.
Pull.
His thoughts drifted to Ba-lok and Kus-ge. He knew plots festered with those two. To what purpose he didn’t know, but suspected Kus-ge wanted control of the food.
And then there remained the question of Virag.
Why did I spare him?
Aizarg asked himself that question every day since finding the slaver.
Throw.
Aizarg wondered if mercy had a place in this new world.
Pull.
The stone sank and the line pulled tight, the empty net collapsing somewhere below the boat. Aizarg didn’t pull it in this time. He stared at the raindrops dancing off the water, the memory of Atamoda’s scorn cutting new gashes in his spirit.
She hadn’t spoken to him since Alad’s banishment, sleeping on Levidi’s raft.
He saw more than scorn in her eyes.
Disgust.
A gust of rain shook him from the trance. Aizarg looked up to realize he’d drifted a considerable distance from the arun-ki. The downpour slackened to a drizzle, and the rain curtains parted. For a moment Aizarg had an uninterrupted view of the entire expanse, horizon to horizon. He slowly turned about, searching the horizon for any sight of land.
The arun-ki appeared as a piece of flotsam adrift on an eternity of water. The view overpowered him, much like the great wave had, though now he didn’t have the power of the Nameless God to save him.
Shaking, Aizarg slowly sank to the bottom of the boat, which had begun to fill with rainwater. Head in trembling hands, he began to sob.
“God of the Narim, take this burden from me. I am only a man. I cannot do this, not without her! Take everything, but don’t take her.”
To the south, a peel of thunder answered his prayer. The rain intensified and cloaked the arun-ki from his sight.
***
Sana departed and Atamoda returned her attention to Aizarg’s boat.
He had drifted considerably farther in the time she’d looked away. Her stomach twinged as she made her way to the arun-ki’s southeastern corner where she could better see his boat.
Thunder rumbled to the north, the light shower transformed into a blinding downpour and Aizarg vanished.
***
Aizarg sat in the boat, now filling with rainwater like a tub. He knew if he tried to paddle blindly, he could end up farther from the arun-ki. The same current that carried the arun-ki also carried him. Aizarg picked up the small clay pot floating at the bottom of the boat and began to bail. As fog formed from the downpour, it enveloped him like a white, featureless wall.
The rain slowed to a light mist, and the fog pressed in.
Aizarg ceased bailing and looked about, his breath floating away in heavy puffs.
Somewhere in the mist he heard a loud huff, like a sudden deep exhale.
I am not alone.
“Okta?” Aizarg thought for a moment and called out again in both hope and fear. “Alad?”
A strong musky, animal smell assaulted him. At first he couldn’t place it, but, as with many odors, it instantly transported him to another place and time. He remembered being a young man, crouching in the reeds, watching unseen as a Scythian raider wandered the edge of the marsh seeking easy prey.
A horse!
A billowing image transformed against the foggy curtain. The shape slowly gelled into the gray silhouette of a man on horseback.
How can this be?
“Who are you? What do
you want?” Aizarg shouted.
Where the figure’s eyes should have been, two blue lights blazed into existence. Aizarg covered his eyes, the terror of the ice fog rekindled anew.
He found the courage to look up. The shadow rider had vanished, the air once again clean and as sterile as the sea.
The fog parted, revealing the arun-ki floating only a few yards away.
***
Atamoda watched as Aizarg tied his boat alongside Okta’s raft.
She snared him in a tight embrace. “You vanished in the rain! I thought I’d lost you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
He ran his hands through her hair and considered her as if seeing Atamoda for the first time. “Forgive you for what?”
“For not supporting you. You are not alone, husband.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her head into his chest.
Aizarg lifted her chin and kissed her.
He held her hands, rubbing them, gazing down at his feet.
“Wife, I want to talk about something. Something we haven’t discussed.”
“Anything.” She searched her husband’s eyes, thankful for this second chance the Nameless God had given her.
“Sarah...”
34. The Traitor’s Arms
“Leviathan treated me like a brother. You bring me here, seduce me with scrolls and exotic herbs in hopes I will betray him. I should strike you down!”
I wanted to strike him down, to forget all Amiran said and never hear him speak ill of Leviathan again.
Amiran stepped toward me and crossed his arms, just as he had defied Quexil. “You are starting to sound like him. Does the delightful venom of this place infect your heart so completely?
“I listened to how you speak of Cin and your beloved Nushen. I took a chance you spoke truthfully, that you were different than the Sons of Poseidon. I am a servant to the truth. If my words offend you, great god, then I was wrong, and my life is of no further consequence.”
He paced around the long table, caressing the linen covered objects.
“Most of the clever contraptions you’ve seen thus far, like my spectacles, are toys Scholars fashion in our spare time; amusements and diversions. Let me show you the true fruits of our labors, why Leviathan and his brothers suffer our existence.”
