The Legend of El Shashi

by Marc Secchia

  “Better a friend than an enemy,” I chuckled, secretly riled at the capacity of this blind woman to deduce the expressions upon my face.

  She worked her hand free and laid it upon her lap, rubbing her fingers where I had gripped them. I wished I had taken more care with my augmented strength.

  When she spoke, it was with a quiet gravity that sobered me at once. “I spoke the truth. Eliyan fears that should you return, it would be the end. The Sorceress would be irresistible; availing herself of all the power you have stored in the Wurm. Who could withstand her, then? Eliyan charged us to stop you … before that day.”

  “But … Amal …”

  “She believes you can break the curse. And Eliyan? He has lost faith, I fear.”

  I pressed the tiller with my elbow, sweeping us around another lazy bend of the Nugar River. Eliyan, First Councillor and Sorcerer, had always struck me as a river of mysterious depths. Now I knew that his stillness hid rapids, too; doubts, and decisions birthed in necessity. Oddly enough, I understood why he wanted to have me killed. I just did not understand why he demanded P’dáronï be the instrument of his will. Had she wanted to, she could have finished me a dozen times already. Yet she had withheld. What did this portend? Necessity, belief, or love?

  Mata, grant me strength!

  “And P’dáronï of Armittal?” I murmured, after a time. “What does she think?”

  “You!” she hissed. I flinched as though she had slapped me. “Do you have to make everything so difficult? The fate of an entire race hangs in the balance and El Shashi, he who walks with the Gods–he would prattle on and on about the feelings of a worthless slave from Armittal.”

  “P’dáronï–”

  “Stop saying my name, you impossible man!”

  “Very well. Beloved of my quoph–”

  “Nor that! I’ve a Warlock’s training, I warn you. I can carry out Eliyan’s orders in a heartbeat.”

  My quoph sang an old Roymerian drinking song I barely remembered: ‘… like a torfly bit me in the neck, like a jerlak struck me to the deck! Must be love!’ But I balked at pressing her further. Instead, I gentled my voice in reason, “Then what should I call you, woman? I’ve a thousand names. Will you forbid them all?”

  “Tend the tiller before you run us into the bank.”

  I searched her face for clues. “We are in the middle of a flow a hundred paces wide if it’s a dyndigit, the rapids are three days sailing distant, and the Wurm is a league behind. Suthauk smiles upon us. And I don’t give a brass terl for Eliyan’s orders. You won’t kill me.”

  P’dáronï tilted her chin at me, a sharp little point of negation. “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because the jerlak saved us.”

  My answer rattled her; I read that from how her pulse leaped against the delicate arch of her neck. “And you believe some animals–”

  “–carried us to the bank of the Nugar when we were no longer fit to walk.” Perhaps she had expected me to declare my love once more; this course seemed fraught with danger for reasons beyond my grasp. Convicted by a sudden inspiration, however, I added, “Ay, P’dáronï-nish. There are greater forces at work in our lives than you or I imagine. Greater than that Wurm chasing us. Your job, and mine, is to find out why.”

  P’dáronï smiled thinly, and her measured reply maddened me. “A majority of Sorcerers would argue for a simpler solution. A swift end to doubt; an end to Jyla’s surpassing power.”

  “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you!”

  “Would you prefer that I lie?”

  I made a rude noise in my throat. “You remind me of nought so much as Jyla when you discuss death so coldly.”

  P’dáronï squeezed her hands together until her knuckles turned white. “Truly told, you wield words as swords, Arlak.”

  My heart thumped up in my throat as I stared at this superb, frustrating, inexplicable woman. I swallowed back my anger and said, “I should have you know that Jyla has not drawn upon the power of the Wurm in anna, P’dáronï. Who says removing me would destroy the Wurm? All you described of Jyla dominating the Eldrik through the gyael-irfa has been accomplished without the Wurm. I should know. I’m connected to the beast. If you believe Eliyan, I am the accursed beast.”

  “You’re a beast if you accuse me of being like that woman!”

  She was fairly trembling. I sighed, “P’dáronï, I apologise. Those were thoughtless words. I haven’t seen you these past twenty anna and we’re arguing, both to the same end. Why? I’m worn out and wounded, and I don’t know what to do but follow this fate to its Nethe-be-cursed end. I feel like some insect with instincts and no brain. But, before I give my life into your hands, I would beg one condition of you. One small thing. And then I will fight you no longer.”

  P’dáronï sighed too, and her shoulders slumped. “Name your condition.”

  At last I saw her inner turmoil, the lack of conviction; her desire to carry out her sworn duty warring with what I hoped was love for me. Ay, how fervently I hoped! “Mark my words well and carefully, P’dáronï of Armittal,” I said. “Do you not think I have many times considered ending my life? When Eliyan bade me hide myself amongst the Fiefdoms, I became as one of the lost, wandering souls, those who roam the lands never finding their way to rest. I dwelled among the Faloxx. I ran from the Wurm. I ploughed the southern deserts. I lived there for a time and in many other places besides–a story with which I shall not trouble you now.”

  “As I told you, I became a monk. Father Yatak joked that I was the worst monk ever to disgrace the inside of Solburn Monastery’s walls. Not for me the life of contemplation, the solitude, the reflection of Mata’s presence in the peaceful, untroubled waters of my life. Always I had to be busy. To take a task in hand. Truly told, to try to forget what had been. But I never could. Twenty anna since I left Eldoran, and still I dream of no other but a woman with golden hair. Beneath the mud you are little changed in appearance, but what of the condition of your quoph, I wonder?”

  Although she sat very still, I sensed that P’dáronï was listening with the entirety of her being.

  “I thought when I rediscovered my family that I should forget you at last–as I had been unable to in the bustle of the Fiefdoms, in the dark of the desert nights, in the solitude of my monk’s cell, and in the scope of my labours as Benok Holyhand. In happiness, at last, should I not forget? Mata’s truth, P’dáronï, it served only as a whetstone to sharpen my memories. I have never been content.”

  “Thirty anna I lost my family. Twenty and more I lost you. What more could a man lose in this life, I wondered? What more could Mata wrest from his grasp?” The breeze had stilled, I noticed, as though Mata Herself were withholding Her breath from the world. “Today, you’ve taught me anew the meaning of despair.”

  She made a soft sound, but otherwise reminded me of a butterfly perched upon her bench, drinking in the golden sunshine until its wings should suffuse with life and flutter her away to pastures new. I groaned within. Would I ever know this woman? Be with her? Grow old with her? I looked to the river banks, to the smooth flow of the mighty Nugar, which flows from the Lyrn Mountains bordering Roymere to spill into the Gulf of Erbon, as if I should somewhere find answers to the pain devouring my quoph.

  “P’dáronï, I remember every detail of our anna together: that day we parted, you called me Arlak-nevsê. Did you mean to call me Arlak-my-soul? Did you mean what you wrote in the books you gave me? Truly told, much water has flowed down the rivers of our lives since. I can accept your feelings might have changed. I must accept.”

  I stood carefully in the boat, and seated myself next to her. I noticed she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. “So, my condition is this. I will place my life in your hands after you kiss me.”

  “Oh, Arlak …”

  “And not upon the cheek as before,” I rushed on, lest I be utterly undone by the import of her gasp. “That is not acceptable. Also, not as though you are some worthless sla
ve and I am the high, and yet the lowly, El Shashi; nor as two persons of peculiar power fleeing from a terrible fate toward another, perhaps even more horrific, future; nor even as Umarite and Armittalese; nor any other nonsense you care to invent to excuse yourself. I want a kiss as man and woman.”

  She sat so still, I almost missed the only part of her that moved. Her lips curved upward. “I thought this was a small thing.”

  “Conditions to the condition,” said I. “Would my name otherwise be Arlak? What say you?”

  “I say you’re a stubborn, demanding jatha in harness.”

  “I promise not to bite.”

  “Oh, so one simple kiss is supposed to nullify my resolve? You flatter yourself, Arlak Sorlakson.” I smiled at the tremor in her voice. She said, “But … what of the Wurm?”

  “I’m not proposing to kiss the Wurm, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  P’dáronï giggled nervously. But, after a long pause, she inclined her face toward mine. A fingertip touch upon my cheek assured her of where my mouth was. She tried to purse her lips for a kiss, but evidently found her body more disobedient than she expected. Her lower lip quivered. Suddenly she sucked in a deep breath, pressed forward, brushed my lips with hers, and jerked back with a tiny cry though she had been pricked by a thorn.

  “I … I … that’s done. There’s your kiss.”

  “I had my eyes closed. Was that a seagull’s peck I felt?”

  Mark my words, I did enjoy her fluttering like a frightened bird at my sally, but I too was gripped with an unexpected attack of nerves. I had intended to be masterful; in charge of the situation. How oft had I, as a man of considerable experience with the daughters of Yuthe–more than Janos would ever have warranted–not vaunted my skills as a lover? But a question flashed into my mind: truly told, what did I know about love?

  As I twined my fingers gently into her hair to draw P’dáronï into my embrace, I felt as though I would never stop falling. A thousand poems have the ulules scribed for such a moment; ten thousand songs would the Hakooi minstrels croon. And yet it was not like that.

  Though we were a man and a woman in a boat on a river, we were lost in time and space and wonder.

  At some point later, I looked over P’dáronï’s shoulder and saw the river’s waters swelling. Even as my eyes widened, P’dáronï murmured against the corner of my mouth, “The Wurm’s coming, Arlak–you dratted … my head is spinning … why can’t I talk a word of sense? The Wurm!”

  I leaped to my feet, staggered to the bench as we rocked upon the swell pushing ahead of the Wurm, and fumbled with the oars. As my first stroke broke the water’s surface my gaze lifted above P’dáronï’s head. “Oh no.”

  “Oh no–what? When will you learn to tell me what you’re seeing?”

  “Twenty anna!” I gasped, thrashing the water with greater fervour than ability. “Closer to twenty-one, on my honour. I’m not in the habit! And P’dáronï, you’re going to kill me anyway. In Mata’s name, what does it matter what I see?” I shipped the oars to make my point. “It’s simple. If you kill me, the Wurm will vanish–”

  “Row! You stupid man, will you–aah!”

  I did not so much catch P’dáronï as tangle with her as she tumbled into my arms. The boat pitched wildly on the rising swell. Above us, a huge ledge of grey-black clouds shifted across the sky as though a mountain had taken wing and turned sideways to sail by, shunting the blue aside with irresistible impetus. Below that, the Wurm’s serrated mandibles glinted with metallic menace. I gazed deep into its throat. All within was the intense violet glow of magic, an immeasurable ocean of power; Jyla’s creation that fuelled her madness.

  The freshening wind swept a sharp tang of cinnamon and lillia to my nostrils. Lightning skittered and crackled with frantic haste between the river banks, the clouds, and the Wurm, but entirely without the accompanying growl of thunder. What filled our ears was the rushing of water and the low reverberation of the Wurm’s passage.

  The sail flapped and filled with the breeze. I lifted myself and P’dáronï together–again surprised at the slightness of her frame–and seated her firmly beside the tiller. I guided her hand to grasp the worn wood. “Hold this steady. If we are to live, my beloved, then do as I say. A little toward you.”

  I trimmed the sail and set us a steady course. The Wurm paced us like a hound upon the scent, for a time keeping level with our vessel as we were forced to snake to follow the Nugar’s lazy meandering, whereas the Wurm simply travelled straight on and true–water, rock or forest, it mattered nought. But, when the river ceased its contortions, the Wurm gradually began to fall behind. I fell to estimating the flood tide of the Nugar with my eyes, and shook my head. Here in the westerly realms of Hakooi, the towns and villages were built away from the water or upon stilts due to the seasonal flooding. But lower down, after we portaged around the rapids, we would face a different difficulty–the Frenjj enjoyed no such luxury. We would have to depart the river and travel overland, or face drowning many Frenjj. I looked back at the Wurm, fully three-quarters of the breadth of the Nugar in this part, and puffed out a breath of air. Would it retreat underground if we left the river? Or would it tear a swathe of destruction across the land instead?

  Two or three makh later, I dared to return to P’dáronï’s side. She rested her head upon my shoulder. “I fear that creature will reshape the world,” she said. “How many days must we run?”

  “Twenty-eight all told. Less what has already passed.” I made bold to slip my arm about her waist, feeling as uncertain as a young buck with his first girlfriend. “If you choose this path, P’dáronï-nevsêsh. But I’m content. I am with you.”

  “And I with you.” She picked chunks of dry brown river mud out of her hair. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this filthy. Do I look bad?”

  “You stink,” I chuckled. “Only a pumphouse will cure the pair of us.”

  “A far cry from the perfumeries of Eldrik civilisation, these Fiefdoms of yours,” she needled me gently. “But riddle me this, Arlak-nevsê. Which evil should I choose? That evil which guarantees the Wurm’s power to the Sorceress, leading to the downfall of the Eldrik? Or that which might mean the Banishment is never broken, and the Eldrik never made whole? Even to wait is a choice.”

  “Ay.”

  But her forefinger smoothed the heaviest of sighs from my lips. Her earlier contrariness was a bubble burst and forgotten. “Do not fret, beloved. Rather, let us spend our makh together wisely. Tell me what Janos squirrelled away in your head–all of it. We must not lose faith. Mata has an answer.”

  I patted my breast pocket. “First, let me read you a letter from Janos, the man whom you saved from Talan’s clutches.”

  Chapter 35: Oh, Woe to Armittal!

  If coincidence in life is a giggle or a farce,

  Irony is a stinging slap.

  Old Roymerian Proverb

  Two and a half days we spent upon the Nugar in the relative comfort of our vessel, and I rode us right through the first cataract on a terrified cascade of prayers. When I had managed to unpeel my fingers from the tiller, I brought us ashore, stepped out of the boat, and said, “I need more sleep.”

  “You’re trembling,” said P’dáronï. “And you’re breaking my fingers.”

  “Sorry. Your clothing is becoming indecent.”

  Her cheeks developed high spots of colour. “So your thoughts inform me.”

  “P’dáronï–I apologise. I am Dissembling.”

  “You are Dissembling very well for a beginner, Arlak-nevsê–but not from me. Especially not when we hold hands. Remember, physical contact makes it more difficult. Our meld is imperfect, and your grasp of the onion will require practice. You require denser layers. The more layers of disguise and subterfuge you can sustain, the better.”

  I grumbled, “To learn in days what the Eldrik learn from birth is not easily accomplished. My onion keeps leaking.”

  The rich effervescence of P’dáronï’s laughter, wh
ich had always enticed me, bubbled forth as a stream tossing itself merrily over boulders. “I love knowing how you feel about me. I’m filled with joy. But for all of our sakes you need to learn to keep private things deep within the onion, hidden beneath many layers.”

  “The problem with onions is that they stink as much as I.”

  “We need to move on.” P’dáronï slipped her slender fingers into mine. “As we decided, let’s run the Wurm through these cataracts and then cut away from the river. I wish we could have flown, like Jyla. She might have a tollish ship below the rapids.”

  I said through our connection. I had learned to temper my power so that I no longer hurt her.

  My communication was laboured and slow; P’dáronï’s in response was nuanced and fluent, almost too swift for me to follow. To think that all the time I dwelled in Eldoran, people were communicating like this all around me! No wonder they had thought me a boor and a provincial dullard.

 

 

  P’dáronï was as able a teacher as I ever remembered–persistent, creative, and always challenging. She dismantled my defences in less time than it takes the eyelid to shutter the eye.

 

 

  We ran or jumped ahead of the Wurm, slowly working out a way between us of covering the maximum amount of ground with a minimum of effort. We would walk or jog together for long makh, buoyed by my ability to soothe our bodies and repair the aching of muscles, joints, and ligaments. During these makh we conversed, trained, and threw ideas about with the enthusiasm of Warlocks training with the fizzing firebombs. P’dáronï pummelled my defences or slipped beneath, through, or behind them, as though all my straining produced nothing but gossamer spider web for her to sweep aside with an impatient waft of breath.