The Legend of El Shashi

by Marc Secchia

  “Die with you, or for you, if needs be.”

 

  “Nay,” she laughed, banishing my melancholy for a moment. “I simply know that this Mata-forsaken land is not where we shall die.”

  “Is any land truly forsaken by Mata?”

  “Had I but known I was pledging my troth to a grumpy old philosopher …”

  I chuckled. And we walked in companionable silence for nigh upon a makh across the sparse, anaemic grasses of the Faloxxian peninsula, before my tongue found the courage to form a simple sentence. “Even Armittal is not forsaken by Mata.”

  P’dáronï bit her lip. I felt a backlash erupt within her, quickly suppressed beneath her Dissembling. But all she said, a trifle coldly, was, “Why do you care so much for the lot of slaves, Arlak-nihka? Is this the El Shashi in you? Seeking to heal all nations of their ills? The Nummandori system of slavery is the way of the world. It is as immutable as … as …”

  “As a healthcare system for every Fiefdom?”

  Perhaps goaded by my prickliness, she muttered, “For a man so patently selfish in his lifetime, that’s a rich cartload of dung to believe!”

  “I have reformed my ways! I’m trying, P’dáronï, mark my words.”

  “And I must trust a man of innumerable casual liaisons–”

  “So why Matabond with me then? Why say the vows? Larathi, woman, now that’s a rich cartload of–”

  “Oh, love is blind? Go on, say it!”

  I drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It is, P’dáronï-nishka. In a sense. In Mata’s name, woman–please hear me out! Don’t you understand that I am helpless before this love I feel for you? I wasted the breath of twenty anna trying to convince myself that this–what we share together, what we breathe and hope for–was impossible. Unwise at best. My will, not Mata’s. A set of false feelings birthed in necessity, which would surely fade and die during our separation. When I left Eldoran, I feared I was worse than some lovesick Hakooi minstrel pining for his beloved. I felt as a young buck in the throes of his first infatuation. I asked myself what Jyla might do to one I allowed into my life, to this vulnerability I have now pledged myself? As she has done before.”

  Before P’dáronï could release the words building within her, I rushed on, “So you’re blind. So what? What does it matter? I love you all the more. So you’re a slave. So what? I own many slaves. What does it matter?”

  “You own slaves? How is that … Armittalese slaves?”

  “The House Telmak,” I replied slowly, wanting nought but to grasp my treacherous tongue in both hands, rip it out by the roots and cast it into Nethe’s hottest flames, “represented by me, holds substantial investments in the slave trade. In Eldoran.”

  Truly told, in all the time I had known her, I had never seen P’dáronï so stunned to silence.

  What misery was mine! I said, “Orik told me there’s a seventy-three percent chance that I–the House Telmak–could own you. I am charged, P’dáronï-nevsêsh, with administering the family’s investments in Eldoran.”

  “Oh, I’m an investment, am I?”

  “An investment for life,” I joked, making to put my arm about her waist.

  “Don’t … don’t you touch me!” P’dáronï stormed off a few paces before turning to shout, “Slave-owner! What were your vows for, then? Why didn’t you just command your slave? Wouldn’t that have been easier than convincing a Hassutl to lend you a priceless heirloom?”

  I followed her, saying softly but intensely, “And would that have been love? For a highly intelligent woman, I swear you’re as dense as a short plank sometimes, P’dáronï-nishka. I am not trading cheap, half-price goods here. I care about you. I care more deeply than you can imagine. This is your life and mine. Truly told, I could have gone to Eldoran and if Jyla didn’t kill or Banish me on sight, I could have bought your scroll of ownership. If, indeed, I did not already own you. And so accomplish what? Turn you into some mistress or kept woman or–no, and a thousand times no! I would have you freely, or not at all! Would you not have hated me otherwise? Would a worm of doubt not come to live in your quoph and rot it from the inside?” I gathered her trembling body into my arms. “Would you not have come to resent the kisses of my lips?”

  “Love does not always mean choice, Arlak-nihka,” P’dáronï breathed into my neck. Her body quaked against mine with the force of her emotions. “There is denial and constraint and sacrifice. I understand. I applaud your choices. Knowing the identity of my owner will simply … or not so simply, I own …” she swallowed. “It will take some getting used to.”

  “I may not even–”

  “But it’s likely, isn’t it?” She softened her words by taking my hand once more. “Very well. I see that my duty is to protect the Son of the House Telmak on his journey through this land.”

  “And to warm my bedroll, slave!” I announced to the world, dropping a kiss upon the crown of her head. “To, uh … well, to show your lord and master how very apologetic you are for starting your first post-marital argument with him!”

  “I did not!”

  “I believe the words ‘snoring lout’ did pass your lips? Lest we forget.”

  “Just as ‘dense as a short plank’ was your memorable offering, husband.”

  “Ah … a ridiculous untruth if ever I uttered one.”

  Her mental tone and its accompanying picture turned me into a blushing, spluttering numbwit.

  How many people have been chuckling like a couple of squabbling lyoms as they set foot upon the wrong side of the Faloxxian border, I wonder? Perhaps only the mad ones.

  Is love not a form of madness?

  Chapter 38: On to Eldoran

  Only a foolish mouse talks to a cobra.

  Old Roymerian Proverb

  We did not slay a single Faloxxian tribesman, I own, upon my honour before Mata and before all peoples. But we did leave many a bruised ego, and a greater number of healings, in our wake.

  After three days upon the Faloxxian plains P’dáronï and I grew weary of trying to convince every strutting tribesman that they should let us pass. They could not imagine two foreigners would so boldly enter their lands. They could not countenance the shame of allowing us passage. My Sy Faloxx tattoo caused disbelief in some quarters and fury in others–from rival tribes. When P’dáronï warmed up her arsenal of Warlock’s tricks it was to discover that subtle hints such as verbal warnings combined with glowing defences, miniature tornados, and localised hailstorms simply did not figure in the Faloxxian mindset. A cockroach the size of a house was a more effective tool, but it did not remain our pet for long. P’dáronï could not sustain the energies required to keep the creature alive. So we fell upon three ruses–invisibility, shooting rocks, and running away.

  We did a great deal of running away. When I tired of running, P’dáronï honed her rock-casting skills on the many subjects that presented themselves as practice targets. Once she mastered the art of calculating the perspective from my eyes, she became quite deadly. I suggested she aim lower than their heads. She promptly broke a warrior’s leg and I had to go heal him.

  When, after P’dáronï had spent a most congenial makh ‘apologising’ to me, I slyly suggested that I should therefore dispute with her the more often, she suggested she should practice with bigger rocks upon my head to knock my ego down to size.

  Eleven days of admittedly swift travel brought us to the territory of the Sy Faloxx, which lay near the westerly zenith of the Faloxxian peninsula. The border was marked with great poles set all about with a collection of skulls dangling from ropes, fencing made of thigh bones, and other such memorabilia. Here my tattoo brought us an amiable welcome. We moved quickly from village to village, exhausting my stores of power upon the pervasive flesh-eating ulcers and burns that had so perplexed and dismayed me before.

  “We’ll bring Eldrik healers back to study this,” P’dáronï vowed. And even her Dissembling was unable
to conceal the depth of disturbance she felt at their suffering.

  We came at last to the end of the Faloxxir peninsula. The weather was cool and damp in this remote corner of the Fiefdoms. The air stank of salt and rotting kelp. How could it be so different from what I remembered? I had once washed up on these shores, chased by a Karak. But I remembered bright skies … was it the season? A change of seas or currents?

  “The Straits of Nxthu,” I said aloud. “They’re narrower than I thought.”

  “Isn’t this the place where Janos’ memories told us that ships require enough wind and the right tide to pass through?”

  “Look with me.”

  I showed her the rocks lurking just beneath the surface, as if they were cunning teeth waiting to chew through the hull of a ship to get at the tasty sailors inside; the way the currents and counter-currents swirled mistrustfully about each other; a whirlpool that had developed not far from where we stood. Fog hung in patches over the scene, stirring as unexpectedly as the currents beneath. A tiny stretch of beach below us appeared to have the ribs of perhaps half a ship sticking out of its sands. I pitied any sailor caught in these waters. They looked treacherous–even on a calm day.

  She rubbed her arms. “P’dáronï-nevsêsh, what is it?”

  “Nothing … I … this is a strange place, Arlak-nevsê, stranger than you or I imagine. What I see through your eyes is a veiled truth. The rest lies hidden. There’s lillia stirring the waters and the fog, I sense, from beneath. And a presence–not bad, but ancient and uncaring–out there. A brooding … presence.”

  I laughed quietly. “To the south, own I aright? Orik called the land on the far side ‘the island that moves’. You’re supposed to steer away from it … what is it now?”

  From the way her fingers clutched me I knew I had spoken hastily. Irritation and tiredness!

  My wife–my wife!–raised her eyes to the horizon. “And that is Eldrik territory beyond? We may require two or even three jumps across the strait. Challenging. Spy me a flat rock, Arlak-nevsê.”

 

  “Come,” she said, brusquely. “You’re dawdling, husband-mine. With that wind you said the Sorceress could generate, she might already be in Eldoran.”

  “There’s no hope she’s at the bottom of the ocean?”

  “No. Not with her powers.” P’dáronï whirled on her heel, searching the lands behind us with faculties I could only guess at. Or did I? I could ask her to ‘see’ in reverse, could I not? That would be fascinating. Almost as fascinating as other distracting things about her …

  “Do you feel that?” she asked abruptly. “Lillia … somewhere behind us. Masses of it.”

  “It’s probably the Wurm. I often sense it even when it’s not chasing me.” I chuckled hollowly, determined not to dismiss her fears a second time. “It’s my shadow. My faithful hound.”

  She clucked her tongue–a sign of aggravation with her, I had learned. “Have you worked out what the Wurm does and where it goes in those times? No? I didn’t think so. Too preoccupied with other thoughts, aren’t we, my abundantly amorous lover?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you’d kindly remove your eyes from my rear end and train them on those flat rocks in the strait, I’d be indebted.”

  “Oh, I was enjoying something much more interesting than those rocks,” I drawled, deciding to make light of matters. Her behaviour was starting to concern me. “Nothing flat about that at all–”

 

 

  And before I could catch my breath, I found myself balancing upon a spray-slick rock a quarter-league off the shore of the Faloxxian peninsula. And P’dáronï was nowhere to be seen.

  “Larathi!” I swore feelingly, scanning the dark waters swiftly. Nothing. “P’dáronï! Hajik Hounds, woman, don’t do this to me …”

  I was being the village nadal. With my mind, I cast about as I had been taught, and found P’dáronï sagging beneath the surface, several paces away from me and being dragged further away by the tide.

 

  But she did not. I sensed the undercurrent pulling her down. She was struggling weakly in her long dress. The material was too heavy. Why didn’t she just push herself up and out? Do something … a Warlock would do? No time for that, Arlak! Casting aside our pack of supplies, I dived smoothly into the water. Not for nothing Janos had taught me to swim even in the freezing mountain streams of Yarabi Vale!

  With a couple of strong strokes I caught up with her. She seemed dazed. Had she struck her head? I saw no blood. Holding her with my right arm, I scissor-kicked and swam with my free arm as best I could back against the current toward our chosen rock. After an inordinate amount of time I managed to gain a foothold. I heaved P’dáronï out of the water and set her down as gently as I could. I clambered after her. The pack … double larathi with jatha droppings! I had lost our supplies. There they went, a small brown dot bobbing away on the current. But I had P’dáronï. Little else mattered to me at that moment. Gently, I slapped her cheek and poured my strength into her. Her eyelids flickered.

  “Oh … I mistranslated …”

  “How in Mata’s name do you do that?”

  She coughed, looking for a moment as though she wanted to vomit, but she did not. “It’s easy if you’re angry and initiate the transfer without a clear target, Arlak-nihka.”

  “But what knocked you out?”

  “Magical backlash. A miscast can be dangerous.” P’dáronï coughed, and rubbed her arms. “Brr! All Warlocks learn that at some point. I’m fine now. Just give me a moment and I’ll think about the next transfer.”

  “You’re shivering. Here, take my jacket.”

  “Arlak!” She began to giggle as she received the garment. “It’s as sodden as we both are. Rather, allow me to demonstrate a Warlock skill you were just dreaming about.”

  Taking my hand, she concentrated briefly and muttered a couple of words I did not recognise. After a few breaths, I was surprised to see our clothing beginning to steam. It took a quarter-makh or so for us to be fully dry–but dry we were, and warm too.

  I burshingled fluidly. “I commend your skills. Can you recreate the supplies we lost? No? What kind of a useless slave-nishka are you?”

  I was not sure she appreciated the joke. I bit my tongue yet again. Three much more careful jumps later, our feet touched the dark sand of an Eldrik shore. I picked P’dáronï up, kissed her tenderly at considerable length by way of apology and relief at her safety, put her down again, swatted the object of my earlier desire with the flat of my hand, and said, “So, how far is it to Eldoran, my scrumptious wife?”

  “Four hundred and thirteen leagues and a couple of trins. Approximately.”

  I waggled an eyebrow at her–mentally. “Approximately?”

  P’dáronï took a couple of paces away from me and threw over her shoulder, “Just focus your eyeballs on this, my husband, and you’ll be fine. Can you manage that much?” And she stalked off with a tart waggle of her hips, succeeding in capturing from me exactly the attention she desired.

  I was left scratching my head. For a man who thought he had some experience at being Matabound, and had three adult children and the Mata-given blessings of many grandchildren, I was certainly spending a great deal of time discovering new territory in my relationship with P’dáronï of Armittal. I sighed. At least we had the issue of ownership out in the open. Now if my tongue could just refrain from making stupid, unfunny jokes …

  Janos, Mata rest his quoph, would have said, ‘Well, if you can’t find the frogs, Arlak, then at least find the tadpoles in the pond.’

  Could it be that somewhere between the Wurm and the memories secreted within me, that Janos still lived? That he spoke as from the halls of my memory, which he had borrowed without permission? Could I, as a result, be as schizophrenic as some of those patients of P’dáronï’s we had worked with in Eldoran, all those anna ago?


  I jogged after P’dáronï. She was worth pursuing for so many more reasons than the distracting ones! But as I approached her I reflected: now the dark clouds present at Eldoran would begin to impinge upon our relationship. We would continue to flirt and frolic but as with one eye turned to the looming storm. I should thank Mata for Her mercies–a companion for life’s journey, and a soul-mate who truly understood what we were facing. For a second chance at love. For the fact that most of the population of Gethamadi had escaped the fruit of my folly. For the chance, somehow, to interrupt Jyla’s plans.

  I should allow P’dáronï to help me not to become lost in hopelessness, but to keep searching for the good and high road no matter how impossible the task came to be. I should pray Amal would be able to withstand her mother where so many others had failed.

  I wondered if I still knew how to pray.

  Once more, we ran overland almost as if the Wurm still pursued us, following the thread of my grephe that continually urged haste. The Eldrik peninsula was uninhabited and remarkably flat, meadowland and moorland in the main, allowing me to stretch my legs for makh on end and eat the leagues as only I was able. All this time, P’dáronï quietly worked with me on my defences against the magical arts, and tried to prepare herself with spells and techniques that might avail against a Sorceress of Jyla’s extravagant power. In this, we deeply mined Janos’ incomparable knowledge now ensconced in my mind–anything to surprise her, to trick her, or to turn the fates somehow to our advantage.

  On the seventh day we came to a fine paved road which should take us all the way to Eldoran, and now at last began to follow a more southerly route into a band of low, easy-flowing hills that marked the start of their farming country.

  The second night upon this road, I woke suddenly in our tiny room to the sound of crying. For a moment I was disoriented. Then I remembered we were in a wayside holia, one of many scattered about the byways of Eldoria which are free for travellers’ use, and told myself I needed to get used to sleeping on an Eldrik futon all over again. My hips and back ached as though I had been pummelled the night long with staves.