by Dana Marton
His gaze strayed to me often during the meal, so after the feast when he asked me to return to his chamber with him, I was not surprised. I wondered if he had reached the end of his patience with my reluctance, or if the pain of his injury had returned and he simply wished for my healing.
He sent the servants away as soon as we entered his chambers.
“Does your wound pain you still?” I asked once the door closed behind us.
When he turned to me, his face was lighter than I had ever seen it. Even his scar did not seem so fierce.
“Well worth was the injury to feel your hands upon me,” he said with a wry smile as he pulled his tunic off and prepared for bed. “Mayhap I shall seek danger for more of it.”
“You must not, my—” I stopped, embarrassed when I realized he merely jested. I stared. I had not before seen much humor in him. It made him look younger.
“Will you stay the night?” he asked, his casual tone betrayed by the intensity of his dark gaze.
My heart in my throat, I bowed. “If you wish.”
He stepped closer. “Do you wish it?”
How could I refuse the High Lord? The palace dungeon probably held people even now for lesser offenses. I was his concubine, sharing his bed my duty. Still, I could not make myself say the words.
“Let us rest together,” he said after a while.
I nodded in relief.
He drew me to the bed, then removed his clothes, save his leggings. I removed nothing. But I lay next to him and closed my eyes, willing sleep to come. After a while, when I was certain Batumar slept, I peeked from under my eyelashes and found him watching me in the light of the flames.
“I find I cannot sleep,” he said.
I could but whisper, unnerved by his gaze. “Will you watch me all night?”
Sadness shadowed his scarred face. “If you saw what I have seen in this last battle, you too would wish to look upon something beautiful to make you forget all the hideous acts of men.”
I wished I could comfort his spirit, for indeed it seemed weary within him. Only I did not know how such a feat could be accomplished. I could have comforted his body, had I been brave and brazen enough to offer mine, but I was neither. And then I remembered what he had said about liking the touch of my hands upon his skin. I could at least give him that small pleasure.
I did not dare touch his face, but I reached out a finger to trace a faded scar on his chest and felt a shock of heat as if I had reached into invisible flames.
I watched the path my fingers took over the hills and valleys of muscles, between the coarse hair, across ragged scars. The heat at my fingertips and the vibrations that ran up my arm did not fade but instead increased in intensity the longer I touched him. On its own, my palm flattened against his chest and soaked up his strong and steady heartbeat.
He made a low sound, not much more than a grunt, but it awakened me as if from a dream, and I snatched my hand away. I looked at him, flushing, sure I had displeased him, if not with the inexperienced caress, then with its withdrawal. And found his gaze on my lips.
My mouth felt parched, my throat as dry as the endless desert that bordered the Shahala lands.
He wants to kiss me—the realization, like a rockslide, buried every other thought in my mind. I pressed my lips together tightly in a thin line, then grew embarrassed at my cowardice and puckered them, unsure how to proceed further, although I had seen servants do such things in the shadowed corners of the pantry.
He lifted his gaze and must have seen my bewilderment, as his lips twisted into a lopsided smile. “Not tonight, Tera. I could not stop there if I started. Even a High Lord is only human underneath all his armor.”
He pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me.
He did not touch me in any other way during the night, although he did brush a kiss over my brow when he quietly slipped from the bed at dawn.
In the days that followed, he did not send for me again, nor did I expect him to, as delegates arrived from distant lands, one after the other, and Batumar held audiences late into the night.
I did not see much of him during the days, either, as those injured in the battles for the Kingdom of Orh began to arrive and kept me busy from sunup to sundown, keeping me from even the nightly feasts. I eased their pain and healed their injuries, using my herbs and healing skills, careful with my spirit.
Such horrible wounds I had never seen: jagged gashes inflicted by some terrible weapon the likes of which I could only imagine, crushed limbs, torn flesh. The men looked as if they had fought wild animals. I shuddered each time I thought of the Khergie hordes, that terrible enemy reaching closer and closer to our island.
When Batumar was not giving audience, he was planning the next battle with Lord Gilrem and a handful of warlords who had arrived. Each day passed very much like the one before, until once again the mist descended and swallowed Karamur, and I could go to the Forgotten City.
I did not see the Guardian of the Gate when I reached the top of the cliffs, but the other two waited for me on the path.
“He is on the other side of the mountain,” the Guardian of the Cave told me after a heartfelt welcome, brushing some crumbs from his round belly. “Many people are coming and going these days.”
We walked together toward the city. The Guardian of the Scrolls seemed ever glum, bent lower than before, as if the weight of his duty had shrunk him since our last meeting. I wondered if he still spent most of his day wishing for death.
“Today,” he pronounced out of the blue when we reached the point where the path branched off into two. Displeasure doubled the wrinkles on his lined face. He limped off toward the cave without explanation.
“What if I fail?” I asked the Guardian of the Cave, doubts like fist-size rocks sitting in my stomach.
“We all of us have been called to a purpose by the spirits, Tera. When you follow that true calling, you can accomplish the impossible if only you dare accept your true power.”
But all I had ever wanted to be was an ordinary healer. “What is the purpose of that rose bush, then?” I pointed far ahead down the road. “All alone on the path, battered by the winds?”
“To cheer those who pass by it. The rose gifts us with its scent and beauty.” He looked at me with grandfatherly affection. “But a flower cannot reach its true purpose if it stays tight in a bud.”
I thought about that as we walked.
The Guardian of the Scrolls had already lit an oil lamp by the time we caught up with him inside the cave. He looked at me sharply, then moved to the back of the cave into the darkness where the late-day sunlight could not reach. The lamp illuminated only a small circle around him, making him look like a floating ancient spirit.
He gestured to me with impatience, so I followed, unsure what he wanted me to see on the uneven rock wall.
The Guardian of the Cave shuffled after us. He stepped up to the rock and placed his hands upon its rough surface. Under his palm appeared a slight crack. Or had it been there before? I could have sworn it grew straight from his touch. The line expanded until it reached from the floor to the top of the cave; then it widened as if pulled apart by invisible hands.
The Guardian of the Scrolls entered without hesitation.
I held back, glancing at the Guardian of the Cave. “Will you not join us?”
“I must hold open the entry.”
I blinked. What would happen if his attention wandered or he fell asleep? Would we be sealed within? Not a question I could ask without appearing cowardly, so I stepped forward. If this was my destiny, I could not run from it.
The Guardian of the Scrolls lifted his lamp to light the naturally formed corridor that appeared in front of us, and muttered something about self-important old fools.
I followed him in the narrow passageway, barely seeing anything, for he held the lamp in front of him, and his body blocked the light. I had hated dark enclosures since my days in the belly of the Kadar slaver, so I stumbled after the Guar
dian with unease.
At least the narrow passageway did not have the dank stench of the moldy cabin. Incense wafted in the air, its sweet scent as soothing as a dream. Soon our path widened, and we came to another cavern with many openings.
Some of the tunnels were so narrow only a child would fit through, some wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Some seemed to go up, others sloped down. The Guardian held out the lamp and walked into one of the passageways without hesitation. Here, white walls reflected the light, so I could see better than before.
I gasped as I realized the lines on the rock were no random formations or play of the shadows but richly carved images of people, all manner of beasts, and strange things I did not recognize.
“Are these the First People?”
He did not seem to hear me. He hurried forward, and the light from the lamp slid from picture to picture, revealing just enough so I wanted to see more.
I kept up. If I strayed, I might be lost in the stone labyrinth forever. Solemn silence filled the endless space, the only sound the echoes of our footsteps, the rhythm of their clatter matching the beating of my heart.
Another passageway, this one sloping down, crossed ours, and the Guardian turned left. More carvings here, people running and dying. A shiver ran up my spine, for the pain on the faces seemed eerily real, the dance of the flames making their lips appear to be moving with silent screams.
I gladly left that passageway behind when the Guardian turned into yet another sloping corridor carved from the rock. We descended. These walls depicted a barren land, a few stick figures hiding deep in caves. Forests overran the cities; wild animals prowled the streets.
We passed several passageways before the Guardian turned again into a new one, so low that I had to bend to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling.
As we weaved in and out of these tunnels, I recognized some of the stories on the walls from my mother’s tales of our people. Others I did not know. They might have been the stories of the Kadar and the Seela.
When the Guardian suddenly stopped in front of me, I nearly ran into him.
He turned, and more light flooded the walls. “How fare you with the Kadar?”
I blinked at him, wondering if he had only now thought of the fact that I had been brought to Karamur against my will.
“I have come to no harm since I have been in the palace.” My glance swept a large carving of a battle scene, warriors clashing swords with the enemy in the foreground, while others in the background strung captives together with ropes.
“Uncivilized brigands.” The Guardian’s voice held loathing. “Murderers to the last of them. I would care not if the Kerghi came and swept the whole bloodthirsty lot away. And yet we must protect the Kadar, since they protect the island.”
His sudden outburst surprised me. “Some of them—” I began to say, then stopped, hardly able to believe that I was about to defend the Kadar. “They follow the path of their ancestors as we follow ours.”
“I find their customs distasteful.” He swung the lamp back, leaving me in semidarkness once again as he shuffled forward in the corridor. “Their superstitions know no bound.”
“But things are changing slowly in Karamur.”
Leena had told me some things during one of her exultations of Batumar. How he had ended the practice of slavery at the palace—she and all others served of their own free will. He encouraged the citizens of Karamur to do the same. Many followed his example, if not happily, then to gain the favor of the High Lord.
He was a warlord, chosen to lead his people in war. He did not rule over the Kadar as a king over his kingdom. He did not make the laws, although he had a role in enforcing them if needed, Leena had said.
We had argued, or rather I had argued with her, as she would not openly contradict me. I had told her I considered the keeping of concubines the same as slavery, for was I not kept captive in Pleasure Hall? She had wept in distress that I could not understand such honor.
For the moment, I was free of Pleasure Hall but not much happier for the freedom. The weight of the future pressed heavily upon my mind.
We forged ahead in silence until we arrived at another widening that led to a large chamber, the ceiling so high the light from our lamp did not reach to the roof. Here the Guardian of the Scrolls stopped at last.
In the back of the chamber a ledge protruded from the rock, and on this ledge lay three scrolls, each as thick around as my arm, bound with leather cords in an intricate pattern of knots.
The scrolls looked ancient and fragile, and I feared they would turn to dust if I even touched them. Yet I had been called to read them, according to the Guardians.
Spirit, be strong. Heart, be brave. I had come so far, I would not hesitate now. I stepped forward, then looked back at the Guardian. “May I?”
His shoulders up, his back as straight as he could manage, he looked younger, as if the presence of the scrolls invigorated him. He nodded.
I turned back to the three scrolls. “Which one should I read first?”
“Listen to their call.”
I listened in vain.
At last I drew a deep breath, then picked up the scroll closest to me with much care. How light it felt upon my palm, and right and comforting in a way that touched my heart, like holding my mother’s hand when I had been a child. For a fleeting moment, I felt her spirit once again, and tears filled my eyes. Then the moment passed, and I blinked away the tears.
I stared at the scroll, trying to make sense of the knots. Gentle tugging accomplished nothing, as the leather had dried and would not loosen. I could not simply slip the scroll from its binding; the leather strip was woven around the ends as well. I tugged this way and that; then, after all my attempts failed, I set the scroll aside and chose another.
I had no luck with that one, either. Worried now, I picked up the third. The leather binding looked just as old and dry, just as impossible to loosen, but as I tugged, the knots slipped undone with ease, some, it seemed, before I even touched them.
I breathed a sigh of relief and heard the soft hiss of the Guardian’s released breath behind me.
Then the long cord finally fell to the ground, and in my trembling hands lay the unbound scroll, holding the destiny of three nations—the Shahala, the Kadar, and the Seela—if not the destiny of the whole world.
The scroll seemed to be made of some kind of pressed plant fiber I could not name, thin and smooth, obviously manufactured with great skill. I rolled the fragile material out a hand-width and looked at the strange letters, squiggly and mysterious like snake tracks in the sand. I rolled some more, but the same writing followed. The cold taste of failure filled my mouth.
“I cannot read this, Grandfather.” I hung my head as I whispered the words.
The Guardian stepped closer and peered at the writing. A look of disbelief came over his face, soon replaced by the grim mask of defeat. “You must. All depends on it.”
I scrolled another hand-width and another and stared at the flowing rows of nonsense letters, mostly black, but here and there a more ornate grouping in red.
“The writing is of the First People.” Heavy regret laced the Guardian’s words. “I know the sound of the letters, but the meaning of their words has been lost to us for generations.”
I sank to the stone floor, careful with the scroll. The Guardian set the lamp down and sat next to me, pointing at the beginning. “Eptah lorriem, fahl dan metrem, kalmata norga.”
“This is an account of the vision of the Prophet Eptah,” I said as the words he spoke gained meaning in my mind, like hopeful buds pushing through the snow in the spring.
He looked up, the deep lines of his face relaxing. “You understand, then?”
“My mother used to talk to me like this when I was a child. Ancient tales and nursery rhymes and— She spoke the language of many people. I have heard these words, but never have I seen them in writing.”
“A Elhar redala tarni…” He read on for
me.
And I listened.
The light of morning follows the night, and it is darkness the light turns into at the end of the day. Such is the fate of every man and every people. For as there are darkness and light, so there are evil and good, as there have been from the beginning of time. When one triumphs, the other is exiled, but in its time, the exiled shall return. I, Eptah, the last prophet of my people have seen the coming darkness and set forth here a true account of it.
I did not translate the words for the Guardian; he did not stop for me to do so but went on with Eptah’s prophecy.
Once we were a great people who ruled the lands. We were a good people, the keepers of life, but our time is now coming to an end. Many people will come after us and will build their cities on the ruins of ours and will forget us. And among these many nations will be some good and some bad, but never all good or all bad within any nation. And after a time, there will come a nation that will grow faster than any other, for its ruler will have a hungry heart that is never satisfied. It will feed on goodness and draw many men with dark hearts from far away. And the evil will increase until it gains much power, but it will want more still.
And there will come a time when the darkness spreads out over the land until it dims but the last of the light, and it will fight against the people who hold that light in their hearts. And if the darkness succeeds, it will rule for a hundred generations, and cruelty and misery with it.
But on Dahru, a child will be born, well-favored by the spirits, for she will have all three spirits of the people of Dahru and even the spirit of our forgotten people. And she will know all people, for she will have been all people. And they will raise their eyes to her with hope so that as she had cast out their pain, so she might cast out the darkness also.
I have seen this and spoken of it, and set it down as a true account for those to come, by my own hands, Eptah, the last prophet of my people.
Silence filled the cave when the Guardian finished reading.
I drew a deep breath, then told him all I had learned.
He flashed a puzzled look. “The scroll says nothing more?”
