The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  "Ah," said Jorj, his smile becoming a little mischievous, "but you can do what I do. That is why I have sought you out."

  "And what exactly is that?" asked Nicolas, wondering what this man knew about him that could possibly be desirable.

  "Tremble," said Jorj, simply.

  Nicolas was about to launch into a torrent of incredulous questions, when Jorj suddenly stood and said, "Enough questions for now. Only one remains. Will you or will you not be my pupil?"

  "I am apprenticed to Gleydon," repeated Nicolas.

  "I rather think," said Jorj, "that an engraver's business would suffer from having an apprentice who is falling into trembling fits more often by the day."

  "Perhaps," allowed Nicolas, still amazed that this stranger seemed to know so much about his fits. "But Gleydon does not know of my affliction. Please don't say anything to him. And anyhow, I cannot leave right now. I have not yet repaid the cost of my apprenticeship."

  "If I could persuade this master of yours, would you come with me?"

  Nicolas was having a hard time keeping up with this strange man. Didn't he realize he was asking Nicolas to make a decision that would change the trajectory of his life, and that an answer might require more than a moment's thought? Yet, Nicolas felt an odd desire not to disappoint the stranger, and could sense the man's impatience. If he was honest with himself, he knew that he would not last long as an engraver's apprentice, not unless the tremors suddenly ceased altogether. And try as he might, he could not now think of any other options open to him. Though serious doubts of becoming the pupil of this mysterious healer lurked in the back of his consciousness, the larger worry of being alone, and without means of support, dominated his thoughts. Jorj knew about his shaking, and still was willing to take him on. He could not count on the seizures going away, and if they were to worsen... well, what use could he be to anyone? He was being offered a chance at a new direction. Could he really afford to ignore it?

  "But I still don't understand," said Nicolas. "What is it you do? How would I help you...and what would I learn?"

  A hint of annoyance flickered across Jorj's face; he seemed unaccustomed to being asked so many questions. Then, he sighed and said, "Very well, I suppose I shall have to explain myself. What I am offering you isn't what you think of as an apprenticeship. It might be better if you thought of it as a trade. I give you something, you give me something in return…understand?"

  Nicolas nodded his head slowly, but the suspicions in his mind were growing and he began to feel more wary. Before Jorj could start speaking again, Nicolas thought it best to mention, "I don't have any money."

  "Of course you don't," snapped Jorj. His voice no longer soft and calm. "I don't want your money. I want you to work for me. Three years of work, and your pupil's debt to me will be paid off."

  "But what kind of work will you have me do?" ask Nicolas, still unconvinced by this new way of looking at the strange man's proposition.

  "More questions!" exclaimed Jorj. "This is most tedious. I cannot tell you exactly what you will do. You will be my personal assistant and aid me in my travels. I will show you how to make money, boy, and not just the measly copper of a tradesman. Silver, boy. Yes, and gold. What you make, you will give to me, of course, but only for three years. When our contract is up I can promise you that what you will have learned from me will keep your pockets lined with silver for the rest of your days."

  The promise of wealth had increased Nicolas' interest, though he was still troubled by the vagueness of Jorj's statements. Yet, he was afraid that if he asked for any more in the way of an explanation the little man might explode with anger or frustration, so he tried to state the matter simply.

  "So this trade…I give you three years of service, and you give me…the promise of wealth? I'm sorry, but I'm not sure that…"

  "No," interrupted Jorj. "Your questions have made me cloud the issue. In exchange for your services, boy, I offer you your life."

  For a second Nicolas was shocked into silence, but then an alarm seemed to sound inside his head and he began to dash toward the doorway of the room. The word "help" was on his lips and he was just about to scream out when something hard crashed into his ribs and forced all the air from his body. He would have fallen to his knees, but Jorj's hand caught and steadied him as he struggled to regain his wind.

  "I'm sorry I had to do that," said Jorj. "But you have misunderstood me, and I cannot risk too much attention just now. I had no intention of threatening you. I offer you the chance of life, true—but if you die it will be through no act of mine. You are dying, boy, and quickly. The trembling fits which are now a mere nuisance will, with each day that passes, become more frequent and violent until your body surrenders to them completely. Once that happens, it will only be a small matter of time before Death welcomes you into her icy waters. But this does not have to happen. I will teach you how to overcome the tremors, to regain control over your recalcitrant body. I will give you the chance to live! All I ask in return is three years of your life. Just three."

  Time seemed to stop around Nicolas as the word 'dying' left Jorj's lips. Never once had Nicolas considered that his fits might be an illness that would kill him. He was too young, surely, to be so sorely afflicted, and after all, hadn't he made a full recovery after every one of his episodes? He tried to push the fearful specter of death from his mind, but it was no use. His former scruples now pale in comparison, the will to live, if only to live free of the worry that his next fit might be his last, consumed him. In the end he could think of only one option, one path ahead of him, and he took the hand of the only man who was offering one.

  It was well into the evening when Jorj and Nicolas stepped out into the street. Apparently, Jorj was wasting no time settling the business of his new apprentice.

  "Isn't it a little late to bother Gleydon?" suggested Nicolas, "He's sure to be in bed by now, and will not take kindly to being woken."

  "You are not yet my pupil," responded Jorj, "yet I will give you your first lesson anyway. The mind is an infinitely more malleable medium when it has just been awoken from a deep slumber."

  "Mallewhat?" asked Nicolas, perplexed.

  "Think of a blacksmith, boy. If a smith wishes to mold his metal he does not wait for the steel to cool to begin his pounding. No, he takes the metal raw and hissing from the fire, and hammers the metal before it has had a chance to choose a shape of its own. It is the same with the minds of men, and few things so powerfully deprive the mind of its certainty as dreams."

  This seemed to have a ring of sense to it, but Nicolas still could not envision a groggy Gleydon freely releasing Nicolas from his apprenticeship just because his mind was heavy with sleep.

  "Gleydon can be very stubborn," offered Nicolas. "I doubt even half-asleep he will be easy to deal with."

  "Well then," said Jorj, "we must employ some other tactics as well."

  They came upon the engraver's shop just as a pale silver sliver of the moon had come out from behind the clouds and bathed the isle in a delicate light. Jorj took some time to admire the beautiful engravings on the shop's door, a series of clockwise and counterclockwise spirals that flowed into each other and revealed no beginning or ending. Then he knocked loudly on the door three times, then three times more. A flickering light became visible as Gleydon lit a candle in his bedroom. A few seconds later, the engraver's head poked out his window to see what sort of people were bothering him at this hour.

  "Is that you, Nico?" yelled Gleydon into the darkness.

  Nicolas was about to reply when Jorj clapped a hand over his mouth.

  "The boy is with me," said Jorj.

  "Eh, who are you?" yawned Gleydon. "I do not recognize your voice."

  "I am a healer, and I have been taking care of your apprentice."

  "So that's why he did not come back for supper," Gleydon mused sleepily. His voice, however seemed more alert when he asked, "I suppose he didn't have any coin to pay you, and so you've come along to colle
ct? Well, be off with you. He can pay you from his own damn pocket when—"

  "One hundred dry silver," interrupted Jorj.

  "One hundred? Dry silver!?" Gleydon looked outraged. "What did you do, sew his damned head back on for him? Nico! What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into? And besides, no one has any dry silver around here, just blessed copper—Church coin!"

  "No! Sir, you misunderstand me," said Jorj, "I am offering you one hundred in dry silver. Not asking for it."

  "What?" gaped Gleydon, even more confused. "Have you come to commission me? I mean, one hundred in dry silver is a good sum of money, but calling at this hour is highly unusual. Nico, why didn't you tell him to call on me in the morning?"

  "It cannot wait, I am afraid," asserted Jorj quickly. "And I am not here to buy your work, although I see from your door that you are quite a skilled engraver. No, I offer you the silver so that in return you will release the boy from his apprenticeship."

  There was a stunned silence for a moment as Gleydon let his mind wrap around the situation.

  "Well, you can't have him," Gleydon finally replied. "Nico, come inside and get to sleep, you have work to do tomorrow."

  "Ah, if one hundred silver is not enough," said Jorj, "perhaps one hundred and fifty will do?"

  "One hundred and fifty?" repeated Gleydon in a slightly pained voice. "Um…no, I mean damn it all, I won't part with him. Knew his mother, see, and I promised her I'd take care of him. I can't just let him go running off in the middle of the night with a strange fellow like you."

  "Two hundred," said Jorj.

  Nicolas' jaw dropped. Two hundred in Curahshena, or "dry", silver was easily more money than Gleydon might see in the next two or three years, and it was more than twenty times the price he would someday have to pay to be released from his apprenticeship.

  "Two hundred?" Gleydon almost yelped when he said it, "No…no…I still cannot."

  Nicolas froze. His skin was tingling and his mind had become unsteady. Again? he thought, panicking, a third attack in one day? But though his skin tingled all over, Nicolas felt no other indication that he would lose control of his body. When he was satisfied that a fit of tremors was not forthcoming, he took a deep breath and relaxed. When he turned his attention back to his master, he noticed that Gleydon was talking in a strange, distant tone.

  "Two hundred, did you say?" said Gleydon, an odd note of wonder in his voice. "By Rekon, that is a lot of coin."

  "Two hundred silver, tonight, in your hands," assured Jorj.

  "Well," reflected Gleydon, "you seem like a decent sort, and certainly must have resources. Perhaps it's better for Nico to go with you. In truth, while he was a decent lad, he was never going to be a skilled engraver. Yes, maybe with you he can find a better life. I'm sure his mother would have wished it so."

  "Then we have a deal," said Jorj, a wide grin breaking across his face.

  Chapter 7: Xasho

  Xasho would never forget the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach as, crouching in the close darkness of the tunnel, he caught the scent of smoke. Not the soft oily smell of smoke that hovered around the small lanterns carried by some of the soldiers, but thick acrid smoke that came from the burning of something so vile it made his eyes water. Blacktear bulbs, as they were called, the root of a long grass common to the border of the marsh and riverlands. The bulbs were a mere nuisance in the open air; they could make a grown man cry as if he had chopped a hundred onions. In this tunnel, though, the sooty smoke the bulbs gave off would kill them all soon if they could not find a patch of clean air.

  Already Xasho heard screams of "fire!" and "run!" in the black distance ahead of him. They had been such fools to fall into this trap of the mudmen, blinded by their hopes to regain their Johalid's precious city. It had been too great a coincidence, the lazy soldiers positioned exactly at the hidden entrance to the city. How could they not have seen it? Even now, Xasho was sure that some of his comrades were rushing out of the tunnel, half blind and choking on smoke, into the readied swords of the Marshland soldiers. Exit into the city meant certain death or capture, yet staying in the tunnels meant certain death. There was only one other option, he had to go out the way they had come in. It was a desperate chance—he had already come a great distance into the tunnel, and behind him were a string of soldiers, many of whom were in a state of panic. To make matters worse, his vision was already obscured by stinging, sooty tears and his throat was raw with smoke. With time running out, Xasho grabbed a lantern that a fellow soldier had dropped, and rushed like a bull into the dark tangle of bodies that stretched out behind him.

  What seemed like hours later, somehow Xasho had managed to break through to the very back of the line. He had shed his thick leather armaments and abandoned every single weapon he carried, knowing that each ounce of excess weight made it more likely he would be forced to stop running from fatigue and succumb to the deadly smoke. Somewhere along the way another fleeing soldier had crashed into him and Xasho had dropped his lantern. After that, he had to feel his way through the darkness, praying that he did not get turned around somehow and head back toward the smoke. His muscles shook from fear and exhaustion, but he could swear he occasionally felt a cool breeze pass across his face, and told himself that the exit to the tunnel must be close. The air, at least, was cleaner here and he could breathe without the worry that every breath took him one step closer to asphyxiation. On and on Xasho struggled, until he could tell without a doubt that he was close to the exit, for he could smell fresh air and hear the sounds of the night getting closer and closer. When he finally burst into the cold night air, he offered up a silent prayer and sank down in the grass, exhausted.

  When he awoke it was daylight, and he could feel a small column of ants marching across the back of his neck. His head hurt, his eyes were crusty with soot, and his throat felt like someone had scrubbed it with a horse brush. He could hear the trickle of water not far away and dragged himself toward the sound. A narrow waterfall was busily cascading down a ledge of rock, and Xasho cupped his hands and brought a measure of water to his lips. Swallowing was painful, but the water eased his thirst, cooled his head, and helped rinse the blacktear residue from his eyes.

  It wasn't until Xasho could begin to divorce his mind from his immediate physical needs that he noticed he had no idea where he was. They had come to the tunnel entrance in the night so he had seen little of the landscape, but even so he knew he was not at the entrance he had first used to gain access to the tunnel. In fact, he was not even truly outside. Grass grew beneath his feet and he could see the sky above him, but twelve feet or so of rocky ledge rose around him, green with moss everywhere save where it had been worn away by the rush of the waterfall. Xasho wondered whether this little formation was natural, for the surrounding rock defined a grassy area that was remarkably circular. Looking at the walls, Xasho concluded that he might be able to climb out and over them, if he was careful not to slip on the wet moss, or dislodge a crumbling area of stone. For the time being, however, he did not have enough strength to make an attempt, so he set about examining the confines of this unusual enclosure. The grass on the ground was quite high and full of colorful weeds and flowers, and it was so thick in places that several times he had to make a concerted effort to remove his foot from the clutches of various vegetable growths. Where the water fell, there was a glistening pool, perhaps five feet in diameter. Xasho was not entirely surprised to see that near the edge of the water, about a foot below the surface, was a basin of rock cut cleanly in a circle. So, he thought, this place was once used with some regularity, but had for a great number of years gone unused and, he hoped, unvisited.

  Closer inspection of the area turned up a stone bench buried under a tangle of vines and several large clay planters whose residents had long since either spread out to the rest of the area, or been strangled by the onslaught of encroaching weeds. Most telling for Xasho, though, was the discovery of a large stone tablet on the ground a few feet in
front of the waterfall with a worn inscription still barely visible on its face.

  Like most Curahshena men his age, Xasho spoke the Church tongue. As a child he had learned a handful of words and phrases from his people's ancestral tongue of Sarisqisa, but the language as a whole had for many years dwindled in use, until only a small population of the Curahshar, the clans who occupied the remotest regions of the homeland, still spoke exclusively in the old tongue. Xasho had never been an apt pupil and could barely remember how to form the letters of the Church alphabet, let alone those of an archaic language. Still, the faint flowing script on the rock fascinated him, and gave the area a certain mystic quality.

  Xasho could not say why, but he felt fairly certain that the stone tablet was some sort of memorial or grave marker, and that this obscure and peaceful little area was dedicated to the memory of someone long dead. It must have been someone important, he reflected, because most normal people did not receive such commemoration when they died. It was at least, he supposed, not the tomb of a long dead Johalid. The Johalids and the cities they ruled had long been considered as two halves of the same entity. When a johalid died, tradition dictated that he be cremated and his ashes baked into four clay tablets that were set into the north, south, east, and west walls of the city. Each tablet bore the visage of the dead johalid, and more than once Xasho had been unsettled as his torch illuminated the clay faces of the long dead men while he was on an evening patrol of the city.

  This inscription, however, was written upon stone and bore no signs of ever being haunted by the face of a johalid. The stone was not from anywhere near the city, either. It was dark gray, almost black, and had pale white veins of some other mineral creeping throughout it. To Xasho it looked like some kind of marble or granite, of the sort that was only found on the isles off the coast of the Blood Marsh.