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

by Kaeden, Tavish

Ilia suppressed a giggle, and Bokrham found himself blushing. He had never had much aptitude with words and tonight was proving to be worse than most.

  "Well, let's have some food shall we?" he said, lamely.

  Though the evening was off to a rocky start, and Bokrham was beginning to dread the coming hours of awkward, stinted conversation, Helster Jogan had other plans. After downing his first glass of wine in a single gulp, he set off on a tale about two one-legged poachers he had found on one of his plantations, who went about tied so tightly together at the waist that they could outrun any man with two. The images he conjured in Bokrham's mind were so ridiculous, and his tone so jovial, that Bokrham soon found himself relaxing in his seat and enjoying a good laugh in between cups of wine. Ilia had obviously heard these tales a good many times before, but she smiled along, politely content to let her father be the center of attention.

  The pleasant, light-hearted evening wore on until Bokrham, intrigued by a story of Jogan's efforts to eradicate an irksome species of spotted locust that was plaguing Jogan's barley crops, felt compelled to ask:

  "So is that the source of your great wealth, then? Barley crops? I never knew there was such a demand for so common a grain in the Marshes."

  "Ah," said Jogan, his mood sobering considerably. "No, my Lord, Barley is not my main enterprise. But, now that you have asked, there are some serious matters we must discuss."

  Bokrham was surprised at the change in the man's voice, but only because he had been lulled by the man's earlier stories. He knew Jogan to be a man of business above all else, and was curious about what the man had to say. "Very well," said Bokrham, "go on."

  "First," said Jogan, "I think it might be time for Ilia to bid us a good night. She must look her best for tomorrow, after all."

  "Of course, father," said Ilia. She was about to curtsy and take her leave, when Bokrham stood up.

  "Wait, Ilia," he said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. "There was something I wanted to ask you." He walked up to her, and awkwardly reached for her hand. She gave it willingly, though when he looked at her she kept her eyes downcast. Her hand was small and delicate, but warm to the touch, and as Bokrham held it his head swam with the intoxication of the life, fresh and strong, standing before him. For an instant it was not just Ilia he saw before him, but a mother, cradling his babe in her arms. A child. The thought awakened desires Bokrham had thought long dead within him. A son, a daughter, a family—hopes he had abandoned long ago when he had discovered his first wife to be barren.

  "Ilia," said Bokrham, emboldened by the many cups of wine now coursing through his veins. "I can see that you are, among many other things, a very dutiful daughter. I am going to ask you a question, and it may be that your answer can change nothing, but I would have you answer it anyway. Do you understand?"

  Ilia nodded.

  "Do you feel that you are being forced into this marriage?" asked Bokrham, bluntly.

  "My Lord!" said a surprised Helster Jogan, there is really no need…" But Bokrham held up his hand for silence.

  "He is right," said Ilia softly, raising her gaze to meet Bokrham's. "There is no need. I want to be yours, Lord Martial, if you will have me."

  Bokrham was amazed. Her words, her tone, her expression, they all gave no indication that she was speaking anything but the truth.

  "Thank you," he said, unable to think of anything else. "I will see you tomorrow."

  "She is a remarkable girl, if you will permit me the vanity of saying so," said Jogan, as they watched Ilia leave the room. "But now, my Lord, if you will take a seat, I fear I have an unusual story to tell you."

  Something in the man's voice made Bokrham wary. "Please don't tell me you have bad news," he said. "I have heard far too much of that, of late."

  "No," said Jogan, "it is not bad news. But, it may come as a bit of a shock all the same. Please believe me when I say that I have long wanted to tell you this, but that loyalty to the late King Vichtor demanded my silence."

  "Why are you telling me now?" asked Bokrham.

  "Well," began Jogan, "I must admit that I have grave doubts that Kazick is ever to be found, and I cannot let my secret die with me. And, there is also the fact that tomorrow you will become my son-in-law, and I want there to be no loss of trust between us."

  "As do I," agreed Bokrham.

  Helster Jogan took a deep breath, collecting himself. "Then you should know that though I am now an exceedingly wealthy man, I was not always one. I owe my fortune and successes to the late King Vichtor, a debt I understand we both have in common."

  Bokrham nodded as Jogan continued. "In fact, we have more in common than you know, for all my successes have come in service to the realm, carrying out the directives Vichtor gave me. But, I am getting ahead of myself. I understand that you were a woodsman before Vichtor personally appointed you to the royal guard?"

  "Yes. I was his guide once when he visited the villages near my own," explained Bokrham. "He saw something in me, and saw to it that I was trained as a warrior."

  "He had the gift for recognizing potential in others," said Jogan. "I myself was an alchemist. An alchemist, and a criminal. You see, there is a plant, called the white honeyprickle, which grows amongst the tall grasses of the western Blood Marsh, very near the border with the Church's land. It has a sugary taste, and is often used in local ale to add a hint of sweetness to the brew. Long ago, I discovered that when the heart of the plant is ground, boiled, dried, and crushed to a powder, when taken in enough quantity it has some very extreme effects on the mind. The first of these effects is an acute euphoria, and the second is a feeling of absolute invulnerability. The body becomes impervious to pain, and the inhibitions and doubts that normally chain the mind are momentarily dissolved. As you can imagine, the substance is highly addictive. I myself have only ingested the mixture once, and I still occasionally find myself longing for the incomparable release it brought me.

  I like to tell people that I was an alchemist, but I will be frank and say that poisoner would be a more accurate description of my profession. Zadain's Ashes, as I called the mixture, after the great hero, was one of my most sought after poisons. Why? Because many of those who ingested the ashes risked their lives indiscriminately, believing themselves to be impervious from harm. Pride and stupidity are all too common in this day and age, and when someone killed himself while under the effects of the ashes, poison was hardly ever suspected. Somehow Vichtor and his men caught wind of my business, however, and arrested me. I was to be hanged for my crimes, but the day before my life was forfeit I was called before Vichtor, who offered me my life, in return for my vow never to sell my wares in the Marshlands again. At the time I thought him merciful, but I learned later he was just resourceful.

  You see, I've kept my vow, but I have sold enough of Zadain's Ashes to pay for my daughter's dowry ten times over. It was Vichtor's idea, to sell to the Curahshar, and every shipment I made he oversaw. Of course they would never buy the stuff if they knew where it came from, so everything I produce has to be sold through a third, preferably neutral party. Until now, it was easy for my merchants to pose as priests or missionaries in the drylands. With the Johalid's recent edict, however, things have been much more difficult. That is another reason why I have decided to tell you of the operation, for you must make it an absolute priority to revitalize my operation."

  "Stop there," said Bokrham, his hackles rising. "Jogan, as you said, if I am to marry your daughter I want there to be a relationship of trust between us, but I cannot, I will not forsake my other duties as Lord Martial just so you can continue to grow your own fortunes."

  "My own fortunes are merely an ancillary concern," said Jogan firmly. "It is the safety of the realm that worries me. You see, many Curahshar are absolutely dependent on the Ashes. They mix it with spirits and call it the milk of courage. It is a staple of many of the warriors, who believe that it gives them great prowess in battle. And indeed, to some extent, it does."

  "That wo
uld certainly explain some of the behaviors Kazick encountered when he marched on the sands," said Bokrham. "In fact, it sounds to me like your little concoction has been aiding the enemy!"

  "Wait! Wait," protested Jogan. "You must let me finish. The ashes are highly addictive, as I have told you, and over time most who take it require the mixture daily. The mind was not made to endure such tampering, nor does the body handle the substance gracefully. After ten or so years of use, the mind shuts down and the body is consumed by a terrible sickness. Madness ensues, accompanied by fever, blindness, discoloration of the skin at the temples, chills, long periods of lost consciousness, and finally, in all but a few rare cases—death."

  "Rekon save me," swore Bokrham. "Hesa's Crown."

  "Indeed," nodded Jogan. "So you see, Lord Martial. In my own small way, I have probably killed more of our Curahshena enemies than even you have."

  Bokrham sat back in silence while he considered this revelation. He did not doubt the little trader was telling the truth, for the scheme was just the kind of ruthless brilliance Bokrham had come to expect from his late King. Whether he should continue the venture, however, was another matter. Before the war he had led a few small campaigns on the dryland borders, and he knew better than to discount the ferocious and unpredictable methods of the Curahshena warriors. Had it not been for Hesa's Crown, he knew the Blood Marsh would have never been able to engage both the Curahshar and the Hinnjar at once. But, now that both armies had been subdued, was there still a need for Jogan's subversive slaughter?

  He did not have to think long to decide that there was, for he knew better than any other man how thin the Marsh's armies were stretched, and had a bad feeling that the Curahshar would be annoyingly slow to come to terms with conquest. The fewer Curahshar who could cross swords with his men, the better. Of course, it would mean another tricky obligation he would have to undertake as Lord Martial, which did not sit well with him. But, when compared to groveling before a host of sanctimonious priests, Bokrham much preferred this option.

  "What is it you would have me do?" he asked Jogan.

  "As you know, the Johalids have never allowed their people to openly trade with us. And of course, King Vichtor never wanted it known that I was exporting to the drylands, either. All of my shipments, therefore, travel first to the Isle of Edra, where they are 'bought' by several merchant houses. These merchants used to then distribute the ashes to my network of priests and missionaries throughout the drylands, but that is no longer possible. However, the demand for the ashes is so strong that many buyers have turned up on Edra, searching for the original source of the supply. These men are either hopeless addicts, or entrepreneurs looking to take over where the missionaries left off. I believe that, if we proceed carefully, it will be possible for the Edrani merchants to sell directly to the latter class of men, without fear of the shipments being traced back to us."

  "It sounds possible. Though, you would know much better than I," said Bokrham. "What do you need me for?"

  "The Johalids have voiced their displeasure with the Curahshena dependence on foreign trade," explained Jogan. "They are trying to reclaim what they see as the core of their culture, and so they condemn dependence on foreign provisions. As I told you, however, even such a stance has not dissipated the demand for Zadain's Ashes. The problem now is that some of the more fearless Curahshar have overcome their hatred of the sea and have taken up a sort of piracy, prowling the waters around the isle for merchant ships. My vessels are armed, of course, but only for those enterprising pirates who actually want to steal my cargo. We are not prepared for the madmen who simply torch and sink ships, cargo and all, in the name of returning the Curahshar to economic autonomy."

  "So you need a military escort?" asked Bokrham.

  "Not exactly," replied Jogan. "I need you to refocus some of your efforts, to concentrate more on the naval aspect of the war. Escorts would only be a patch on the situation, and a dubious one, at that. No, I need you to wipe the bastards out, once and for all."

  Bokrham's brow furrowed as he considered the proposal. "I'm not sure," he began slowly, "I'm not sure that we can reallocate the men, or the resources to properly do the job."

  "Remember, that as long as the ashes are flowing into the drylands, your opponent's numbers will dwindle steadily. This is not about trade, it is about war. And, if you are concerned about monetary resources, remember that you are about to receive a considerable infusion of gold."

  "'This is not about trade, it is about war,'" repeated Bokrham quietly. "That sounds like something out of Vichtor's own mouth. Very well, Jogan, you seem like a man who knows what he is doing. You have convinced me, but how shall I convince the War Council? I assume that I will not be telling them of your little operation?"

  "The War Council is just that, a council…to counsel," replied Jogan. "You know the terms of martial law as well as any man, Bokrham. The power of such decisions is ultimately yours, and, forgive me for saying so, but I think that it is high time you started using it."

  "Yes," agreed Bokrham, recalling the past few days' events. "There are many decisions that are long overdue."

  Chapter 25: Jeina

  Fezi had convinced Jeina to stay her journey for one more day while he went to purchase travel supplies. In truth, she was glad to have another day of rest, for she was still exhausted from her flight from the silver mine. When she was not sleeping or eating, she spent the day trying to plan her path to the Blood Marsh on a map Fezi had given her. Looking at the many lines and symbols that were sprawled across the parchment, she had to fight from becoming overwhelmed by an utter sense of hopelessness. Before the famine and the war, she had spent her life in close proximity to the walls of the Iron City. Even afterwards she had traveled little, and the months spent plumbing dark caves somewhere in the Silver Mountains had not improved her knowledge of Esmoria's geography. Hardly a town, city, or even landmark on the map was familiar.

  When she had fled the mining camp, her only thought had been to continue south. South was where the Blood Marsh was, she knew that much. As she looked at the map, however, and the point which Fezi had marked to indicate their current location, she saw that had she continued due south she would have plunged herself into a large forest, only to end up a great many miles east of the Blood Marsh capital…if she had survived for that long. In fact, there was only one road this far north that could take them to the capital, and that route actually took them eastward, skirting the forest's edge and leading them past Midnight Lake before turning in the direction of the Marsh.

  Midnight Lake, at least, Jeina recognized. It was said to be the largest lake in Esmoria, and so deep that the waters were as dark as the midnight sky. But more than that, Midnight Lake was the final resting place of Terun Lodinos, Rekon's first and the only true prophet ever to tread upon the soil of Esmoria. According to the stories, Terun, hunted by the hounds of the Traitor-King Borelian, had been chased into the upper reaches of the Marsh, until he found himself trapped between the waters of Midnight Lake and the small army of soldiers and hounds sent to find him and end his life. As his pursuers bore down upon him from the south, however, he stepped into the water and waded into its depths until only his head and shoulders remained dry. And there he was said to have remained, watching as the hounds surrounded the bank, their owners shouting demands for his surrender. When he would not move, the men loosed some of the hounds into the water; only to find that no sooner had the beasts put one paw in the icy liquid, than they began to bark and yelp, springing back from the water as if burned. Try as they might, the men could not force the dogs into the water, and when the first man tried to enter the lake he soon turned back as well, for the water, he said, was cold—colder than ice. It was so cold that by all rights it should have been frozen solid, yet before their eyes the men could see the water ripple in the moonlight, and Terun Lodinos standing calm and quiet, submersed in the great lake. Fearing the wrath of their King, many of the men tried to force their bodies in
to the water, but every man who did so died as his limbs froze stiff and his heart stopped beating. Looking upon this scene with great sadness, Terun turned his back on the soldiers and began to swim out into the lake, his pale body soon lost in the darkness.

  When the Traitor-King heard of this, he had the lake surrounded and every inch of shore searched for a sign of the prophet. None was ever found. The priests of Rekon said that Terun had reached the center of the lake, where he found a tiny island. There, the god was waiting for him, and, leaving his body behind, Terun's spirit was carried into the heavens by Rekon himself.

  Since then hundreds of adventurers, devout pilgrims and skeptics both, had plunged the hulls of their boats into the icy waters of Midnight Lake to look for Terun's Island. Those who survived the voyage had never found it, and many perished trying. However, since that time no king or johalid had ever laid claim to Midnight Lake, and its shores were the last place in the northwestern mainland which could truly called neutral.

  As Jeina traced her fingers along the outlines of the lake's shore on the map, she heard the faint sound of hooves pounding on the cobblestone road outside. She listened as the sound came nearer and nearer, until finally it seemed to stop right outside the walls of Fezi's dwelling. Worried, Jeina looked about the room for a place to hide. She hoped that whoever was on the horse outside had business with someone else in this corner of the town, but she dared not risk a glimpse through the crumbling wall in the other room for fear she might be accosted again. Her heart sank and she pressed herself into the most shadowed corner she could find when she heard a faint scuffle in the other room as someone clambered in through the wall, but breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Fezi's soft voice call out, "Jeina, Jeina are you here?"

  "Yes," she called out, "I'm in here."

  The now familiar silhouette of Fezi, wrapped in the ashen wolf-pelt cloak, appeared in the doorway. He moved quickly, and the dim light from the candle made his furrowed brow seem absurdly pronounced, his eyes almost completely hidden by deep shadows.