"Fezi!" cried Jeina, as he crumpled to the ground. "Noooo!" She ran to him, oblivious to everything else. Then, the world seemed to go black before her as the shape of the gröljum appeared before her, blocking the sun as it reared up to its full height. As the gröljum gave a chilling shriek of triumph, fear, loss, and exhaustion washed over Jeina. She swayed, and then stumbled as the gröljum descended upon her, and the last thing she saw was two silver arcs of light flashing in the darkness.
Chapter 34: Xasho
The room around Xasho was enormous, with high vaulted ceilings painted the color of afternoon sky and tall rose-glass windows which flooded the room with pinkish shafts of light. Huge pillars, as thick as hundred-year-old trees, rose to support the massive structure, the surface of each laced with intricate carvings. Winding around and in between these pillars was a large line of people, a myriad of warriors, women and children waiting patiently for something. In their arms they carried trinkets, delicacies, rich cloths and slaughtered animals. As Xasho made his way around the perimeter of the room, he could see that the line of people extended all the way to a grand dais, surrounded by fierce-looking warriors, and occupied by the figure of Hakh Halor, seated on a throne of marble.
As Xasho moved closer, he saw that underneath the familiar mane of white hair, the man had aged slightly. Though still a powerfully muscled and imposing warrior, faint lines not caused by any blade had begun to crease his proud features ever so slightly. The biggest change that Xasho could see, however, sparkled on the man's chest. Xasho could not believe his eyes—a second zharata? What kind of johalid was this? As Xasho's eyes scanned the warriors surrounding the dais, he found what he had expected: two men wore the smaller pendants, each one identical in color to one of those around Halor's neck. So, the man had two champions, what could that mean?
Xasho moved even closer, and watched as one by one the people in line came to bow before Halor, each presenting him with a gift. Some of the gifts Halor merely accepted with the nod of his head, and the presenter would scurry away quickly, a look of relief on their faces. Some of the finer gifts, however, like a meticulously carved golden statuette of an eagle, a bronze and leather shield set with rings of ornamental turquoise, or a magnificent silken robe that shimmered like a desert mirage, earned the presenters a smile from the white-haired man. Those whose gifts pleased the Johalid, rather than scurry away, often left with an air of pride in their step, and a look of esurient hope in their eyes.
A mountain of treasures was growing behind the dais, more wealth in a single space than Xasho had ever seen in his lifetime. He began to wonder what had brought these people here, for judging from the uneasy looks of those in line, it was not genuine love for their ruler that inspired their generosity. One old woman's face in particular caught Xasho's attention, for though she generally kept her face down, when she did, on occasion, look up at the Johalid, Xasho was struck by the blaze of hatred he saw seething in her eyes. She was dressed in tattered rags, and was bent almost double by age and toil. To her chest she clasped a bundle wrapped in a deep blood-red silk, and more than once Xasho saw the old woman caress the bundle almost lovingly, muttering to herself as she did so.
When it came time for the old woman to offer her gift to the Johalid, she shambled slowly up to the dais, keeping her head bowed low to the ground. Without looking up, she proffered up the silken-wrapped bundle which was taken by one of the Johalid's champions.
"Open it," came the command from Halor.
The champion undid the wrappings, and Xasho saw his eyebrows raise with curiosity as he beheld the contents of the bundle. He turned to display the gift to Johalid, who, to Xasho's surprise, stood to examine it. He looked down at the bundle, and after a moment's time smiled at the old woman, who bowed even lower at the sign of approval. Rather than resume his seat for the next gift, Xasho saw Halor reach out his hands and grasp hold of the old woman's gift. When he did so, a surprised gasp of pain escaped his lips, and Xasho heard the clang of metal as something dropped to the floor.
"What treachery is this?" shouted the Johalid. "Warriors, seize that old woman!"
As the warriors ran to catch the woman, the floor of the dais became visible to Xasho, and he blinked in surprise. There, on the floor lay two short blades, with handles of red metal worked into the form of a serpent, with a single pale crystal set in the center of each reptilian eye.
"Stop!" the shout came from the old woman, her voice astonishingly clear and strong. Her words rang with such force that for a second the warriors did stop, and the room became absolutely silent for an instant, long enough for the woman to be heard.
"Great Halor, my Johalid, do not fear my gift. What I offer will bring you power, a prowess far beyond that which any warrior has ever known. As for the pain, do not look so surprised, for you more than anyone know that greatness always comes at a complementary price."
Halor contemplated the woman's words for a while, and slowly the fear that had marked his features faded back into curiosity. He carefully picked up the fallen blades and held them up to the light, his eyes taking in every detail of the exquisite craftsmanship.
"Yes…" he said almost absently, "there is truth in your words." The Johalid gave the woman another smile, and motioned for his warriors to return to the dais. The woman turned, and made her way out of the room, passing by Xasho as she did so. The vision around Xasho began to dim to darkness, until all that remained was the bright glow of triumph in the old woman's eyes.
When Xasho awoke he found his room to be flooded in brightness and he could hear the lively noise of people going about their daily business outside. He must have slept for quite some time, and it was no wonder, for the last few days had quite certainly been some of the longest in his life. When he got up he found that his muscles were sore all over, and that the skin where Melhizor had wounded him was tight and itchy.
This latest vision had been more unnerving than usual, for it seemed to confirm his growing suspicions that his blades were somehow cursed. It seemed clear that they had been given to Halor for a malevolent purpose, but Xasho could not know if the warrior had suffered any ill effects from the blades. He had never heard of Halor before, which was odd, for though the Curahshar were largely apathetic historians, the story of a man who claimed to be a johalid of two cities would likely have been worth recording.
If the blades truly were cursed, Xasho needed to find out what happened to Halor, for perhaps the same fate awaited him. Had the damage already been done, or would whatever price the blades demanded for their odd gifts be exacted over time? Did it matter that the blades had not been given to him under the same circumstances? There were many questions plaguing Xasho's thoughts to which he had no answer. Worse, he did not know who to turn to with his concerns. Someone who knew of Halor might also know of the powers imbued by his weapons, and Xasho's success in the khavasana would be uncovered for what it really was, a middling warrior made exceptional, not through hard work and training, but merely by circumstance—by sorcery. His people, perennially suspicious of the supernatural, would not understand that Xasho had no choice. That he could not have entered the khavasana with any other weapon, and they would see his victories as shameful and without honor. Xasho did not know if he could bear such a public disgrace. It was hard enough harboring such doubts in his own mind.
As he put on his clothes, he came upon the small leather pouch that Manuqhid had pressed into his hand the night before. He had not wanted to open it with Sidhir or anyone else watching, for he could tell that the crippled Johalid had given it to him in confidence. Looking around, Xasho saw no one, so he undid the strings of the leather pouch and up-ended the bag into the palm of his hand. He felt something cool and hard fall into his palm, and when he saw what it was he wondered if he wasn't having another one of his dream-visions. For, though it was dirty, and strung upon nothing but a tattered leather thong, there was no mistaking the object that lay cradled in his hand. It was a zharata. The stone was a deep vi
olet, cut into an octagonal form and filled with dark sand which at times seemed almost black, but when held in the sunlight sparkled almost as brightly as the encasing jewel itself.
Xasho was stunned. The pendant was obviously a match for the old Johalid's. What had Manuqhid meant by this gift? Had he designated Xasho as his cuhr vrast? What had the man said to him? Xasho suddenly could not remember. A noise came from outside his door, and quickly stuffed the gem back in his pocket. He didn't want anybody to see him with the zharata.
A knock came on the door, and Xasho opened it to find Boskaheed, looking well rested and excited.
"Sidhir has summoned you again, to discuss your upcoming journey. We are to meet him at the palace. Hurry and make yourself ready." For a moment, Xasho considered confiding in Boskaheed and asking for advice on Manuqhid's gift. But the old commander had a slightly agitated look to him, and when Xasho hesitated, he cried, "Move!" and before he knew it Xasho was grabbing his things and leaving to see Sidhir.
The Johalid was sitting on a balcony which looked out over the walls of the city and into the sands beyond, and he was not alone. On either side of him sat the Johalids, Tuzhir and Kessir, and behind each stood a watchful Cuhr-Vrast. Xasho, startled by such an audience, bowed as low as he could to greet the rulers.
"You look much better, Xasho," said Sidhir. "A night's sleep has revitalized you. That is good, for you have a long journey ahead, and you will need to keep your wits about you."
The Johalid motioned to the other men around him. "All here are aware of your mission, and they all agree that you are a warrior deserving of such an honor."
"I thank you all," said Xasho bowing again. "You will not regret your choice." As his eyes lifted to the men before him, he noticed a scowl on Tuzhir's face. Remembering their conversation the night before, he guessed that Tuzhir's "agreement" to sending Xasho on such a mission was not entirely voluntary.
"I certainly hope not!" said Sidhir, lightly. "But let us forgo any further formalities, we Johalids are busy men. Misho!"
Misho Melhizor walked over to Xasho, a small golden rectangle in his hand. He handed it to Xasho, who turned it over to discover that it was a frame containing the excellent portrait of a young man. Dark curly hair framed a long face, with sharp, but handsome features. It was obvious that the artist had been a master of his craft, for he had managed to capture a strange, haunted look in the young man's eyes. It was as if the man in the portrait was dreaming, though it was impossible to tell the nature of the dream, for apart from his eyes, his expression was blank.
"That is Kazick Mehlor. The only son of the late King Vichtor Mehlor, and the heir to the throne of the Blood Marsh. We estimate that he had seen about twenty years when this was made; if he is alive, he will have seen twenty more since. He is a tall man, and apart from what you see in the picture has no known marks, scars, or deformities by which you might identify him. He is exceptionally learned, more than able with a sword, and an excellent horseman. Apparently, for reasons unknown to us, he wears a crude silver ring on his left hand, which has been inscribed with odd symbols. It is said that he never takes it off. If his father is any indication, his hair may be gone at this point and/or turned substantially white. He is a very dangerous man, raised in the art of war and ruling. Do not underestimate him. Remember always that the gods will be watching, and that you undertake this task to redeem your people. If you do find Mehlor, you, and you alone must take his life.
"I understand, my Johalid," said Xasho.
"You are also aware of where to begin your search," continued Sidhir, "As you know, the area around Midnight Lake has long been considered neutral ground, in part because it is considered to be sacred by the foolish followers of the false god Rekon. As such, many Curahshar in the area have become isolated, and have little true loyalty to the Johalids. They cannot be trusted. Therefore, be subtle and discreet in your inquiries. Do not let anyone know of your task. If for whatever reason you suspect that someone has discerned your true purpose, you must silence them. Be they outlander or Curahshar, no one may know of your intent. Am I clear?"
"Yes," said Xasho. He knew what the Johalid meant by silence, and the thought of such a deed did not sit well with him, but he dared not voice such a qualm and have Sidhir question his resolve as he had the previous night.
"Good," said Sidhir. "You will be given a horse, provisions, and gold sufficient to purchase anything you may need. Keep the gold well hidden. A lone man traveling with a fat purse on his hip will soon find himself a beggar…or dead."
"Alone?" asked Xasho, his eyes momentarily flicking to Boskaheed. The old commander gave Xasho a reluctant nod.
The exchange was not lost on Sidhir. "It should come as no surprise to you that I need Boskaheed here to help me prepare our warriors for war. Remember why you were chosen for this honor, Xasho. Serpents hunt alone."
"Alone then," affirmed Xasho.
"Excellent," said Sidhir, nodding his head. "You leave tonight. You will return to us when you have news of the Prince of Mud's demise…and not before," he finished, pointedly. "You have the next few hours to say your farewells."
There was only one person to whom Xasho wished to say farewell. After the Johalids and their champions had dispersed to different parts of the city, Boskaheed stayed behind to help Xasho with his preparations. For a time, the two worked wordlessly packing Xasho's various provisions, until Boskaheed said, "It is only by the Johalid's command that I stay here, Xasho."
"I did not doubt it," Xasho said. "Though I wish I could have your counsel."
"Take care of yourself, and bring honor to the Curahshar," said Boskaheed simply. "That is the only counsel I can give you. They are simple thoughts, but I am but a simple man and they have always served me well."
"I thought I knew how to bring honor to my people," confessed Xasho, "but now even that does not seem simple. I have not had the chance to show you…" Xasho took out the pouch Manuqhid had given him, and gently shook it out on his hand for Boskaheed to see. The instant he saw it, Boskaheed froze.
"Where did you get this?"
"Last night. Just as I was leaving his quarters, the Grand Johalid presented it to me. I…I do not know what he meant by it."
Boskaheed frowned. "There can be only one meaning to such an act. You are his champion."
"But Manuqhid is old, and often not in his right mind. Perhaps I should return it."
"No," said Boskaheed, his voice firm. "There are…consequences to the gift of a zharata. No, you must keep it."
"What do you mean?" asked Xasho.
"I do not really know," admitted Boskaheed. "But I know someone who does. I will consult them."
"There is something else," said Xasho. If Boskaheed's acquaintance had unusual knowledge of the zharatas, perhaps he would have heard of Hakh Halor. "I have been having strange visions. They are of a white-haired warrior. I think he may have been a johalid. His name is Hakh Halor."
"That is not the name of a johalid," observed Boskaheed.
"I know, but in my visions he wears not one, but two zharata."
"Impossible," said Boskaheed.
"Perhaps," admitted Xasho, "but if you would mention it to your acquaintance, he may be able to explain the vision."
"I will mention it," agreed Boskaheed. "But for now Xasho, take my advice and forget these things. It may be some time before I have any answers, and you have an important task set before you.
Xasho did not think these particular aspects of his life would be easy to forget. "Is your acquaintance close by?" he asked.
Boskaheed gave a small, mirthless laugh. "No. They are not."
"Then how will I know what you discover?"
"I will tell you upon your return. Until then, clear it from your mind. And a word of caution , I would not tell anyone else about Manuqhid's gift."
"If I return," said Xasho. "What if I cannot find this man? Sidhir has said he is a fierce and cunning warrior, what if I cannot slay him? You heard Sidhir, I am t
o return with news of the Prince's death, and not before."
"Yes, I did hear that," said Boskaheed, though it was clear that the old commander's thoughts were far away. "Anyhow," he continued, focusing back on Xasho, "you will return, I do not doubt it. I was foolish to think I knew what the gods have in store for you, but I know with certainly that it is not a premature death."
"Do you think the gods have truly singled me out to avenge our people? To kill one man, and not a thousand?"
"I do not know what their plans are. Only that you are part of them, and will be for some time."
Xasho shook his head. "I wish I had your confidence."
"Do not think of it as confidence. Just stubborn hope," said Boskaheed, cracking a small smile.
Later, after Xasho had checked his saddlebags, clasped Boskaheed's hand one last time, and led his horse through the gates of the Heart of Sands, he swore he could hear the words "stubborn hope" follow him into the darkness.
Chapter 35: Bokrham
Just the effort it took for Bokrham to raise his eyelids made the Lord Martial want to fall back asleep, but a horrible thirst and sharp pain in his throat demanded his attention. Dazed, he moved his eyes slowly around the room, looking for something to wet his throat. His mind was shrouded in a thick fog, and it took him some time to realize that he had no idea where he was.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 35
