by Brett Vonsik
“A mistake, Irzal,” Mithraam warned. “No seeing in the court before a Gal for my son? No Speaker of the Accused to levy the transgressions? No Speaker of the Rebut to challenge the accusations?”
“So you declare,” Irzal scoffed Mithraam. She dismissed him with a limp-wristed backhanded wave. “What other tasks do we have before us that we need to attend to, Ganzer?”
“There’s the matter of stolen property,” Ganzer spoke up. “This young Evendiir had in his possession a gemstone necklace of considerable value . . . an item well beyond his means.”
Lucufaar unwrapped and held up a necklace with a large gem for all in the room to see. The necklace was gold metal with a large encrusted circular ruby as its centerpiece. Seven smaller rubies flanked the center gem on both sides, all encrusted in their own swinging mounts.
“That isn’t the pendant!” Aren barked before realizing he spoke out. He wished for his words back, but it was too late.
“I know this necklace,” Irzal stated with certainty and a sense of surprise. With raised brows, Irzal directly asked of Aren, “So, you admit to your guilt in taking it? The lady of the House of Laggash will favor its return, and you as her bonded servant so she can punish you all the days of your judgment. This will make for a quick ruling.”
Aren’s head spun. He felt off balanced and unnerved. He wasn’t prepared for lies. Why did he show this pendant and not the true one? Symbols in many colors spun violently in his head, distracting him, confusing him. Aren cursed to himself.
“What are you wishing to say, Evendiir?” Irzal asked.
Aren looked up to the Utu’Me with a blank expression. He couldn’t focus well enough to think, to speak clearly, let alone form what he would say.
“This one is clearly not in his right head,” Mithraam defended Aren. “Look at him. His eyes are distant. He is confused and does not understand what you spoke at him.”
“Ganzer, is this one well of mind?” Irzal asked impassionate. “. . . or is he acting the part of a fool to avoid the consequences of his transgressions?”
“He’s as well minded . . . and as obstinate as the rest, Utu’Me Irzal,” Ganzer answered.
“He suffers in fits with a calm head in between,” Mithraam explained. “He has been this way for days . . . since you broke him on the questioning rack, Aide Ganzer.”
“His mind wandered before we put him on . . .” Ganzer countered Mithraam’s accusation, then caught himself short of completing his thought. Ganzer’s face went from indignantly defensive to furious in an instant. A smirk made its way to Mithraam’s face. Ganzer’s heated eyes turned on Mithraam. “You manipulative stoner . . .”
“I’ve heard enough.” Irzal tried to suppress her own smile at Mithraam’s easy handling of Ganzer. She regained her composure before continuing. “There isn’t sound proof of transgression if his confession was given while on the rack. His wellness of mind is in question and prevents me from declaring the judgment at this time. Do you agree, Gal Suundi?”
The rounded Baraan in white robes looked surprised at being asked anything. His thoughts were evidently somewhere else. He recovered quickly after a glance from the Utu’Me. “Yes, Za Irzal . . . I meant to say Utu’Me Irzal.”
Irzal’s frustrated and disgusted expression smoothed before she continued. “Ganzer, Gal Suundi is to judge this Evendiir’s transgressions . . . when his mind is made well. Now, remove this scraggy thing from my eyes.”
“The Utu’Me has spoken.” Dajil looked directly to her two Tusaa’Ner guardsmen. “See the Evendiir to his escorts in the hallway.”
Chapter 17
Quandary
Colors spun wildly in Aren’s head as a distorted-looking blue-clad Baraan led him through a door. The vivid colors and wildly spinning symbols tormented and confused Aren, making him unable to focus. His head felt as if kicked . . . many times . . . by some big brute. He understood what happened in the judgment room and was relieved at Mithraam’s help, but Aren felt helpless at his being slow forming rational thoughts and his inability at expressing them. What’s happening to me? Go away! Be gone! Now, in the hands of his Tusaa’Ner escorts, being dragged along back to where he assumed dim and musty cells waited for him and the pleasant company of those whining Baraans.
They made a sharp turn down a long hallway of gleaming marble floors and dark stone walls. Aren remembered this hallway. This leads to the stairwell to the arena underworld. Near the far door to the stairwell, a Baraan as stoutly built as Aren’s biggest escort stood stolidly with his hands clasped in front, patiently waiting. Aren felt an atmosphere of gloominess surrounding the waiting Baraan when he looked at him. Dark, shoulder-length hair pulled back in a tight tail provided a good look at the Baraan’s angular features, accentuated in the light cast by a nearby wall lantern. The Baraan’s eyes seemed strange, though Aren couldn’t describe why. He shivered. Not him again. The Subar dressed as Aren remembered, in well-kept charcoal-colored pants and a sleeveless shirt with protruding shoulders, and with a belt sash of black and red. The Subar . . . Aren still didn’t understand what that title meant, most importantly to himself.
Without the onslaught of questioning from the Za, Lucufaar’s displaying of the wrong pendant, and the screeching words of that Tusaa’Ner woman, Aren’s head cleared a bit. The symbols remained, but spun slower, and the colors seemed not so vibrant. He could focus, some. The Subar stood perfectly still at their approach, blocking the door to the stairwell. Aren noticed his escorts becoming agitated or nervous . . . maybe both as they closed the distance with the gloomy Baraan.
“By command of the Tusaa’Ner sakal, stand aside,” Aren’s blue-armored and red-caped escort demanded. When the gloomy figure didn’t move in compliance, the young red-caped Tusaa’Ner became tense and fingered his weapon. His escorts stopped two strides short of the dark-featured Baraan. Not a flinch of his hair. Not even a flinch from the Baraan’s dark eyes. Aren shivered.
“You are relieved on the authority of the Shuruppak Subar.” The darkly dressed Baraan spoke so calmly and with such confidence Aren felt a need to comply by his presentation alone. An awkward silence filled the air for a long moment before Aren felt the hands of his escorts tighten around his arms. They shook slightly. They fear this one. His Tusaa’Ner escorts exchanged glances. The red-caped junior sakal hesitated in relinquishing Aren. He stood uncertain as what to do.
“Shoo.” The Subar waved his hand dismissively.
The junior sakal begrudgingly relinquished Aren with an awkward command to his aguas. Aren felt their quivering hands leave him as they stepped behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he found the echoes of their brisk footfalls matching the speed in which they fled the Subar. Aren suddenly found himself wishing they hadn’t gone. What is a Subar?
He returned his attention to the dark Baraan in front of him. Those colorful spinning symbols in his head remained constant. Aren didn’t know what that meant. Aren and the Subar looked at each other for a short span with Aren growing increasingly uncomfortable. The Subar remained silent and unflinching. Aren started to wonder if he should be saying something, a missed formality he was not familiar with. The silent, dark stare from the Subar was just unnerving. It felt as if it penetrated Aren in ways that were unnatural. Aren shivered a bit before he managed to get his body under control.
“Walk with me,” the Subar ordered, then stepped through the door into the stairwell.
Aren followed. He didn’t know why . . . He just did. On the stairwell top platform, dark-uniformed Sakes replaced the blue-uniformed Tusaa’Ner. The Subar barely gave them notice as he slowly stepped down the stone stairs. Aren followed at an extraordinarily slow pace. The symbols spinning in his head seemed to match their pace.
“What have you discovered?” The Subar asked.
Aren sorted through all he had learned of his captors and cell mates of the past few days. A blue spinning symbol pa
ssed before his eyes. Then a green, then a brown. Go away! He was uncertain of what he should share. This Subar seemed not to be so benevolent a being. He clearly had an agenda that Aren wasn’t privy to. He just didn’t know what it was. Too much information could get the Tellens in trouble. They have been kind to me. They must want something of him too. Aren suddenly found himself wanting to give the Subar information, even if it meant making it up . . . maybe of the Baraans to make them seem more important than they truly were so the Subar might take them away. Aren mused on that thought for a moment before a hail of spinning symbols streaked past his eyes in a yellow blur. Be gone! The Subar appeared patient, waiting for his answer as they made it to the first landing, the walls and walkway forcing them to turn left in their descent. Aren grew increasingly nervous at holding back too much from this one. The Subar’s threat to visit Windsong combined with Aren not fully understanding what a Subar is and is capable of doing, he felt this one would spare little of his authority in finding what he sought. Aren resigned himself to open up, but only enough . . . if that was possible.
“The Baraans are a simple family . . . father, mother, son, and daughter,” Aren started. “The daughter, an attractive lass for a Baraan, is now in the hands of someone given by the Sake zigaar . . . to keep her safe from the jailers and guardsmen.”
“Why tell me things I already know?” The Subar asked flatly.
“Well, huh, the parents are not with good feelings concerning the Tellens,” Aren tried to satisfy the Subar’s want of new details a report might not mention. “They blame the old Tellen for their jailing and the loss of their daughter. They don’t care much for the younger Tellen, as well. He is stricken with the Baraan lass and cares for her a great amount. Enough to not realize his own strength and kill another. The Baraan male youngling is fond of the young Tellen. I think them friends. Friends enough for the Baraan to argue with his parents over their treating the Tellen with harsh manners or blaming him for their predicament. His parents want to hear none of it.”
“Are the Baraans of any importance?” The Subar asked directly.
“I can’t be sure . . . I don’t think so,” Aren answered honestly. Another group of spinning blue symbols whizzed past his eyes, right to left, sending Aren stumbling down the steps. He found himself looking over the edge into darkness when he felt the Subar catch his arm and pull him back.
“What is illing you, Evendiir?” The Subar asked in a tone of frustration. “I’ve never before observed an Evendiir so unsteady or with so little focus.”
The Subar’s strong grip pulled Aren solidly to his feet. It took a moment for him to feel steady enough to stand on his own, in spite of those damnable spinning symbols in his head. Not wanting this Subar to know of his “problem,” Aren deflected his question, he lied . . . a little. “The questioning Ganzer and Lucufaar gave left me unwell.”
“Then, tell me of the Tellens.” The Subar redirected the conversation along, not seeming to care about Aren’s “condition.” I’m only a means to knowledge for him. Aren wasn’t certain if that was favorable or unfavorable for him.
“Rogaan, the young Tellen, is of no importance,” Aren went on as they restarted their slow descent. Aren questioned himself concerning just how much to reveal about Rogaan. Rogaan treated him better than any other since he left home and somehow, when he was in eye or ear distance, it helped Aren control those cursed spinning symbols. “He knows little, though he seems able to get the guardsmen worked up.”
Aren peeked over the edge of the stairs again . . . This time more cautiously. The symbols in his head had settled some, allowing him better concentration and focus . . . and balance. He and the Subar were almost halfway down. Aren was now able to make out dark-uniformed figures below. Sakes or someone else? He needed to complete his telling to the Subar more quickly. There was much to tell of the old Tellen. Too much, Aren feared. He had to give this Subar something . . . enough to benefit himself . . . and maybe Rogaan, but not so much as to bring harm to Mithraam and his son.
“The old Tellen is more than he allows others to know,” Aren thought this knowledge was obvious to all involved with him by now. But how much more to reveal? What can I say to take some focus off of Mithraam? “Mithraam is at odds with Za Irzal . . . Who has her own sordid story. Irzal is not what I expected of a lawmaker. She’s more concerned wielding as much authority as she can and concerns herself not for the good of Farratum, but herself. She thinks Mithraam has valuables he’s hidden from Farratum authorities. She wants them. Mithraam denies he has any more valuables than . . . what they already took from him. What did he call it? His . . . Imur’gisa. I have no knowledge of what that is.”
He and the Subar descended silently for a flight of stairs. They were almost to the bottom. Aren didn’t know if the Subar wanted him to speak more or if the Baraan was contemplating on what was already told to him. The Subar remained silent. Aren’s nervousness grew as the moments lengthened to a height that he felt near need to confess everything he knew.
“What of last night?” The Subar asked.
“Last night?” Aren stalled in answering by acting dumb.
“Yes. Sake reports speak of a stranger in the underground.” The Subar was baiting Aren to tell more with a simple truth. “What do you know of this?”
Aren felt his chest tighten. What am I going to tell him? Again, he struggled with how much to tell. He had to speak of the dark warrior . . . the Subar knew of the stranger who seemed be able to come and go as he pleased, but too much would see him in much trouble, along with the Tellens. His mind raced, seeking a means to tell a half-truth. “I was woke by talk between what I thought were guardsmen. I saw a big Baraan in dark clothing leave the room who looked a Sake, maybe the Sake zigaar. After that annoyance, I rolled over and went back to sleep.”
The Subar carefully watched Aren’s face and eyes intently as he answered. Seeming satisfied with this truth of what Aren spoke, he praised him in an even and calm voice. “Well done, young Aren. Speak nothing of my inquiry or that you’ve imparted this knowledge to me.”
“Yes, Subar.” Aren acknowledge his compliance to him, though continued to wonder . . . What is a Subar? How important and how much authority has he? Everyone seems afraid of this one. Most important . . . Can he see me freed?
Aren set foot on the stone floor at the bottom of the stairwell without the Subar. The Baraan had left Aren a flight of steps above, returning to the top of the stairs. The dark-uniformed guards at the bottom of the stairs, Sakes, while complaining of Tusaa’Ner incompetence, rebound Aren’s wrists and ushered him back into the arena underworld without ceremony.
Chapter 18
Unveiling
Visions of Suhd being mishandled by unknown guards tormented Rogaan every time he closed his eyes. Her beautiful face twisted in screams pleading to be saved from those wanting from her more than she willingly would give plagued his thoughts. Dwelling on that moment was not good for him, but he just could not help himself. Rogaan worried for Suhd and of her being soiled by others. That last thought made him feel embarrassed and dirty at his selfishness. Still, his feelings lingered. Unwisely, Pax teased him of being heartsick for his sister earlier when his parents were sleeping. He could always count on Pax to say the wrong thing at the worst times to gloom over his mood. Rogaan snarled at his friend’s words. That was unfair of me, Rogaan chastised himself. Pax was trying to cheer me up, and all I did was growl at him.
His father allowed him his space, both physically and emotionally. They talked little over the past several days, in-between “questioning” sessions by the Sakes and others he did not know. The questions asked were all focused on his father and his father’s associations. Rogaan endured both physical pains from the experienced use of ropes and mind games at the hands of Farratum’s tyrants for not answering the way they wanted. He gave them little useful information, and that was only after they tricked him into saying
something Rogaan wished he had not.
Rogaan’s visions of saving his father and Pax’s parents were now turned on their head . . . upside down. Nothing like I thought it would be. And, matters were worse. They had Suhd and were doing unspeakable things to her. A wave of anger and despair ripped through him like a dull knife cutting flesh at that last thought. Worse, the embarrassment he felt at his selfish feelings at them soiling her. Do I hurt for her pain or my own? Rogaan did not know the answer to that question, and it made his despair all the more terrible. And then there were Pax and Suhd’s parents. They were relentless at breaking into conversations between him and Pax, spitting venomous accusations at both him and his father . . . mostly at his father. Their mood seemed to worsen with each passing hour. Pax’s too. His friend had turned quieter since they took him and his father for their latest “questioning,” and soon after that, Pax’s father returning to the cell more bruised and limping than from previous sessions. The older Baraan, once almost considered family by Rogaan, fed off his own pain as he took liberties in yelling at Rogaan and his father, telling them what he thought of Tellens and their schemes. Adding to Rogaan’s pain, the memory of that old Baraan he had tossed from the bridge to save Pax and Suhd returned often, haunting his waking thoughts. Rogaan despaired at it all, a mix of regrets and shame that made him feel less than should be allowed to live.
All sat quietly after Pax’s father exhausted himself yelling. Pax now just curled up into a small ball and appeared to sleep. His mother wept as she tossed hate-filled glares at Rogaan as often as she could—all a cycle that repeated itself several times each day for the past several days. They hate me. Once, I was welcomed at their table and laughed with them as family. No more. Rogaan’s heart sank further. He fought to keep tears from falling.
