by J. M. Rojas
CHAPTER 14: A PRISONER
“What is your name?” the man demanded from the prisoner. His eyes were as blue as his father's and they sparkled fiercely in the gloam light that came from the vine-strangled columns of the antechamber. Rykar Isaleph threw another punch at the kneeling prisoner, cracking his jaw to the side and splattering his garb with sweat and blood. The teenager who looked no older than Jack grunted from the blow, but did not answer. Both of the prisoner's tanned, muscular arms were held back by an Atlantean soldier each, and a third had his foot planted between the teenager's shoulder blades, keeping him bowed.
Mathias moved to break up the interrogation.
“The prisoner is stronger than he appears!” Oreus quickly warned the other. “He already incapacitated twelve guards and broke Rykar's leg when they first caught him!”
Mathias looked from the helpless looking teenager to the physically superior Rykar standing over him. He noticed the High Librarian's son limp on his right leg as he paced before the prisoner.
Jack edged closer to the spectacle that was taking place. His eyes were a-light with white, psychic fire; his mind reaching out to uncover who it was that forcibly knelt before the thuggish Atlantean soldiers.
The djinn suddenly looked over his shoulder and spotted Jack—it was as if he heard his prying thoughts. Grinning mischievously, he winked a purple-flecked eye at him, then twisted his body, causing the guard whose foot was planted on his back to slip and stumble backwards. The nimble prisoner then flipped backwards, delivering a kick to Rykar's jaw—that sent him flying hard on his back—and landed behind the three guards who lost their hold on him. The teenager then rushed them in their confused state and delivered a series of punches and kicks that left them unconscious before they hit the ground.
“Stop him!” Rykar screamed, scrambling to his feet, but falling down again due to his broken leg. “Catch the urchin!”
The soldiers surrounding the company, who had milled at the door to the Chamber of Lore, rushed after the teenager like a swarm of bees.
Laughing and taunting in a shrill, almost bird-like voice, the lithe teenager darted between several guards, and made a break for the far doors to the Inner Sanctum. He ran like the wind, and his long dark hair and tattered desert cloak rippled behind him like a flag.
A large guard with a glaive drawn stood before the Inner Sanctum doors. He grinned darkly as the djinn approached, and sent forth a thought that transformed his blade into a large war-hammer. Swirling it around his head, the guard waited until the teenager was close enough, then leaped at him like he was a scurrying mouse, smashing the hammer downwards upon his prey. The blow didn't even come close to striking its mark; it clanged against the marble floor. The teenager mocked the guard for missing with the strange animals sounds, and ran nimble-foot up the war-hammer's haft, then up the Atlantean's arms, until he was face to face with him. He then delivered the hardest headbutt he could, smashing the guard's nose...
Vesphaeon was placing a heavy, iron-bound tome back onto one of the large gloam-wood bookshelves when he heard a muffled cry from the direction of the antechamber. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Inner Sanctum doors burst open and their guard stumble backwards and crumble to the ground, holding a bleeding nose. A wild-haired teenager who looked native to Alexandria above stood arms wide in the doorway, staring into the mighty chamber of books and scrolls.
“Hello, lad,” Vesphaeon said in his usual civil voice. The younger son of Oreus smiled charmingly at the confused prisoner. “You look lost. Are you running from my unruly brother and his thugs?”
The djinn prisoner nodded vigorously in response. Behind him the shouts of the pursuing guards were getting closer.
“Then do come in.”
Without hesitating, the teenager stepped into the chamber and swiftly pulled the doors closed behind him with surprising strength.
“I'm not at all like Rykar. My name is Vesphaeon—I am the intellectual one.”
“Or so he likes to think,” came a sweet female voice from the bookshelf on the opposite side of the chamber to Vesphaeon. The djinn looked there and saw a pretty girl with brilliant blue eyes and soft, glowing skin. Literally glowing; she was wearing gloam dust that Atlantean women commonly used as makeup, which gave off a golden hue. “He is also very pretentious and self-important.”
Vesphaeon smirked at his sister's jibe.
“My name is Eleena,” the girl said, nodding quaintly to him.
The djinn bowed low to her. He appeared sheepish, but Eleena noticed a keen intelligence in his eyes.
The daughter of Oreus giggled, placed the book she was reading down on the desk she was sitting at and walked over to him. Lightly brushing fingers on his bruised cheek, her smile turned to a look of concern. He flinched but didn't run. “What is your name?”
The door from the antechamber burst open again before the djinn could reply and guards poured in.
He ran. His target were the ornate doors at the far end of the Inner Sanctum that lead to the Hall of Lords.
“Wait!” Eleena called to the djinn.
“He is one of the rebels from the attack on Zerzura!” a guard growled as he rushed passed the girl in pursuit of the prisoner. A staggering Rykar with another guard supporting him came next. He was yelling every Atlantean profanity Eleena had ever heard. Behind them were a line of soldiers.
“Stop!” Vesphaeon commanded, suddenly stepping out in front of the djinn as if from nowhere. He held out an open palmed hand, which the prisoner ran into and fell backwards, landing on his backside. In his other hand flashed a tall wooden staff engraved with Atlantean letters and entwined with gloam vines. “I cannot allow you to enter the Hall of Lords. That is the last sacred place of my people.”
Rykar and his men skidded to a halt, their glaives shimmering from shape to shape in anticipation for a fight.
“Seize the rebel!” the blue-eyed warrior yelled.
“No!” Eleena's frantic voice echoed with her fast approaching footsteps behind them.
“He doesn't seem to be a rebel to me, dear brother,” Vesphaeon replied calmly, staying the advance of guards with his hand, which suddenly began to glow from a multitude of rings on his fingers. “He is definitely not one of Kaelan's lackeys.”
“Then what is he—?”
Vesphaeon stepped closer to the djinn who had crawled up into a sitting position and looked down at him. Eleena pushed passed the guards and crouched down beside the young man, holding him and stroking his hair. Vesphaeon's charisma seem to vanish and was replaced with a scrutinizing gaze. The butt of his gloam staff moved the djinn's loose, linen shirt up to reveal a tattoo on his muscular chest. A crowned sun.
Mathias, Oreus, Jack, Layla, Will and Cloak were not far behind Rykar and his men when they cornered the djinn. They were present when Vesphaeon revealed the strange, almost scarred tattoo on the prisoner's stomach.
Jack gasped. He had seen that symbol on the statue outside of the Chamber of Lore.
“The Crowned Sun,” Mathias said, and he reached out and grasped the djinn's hand, pulling him to his feet. “You are not Atlantean.”
“No,” the djinn said, his eyes moving from Mathias to Jack, and then to Eleena where they lingered.
“I am not Atlantean.”
“So he does speak!” Rykar laughed. “I thought the little snake didn't understand common tongue.”
“I am not a snake,” the djinn said firmly, his dark eyes leveled with Rykar's. His articulation of words suggested he was educated; contrary to his rough appearance, and early behaviour.
“What is your name, lad?” Vesphaeon asked, his civil voice returning.
The djinn looked to Mathias, who nodded. “Ramose,” he said proudly.
“That is not an Arabic name,” Rykar replied suspiciously.
“He is not Arabic, nor ancient Egyptian like his name,” Mathias said. “ He is a Son of Osiria. He is royalty of these lands. A direct descendent of the Sun King.”
Everyone g
asped.
“The djinn are your people?” Mathias asked Ramose.
“Yes. Because we are long lived and can speak with our thoughts we are called demons by the locals. Djinn is just another name for us, which we took and embraced. We do not fear anyone!”
“That is apparent,” Cloak scoffed.
Ramose threw a challenging stare at the Samatar; but was calmed by Eleena who continued to stroke his hair as if she was soothing an animal or a small child.
“The djinn,” Rykar spat, “are still responsible for attacking our soldiers at Zerzura. The battle that resulted in the death of our Lieutenant Essios Kelthanion. You may not be one of the Atlantean rebels, but you are still an enemy of The Library.”
Waving his hands to quell the heated debate, Oreus said, “Let us stop this argument and seek reason and diplomacy!”
“The Lemurians of Zerzura killed my friends too!” Ramose shouted angrily, ignoring Oreus. Eleena stood back from him. “Do not seem so righteous, Atlantean. Zerzura is not your city! These ruins you have so craftily restored under Alexandria are the ruins of my ancestors! If anything, I have more right to them than you!”
“Lies!” Rykar retorted. “Beggar of the desert! Rat of Osiria! This land is no longer apart of the Osirian Empire. Your distant forefathers died in the floods and falling mountains, and their lands were broken. Your people have diluted blood. You are but the faint echoes of a great past. You have no claim here. This is my people's stronghold!”
Ramose ran at Rykar with bare hands.
Mathias stepped quickly between the two hotheads. “Enough!” He thundered. “No fool's blood will be spilled because of a quick temper.
“Your actions have disgraced the Lore Keepers,” Mathias said angrily to Rykar, “and the memory of Atlantis and Lemuria. Interrogating a young boy with fists is empty of honour. Essios would not have accepted such actions.”
Rykar dropped his head obediently, but the general knew there was no shame in the upstarts' heart.
“My son's actions are on my shoulders,” Oreus quickly intervened. “If his honor is stained, so is mine for not stopping it.”
“He is old enough to make his own decisions and face the consequences of their merit or dishonor.”
“I will still take his blame.”
Mathias shook his head and turned to Ramose. “Why did your people attack Zerzura?”
“My people are led by a warlord named Bast,” Ramose said calmly, the fire in his veins sated by Mathias's reprimand of Rykar. “He attacked Zerzura to reclaim the city.
The prisoner stopped, unsure of his own fate by making such revelations, then looked to Eleena. Finding only confusion in her eyes he continued, “However, I did not follow his band of warriors with the same intentions. I do not share Bast's anger towards you Lemurians and The Library. I came because of something a dying man told me in the deserts far from here and much closer to my home. He called himself a Historian and said he was the last of his brotherhood. He claimed to have had friendships with the Lemurians beneath Alexandria and had come seeking the djinn to inform them that hope from the past had come. I did not know what he was talking about until he showed me something which he called the Seal of Kingdoms. It was a gold plate that the Historian had taken from here and etched in its surface were hieroglyphs depicting the alliance of Lemuria and Osiria.
The young djinn motioned their eyes to the buckle that held up his linen pants. A golden plate shimmered under the glow of the torches holstered in the chamber. “Your people and my ancient ancestors once held a truce.”
Mathias nodded, confirming what Ramose said as fact.
“The dying man said that the Lemurians were at war with each other. He spoke of the rebels and their search for the Crown of Dreams, and warned me that should they find the device the waves would rise up again and the world would fall. He also told me that the Crowned Sun on my chest was the mark of the Sun King. My family were the last surviving line of Osirian royalty, which he claimed made me King of Osiria. I laughed at such a proclamation for if I were truly a king of Egypt's deserts then I would not be scavenging in the wild with a nomadic people who were scorned by everyone. I would not be following the whim of Bast and his warmongers. It has and always will be my family crest.
“Although I did not know the Historian or whether he spoke any truths—his thoughts did not reveal any deception—I promised him I would go as an ambassador to The Library and offer my help. I swore that I would help the Lemurians defeat their rebel enemy and restore the ancient wisdom of our people to this world. The Historian died with a content heart.”
“Then why join Bast in his raids?” Rykar asked with an edge to his voice.
“I came with his attack force so I could get captured.”
Rykar's face reaction was one of disbelief.
“I let you capture me. I could have easily fought my way out of here. Even without my Staff of Dancing Winds—the weapon you have taken from me—I am still capable of beating any man in combat with my hands and feet. I am a storm-dancer, and have been trained very well as you may have noticed.” The last comment was sarcastically aimed at Rykar.
“Then why not come alone?” Vesphaeon asked quickly before his brother could react to Ramoseʼ taunt. He was also skeptical of the djinn's tale. “Why join a war band to find us?”
“Because Bast rules the Djinn with an iron fist,” Ramose replied, “and coming alone would only allow him to question my motives. I also hoped to kill him in the confusion of battle at Zerzura.”
Eleena gasped.
“He exiled my parents to the limitless depths of the Great Abyss, and most certainly their death,” Ramose said bitterly as justification for his dark statement. “Ammon was once the original leader of the djinn; then Bast gathered many followers together and usurped his position. They tortured him with fire, disfiguring him, and then banished my father and mother from our clan. Both were bound in ropes and chains and lowered into the Great Abyss: the dark pit that has no bottom. The pit that no one has ever returned from. Our ancient laws forbid their open murder. The elements of the world are the only means to remove a political enemy. Our laws also bestowed Bast lordship over my people when Ammon did not return after the ninth moon of our week to reclaim his seat.”
“Why didn't you tell us all this in the beginning?” Mathias asked. “Why did you fight your way to the Chamber of Lore and risk your life against my people's wrath?”
“I was looking for you,” Ramose replied, looking at Mathias intensely. “You are Mathias are you not? Aramathaeus Sepharam, High General of Atlantis. The last of the Gaianar?”
Mathias said, “Yes, I am he.”
The djinn went on, “I did not ask to be taken to you, because I knew the leader of the guards who interrogated me would not listen to what I had to say. I had to seek you out myself.
“Besides,” Ramose added with a cheeky smile, “I wanted to see if the Atlanteans were really as tough as my father said they were. It appears that the stories are slightly exaggerated.”
Only Cloak laughed.
“The Historian from the desert told you to seek me out,” Mathias said to the djinn—more a statement than a question. “Yusuf: an old Egyptian with one blind eye.”
“Yes,” Ramose answered. “A wise sage who descended from the original librarians of Alexandria. He said that if you heard my tale you might allow me... to come with you.”
There was a thoughtful pause. “I suppose he told you where we are going?”
Ramose nodded.
Mathias turned to Oreus. “This is your decision, old friend. You are the High Librarian,t appointed by Thomas himself. Your judgment is absolute in this city.”
Rykar made a move to vocalise his displeasure, but his father spoke first, “I apologise for your mistreatment, Ramose, Son of Ammon. I did not know your true intentions; and had I, your visit to The Library would have been much more comfortable.”
“No niceties are required, High Librarian,” Ram
ose replied. “I have not known them before so have no need of them.”
“Then I will cease my pleasantries of mediation—as most know I am prone to practice—and tell you outright: for the mistreatment of a descendent of the Osirian kings, I give you pardon to make your own decision in where you go from here.”
“Father!” Rykar protested, limping closer to Oreus on his broken leg. “This is outrageous! He is not an Osirian king! Thomas would have not listen to such lies and deception from this little trickster! A servant of Kaelan!”
“Do not claim to speak for Thomas,” Mathias said, but Rykar's anger superseded his fear of the general.
“My decision is final,” Oreus replied firmly, startling Rykar for the first time. His son had become use to his facile demeanor and weak leadership. “Ramose is a guest in The Library. He is free, under the supervision of Mathias and his friends, to travel wherever he wishes. If that includes accompanying the general on his quest then so be it. I have seen virtue in Ramose' heart and mind, which the bitterness of loss and the harsh sun and sands have not worn away.”
Ramose smiled and bowed graciously to Oreus. “Thank you,” he said.
Mathias turned to Jack, “I have found your sparring partner for tomorrow.”
Jack was speechless. The Atlantean's comment was unexpected. All he could do was reach out and take the hand offered to him by a djinn who appeared his own age and shake it. A teenager who could physically incapacitate adult men in unarmed combat.
“Hello, Ramose,” he finally said, “My name is Jack.”
“Hello Jack,” the djinn replied, and smiled mischievously at him. “It is nice to meet you.”
