"But, I digress. This, young Outlander, is your charge," He spread his arms wide, encompassing all of Issamere's lower districts. "This pavilion will remain here, where a delegate from the Temple will always be stationed to manage reports from the acolytes and physicians throughout the day. You will meet them here, each morning and night, to verify or correct their elemental assignments in each district."
"I will do my best, Malik Morgra," Keevan promised. He glanced at the Persuader trainers still lingering at the base of the pavilion, Hadrian among them. "Will I have a route to patrol as well?"
"A small one, in the Forger's District, near your home," Morgra said compassionately. "I know you're training as hard as you can, but try to be aware of your surroundings. Zerik's agents are still at large, as is the other outlander, Corvan."
"Corvan," Keevan echoed numbly. "Right."
"Have you been in touch with him?" Morgra asked bluntly.
"No," Keevan answered honestly, although his distance from Corvan wasn't out of loyalty to Morgra. Keevan couldn't deny the instant kinship he felt toward his fellow outlander, nor the dark resentment he felt for Corvan's silence. Was he such a horrible person, that one of his fellow Outlanders could avoid him like the plague? The disappointment on Keevan's tongue was plain to hear.
"Things are bound to escalate soon," Morgra cautioned, "I fear Zerik may use your bond with Corvan to manipulate you. Don't let him. The varadour is not your friend, nor your family. Ever since he escaped from the Harbor Guild, he's lived the life of an outlaw, resisting every offer I've made to turn himself in peacefully."
Those efforts at least, Keevan knew of. Messages shouted from the Malik's criers at every marketplace across the city, promising fair compensation to Corvan should he swear his allegiance to the rightful Malik. Keevan snorted in derision, "after months of torture at the hands of the Harbor Guild, can you blame him for his lack of trust in Tri-Beings?"
"You make a good point," Morgra noted, though his eyes flickered dangerously at Keevan's tone. "perhaps you'd have better luck. Is that what you're saying?"
"Um..." Keevan shifted uneasily.
"You don't trust my word?" Morgra added dangerously.
"I don't trust the Harbor Guild," Keevan corrected, "and I'm well aware of how deep their coin purses and vendettas run."
"You don't think I can keep them in line, is that it?"
"I don't think they'll leave Derone Radahn in his hole, and there's no way he will let Corvan live un-punished," Keevan explained, sighing in resignation. "Honestly, the life of an outlaw might be the safest thing for him. He... he promised me he wouldn't kill anyone else. He's kept true to that, since his escape, has he not?"
Morgra laughed. "My dear boy, you have such innocence. Corvan will honor his promise until doing so is no longer convenient. When he has to choose between capture and killing, or being dead himself and killing, I assure you, he will kill."
"How fortunate your hunt hasn't gotten close enough to force him to make that choice," Keevan countered bitterly.
"Be that as it may," Morgra insisted, "If you deliver Corvan to me, willingly or otherwise, your family will be given a home in the Etrendi District, with a small army of apprentices to keep Nariem's forge working night and day. Is that incentive enough for you?"
Keevan gulped, taken aback by the generous offer. No witty remarks jumped to mind, so he stammered, "Y-yes, Morgra, quite generous."
"Better get going then, son," Malik Morgra said, ending their conversation with the wave of his hand. "Be back here tonight to report to the priests. They'll need your input."
"As you will, Morgra," Keevan echoed respectfully. As he descended the pavilion, Hadrian handed him a slip of paper with the details of his route in the Forger's District. Thankfully, Keevan's list was fairly short, only including two entrances to the catacombs and three acolyte stations.
Keevan pocketed the paper with a sigh. Adding this route to his other duties left little personal time. He longed to see Bahjal again, outside of his training. A picnic alongside a canal and the steam garden sounded particularly inviting. He touched his burned lip, remembering the literal shock her last kiss had given him, another obstacle to overcome. But wouldn't it be fun to try?
*****
"Yes?" Bahjal grunted, rubbing her tired eyes as she opened the door. A cool breeze tugged at her nightgown, sending a shiver up her legs. The setting moon hung on the edge of the horizon, casting long shadows down the narrow street. Her gaze settled on the brown haired, freckle faced boy standing on her door step, only a year or so younger than Keevan. His black and gold embroidered garb and lithe frame marked him as one of Raejin's acolytes.
"Good evening," The young runner said with a cheerful grin, bowing deeply. Electricity sparked around his toes, running up his calves as he bounced from one foot to the other. "I have a message for you."
"Come on in," Bahjal insisted with a forced smile, holding the door open. Something felt terribly irritating about seeing such an energetic person, so early in the morning.
The runner walked into her home, a small hovel on the outskirts of the Haustran district. The single room housed her bed and closet in one corner, with a kitchen and table in the other. He paused, glancing in confusion from the meager furnishings to Bahjal's expensive Suadan garb hanging in the corner, before fishing a small package from his pocket.
Bahjal's stomach lurched uneasily when she saw the leather satchel in his hand. The runner's message wasn't written. Only one man relied on sender stones to communicate with her and sudden messages from him never carried good news.
"Will this do?" The runner asked, standing in the middle of the room. He bounced on the balls of his feet, electricity sparking down his ankles. He glanced back at the door, anxious to get back on the road.
"Yes, bring out the stone," Bahjal said, shaking her head in wonder. Lightning specialists always carried so much energy around them. No wonder the Death God took to using acolytes as messengers.
The runner opened his bag, pulling a white, polished stone free. He winced in anticipation, gritting his teeth as he held the orb aloft. The receiver stone glowed faintly and the Raejin acolyte convulsed.
In a heartbeat, the runner's countenance changed. He stood up straight, chin and chest jutting out. All his youthful energy disappeared, replaced with a stern expression of command, as if he were the stone carving of a hero of old.
"Greetings, Bahjal De'Sarthan," Malik Morgra grunted, offering a slight bow of respect. His deep, gruff voice sounded eerie coming from such a thin, wiry boy. He quickly looked over the room, pointing at the Suadan garb hanging from a hook in the corner. "You're looking well, though out of place, if you don't mind my saying. Most Suadans of your status have enough gold to afford more than one room."
"Well, these living conditions worked fine back when I was posing as a Rhetan," Bahjal said, offering a shrug. "For the first few years, I had to pretend this place wasn't even mine. Street urchins don't usually own property."
"One of the many sacrifices you've made on my behalf, crawling around the streets like a commoner," Morgra nodded, eyeing Bahjal's nightgown. "You aren't carrying much water around you right now. Why does my presence unsettle you? You're usually so calm."
"Just a bad dream," Bahjal replied defensively. "Haven't shaken it off yet."
"Well then, perhaps this will cheer you up," Morgra said, offering a wide grin. "The time has come to reward you for your years of loyal service."
"Really?" Bahjal echoed in surprise. Despite the warm tone of the Malik's voice, she felt a lingering chill in his implications. Morgra reserved those words for his oldest servants, the ones too feeble to continue serving. Why would he apply such terms to her, though?
"For years you've far, far beneath your station. A promotion is well overdue," Malik Morgra rumbled. "Bahjal De-Sarthan, you are hereby relieved of your responsibilities for Keevan Stratagar. I officially reinstate you to your rightful place among the Etrendi, as noble woman De-S
arthan. I return to you, all the titles, wealth and responsibilities your parents possessed. This task includes founding anew your lost hometown of Karten, recently reclaimed from the southern tribes."
Bahjal stood there in shock, hearing the words roll off the Malik's tongue like a fell waterfall. She felt like Malik Morgra was wiping away her years with Keevan, without a second thought. She balled her fists and pursed her lips in thought.
"This is what I promised you, all those years ago," Malik Morgra said, cocking his head to one side curiously. He held his arms crossed across his chest, tapping his biceps with either finger impatiently. "To give you back the legacy your family lost in the war. You have other concerns?"
"I've spent years building a life here, among the Rhetans and Haustrans," Bahjal replied tentatively, "I would feel like I was throwing away all those years of hard work if I left now."
"Is that your only objection?" Malik Morgra asked, a steel edge to his voice, demanding truth. Bahjal took a moment to organize her thoughts, deeply considering what she would miss. Nausea settled in her belly as she realized the cost of Malik Morgra's 'reward'.
"Why are you ordering me away from Keevan?" Bahjal demanded, warm anger oozing along her extremities. Slivers of orange tickled the veins in her arms. She wrestled to get her emotions under control, taking a deep breath. Strands of water trickled into her hair and down her arms as she met Malik Morgra's gaze.
"The boy's in a delicate place right now, testing his limits and honing new skills. His focus was perfect," Malik Morgra replied, his false smile melting into a much grimmer expression. "I even ordered his parents keep quiet on the subject of the famine, so he could train in peace. But, you told him the truth about the floods. Now that he knows his actions single-handedly brought so much suffering on the Rhetan population, he'll go to great lengths trying to set things right."
"That's the kind of man he is," Bahjal countered, fighting to keep her voice calm. The water coursing through her hair sped up, circling in between her locks like a nest of angry snakes. "He'll do all he can to-"
"He's not skilled enough to hold his own yet." Malik Morgra replied flatly. "He'll get himself killed trying to make up for the famine. All because you couldn't let him train in ignorance."
"Don't lie to me," Bahjal spat in return, "We both know that's not the real reason behind this."
"Really?" The Malik growled, licking his lips. "Enlighten me."
"You're grooming him to stand by your side," Bahjal said, keeping her voice low, as if afraid others might overhear. "Your own personal Sight Seeker to expose your enemies. But you'll never trust him if he has others he loves more than you. Madol and Hadrian are like that. They have nothing left but their fealty to you. Tell me, after I'm gone, what are your plans for Keevan's parents?"
Malik Morgra didn't respond right away, watching Bahjal with renewed interest. After a tense moment, he said, "Don't make me repeat myself, De-Sarthan. You have a town to re-build and I expect you to put your full attentions to that task, in memory of your fallen parents. My agents will be watching. If you continue to associate with Keevan, you will force me to come up with more creative countermeasures."
"I can't just disappear," Bahjal insisted, hands on her hips. "That would distract Keevan more than the knowledge of his role in the famine ever could."
"Then, I expect your affections toward the boy to turn quite frosty from now on," Malik Morgra ordered, snapping his fingers. "Or I'll work on his parents first. Would you rather that?"
Bahjal gulped, her gaze falling to the floor. The water around her slowed into a calm drizzle, a thin layer of ice coating her back and shoulders. "No, Honored Malik," She answered, fighting the urge to vomit, "I will do as you say."
Chapter 7
"People of Issamere!" The crier shouted. He stood on an overturned box, arms raised to the sky as his booming voice echoed down the street. "Hear me. The Malik has abandoned you."
Keevan paused, glancing down the road to the records room. He had little time to waste, but this crier was clearly against Morgra's agenda. No one ever spoke openly against the Malik. Such thoughts were best expressed in low whispers around dark corners. A handful of Rhetans and Haustrans mimicked Keevan's reaction, staring at the crier with surprise, some with approval.
"The Etrendi hold endless supplies of food in their warehouses," The crier insisted. He was short, balding man, his arms and torso thinned by hunger. His linen tunic and leather trousers hung loosely over his feeble frame. "They will feast every night, long after we are only dried skeletons withering in the streets."
"Last week, you spoke in favor of the Malik!" One onlooker shouted, a feeble woman who hobbled on a thick, gnarled cane. A sparely occupied basket of withered vegetables hung from the crook of her elbow. "Why?"
"I told those lies in the hopes they'd keep my family safe. Last night, I lost my only daughter," The crier yelled, shaking his fists toward the palace. "The last of my line has expired, and now, my wife's taken sick. My family suffers in the street while the Etrendi fatten themselves in their lavish dinning halls!"
"Enough!" A barrel chested guard bellowed, emerging from the crowd. His leather armor and chain mail covered everything but his mouth and eyes. Three other soldiers popped into view up and down the street, watching the crier with predatory gazes. "You are under arrest, crier. You'll get food enough in the dungeon, until the Malik judges you."
"The Gods will judge you all!" The crier shouted in return, pointing an incriminating finger at the approaching guard. Then the crier whirled on the other three guards, clad in leather with their hands on the hilts of their swords. "Leaders who abandon their people to starvation do not deserve loyalty nor joy, not in this life, or the next."
Slipping into the elemental plane, Keevan assessed the crowd. Some flickers of anger glowed among the younger of the Rhetan onlookers, but there were far too many who sparked in fear when they saw the guards approaching. Most skirted away then and there, leaving the crier to contend with the Malik's officers.
"Let me speak to the Malik!" The crier insisted, as the first guard pulled him off his box. "Let my last words be on behalf of my dead children and dying wife. They can't treat us like this. We will rise up, just you wait and see."
The guards gagged the crier with cloth, shackling his wrists together. The crier stood tall, full of righteous indignation, not trying to escape or fight back. He glared at the passing Rhetans though, who stared at the ground, too scared to meet his gaze.
Slipping out of the elemental plane, Keevan sighed. In time, the threat of imprisonment or even death would lose effectiveness. Starving people, already on the verge of dying, only saw incarceration as a means of sustenance. Most would rather die fighting to survive with a weapon in their hand, than curled up in an alleyway, ignored by Malik and Etrendi alike.
Shaking aside those dark thoughts, Keevan hurried down the street. He ducked into the dark confines of the city hall's record room, extending one hundred feet in either direction in width and half that in length. Beams of sunlight cut through the windows, illuminating whirling dust particles, recently disturbed by Bahjal's haste. She stood in the far right corner, shoulders slumped forward as she poured through thick tomes so large Keevan couldn't help but picture Hadrian using them as weapons.
A handful of scribes scurried along the tangled mess of tables, shelves, aged scrolls and thickly bound books. Seeing them sent a shudder of relief down Keevan's back, as he glanced down at his own leather armor, scraped and battered from training.
These scribes shared the fate the Council would have assigned him, had Kors' interference not proved his worth. Keevan couldn't picture an existence more boring and tiresome than one steeped in old records of Issamere's yearly totals in crops, trade, births and deaths. Sure, he'd read every book he could get his hands on about ancient legends, but that was to learn about the Sight Seekers, not Issamere.
With a glance full of pity, he skirted around the Haustran District's scribes and
weaved through the tangle of tables and shelves until he reached Bahjal. "Your runner found me just before I started my patrol," Keevan said, offering a one armed hug. "I only have a few minutes, and then I have to complete it before my next class starts."
Bahjal glanced up at him and he noticed the dark circles under her eyes, fatigue stretched out across her features. For once, she actually looked the part of a thirty five year old Etrendi, instead of the seventeen year old Rhetan he'd known her as for the last two years. Her dress was a simple wool spun tunic though, all attempts at pulling rank gone.
"Bahj, what's wrong?" Keevan asked, glancing around her table. Two spent candle holders heavy with wax lay extinguished at either end. Open books, scribbled pieces of parchment and a stack of loose pages marked the fruits of Bahjal's nightly labors. A few cursory glances revealed what all the books had in common. "Why are you neck deep in tomes about Karten? Is that a town?"
Bahjal yawned, offering Keevan a tired smile and a one-armed hug. "Karten is where I grew up. It's a small mining town along the southern border of Issamere, deep in the mountains."
Keevan paused at that. Bahjal rarely talked about her days before moving to Issamere. He suspected her aversion from the topic had something to do with her brother's current affiliation with the rebel, Zerik. He couldn't imagine sharing a childhood with a sibling, who then tried to kill you a decade later, along with half of Issamere.
"I never pictured you working in a mine," Keevan offered cautiously.
Bahjal chuckled with feeble mirth. "My parents owned the mine and half the town. I never worked in it, but they were raising me to help Kors run it, when father was ready to pass it on."
"Your father... But, I thought your parents were in the military. Isn't that how they..."
"Died?" Bahjal answered, taking a steadying breath. "Yes, my parents died trying to help General Arnadi's troops mount a sneak attack against the southern barbarians. Arnadi always kept a garrison on hand, in case of trouble. I can't remember a day growing up when I didn't see soldiers at the walls, at least, until they sent Kors and I here."
Splintered Loyalties Page 7
