Seed of Scorn

by Aaron-Michael Hall

  When Nurisha returned with the tea and biscuits, Chaween was seated on a divan in the corner, cleaning an old clepsydra water clock. The melody she was humming made Nurisha smile, recalling it from her early childhood. That song and the way that Chaween hummed it, reminded Nurisha of her mother.

  “Yemojan’s Cradle,” Nurisha said, setting the tray on the table.

  “You remember. That’s good. Your mum always loved that one.”

  “Of course, I do. Mum sang that to me every night and sometimes in the morning, too. She loved that song.”

  “Aye, she did. Esmel loved you, ‘Risha. Not many ‘round like your mum and da anymore. Now, c’mon and have a seat, so we can talk.”

  Nurisha stepped forward, and then glanced around the room. “Has Druehox gone?”

  “Not soon enough. That one is a menace, ‘Risha, and up to no good. Don’t trust him.”

  “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “Not yet, but don’t trust him. He’s just waiting for a chance, that’s all. Biding his time.”

  “Ma-ween, you’re worrying me. Have you seen something?”

  “Not enough. Don’t need the sight to know what’s in his heart and mind. He fancies you for sure. However, his envy and resentment are what trouble me. You’re not like the other lasses ‘round here, ‘Risha. He’s used to having what he wants when he wants it. But you see him as he truly is. The Tomić men don’t take rejection well: not the father or the sons. Just mind yourself with that one.”

  “I will, Ma-ween, I promise.”

  “Good. Now tell me what’s ailing you?”

  “Da insisted that I have you look at my wrist.”

  “Let’s have a look, then. Has it been troubling you?” she asked, sliding her spectacles up.

  “Well, the birthmark’s been itching for a while, and—and—”

  “Oh, come on now, child. You can tell your Ma-ween. How else am I to tend you if I don’t know what’s wrong?”

  Nurisha nodded, reluctantly sliding back her sleeve.

  “Gracious me!” Chaween grabbed a magnifier from the table, inspecting the birthmark and surrounding area. “How long has it looked like this?”

  “A few weeks or so. It—it started…well…kind of shimmering, I guess. But it only itches most of the time, and…and it’s spreading, too.”

  “Last time you were here, it was less than half this size. Marks of birth don’t grow, ‘Risha, or shine, for that matter.” She pointed. “Hand me that box with the red jar sticking out of it and we’ll take a closer look.”

  After spreading an oily black substance over Nurisha’s wrist, Chaween whispered a series of words Nurisha hadn’t heard before. She then lifted a red taper from the table, allowing the paraffin to drip down onto the mark.

  Nurisha clenched her eyes, bracing for the burn that would surely follow. When she felt only a cooling sensation, she reopened them, gazing down in wonder.

  The whole of her wrist and hand were aglow with shimmering waves of heat or energy rippling down towards her fingertips. When she raised her hand, a slight spark emitted from her fingers, causing her to jerk back in response.

  “What—what is it, Ma-ween? What’s wrong with my hand?”

  “Nothing that needs fixing. It’s just the ointment and wax mixing that caused the reaction.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, examining it closely.

  “I am. Tell me: have you ever been to Solluna?”

  “Solluna? It’s east of Keir, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Solluna lies between Keir and Matryohn Wood.”

  When Nurisha’s eyes widened, Chaween nodded.

  “There’s a small cobbler shop located in the northeast corner near the mouth of the Matryohn Wood.” Chaween paused, digging through the box and pulling out a small, rolled piece of vellum with a wax seal.

  “Ask for Tryn Kasia, and give her this. She’ll have the answers you seek.”

  “Answers? I can’t just leave for Solluna. Da would never allow me to travel so far alone. What’s going on, Ma-ween? Is something wrong with my wrist?”

  “All things are as they should be. There are questions in your heart that have yet to reach your mind. Don’t worry, ‘Risha, your da will allow it, especially if Aljoša accompanies you.”

  Nurisha blushed, attempting to keep the smile from her face. Aljoša had been her best friend since they were children. He was also the first and only fellow she had permitted to kiss her. It was only once, and over quickly. Still, it happened, and she felt the same butterflies in her stomach now as she had then.

  “Come, my child, let’s get you a salve for your wrist and some pinacate for your da.”

  “How do you always know?”

  “‘Cause I sense what’s there beyond what’s said. The vibrations of energy surrounding us reveals more than you can see and hear, ‘Risha. You needs to be coming more often to learn what I got to teach. Just remember: the sight is more than what your eyes perceive. Those images, colors, and patterns are reflections of what we’re taught to see. True sight lies within your heart and mind. Once you embrace what’s felt, beyond what’s known, then you’ll truly see. A dream is but a vision of all things that were, and many that will be.”

  “I don’t understand, Ma-ween.”

  “By the time your next vision comes to you, you should.”

  Xavion

  The distant clamor from the Kumasi port faded into the background as Xavion hoisted his heavy haversack over his shoulder. His back ached from unloading the haul for delivery throughout the kingdom. It was arduous work, but he enjoyed being out on the open sea, and most of all the way his favorite young lasses greeted him upon his return. He smiled, considering Siobhan awaiting him at the Sea Winch tavern. Unlike the tap houses at the dock, the Sea Winch touted a higher standard in not only the selection of bevvies, but also the women.

  “Oy! Xon! Oy!”

  Xavion paused, noticing Qawiun running to catch up with him. His smile was immediate, as he turned, walking over to greet him. Qawiun was like an older brother to him. His parents had raised Xavion, and they were closer than Qawiun was to his biological siblings. In many ways, they looked like brothers, too. Both stood over six-foot-two inches tall, and their work kept them well-toned and muscled. Except for Xavion’s dark brown eyes and olive complexion, they appeared much the same. Linzi, Qawiun’s mother, always mentioned how much Xavion favored his father. He only hoped to be as good a man as he’d heard that he had been. Well, after he’d had his fill and his fun, of course. Great men weren’t created overnight; it was a process, and he was enjoying it.

  Although he was pleased to see Qawiun, it could only mean one thing: his plans with Siobhan might have to wait.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever find you,” Qawiun said, pulling him in for a quick hug. “If not for Capt. Coburn, I’d still be at the dock.”

  “Well, if I’d known you were coming to meet me, I would’ve waited for you. For now, I need to check on Kuro.” He smiled. “And visit with Siobhan. It’s been three months, after all. I hate to leave a lady in wait.”

  Qawiun laughed, clapping him on his shoulder. “No worries. I’ve kept an eye on your horse, and your lass. However, the former is more loyal than the latter. Mayhaps you should let the other lads know that Siobhan is yours. She certainly doesn’t behave that way when you’re off acting like some common lumper.”

  “As long as they know their place once I arrive in Kumasi. Can’t blame a lass for earning her keep.”

  “Speaking of,” Qawiun said. “Mum sent me and Damali over to get you. She’s been worried you wouldn’t return in time.”

  “Damali? Where’s she at now? You didn’t leave her at the Sea Winch alone, did you?”

  “That sea water must be affecting your memory, Xon. Since when has Damali not been able to handle herself? Hells, she bested Parsa before we left Galbraith, and still gave me a lickin’, too. She’s a tough one, always has been.”

  “I’m
not arguing that. It’s just not proper to leave her unattended. Folks in these parts ain’t too keen on how to treat a lady. C’mon, Kuro can wait. We need to check on Damali.”

  Before they even reached the Sea Winch, the chaos inside was evident. There was the usual gleemen and drunkards, but the whoops and shouts caused them to quicken their pace. After stepping over a few unfortunate men nursing their wounds, they rushed through the doors. Qawiun’s mouth gaped as Xavion laughed aloud, dropping his haversack on the floor.

  Damali arched her three-bladed urumi above her head, perched atop one rogue, her boot at his throat, while her dagger edged in the groin of another. When she noticed them enter, she smiled, her right leg coming around with a kick, sending the man careening into the wall. When the other one tried to rise, she stomped him in the groin, and then coiled the urumi back around her waist.

  “Xon!” she said, rushing over and pulling him down for a hug. “It’s about time you showed up. We’ve been waiting for two days now.”

  “That explains the men out in the streets. I should’ve known that was your doing, Damali.”

  “Those weren’t my doing; they were getting too fresh with Siobhan and got tossed out. Now, those over there,” she motioned, and then rested a hand on her hip. After scanning the surrounding tables, Damali picked up a heavy mug, draining its contents. Once it was empty, she aimed, sending it flying across the room, contacting one of the men in the forehead. As he crashed on the floor next to his friend, she winked. “Some folk don’t know how to stay down.”

  “Not to worry,” Damali said to the gentleman at the table. “I’ll buy you another one. Good stuff, it was.”

  Qawiun shook his head, pulling out a chair for his sister. Once seated, he leaned in, whispering. “Parsa was up in Kalvgah a fortnight ago. You’ll need to visit soon, Xon. Things are happening quickly now. You need to get serious about this and stay inland. We need you here, not off at some bordello in the Seventh Kingdom.”

  “Parsa was there?” Xon asked. “Did he see her?”

  “She hasn’t changed much,” Qawiun said. “She’s formidable, Xon, and stunning.”

  “Not fair that you lot get to do all the traveling,” Damali said. “I’d like to see Nurisha, too. It’s been a year since I’ve been able to go.”

  Xavion listened to their banter while sliding his glove off his hand. The mark on his wrist shimmered, releasing a short burst of energy. Closing his eyes, he envisioned Nurisha, until her image was clear in his mind. He did so often of late, especially when he was abroad. However, when Xavion returned to the Fifth Kingdom, their connection amplified. Nurisha was beautiful, and he couldn’t wait until he could be with her as he was always meant to be.

  “She’s with her da, now,” Xavion said, relinquishing the connection. “We can leave at noonday on the morrow.”

  “Noonday,” Damali protested.

  “It has been three months, you know.” Xavion gestured over to Siobhan. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Qaradan

  Nurisha sealed the last jar of preserves, nestling it in the crate. After wiping her hands clean, she walked toward the hearth, taking a seat opposite Qaradan. Only the hearth lit the small room with the dancing flames casting flickering shadows against the wall. She leaned back in her chair, watching him struggle with his trousers.

  Qaradan had been both father and mother to her for a decade. When she observed him now, mending the trousers, her smile took in her entire face. Nurisha recalled him fumbling with the small needles and thread when she was a child. He’d try to mend her dresses and they’d never turn out quite right. Even when some of the other lasses had made fun of them, she wore them proudly. Her mother had made them, and even worn, as far as she was concerned, they were the most beautiful dresses in all the lands. Of course, those lasses’ dresses didn’t look so pretty after they ended up on their bums in the dirt.

  “I can do that, Da. No need for you to fuss with such things.”

  “Darn if I let a little thread defeat me. I almost got it, just you wait.”

  She rose up, taking the sewing from his hands. “You’ve been sitting here half a glass and still don’t have the needle threaded.”

  “I’m just tired, is all. Getting the deliveries ready takes a lot out of me.”

  “I know. That’s why you should let me do it. It’s no trouble and I’ve already set the caldron on to boil for you. It’s late. You need to wash up and get to bed. Aljoša will be by in the morning to help you finish up.”

  “Yep, he will at that. But it ain’t me ‘Joša is wanting to see.”

  “Da—”

  “Might as well just stop pretending, ‘Risha. I done talked to him already and we’ll get some things sorted soon.”

  “What things?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about just yet. Now, what did Chaween have to say? I saw she sent the pinacate.”

  “You smelled it, you mean.”

  He chuckled. “That, too. But what she say about your wrist? You’ve been wearing that patch since you got back.”

  Nurisha glanced down at the wrap on her wrist, considering what to say. She didn’t lie to her father, but she didn’t want to worry him, either. Yet, Chaween hadn’t truly told her that anything was wrong with her wrist. In fact, she’d stated the opposite. The vellum she gave her was something different, and he’d asked specifically about her wrist, not that. Nurisha smiled.

  “Ma-ween gave me some salve for the itching, and told me to keep it wrapped. I’ll go by there in a few days to have some tea and she’ll check it again.”

  “That’s good. Don’t like having to leave you here as it is. At least I know you’re not ailing.”

  “Da, I—I’m worried about Druehox.”

  “What ‘bout him?”

  “I don’t know, really. He finally admitted to cheating in the tournament.”

  “Well, we knew that. After he hit you with that stone, the rest of the folks just let him win. He didn’t need the coin, only wanted the glory. Like he don’t have enough folk around here sniffing up behind him and his family already.”

  “I know. I just wanted to tell you. He walked with me and asked me to meet him later.”

  “Has that sonas leaf taken all his wits!”

  “No, Da,” she giggled. “I told him no, and he left Ma-ween’s shortly after. Just letting you know is all.”

  “You keep your distance from that skamelar. Aljoša has enough issues with him as it is. No need to add you to that mess.”

  “I know, Da, I won’t.”

  “Good. I’m gonna get cleaned up and get to bed. You best not stay up too late. Got more loading to do tomorrow,” he said, standing and leaning down for a kiss.

  “I won’t, Da. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Esuhnd

  Esuhnd grimaced, attempting to gain some comfort on the stone floor. He rolled over, groaning at the piercing pain that shot down his arm. Howbeit, he was grateful his captors started allowing one arm to remain untethered. This way, at least he could try to lie down and relieve some of the pressure from his knees and arse.

  Slowly rotating his shackled wrist, Esuhnd concentrated on the raw, throbbing wounds, sending trickles of healing energy to soothe the ache. He wasn’t certain how or why he’d developed that ability, but he thanked all the gods for it. Each day, he focused his mind, trying to clear away the turbidity and remember who he was. He couldn’t remember much, but his imprisonment was invidious. Esuhnd was certain of that. The questions and methods the Shytahn continuously employed verified that assertion. Although his memories were fractured, there wasn’t any criminality in them.

  He recalled hunting in a dense forest, but that seemed a lifetime ago. He could hear voices, breathing, and laughter, but he’d never recall names or faces. Esuhnd had been imprisoned for years in the Nyola Tower. He’d lost count of the winters when they’d moved him into the tower’s bowels. Sometimes
he wondered if he was the last, although there was something, a sense deep in his mind that he wasn’t. Only—he couldn’t quite remember.

  He was aware that some barrier was constructed around his subconscious, but he couldn’t recall who or why. It had been so long since he could roam free, both in body and mind. One thing he did remember, however, and quite vividly: the slaughter of his family.

  Before his thoughts could dwell on old memories and wounds, the door to his cell opened, and he looked up to see the tall, thin figure of Zaharija: a deceptively charming man, whose slate-colored eyes looked upon him in ways that gave him great discomfort.

  “How are you feeling, Esuhnd?” Zaharija’s silky voice asked.

  Esuhnd turned away, not wanting to see the filthy desire in the man’s eyes.

  “I have news that’s certain to brighten your mood,” Zaharija said. “I’ve vied for you with the Shytahn, and he’s acquiesced to my requests. I’ve assigned you a chamber on an upper level, and you’ll receive a hot bath and a delicious meal. This cell isn’t fit for an animal, let alone a fine gentleman like you.”

  Esuhnd glared at him, seeing the smile that he was certain Zaharija thought was charming. To Esuhnd, it was the smile of a serpent. “Why? Why would you care about what happens to me?”

  “Regardless of the Shytahn’s numerous allegations against you, you’re still a man, my dear Esuhnd.” His smile broadened. “And a strapping one at that. The Nyola Order isn’t cruel; we dispense penances impartially and in accordance with the edicts of our faith. You’ve been tethered in this cell far longer than any other I’ve known. Certainly, you aren’t objecting to the move?”

  “And if I do object?” Esuhnd asked stubbornly. “I’m no criminal, and your Order doesn’t serve my gods or any semblance of justice. To the shadows of Ashemohn with your Shytahn and those demons you worship.”

  Zaharija stepped closer, grazing Esuhnd’s cheek with the tips of his fingers. “My dear man, you must take care when you speak. Our Shytahn has little tolerance for apostates or impiety. It’s fortuitous for you that I’ve a softer heart…” he paused, smiling handsomely. “…and a gentler touch.”