A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  The dancers started chanting, moving slowly around the slain sloglien, and Tebal continued talking. He said the same things he had said the last several years, the same as all tribal leaders had said before him. Krigi listened only half-heartedly.

  Had it really been twenty-four years since the lot fell upon him? He was unlucky. But being the Gatekeeper wasn’t his only problem.

  After Tebal quieted, he heard a woman calling after him. “Oh, Krigi!”

  Au Mala… Not now, not today. Couldn’t she wait? Sometimes Krigi wished he could just disappear. But the village couldn’t be without a Gatekeeper. That’d send the village into turmoil. Well, for a short time, until another unlucky fellow had the lot fall upon him.

  “Oh, Krigi!” she called again. Krigi didn’t dare acknowledge her.

  “Oh, Krigi!”

  “Will you not answer Baheyla?” Takali asked. His tone was probing.

  Krigi raised an eyebrow at Takali. No. He wouldn’t. That woman had chased him since childhood. People in the village had tried to get them to pair. Their parents were the first. Then it spread. Now everyone in the village wanted them to pair.

  “You know it’s getting late for her,” Takali said with a frown. “She wants a child.”

  “I know that,” Krigi grumbled. He wouldn’t mind having a child either.

  “Tell me, Krigi, why do you ignore her?” Takali asked.

  Krigi just sighed. He didn’t ignore her because she was ugly. Baheyla was said to be the most beautiful woman in the entire tribe. Foreigners who came to the High Valley often tried to take her away with them. Some even tried to pay her to spend the night with them. How blasphemous!

  Baheyla was not the problem. He was. Krigi had heard of others experiencing passions in their youth, a thrilling excitement that drove both men and women wild. But Krigi never experienced such things. As a child he hadn’t minded the idea of pairing with Baheyla, but after he learned of his friends experiencing the passions, Krigi became ashamed. As the years went on, Krigi still hadn’t felt the passions. Baheyla made her advances, and she certainly was overtaken by those strange emotions. But Krigi could never reciprocate.

  The last time was the worst. She cried then, cried like he had never beheld. It left him pained and so ashamed. He couldn’t do that to her again.

  “Krigi!” Baheyla yelled again.

  “You are being a fool,” Takali said. “If you don’t go to her soon, they’ll pair her with a boy.”

  “Then he’ll be a lucky lad,” Krigi said.

  “She’ll be more than twice his age,” Takali said, snorting.

  Krigi ignored him. He had other things to do to prepare for the Celebration of the Desolates. He heard Baheyla calling him again, and this time Krigi glanced to her. I can’t make you happy, he groaned with a frown. Krigi wished he could please her. She deserved it.

  Overtaken with sadness, Krigi slunk through the village. Others were busy preparing for the festival. It would be upon them tonight. Krigi exited Yelinailmaki a different way. He walked down a wider path, carrying his percala. This way was traversed more often.

  Not far from the village he heard groans and cries of passion. A pair had been made that morning. The boy barely turned fifteen today. The girl was a little older. Krigi had overheard her complaining that she had to wait half a year for the pairing. That was nothing to what poor Baheyla had to endure.

  Krigi always thought it a strange tradition that pairs came out to the fields to embrace their passions. It was to show the others of the tribe that they were a faithful pair. They were to continue this practice for a year. Occasionally, pairs would come for no reason at all. Some claimed that the fields helped conceive a child.

  It all just seemed silly.

  Krigi continued to the canyon that lay south of Yelinailmaki where the Path to Sorrow lay. Being the Gatekeeper meant he was the only person permitted to enter the canyon. Well, he and the Two who always came.

  As usual they waited for him at the crosses with the dead tied to them. Krigi called one Mask and the other Hood. He didn’t know their real names; they never spoke them. But Krigi had to name them. Several years ago he’d accidently called them by the names he had given them. They both were amused. Hood laughed quite loudly.

  A third man stood with Mask and Hood near the canyon wall, staring at the crosses and the dead. Au Mala! Krigi moaned, quickening his stride. Why? Why, why, why? He had never shed blood on the eve of the Celebration. Krigi reached for his knife but Hood spoke up quickly.

  “Don’t mind him, Krigi,” Hood said. “He’s my grandson, so to speak.”

  “Many times removed,” Mask said, laughing. Mask was named Mask because of the metal mask that covered his head. It had openings for his eyes, nose, and mouth, but nothing else. Krigi had never seen Mask without his mask.

  Hood grinned and rolled his eyes. He wore a cream-colored robe with lots of little patterns. It was too frivolous. Hood had caught Krigi staring at the patterns once and told him that they were symbols of power. They represented the Words. Words were forbidden among the Yelinail. Not even Krigi could hear Words.

  “Shall we make our way to the gate?” Hood asked, looking to his grandson. The third man barely looked like a man at all. He was young, between being a boy and a man.

  “Nice to meet ya,” the grandson of Hood said. “My name’s Saprin.” He bowed in that weird way foreigners liked to greet people. It was stupid, taking your eyes off someone you had just met. What if they tried to attack you?

  “Sap?” Krigi asked, scratching his head. “Like the sticky stuff you find on trees?”

  Mask chuckled and Hood laughed. But Sap-boy didn’t seem amused. That’s what Krigi would call him. Sap-boy. Saprin was probably not his real name, so why should he call them by a made-up name? Krigi’s names were always better.

  “Let’s get going,” Hood said, gesturing down the Path to Sorrow.

  They walked together, the four of them, and both Hood and Mask asked their usual questions. How many people tried to traverse the Path to Sorrow? Who actually made it to the bottom? Did anybody slip away? But most importantly, they wanted to know about the Gate.

  Krigi answered each of their questions. Only three people had ventured into the Path to Sorrow since the last Celebration of the Desolates. Unfortunately, Krigi had to bind them and bring them before the tribe. Each was strung up and left on the crosses. That’s normally how they handled violators, but one year Krigi had to chase a man down. The man fled out of the High Valley. It took Krigi a day and a half before he felled the man with an arrow in the back; he was almost as bad to hunt as a sloglien. Slogliens, however, were always more irksome than man.

  After several hours of walking, they reached the Gate. It was a towering structure, taller than anything Krigi had ever seen. The Gate was as wide as the canyon and maybe twice as tall. A hundred men could walk side by side through it. Krigi remembered the first time that he had come here with the last Gatekeeper. Krigi was astounded at its size. He wondered how someone could make such a thing. Hood had explained it to him once, but Krigi didn’t understand. His answers were gibberish.

  “So, is this normal, Grandpa?” Sap-boy asked Hood. “Why is it red?”

  The boy-not-man was referring to the stuff within the gate. Krigi didn’t know what it was, but it made it impossible for anyone to go through the Gate when it was there. People disappeared if they ran into it.

  “The barsion the gate emits is mixed with annihilation particles,” Hood answered. What did that even mean?

  More gibberish, Krigi thought.

  Sap-boy’s eyes widened, looking intrigued.

  “I’m going to deactivate it, Krigi,” Hood said watching him.

  That was the cue. Krigi placed his hands over his ears and began yelling as loud as he could. This was to ensure he didn’t hear the Words Hood used when taking the red stuff away.

  Soon the red stuff disappeared.

  Krigi relaxed and took a deep breath. One
of his responsibilities as the Gatekeeper was to ensure that no one, besides Hood and Mask, learn the Words that dismissed the red stuff. If those Words became known, it could doom the entire world—or so Hood had told him.

  “Why do you do that?” Sap-boy asked.

  “It’s what must be done,” Krigi said. “No one must hear the Words. And if a Gatekeeper hears them, they must leave the High Valley, and wander there,” he pointed to the wasteland beyond the Gate. It was a desolate place out there. This was as close as Krigi wanted to get to it.

  “You mean, you exile yourselves into the Karthar Valley if you hear the phrase to deactivate the gate?” Sap-boy asked.

  Krigi raised his brow. “Is that what I said?” He really didn’t know. Sap-boy was speaking more gibberish. Au Mala!

  Sap-boy joined Hood and Mask when he realized Krigi wouldn’t pay attention to him. They were busily inspecting the Gate. They did that every time they came. Krigi often heard them talking about strange words, “decay” and “structural integrity.” They were telling Sap-boy all about the Gate. Mask was worried that the Gate wouldn’t hold for more than a century. What was a century? Hadn’t the Gate always been here? The songs his people sang said the Gate existed even before the Yelinail. That meant it had to have existed before creation, didn’t it?

  Eventually, Hood and Mask were finished. Krigi watched them, and Hood nodded.

  A horrid thought crossed his mind. What if he didn’t clasp his ears? That could solve a lot of problems. Krigi would have to flee into the Desolate plain. With him gone, Baheyla could be paired with someone else. He wouldn’t have to go hunt slogliens by himself anymore—

  Au Mala! Krigi shook his head. What was he thinking? He’d be alone! Until he got eaten. He couldn’t survive out there!

  “Krigi?” Hood asked, stepping away from the Gate. He looked concerned.

  Au Mala curse me! Krigi lamented. Hood stepped close. He seemed a kind man. Hood wasn’t very tall. He looked average, actually.

  “What’s wrong?” Hood asked, gently placing a hand on Krigi’s shoulder. Krigi frowned. He was taught to not hold back from Hood and Mask. The songs called them the Ancient Keepers. Were they from the ancestral world? They seemed too insightful to be men.

  “I am… ashamed,” Krigi said. “I thought if I heard you speak the Words, I could banish myself.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Hood asked. He spoke like a father talking to his son.

  “Because of stupid things,” Krigi complained. “But mostly Baheyla.”

  “Is she the other half of your pair?” Hood asked.

  “No…” Krigi said, sighing. “She’s supposed to be. But I have no passions.” Mask and Sap-boy approached. They had probably heard what he had said.

  “What’s the passions?” Sap-boy asked.

  “Sexual urges,” Mask said. Sexual? How dare he say that word! They were passions!

  “How long have you been without passions?” Hood asked. Hood was more like a Yelinail than the other two. He spoke like a Yelinail, understood them. One time, Hood stayed for the entire Celebration of the Desolates. He joined in the festivities, like a dweller of the High Valley. No foreigner had ever done that.

  “As long as I can remember,” Krigi whispered. He didn’t want Mask or Sap-boy to hear. Hood sighed with disappointment. He rubbed his hairless chin. Why didn’t he grow any hair on his face? Sap-boy didn’t have any either. After a moment, Hood pointed to the side of the canyon, but gestured for Mask and Sap-boy to stay back. What was he doing?

  “What I am going to ask you might sound odd,” Hood said. “But have you ever looked at a woman and become lost in her beauty?”

  “No.”

  “Never felt anything grow within your clothes?” Hood asked, gesturing to his waist.

  “No.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Hood nodded. Silence passed for a moment.

  “You should stop your ears, Krigi,” Hood said, looking determined. “Shout as loud as you can. I’ll do my best to whisper.”

  A knot formed in Krigi’s stomach. “What are you going to do?”

  “Give you your passions.” Vau Kalen! Was that even possible?

  “Your ears, Krigi,” Hood insisted.

  Krigi complied. He shouted as loud as he could, watching Hood’s lips move. Krigi could tell he was saying Words. Green light appeared around Hood. It happened so fast, not like those other foreigners who claimed to know Words. They would drone on and on before they could make light appear. But not Hood. He knew Words.

  The green light struck Krigi, washing through him. It tingled! Hood nodded, and Krigi let go of his ears and ceased shouting.

  “That should do,” Hood said with a smile.

  That should—whoa! What was that feeling surging through him? Was that… the passions? Krigi’s mind turned to Baheyla. She consumed his thoughts. He felt something inside him, something burning, something that he couldn’t sate. The passions!

  “Why don’t you close the gate,” Hood said to Mask.

  Krigi barely cupped his ears in time. His mind was so consumed by the thoughts of Baheyla that he forgot to shout. It didn’t matter though. He was too focused on Baheyla to hear the Words. All Krigi wanted to do was take her into the field outside the village.

  Soon, the four of them were on their way back into the High Valley. Hood, Mask, and Sap-boy talked amongst themselves, but Krigi didn’t pay attention. He yearned for Baheyla.

  “It was good to see you again,” Hood said as they neared the area of the canyon with the crosses. “From now on you’ll be seeing my grandson,” he pointed to Sap-boy. “He’ll come once a year, just like I have.”

  “And why aren’t you coming anymore?” Krigi asked, suppressing the passions. It was harder than he thought.

  “I’m getting old,” Hood grinned. “It’s time another take my responsibilities here.” Hood getting old? But Hood always looked old. He hadn’t changed at all since Krigi first saw him. That was a long time ago. Why hadn’t he changed?

  “Take care of yourself, Krigi,” Hood said, then looked to his grandson. “Take us home, Saprin.”

  Sap-boy held out a hand and began saying Words. Krigi frantically clasped his ears. Golden light shone from Sap-boy’s hand and reached out, swallowing him, Mask, and Hood. Krigi couldn’t see them anymore. They were just a ball of light!

  The light faded, and they were gone. They were gone! Krigi had never seen such a sight!

  Thoughts of Baheyla returned, and Krigi darted back to Yelinailmaki. The festivities for the Celebration had already begun. But he had to find Baheyla. He found her in the crowd gathered at the village’s heart. Oh, she was beautiful! He saw it now! What every other man had seen!

  Krigi hurried over to her, pushing his way past his fellow tribesmen. Baheyla noticed the commotion he made and studied him. She looked confused.

  “Oh, Baheyla!” Krigi called. A smile formed upon her face. Krigi had never called to her in such a manner. Usually, one only called that way when consumed by the passions. Baheyla made her way over to him. Those nearby gasped at the sight.

  “Baheyla,” Krigi whispered, feeling a surge of passion within him. “Come with me to the field.” Baheyla flushed as red as niglur fruit.

  “But, Krigi, we aren’t even paired,” she said with a gasp, breathing fast. Krigi could see it in her eyes. Her passion was swelling.

  Grinning, Krigi said, “We can fix that.”

  “Two men stand against a glistening horror and her rider with a tevisral of immense power.”

  - Prophecy of Soron Thahan

  A week had passed since Pagus had returned to Sarn. Iltar hadn’t received any word from the boy. He was beginning to wonder if Pagus’s letter would ever come. Perhaps Pagus couldn’t convince his father to lend him that vessel. No matter, it wouldn’t be any loss to Iltar. He could still conduct some research here in Soroth.

  On the last day of the Order’s semiannual break—five days after Pagus departed for Sarn—Ilta
r had set out to city’s central market to peruse the local listings of vacant dwellings for rent. He had no desire to stay at Pagus’s home once he finished training the acolytes. That place dredged up too many unwanted memories. He considered sleeping in his office at the Necrotic Order, but an extended stay would arouse suspicion from Alacor and the others.

  While at the central market, Iltar had run into Cornar’s wife, Karenna and their maid, Nilia. He was shocked to hear that Cornar had left to join Krindal’s expedition at the last minute. Cornar breaking promises? How odd…

  When Karenna learned that Iltar was at the market looking for a place to rent near the Order of Histories, she scolded him for not asking to stay in her home and insisted that he stay as long as he needed. Iltar found it difficult to argue, although it wasn’t an ideal arrangement. It would do.

  Karenna was actually surprised that Iltar hadn’t sneaked away on the adventure, as Cornar had. It was the most intriguing adventure of their lives. She joked with him that he should have concocted a story to get him out of Alacor’s stipulation. Little did she know, that was his intention, but only if Pagus could succeed.

  How ironic. Both he and Cornar were not having anything to do with the quiet life. They were men of adventure after all. Asking them to stay put was like asking the sun not to rise.

  * * * * *

  Iltar stood in the gardens of the Necrotic Order, watching Melnor instruct his acolytes. There was something clumsy about his methods. Melnor wasn’t a bad mage, but he wasn’t a good instructor.

  Iltar shook his head as several of Melnor’s students bungled a spell. Magic appeared but soon vanished. The acolytes were obviously doing something wrong.

  “Uh, excuse me!” a voice called from behind Iltar. “Master Iltar.”

  Iltar turned to see one of the Order’s guardsmen holding a rolled parchment sealed with dark-blue wax. He couldn’t see the engraving on the wax, but only inhabitants of Sarn used blue wax to seal documents.