The young woman bowed before Evetta.
“Ibhayisikobho inhliziyo yami inhliziyo yakho kanye ukubonga,” she greeted her, which meant “from my heart to your heart with gratitude.” It was the short-form of a longer salutation that wished all good things flowing from one’s heart to the heart of the one being greeted.
Evetta acknowledged the salutation by taking the young woman’s hands into hers.
Uran watched the two women and could not help but think how Nyananth’s light cocoa-colored skin enhanced the beauty of Evetta’s darker hands, and he wondered how Evetta’s hands would feel when cradled in his own hands.
“I can see that my provident father has not reciprocated your love for him, Evetta of the green everglades, yes?” the young woman asked. In Gaminga-Neyan, Uran was her father of providence, for she believed the kind spirit of harvest had sent him to her, and ever since, she referred to him as provident father.
“Nin,” Uran exclaimed, who when upset or nervous could never say Nyananth’s name properly. Nin meant little flower. “I told you not to talk about such things in the open.”
“And what good does it do to speak of them in secret?” the young woman replied. “Your beating hearts are wilting away because of your stubborn shyness, provident Father. There is no shame in loving.”
“She might have a point there, Uran,” Evetta noted.
He looked at her with a gaping mouth. “What? You mean that you would … I mean you’re so … your hands are so soft and mine so rough and … I’m making a complete fool of myself, aren’t I?”
“At long last, my provident father has finally accepted your proposal, dear Evetta, and we shall rejoice under the next new moon.”
“Wait … what now? You’ve been proposing to me?”
“Yes,” the two women said.
“So all this time, I’ve been saying no?”
“Yes,” they replied.
“So all this time when I thought you wouldn’t be interested, you were in fact proposing to me?”
“Yes,” they said again in tandem.
Uran sighed and scratched his head. Nyananth came to him, took his hand in hers and then placed it against Evetta’s cheek. “You are a man of the high winds, provident Father, strong and true. You never carry a sandstorm in your heart, but you are lonely like the only cloud in a cloudless sky.” She then took Evetta’s hand and placed it against his cheek. “But see, provident Father, love, sometimes, is just one gesture away.” She then joined their hands together.
Speechless, Uran and Evetta stood facing one another, trying hard to process what had just happened. Evetta, seeing how uncomfortable Uran was, had pity on him. “Let’s continue this later, yes?” she offered.
“Let’s, let’s,” he acquiesced. “But I mean, you and I …”
“Yes,” she said simply, and he beamed her a triumphant smile.
Nyananth glanced at the table and opened her eyes wide. “What do we have here?” She peered over the table. “By the four winds of the new dawn, this sheath over here matches the description of Layaleen’s, El-Windiir’s sword, and these are his artifacts, the ones he fought Baal with.”
“So this is the sword of legend,” Uran said. “What is it doing in the possession of a port worker from Byblos?”
“He’s no port worker,” Nyananth corrected, “he is a Silent from Tanniin.” She pointed at a dragon head on the large clip of the belt. “That’s a Silent belt.”
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as the sea is the sea and the desert is the desert.”
“Who do you think this young man is, then?” Evetta asked.
“The Urkuun Slayer. A dwarf from Master Kwadil’s caravan told of a young man bearing El-Windiir’s sword who slew an urkuun in the Kingdom of Tanniin. That was ten moons ago.”
“Is that the same dwarf who was gazing at you like he was a bee and you a pot of honey?” Uran asked, a quiver in his voice.
“My provident father need not worry. My heart is a sail in the wind without anchor or port to call home.”
“That’s not what I was worried about.”
“Nyananth,” Evetta cut in, “are you certain this is El-Windiir’s sword?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” She tried to unsheathe the blade, but the handle did not budge. “Provident Father, please hold the sheath from the bottom. Hold it with both hands.”
“I don’t know, Nyananth, there’s magic in that sword.”
“Layaleen can never be cursed,” Nyananth protested.
Uran hesitated. “I heard that before.”
“Nyananth, there is no need to go through this,” Evetta suggested. “We already know we cannot unsheathe this sword.”
“But the Urkuun Slayer can,” Nyananth replied.
“And that would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that he is no spy of Baal,” Uran concluded. “Shall I bring him here?”
“No,” Evetta decided. “If he is the Urkuun Slayer, then we must move him to a safer location. We should take him to Ashod.”
“And what if he has been branded?” Uran asked. “Baal could use him to find our camp.”
“Which is why we’ll ask Ashod to meet us at the inn of the Three Pleasant Pheasants. The owner is a Black Robe member and we’ve often used one of his cellars as a holding place.”
“When do you wish to leave?” asked Uran.
“Immediately,” Evetta decided.
“Why the rush?” Uran asked.
“Nebo is about to go to war. This young man might be the reason why. Ashod needs to know as soon as possible. We leave immediately.”
Three weeks later, after a wearisome trip through barren hills and remote mountains, a small company reached the city of Rastoopa before dawn. It was the eighth of the month of Tébêt, four days after Ahiram’s nineteenth birthday. A cold, chilly fog replaced the drizzling rain of the past few days, and as the whitish mist streamed silently in the city’s street, it lent a sinister air to the silent buildings and transformed one of them, a tall and massive inn, into a giant slithering snake.
“Hurry up,” Uran ordered, “let’s go through the back doors before anyone else sees us.”
Eight horses moved forward. The first three carried Uran, Nyananth, and Evetta. Ahiram sat on his own steed, for the horse he called “Your Highness” refused to let anyone else ride on his back, and further refused adamantly to move unless he was given a constant ration of fresh apples from the golden bucket. Sheheluth rode next to the Silent, and finally, three Black Robes closed the ranks. Uran knocked and a slave opened. Soon after, the Black Robes escorted Ahiram and Sheheluth down a set of worn-out stairs and locked them inside a musty cellar that smelled of apple and aged vinegar. Ahiram slumped down and closed his eyes.
“You could have escaped whenever you wanted,” Sheheluth observed. “So why didn’t you?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Yes, you could have.”
“Since when have you become so polite, Sheheluth?”
“Am I bothering you?”
“No, and that’s the bother. You can be much more energetic, strong-headed, and impossible to be with, and then you turn into this sweet, soft-spoken Sheheluth. It’s eerie and weird. I don’t like it.”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Do you?”
“You’re frustrating to talk to.”
“Then don’t talk. I’m not in a talking mood right now. But, if you must know, I’ve decided to practice the virtue of patience.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I won’t act on impulse and I won’t give into anger, which has been simmering ever since I reached Baher-Ghafé. Someone I trust said that I would find my sister at the end of this road, and I intend to see this through.”
“But you could have escaped and you could have come here in mere hours. Why drag it three weeks?”
“For their protection, and yours, a
nd my sister’s. I can’t be flying around with Baal so close. I thought you were smarter than that. Why the dumb question now?”
“Testing your anger.”
Ahiram chuckled. “Good answer Sheheluth. Tell me, what happened on that mountain?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw this weird creature, then I blacked out. What happened?”
Sheheluth leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Ahiram took that for a refusal to answer and did the same. “Tell me something, Ahiram. Do you believe I could kill you if I so wished?”
The tone of Sheheluth’s voice was polite and relaxed. She asked her question the way someone asked if he wanted a drink of water or something to eat. Slowly, Ahiram opened his eyes and looked at her. Her gaze betrayed no guile, only a genuine interest in his answer.
“Many have tried before,” he said smugly, “and I’m still here.”
She nodded. “Still, if I wanted to kill you, and I focused my powers on you, do you think I could succeed?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen you try.”
She ignored the taunt and continued to speak patiently. “In a few years, you’ll grow too powerful for me to succeed, but if I wanted, I could kill you now and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”
“Let’s say you could. Why bring it up?”
“To make you understand that I’m on your side. At times, it won’t appear so, but just remember this conversation, and trust me when I tell you I am on your side.”
“Trust is an expensive commodity I can’t afford these days.”
“Then trust this: the creature you saw is a called a kôhrosh. It is to the urkuun what a full-grown lion is to a cub. It’s a lord of the Arayat, a being your sword and the toys of El-Windiir cannot defeat. You are as helpless before him as a babe before a snake. The day will come when he will bind you and take you prisoner into the Arayat, and I will be standing by your side and I will let him do it.”
“You’ve got some strange ways to build trust, Sheheluth.”
“Your ignorance of the Spell World is frightening.”
“Why don’t you teach me?”
“Some battles cannot be won in this world. Only in the Arayat.”
“If he is as strong as you say, why didn’t he take me into the Arayat?”
“You mean when you faced him? I’ve asked myself that same question. Unlike the urkuun who is an in-your-face foe, the kôhrosh is cunning and devious. He will strike when you least expect him.”
“You know quite a bit about him. Care to explain how?”
She gazed at him with a haunted look, “I fought him before.”
Just then, the door opened and three hooded figures walked in. Two of them kept to the shadows, while the third sat cross-legged and pulled his hood back. He was bald, slightly emaciated and of an indefinite age. He looked tired and somewhat worried.
“Who are you?” Ahiram asked quietly.
“I am Ashod, head of the Black Robes.” Ahiram straightened his posture and faced the older man. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
“Answer this,” Ahiram retorted, “while in Byblos, I did a bit of asking around and was told by everyone that over six years ago, your men went to my hometown, Baher-Ghafé, and destroyed it, sparing neither women nor children.” His eyes suddenly hardened. “Is that true?”
“That’s not the right question,” Ashod replied. “What would it take to convince you of the truth? That’s the real question. If I say yes—or no— you would have gained nothing much. What you want is the truth, isn’t that so?” Ahiram watched the old man carefully. “Let me share the truth with you, my dear child, at least my understanding of the truth, and we can revisit that question of yours. Do you agree?”
Ahiram leaned back. “Go on,” he said with a dangerous quiver in his voice. “I am listening.”
Suddenly, Shadow eased himself through the cracked door, walked over to Ahiram, and flopped down next to him with a tired yawn.
Ahiram glanced at Ashod. Odd, he thought, they’re not surprised by the dog’s presence.
Ahiram, listen to me. Don’t do anything stupid.
You choose your moments to be back, Sheheluth the Irritating. I was beginning to get used to Sheheluth the Gentle.
Oh, poor little pup. Do you wish me to leave?
I don’t care, but you’d better be quiet. I want to hear what he has to say.
“Over eighteen years ago, a woman gave birth to a son, the Seer of Power, foretold of old,” Ashod began. “She knew that if the Temple found out who her son was, they would kill him and destroy her village. She sought the help of a very powerful magician, who gave her a medallion, a medallion that would hide his powers and keep them dormant.”
Ahiram’s eyes narrowed still. He had assumed his medallion was from the Tajéruun. But the bit about his mother knowing he was the Seer of Power was new and surprising. “Go on,” he said, “I’m listening.”
“Suppressing his latent powers had an unintended consequence: much like a volcano that one tries to stifle with a giant boulder—if such a thing could exist—his powers surfaced under the guise of a fiery temper. You were a child rippling with energy that the medallion inhibited, and it turned you into a fighter, an agitator, a problem-child for your parents and for your poor sister.”
“Hoda?” Ahiram asked, “You know my sister?”
Ashod nodded. “By some stroke of luck, Syreen and Karadon were present when the tajèr tried to buy your medallion.”
Ahiram opened his eyes wide. “That’s true, I remember now. They were present when that happened.”
“Syreen did not recognize the medallion. Few people would, but she knew it was magical and eventually, she convinced your sister to remove the medallion from you and see what would happen. You ended up having a very high fever, but when she returned the medallion to you, your fever receded immediately. I knew then that you were a grave danger to yourself, your family, and your village, and your sister managed to convince your father to let the two of you go up to your uncle’s who would then train you.”
Inwardly, Ahiram was in a state of turmoil, but his face remained impassive. What he says fits the facts well. I never understood why suddenly I had to go visit my uncle.
“I planned on training you,” Ashod continued, “but days before you left, an unfortunate event took place far away from your village. You see, there are three Merilian medallions. You had one. The second one is hanging in a strange building on a faraway island, and the third is currently inaccessible. That day, a priest of Baal thought to control the second medallion hanging in the island, but instead, he forced the medallion to activate, and that meant that all three medallions were activated at the same time.”
“Are you referring to what happened on the beach with the beam of light? My memory is hazy …”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. When the Merilian medallion activated, you took it off your chest but not before Baal was able to locate you. Your sister hid you in her boat and went back to alert the village, but it was already too late.”
“How could the Temple have reacted so swiftly?” Ahiram asked. “How do I know it wasn’t your men?”
“Do you know the reason of the Temple’s existence?” Ashod retorted. “You. The Temple exists to prevent you from opening the Pit.”
“What? The Temple exists because of … me? Me, open an imaginary pit? That’s madness.”
“Call it what you will, but that’s the reason why Sharr has been pursuing you relentlessly and will continue to do so. That’s the reason why Nebo is itching to declare a war on other kingdoms. That’s why thousands of people will die needlessly. Because of you.”
“You still haven’t told me how the Temple reacted so swiftly.”
Ashod sighed. “Unfortunately, a captain of the High Riders had come by to ask your father for the hand of your sister. The High Riders were camping a stone throw away from Baher-Ghafé that fa
teful night. That’s why they were able to react so swiftly.”
From the corner of his eye, Ahiram could see one of Ashod’s companions changing posture nervously. Is he lying? he wondered.
“Unfortunately, Hoda was unable to go back and get you. Later on, Kwadil found you on a deserted beach and spirited you away from Byblos to Tanniin where he sold you as a slave to Commander Tanios.”
“I didn’t have my medallion then,” Ahiram countered. “How come I was never sick?”
“Ah, but you were sick, dear child,” Ashod explained. “You were sick the length of the sea crossing, and all through your first year, you would wake up cold and shivering. Noraldeen watched over you every night for an entire year.”
Ahiram opened his eyes wide. “She did? How do you know all this?”
“More on that later,” Ashod replied evasively. “Back to your question: did we destroy your village? No, we didn’t. The High Riders did. Your village was not the only one they raided. Countless other villages had been destroyed before yours. Each one was razed because the Temple believed you might have been there. Baal cannot suffer anyone using magic outside of its walls because the Temple is afraid of what you might do with it. This is why Sharr is prepared to go to extreme measures to be rid of you. These are the facts, Ahiram. Do you believe me now?”
Ahiram fell silent, slowly reviewing what Ashod had said. He had to admit that most of it fit well with what he knew already. He bore into Ashod’s eyes and found the courage to ask him the one question that mattered most.
“Where is Hoda?”
“First, do you believe me?” Ashod asked. “I must make certain you’re not about to explode in a fit of rage.”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 44