by B. K. Boes
Bram untied his own bundles and threw them over his shoulders, shaking his head at Moloch’s instructions. He handed over his own reigns. “Just don’t kill the thing,” he said to his stable hand. “And, you know, feed it and stuff.”
Once the animals were settled, Emissary Ikar led Moloch and Bram down a man-made tunnel where glow orbs lined the walls. They were given two rooms next to each other, each a small but comfortable chamber furnished with bed, trunk, and a sitting area. They promptly set their bundles down in their rooms and met the emissary back in the hall within a matter of minutes.
“You need no time to rest after such a long day of travel?” the emissary asked.
Moloch shook his head. “We want to see the king.”
The emissary narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. “We will go as soon as you remove your weapons. They must be left in your quarters. No man besides those in the Fortress Guard may enter the peak level with any kind of weapon.”
Moloch shifted his weight. It was reasonable, but he didn’t like it. He sighed but agreed and went back into his room to discard his weaponry. A longsword, two daggers of varying length, and a knife sheathed on the inside of his boot. He could hear Bram mumbling in the room next to his as he did the same.
It wasn’t a long way to the king’s court. The Emissary led them further into the mountain and up a spiraling staircase that ended in a large foyer. Here, the rough cavern walls turned smooth, and huge stone doors were centered on one wall. It took two guards per door to push them open.
Natural light flooded into the dimly lit foyer. Moloch, with Bram on his heels, followed the emissary into the king’s throne room. It was a magnificent display. Five wide arches were carved into either side of the room, giving way to circular balconies lined with ornate balusters. The floor was overlaid with polished rosy marble tiles. White and red flowers were planted in beautifully painted pots. Each one depicted scenery from a different place in Leyumin. At the center, opposite the heavy stone doors, King Gonnoss sat on his throne. He wore a golden crown and layered robes the same colors as the flowers.
As Moloch approached, he observed the king he was sent to sway. There seemed nothing remarkable about him. Ordinary weight and height. Plain features. But he did seem worn, like an old leather strap about to break.
Will this man agree to my plan? Will I see the first act of Eikon as Unitor of Leyumin? Or will this all be for nothing?
Moloch stopped before the platform on which the king’s throne was placed and bowed a knee. Bram did the same.
“King Gonnoss, we come with greetings from King Shamylle of Eikon. We’ve come to lay before you our plan to follow through on our promise to rid your lands of Adikeans in exchange for your fealty to our king.”
“You may rise. You Eikonians are all business, aren’t you?” King Gonnoss scratched his crooked nose and sighed. “Well, no, that doesn’t suit me. You’re here on my terms in my fortress.” He gazed out of the nearest archway into the mountainous landscape beyond. “At least for now, anyway.”
“Your Majesty—” Moloch began.
“I said no.” King Gonnoss said sharply. “We will discuss this over good food and plenty of ambrosia. I’ll give you three dinners over a span to convince me that your plan and Eikon’s protection is worth the sovereignty of my throne.”
This could be going better. Moloch swallowed all of his prepared remarks and arguments. This man needs respect, or he’ll never hear me.
He bowed his head. “Three dinners it is,” he said. “When will the first one be?”
“Tonight,” King Gonnoss said. “Prepare your arguments. I expect one hell of a presentation. Now, go.” The king gestured for them to leave, and Emissary Ikar ushered them out quickly.
“That went well!” the emissary said once they were outside the king’s throne room. “You caught His Majesty in a good mood.”
Bram laughed, and then his laughter faded as the emissary’s expression flattened in annoyance. “Oh. You’re serious?” Bram said. “That was your king in a good mood?”
Moloch elbowed Bram in the side. “I’m glad you think it went well, Emissary Ikar. Your insight is very valuable.”
“Yes, well, I should think so.” The emissary narrowed his eyes at Bram. “I think you both should be heading back to your rooms.”
“Of course.” Moloch gestured for the emissary to lead the way.
As they navigated the inside of the mountain once more to the rooms assigned to Moloch and Bram, they were all three silent. The emissary left the two alone after giving them permission to visit the lower levels of the mountain, but explicit directions to stay out of the highest level of the Pinnacle Fortress.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Moloch said once the emissary had gone. And in the morning, I’ll be requesting an audience with Lord Nondrum. He sat on the edge of his bed and ran his hands over his face. “I need a drink. Let’s explore a tavern. Or two.”
“You’re my favorite person right now,” Bram said. “Let me get my daggers back in place, and I’m with you.”
Moloch replaced his own weapons, unwilling to venture into a strange city without them, and began to roll his plan through his mind again and again.
I must anticipate every question. Have an answer for everything. As he thought about what Bram had said and the weight of his responsibility, not only to himself and Junia, but to his nation and his people, he felt the weight of his mission bearing down on him. Every step within this city could either be a step toward victory, or a step toward his demise. He took a deep breath. I guess I’d better tread carefully.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jabin
The Town of Shar Alat, Eikon
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
Shar Alat was about twice the size of Cottus. The riverboat they’d boarded had only stopped for a few hours overnight, continuing on its way at dawn. Mae and Jabin parted ways with the crew once they docked in Shar Alat where the river forked. The riverboat captain planned to travel south to Epistrepho, while Mae wanted to continue north to Nomika.
Jabin was exhausted. The day before had been the last day of the seventh cycle, a Holy Day, a day of rest. There was constant work to be done in between Holy Days; they only came on the fifteenth and again on the thirtieth days of each cycle, after a span had passed. Instead of rest, Jabin had spent the day chasing Mae, foolishly thinking he could convince her to come home. Now, he was far from the Yllin Estate in a strange place, on a mission he didn’t think wise.
The Old Bard Tavern offered a room they could afford without the seedy clientele of many of the others near the docks. The tables and chairs were clean enough, but the floor on the ground level was merely dirt covered with hay. The dining area was half-full of ordinary men, most middle-aged with dark circles under their eyes, calloused hands, and too many wrinkles. Jabin chose a table in the corner for them to sit and eat. He watched Mae devour the bread and butter that came with the rooms they’d rented; it had been the last of the funds Mae had brought with her. Jabin prayed he had enough to keep them in safe quarters until their journey came to an end.
Jabin shifted in his seat and picked at his bread. “What are we going to do now, Mae?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle. “Do you have a plan to save this woman from your vision? Are you even sure we’re going to the right city?”
Mae swallowed and sat back in her chair. “I have a plan. I know the woman was in Nomika. I saw a banner for the Festival of Pardons.”
Jabin nodded. Nomika was Eikon’s center for justice and law. It was home to the second highest court whose decisions could only be overturned by the king himself. Advocates of rank and power were required to study there, to learn how to keep order in their own regions with justice and equity. The Festival of Pardons took place every five years; it was a show of mercy to some who had committed less severe crimes — people who had shown good faith and a willingness to be rehabilitated.
“Nomika it is then,” Jabin agr
eed. “Have you been there? Did you recognize the specific place where the woman will fall?”
“I’ve never been,” Mae said, “but the vision overlooked a town square with a large bell at its center. It was ringing as she fell.”
“Did you see anything else?” Jabin asked. Usually he could recall much more. He could sense the state of the person in danger and take in details about their surroundings. Unlike other oracles, he could also hear thoughts. It was hard to work with so little. “Anything that could help us narrow our search?” Jabin leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “What about the time of day?”
“I’m not sure,” Mae said, her brow knit together.
Jabin pressed a little more. “Was the sun in the east or the west? High or low? Or were the moons out?”
Mae bit her lip, thinking, but then shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“How are we supposed to find her if we don’t know the time of day she falls?” Jabin asked, trying to be gentle. “We should go to the sanctuary in Nomika and ask for help.”
“No.” Mae’s lips formed a tight, thin line. Her cheeks reddened. “Not everyone has your talents, Jabin, but that doesn’t mean we’re incapable. The Sustainer gave me this vision, and he will provide the resources. That’s what Tamonn is all about. I must rely on my personal connection to the Sustainer to prove my worth as an oracle.”
Jabin felt his fists tighten. “No one needs to prove anything to the Sustainer. We live in his favor not because of what we do, but because he is good. Seeking Tamonn wasn’t about proving our worth. It was about finding our trust. And now we find our trust by letting go, by giving our visions to the network of oracles under the Sustainer’s hand.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about this again,” Mae said. “There is more than one way to live, and I hold fast to the ways of the Sozian people. If I go back to Sozo, and I haven’t sought Tamonn, those under my care wouldn’t trust me.”
“Those ways are dying, Mae.” Jabin sighed and held up a hand as Mae opened her mouth to speak again. “But I’m here, and I intend to stay. This mission you seek is dangerous, and I won’t leave you to do it alone.”
Mae closed her mouth and gave him one quick nod. She stared at an empty spot on the table for a few minutes before finally looking back at Jabin. “I don’t want to do this alone, either,” she said. “Once we get to Nomika, once everything is done, you’ll see I was right. I promise you won’t regret this.”
Jabin sighed but said nothing.
Mae leaned forward. “We have to keep moving. Our next step is to find a boat going north to Nomika.”
“You did a pretty good job of that in Cottus,” Jabin said as he stood. “You go secure us passage, and I’m going to find a shop that will buy these.” Jabin stretched forward his booted foot.
“Your shoes?” Mae asked. “You can’t travel barefoot.”
Jabin shrugged. “These boots are worth several pair of average shoes. I’ll buy a used pair, and what’s left over should last us through to Nomika.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring more money,” Mae said, her nose wrinkling. “I didn’t realize how much everything would cost.”
“Yes, well, neither did I,” Jabin said. “I thought we’d be home by now.”
Mae took in a deep breath. “Jabin—”
Jabin held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying anything more.”
Mae deflated a little, eyeing him with annoyed suspicion. “I’ll meet you by the docks? The west end?” she asked.
“I’ll be there in a couple hours’ time,” Jabin said.
Jabin and Mae left the tavern, each going their own way. As Jabin walked away, he looked over his shoulder. He was going to sell his shoes, but he had another mission as well. One Mae would never have agreed to.
It hadn’t been hard to find a shop that would buy Jabin’s boots. They were fairly new, and in good condition. The toes were reinforced with bone between the layers of leather, and the soles were thick. The cord that laced them up was made of strong urakma fibers, woven with pikkan hair, and coated with a clear, pliable sealant.
Jabin’s new shoes were too small and poorly made. They were cobbled together from old leather, soft enough, but with barely any soles. His feet felt every cobblestone on the streets of Shar Alat. They wouldn’t do for an extended journey, but they were bearable for now.
As Jabin walked in the opposite direction of the docks, doubt crept into his thoughts. Mae would call his actions betrayal, but how could he do anything else?
This is for the best. Oracle Lan and my father must know where we are going. We’re already two days ahead. By the time a bird reaches the nearest aviary to home, and a messenger delivers it, it will be another two days. I’d better count them at least five days behind.
He stopped in front of the aviary on the edges of the city. It was tall, the dome at the top made of glass. He could see several mitsahp birds flitting from resting place to resting place. The mitsahps were all about the same size as a man’s head when their wings were folded neatly at their sides. Their feathers were either black, gray, or white — never a mixture. And they were trained from hatchlings for this purpose. The white for shorter distances. The gray for one or two days’ journey. And the black for anything farther.
A wrought-iron fence circled the aviary. The gate was open. Jabin walked the short pathway to the front door, taking in the barren landscape around the building. There was not one bush or flower, just yellowed grass in patches.
The door was also black iron. A large knocker was in place, a little above Jabin’s head. He had to pull several times before the hinges on the knocker gave way. It creaked loudly as he worked to slam it against the door, resisting every movement.
A slot in the door opened, and two wide, crystal blue eyes stared at Jabin from under wild, bushy eyebrows.
“What is it?” the man asked. “I’m busy.”
Jabin took a step backwards so he could make eye contact without craning his neck. “This is the aviary, is it not? I have a message to send.”
“You’re in the right place but have the wrong time. Come back later.” The man began to slide the peephole closed.
“What do you mean?” Jabin asked. “I can’t come back later. I have to send a message now.”
“Out of luck,” he said. “It’s time for lunch.” He slammed the little iron door closed.
“Hey! Come back!” Jabin pounded on the door with his fist. “I have to send a message right now.”
“Go away!” the man’s voice came muffled through the door.
“My father is Lord Abner Yllin. His estate is southeast of here. I’m in a bind, and he would be quite upset if he learned I was in need but the local Mitsahp Master refused to help.”
The slot opened again. This time, one eye was squinting, the other still wide under an arched brow. “Prove it.”
Jabin held up his hand to show his signet ring. “Please, sir. It will only take a moment.”
Incomprehensible muttering ensued as Jabin heard lock after lock undone. Finally, the iron door creaked open.
“Come on, then,” the Mitsahp Master said. “Let’s hurry it up. I’ve got a nice hot stew on.”
Jabin entered, crinkling his nose at the smell of the birds and their droppings. Just inside, there was a little room with a table and two chairs, one on each side. To the left, a door was opened, through which Jabin could see a cast iron stove. There was another door in the back that must have led to the large, domed space for the birds.
The Mitsahp Master sat behind the table, leafing through a small box to pull out a quill and ink bottle. A spool of thin paper was attached to the top of the desk, and the man pulled at the end of it, stretching a long thin piece out on the table before him. He gestured to the other chair.
“Sit, son of Abner Yllin,” he said, and if Jabin wasn’t mistaken there was a little too much sarcasm in his tone for polite company.
Jabin sat and opened his mouth,
a single syllable escaping before the man held up a hand, frowned, and shook his head once. Jabin shut his mouth again, waiting while the man smoothed out the paper, dipped his quill in the ink, took a breath, and held the tip of the quill over the edge of the paper.
“You may begin,” he said. “Think carefully, now, boy. We have only a little room for your message. Speak only the words you wish me to write.”
“All right,” Jabin said. “I under — wait! Stop!” He leaned forward as the man had begun to write down his words too soon.
The Mitsahp Master looked up at Jabin, his wild eyebrows scrunched together and his frown deeper. “Speak only the words you wish me to write,” he repeated.
Jabin sighed, this time nodding once to signal his understanding. The man ripped off the used portion of the paper, dipped his quill again, and sat poised for message taking.
“We’re on our way to Nomika,” Jabin said. “Please come quickly. I’m unsure of the future. Mae and I are fine. Inform my father. Best regards, Jabin Yllin.”
The man nodded once, ripped the paper free from the scroll and rolled out a bit more. “And to whom am I sending this message?”
“Oracle Lan at the sanctuary on the grounds of the Yllin Estate.” Jabin sat up and tried to read the man’s scratches upside down. They were nearly indecipherable, but he again ripped off the paper, and set it beside the message.
“I will send these after lunch,” the Mitsahp Master said.
“Are you sure those are… legible?” Jabin asked, a little concerned his efforts would be wasted.
The man sneered. “Never had a complaint before.”
I doubt that.
But Jabin forced a smile. “Of course. Thank you,” he said. “I was hoping you could send it immediately, though? It’s of great importance.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That will be one gold piece for the sending, and one for the mouth.”
“But—”
“Or none, and I can throw this paper in the fire.”