They were in a neighborhood Leandro did not know. It was in the poorest sector, where the houses were made out of whatever was available including rubbish left behind by war, rotten logs, and even pieces of shields and forgotten sentry posts. Houses were piled one on top of another and there was barely any privacy between neighbors. Apparently, the people knew Greyson in one way or another because as soon as they saw the big man appear, followed by his group, everybody made way for them. The Baron’s spies passed on the secret that the envoys had arrived. The impostor’s spies had begun to note down every move of those who were under suspicion.
A number of them died at that very moment—of course, in complete stealth. The thieves under the Baron’s command slit the throats of the spies so swiftly that nobody realized it had happened. Here, no soldiers patrolled the streets, nor were there laws ruling the lives of the inhabitants. In this neighborhood, as in many others, the law was the local one and that was overseen by the Baron. Among his charitable works, he saved the children of the place from decay and misery, turning them into thieves and men with singular faith for reason and logic.
Greyson seemed to know a fair number of people because he exchanged glances with others and with a wink, was able to deliver a message that would travel a great distance. In this way, they managed to walk without interruption to their destination, which was several leagues on foot over land, rocks, and filth. Finally, at around six in the evening and with the sun setting, they found themselves coming at last to the northern edge of the city where they were finally able to set off on horseback toward Merromer. Here, a group of thieves hidden among the bushes was waiting for them. Before Leandro could say anything, he found himself riding at full gallop toward the seaport.
***
The horses galloped at top speed. They stopped once at a settlement where others loyal to the Baron provided fresh mounts, then they set off again, not stopping to eat or talk. Fear, haste, or a combination of the two kept Gabriel and Nikos in total silence. Although Leandro had noticed they both had dry streaks of tears on their faces, they were crying in silence or their sobs were muffled by the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road.
Another day passed, and still, they did not stop. The travelers’ hands were burning and their thighs aching, but nothing would stop them.
When they reached Merromer, the port welcomed them with its warm kisses and salt air. The shadows of the trees were already stretching out, showing that it must be between six and seven in the evening. Life here was generally quiet except at the port itself, where sailors would kill each other for the control of the best docks in exchange for a substantial payment. The Baron’s network was well established in Merromer.
“You’re expected,” Greyson said. “They’re ready to listen to you.” Karolina, her sons, and Nana were led to a house where they would stay the night while Leandro was taken to a bar called The Kraken.
At night, the port city was dark except for the bars, taverns, and brothels where limited illumination guided the steps of those interested in spending a coin or two. Tourists were rare in this part of Merromer even though it was a city where all sailors landed. Most of them went on their way without lingering much.
The Kraken was filled with activity that night. It was the most popular of all the bars and it was common knowledge that brawls broke out after midnight; they were, naturally, part of the entertainment. The porter was a gorilla of a man of formidable height with arms like pincers and dark skin.
“Who seeks to enter The Kraken?”
“The owl at night with open eyes,” Greyson answered. “The one that sees all, even through flesh.”
The porter said nothing more. Apparently, it was some kind of code. He let them in through a door hidden from the public and they went down a flight of steps to the cellar. Othus and Düll Donn were there waiting at a round table. On it were already empty jars.
When they saw the general come in, they both stood up with a hand on the pommel of their sword and in Düll’s case, the handle of his double ax. Each leader was accompanied by a group of guards who seemed ready for bloodshed. But when they saw Greyson, they relaxed.
“Leandro? Or Leandro the Imposter?”
“The impostor is marching to the South, to the Fields of Flora where the Portal of the Worlds lies. This is the true one, the one we have just rescued by the Baron’s grace.”
Düll Donn and Othus exchanged a glance, then looked closely at the man before them who was dressed as a peasant.
“I guess you have no way of proving your identity,” Düll said. “All we can do is trust your word. Do you still believe that stupid business of handing out bronze coins is going to work? You might be tricking us now, making us believe you’re the real Leandro when the fact is that you’re the impostor trying to win back the enemies you made for yourself.”
Leandro shrugged. He took off his hat and revealed his angular face, his eagle gaze looking keenly at them. “In violent times like these, there’s nothing left but to trust each other. I understand that the impostor who took my place at the Interworld Committee ruined the ties we’d carefully forged. But I can assure you, my brothers of other nations, that if we don’t put our heads and our forces together and set a trap for the trap my double is creating for our people, then it will all cease to matter. Mórgomiel and his legion of thousands will end up with everything. Divided, we are nothing, nobody, an insignificant speck beside the scale of Mórgomiel’s hosts.”
Leandro studied his audience to see whether the explanation had been convincing.
“This is the eloquence of the Leandro I have heard of,” Othus said with a smile. “The general who treats his peers with respect. The impostor’s chatter is that of a passing nobody. We spoke to the Baron before meeting with you, but we needed to be sure it was you. You’re right, these are very serious times and your double did a great job of separating us.”
“Do you know the plan, then?” Leandro asked.
“In part. We know we need to bring all our armed forces to Mandrake so that we can march south as soon as possible. The messages were sent yesterday evening. Today, we’ve received confirmation: our legions are embarking for Merromer as we speak.”
“I only hope they come in time,” Leandro said.
“They will. As soon as they set foot on Mandrakian soil, we’ll set out for the South.”
Leandro smiled to himself and sat down on the nearest chair. The leaders of the neighboring nations sat down in their turn and called for more beer. He was exhausted by so much effort and a well-deserved rest was in order before they set out on their way to the Fields of Flora where another disaster was sure to be waiting for them.
Chapter XLIII — The Mandrake Flower
When they returned from their mission to regain the Fire of Yoshto, the group was received in mourning. Funia had joined the culture of the Catalgar. She had learned that, as in the Meridian, weeks were used; their equivalent here was a meimoon. Instead of seven days, it lasted fifteen in all. There were no months as such, only periods of fifteen days under that name. One year was equivalent to thirty meimoon.
The celebration of Saaldún’s symbolic burial lasted half a meimoon and the feast surprised everyone alike.
“In Hoomasaas, we don’t weep over death,” a centurion had said in explanation of the tradition. “We celebrate the life led by those who died and in that way, we remember the good they did.”
Turi, Chirllp, Merkas, Khad’Un, Amon Ras, and Ushka had been learning to play irlán, a board game similar to chess in which strategy had to be used to win. Except that, unlike chess, it was played with teams of six and a game might last up to five days. During the games, yagüll was drunk and yequima was eaten. The foreigners from the Meridian became so good at the game that they attracted the attention of several centurions and competition had become very lively.
Tagulumich and Tenchi had moved away from the group to explore the Hall of Memories, where all events since the creation of Hoomasaas
had been carved in stone. The monolith and Naevas Aedán had found comfort in its silence and isolation. There, they had also met with Ulrica several times to learn about the Catalgar culture.
Unna, the other woman in the group apart from Funia, had been more interested in getting to know the forests of Farwas beyond the edge of Hoomasaas. Every night she had come back more and more delighted as she came to know the natural life of this planet, finding evidence for how wonderful Mother must be to have created incredible creatures like the ones she was finding. She had seen insects both gigantic and strong, six-legged tigers, and hawks with wyvern scales. She had told stories of waterfalls so clear they looked like jewels and twice, she had glimpsed a kind of wild humanoid she had never seen again.
“The ebani.” Talo had explained that this culture of humanoids was called. Nobody knew much about them since they kept away from all the problems of Farwas.
Funia was the only one who had learned a new skill that would help her become something more than a thief. Although previously she had believed that belonging to the Dungeon of Thieves was the highest her life could achieve, in this adventure she had found an unexplored interest in the art of healing others. She did not know why she had not shown this talent in the Meridian and it hardly mattered. The important thing was to make use of the fact that now she had highly-skilled masters available and ready to teach her.
“The poison of the enemy saber has taken a long time to heal,” said Talo, the leader of the order of healers of Hoomasaas. “It hasn’t been easy, Amana.”
Another shaman had come to help heal Elgahar that morning and was now taking his leave. “May the Fire of Yoshto burn vigorously,” he said.
“May it be so, Menorei,” Talo replied. “May the Fire of Yoshto burn strongly.”
The fairy was flying five inches above the mage’s side, studying him attentively. Her wings beat the wind rapidly. “Did you use the mandrake flower?” she asked.
“Two of them. His wounds are quite deep.” Elgahar was lying prone on a bed raised on stones with a mattress of hay. He looked comfortable and at ease, and his pale skin had regained some color.
Funia was listening carefully to the conversation between Talo and Amana. They had spent a whole meimoon in Farwas, which in the Meridian would be the equivalent of a month or maybe more. Getting used to longer days had been hard. The mage was not going to be at all happy when he woke and found how much time had passed.
They were in one of the towers of the castle. There was not the same bustle here as in other parts of the palace. Here, silence reigned and Funia was almost certain they were near the religious sanctuary. Something in the atmosphere made her want to meditate and ponder, to be in silence and go deeply into the events of life.
Talo was a very respected shaman, as Funia had found out after being with him day and night. The nobility of Hoomasaas treated him with reverence and even the religious men considered him an important figure. Twice, she had followed him to hand out the potions he had made and he did not always get paid for them. Sometimes he gave the potions to impoverished families and sometimes he healed the common he-goats. Sometimes they sat in the square and tended to anyone who came to them without charging them at all. This had impressed Funia. Who in Mandrake practiced the art of healing like this without asking for any payment in return?
Talo was an elderly he-goat of seven decades or more. He had been born and had grown up in Hoomasaas and had joined the Healers’ Order when he was very young. Like all healers, he had followed his calling from the moment he first had the use of reason.
Funia was giving some thought to the name of the flower the shamans used so skillfully. Mandrake flower? She had had no idea that the Mandrake Empire was named after a flower that really existed. Did this mean that the flower existed in the Meridian? If this was the case, she had never heard any mention of it. Perhaps the ancient culture that founded the Mandrake Empire, Flamonia, had used it to heal wounds that had been inflicted with the use of magic.
She made a mental note to seek an explanation for the name of the Empire when she returned to the Meridian, if indeed she ever went back home and if Mórgomiel had not destroyed everything. Perhaps there was some link with the flower that men had forgotten. Perhaps the explanation was well-documented in the ancient books of history. For the moment, the thief brushed aside her thoughts and dedicated herself to listening.
Amana was explaining. “In the forest of Ashk’shaala, there are plenty of mandrake flowers but they’re so coveted by so many cultures and species that sometimes, there’s blood and death where they grow. They say that the blood that’s shed over the mandrakes nurtures them and the blood they absorb makes them stronger. Sometimes there are even sacrifices just to increase their power. The Yundal know that the Catalgar use this flower to heal their wounded and that’s why they’ve put a spell on the forest.”
Compared to Funia, the fairy looked very small but she compelled respect with the look in her deep blue eyes and the wrinkled skin that gave her an aura of experience. Funia had not observed any kind of resistance from the he-goats toward the fairy, even though they were so different.
Funia pointed to a dead mandrake. “The name of our empire comes from that flower.”
“Really? That’s very strange,” Talo said. “It would have never occurred to me to give the name of medicine to an empire. I don’t think people would respect it much.” He laughed. The shaman continued to mash the root of a mandrake with a pestle in an ancient wooden mortar. The paste that was produced was mixed with other spices and powders that the thief was unfamiliar with.
“This is for joint ailments,” the shaman explained. “In Hoomasaas, there are plenty of joint problems because of the broken faults a Catalgar travels over every day. This potion sells well in the market and at a good price. The Dolfas also covet our medicines. Sometimes they pay very well for them, and sometimes,” he added with a smile. “We give it to them free.”
“I’m not surprised that an empire should have the name of the mandrake flower,” the fairy said. “Given that its properties are incredible. It goes to show that the plant exists on other worlds. Quite honestly, I always thought the flower was exclusive to our world.”
“I never even imagined there were other worlds,” Talo said, good-humoredly. “So obviously, it never occurred to me that there were mandrakes in them. Ha ha ha!”
The fairy smiled. “Have you any idea who gave your empire its name?”
Funia shrugged. “Quite honestly, I have no idea. The Empire’s existed for more than four centuries. It was given its name too long ago. I suspect that the ancient culture that founded the Empire had something to do with it.”
“Interesting,” the fairy commented.
On the bed, Elgahar yawned. The shaman soothed him with one hand on his forehead, then poured a couple of drops of the potion into his mouth. “He’s improving. He seems to be on the right road.”
Funia watched her as she flew from shelf to shelf, looking for ingredients for a potion she was creating. She was quite nimble with those wings of hers. They were made of a very thin but very hardy membrane with their edges decorated in gold. She wore a small, pointed green hat that never seemed to leave her head. Her hair had once been golden but it was now grey and stiff. Funia noticed that her features, on the other hand, were very like those of a human or a Mílikin, which made her wonder whether all biped beings had developed from a common lineage.
Amana had explained that fairies were long-lived, the women more so than the men. For them, she had said, magic was something natural that you used day by day and because of this, it was easy to cross over to the dark side in search of more power. The magic here made no distinction between the two branches that the Mandrake Empire had classified separately as the Conjuring Arts and the Black Arts.
“Just as I told you, the mandrake is a living flower,” Amana was saying. “But unlike other flowers, it has a body, face, arms, legs, and soul. When you pull it up, it, inevi
tably, dies. The shock of death causes the mandrake to shriek so powerfully that it’s deafening, and to some, it may even cause fatal paralysis. That’s why you have to pull it out the way I taught you. The point is to prevent it becoming agitated.”
“Come on,” Talo said. “The time has come.”
“Now? Wouldn’t it be better to go out into the open to make sure no-one dies from the paralysis if I don’t do it right?”
“You’ve been here long enough, watching me do it, Funia. It’s time for you to try your hand at it. Come.”
The thief had changed her attire. She had traveled to Farwas in her thieves’ clothes: leather pants, thick boots, many cinches with several sheaths and daggers in them, a cotton blouse and underwear, of course. Now she wore a simple dress made of cashmere, which was normal for the apprentices in the art of healing. It was white. There were no ranks among the shamans, so they all wore the same color. For a human to be able to wear a goat’s garments, the stylists had to make several amendments and measurements. To Funia’s surprise, the dress suited her and kept her warm inside even though she was not wearing much underneath. With this, she could survive any winter with no trouble. She always carried two daggers, one fastened to her waist and the other to her leg, in case of danger.
The thief took two steps forward. She turned to look at Elgahar, who was still lying on the cot, and said, “Let me apologize in advance, Elgahar, in case I make a mess of this and make you suffer.”
Amana was holding a small pot containing fertile soil. In it was a mandrake flower, alive and dormant.
Funia began the chant which Talo had taught her:
Submit, I beg you, healing flower,
To my fingers’ soft caress,
To the song of healing power:
Sleep, and us with healing bless.
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 37