“So we go there and deliver this message, then what?”
“Then, from there, we find a guide to take us down into Korridir, we could reach—”
“Adiker and cross to Salem,” he completed with a misty voice.
She stared at him with eyes wide open.
“You have been there?”
“Not really,” he said. “I have been as far as Merib on the eastern side of Sabea, and I just remembered an old sailor talking about the Island of Salem. He was a leper who wanted to speak with a sage who resided on a mountaintop. Back then, I wanted to find a treasure, so I didn’t pay attention to the sage on the mountain.”
“And now?”
“If we stay here we won’t ever find anything out about our son, and it’s not like he is going to come searching for us in the swamps.”
“So, we will go?”
“What about Hoda?”
“Hoda is with Karadon on a special mission,” Hayat reminded him.
“I know that,” he scoffed. “Will she come with us?”
“We will wait for her to return. Then she will let us know.”
“Let us know what?”
“If she wants to come with us, of course.”
Jabbar looked at his blackened hands, and then slowly shook his head.
“No, Hayat. The answer is no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hoda stays here. We won’t take her with us. She stays here with her husband. I don’t want to raise her hopes of finding her brother. She has suffered enough. If we go, it will just be the two of us.”
“How will we do this?” she asked, even though she had a plan in mind.
“I don’t know just yet. Ashod will help. There will be caravans coming this way. We need to figure out how to join them. I’m sure caravans can make use of a blacksmith somehow, don’t you think?”
She looked at him and smiled.
“What do you say if we call it a night?” asked Jabbar.
“How about you go wash up?” she replied. “Dinner will be ready before you’re done.”
For the first time in six years, she felt close to her husband. Though Hayat did not know whether she would see her son again, she was hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, at the end of this quest Jabbar and I will stand on sunny shores, side-by-side, closer than we have been in the last six years.
And that, that alone would be a small victory; their own victory over the Temple and the cruelty of men.
“In my travels, I visited Gordion several times. This finely manicured city struck me, but not for the usual reasons. Gordion is elegance and beauty, like a haughty maiden or a solitary diamond. True, its cupolas are unforgettable and its wide avenues are a wonder to behold. But none of this struck me as much as the apparent lack of magical artifacts, as if the city itself abhorred magic, or perhaps, coveted it so much, that it hid it like a mother hiding her child within her bosom.”
–Memoir of Alkiniöm the Traveler.
Seven hundred miles southwest of the Black Robes’ camp, Gordion, the capital city of the confederate state of Teshub, glittered in the bright morning sun. Seen from afar, the cupolas that decked the city skyline looked like beads of diamonds on a finely sculpted crown. Covered with colorful mosaics, they formed an elegant symphony redounding on the venerable Teshubian royal lineage. Here the king was mostly an anointed ambassador for the powerful guild of merchants that funded, governed, and managed the confederation.
The royal palace, cast in the center of the city, was accessible from six esplanades that converged on a wide roundabout where the royal gates stood. Behind the ornamented silver portals and the sixteen-mile-long wrought iron fence lay a trimmed garden with eight hundred and fifty fountains and one thousand alcoves, where white and purple leaves of pruned bougainvillea bushes cascaded gently along the marble base of stolid statues. Their dull eyes stared blankly at exotic trees and lavish gifts from faraway lands, given, no doubt, at the closure of mutually fruitful financial exchanges.
The grass, green and lush, was stretched like an impeccable carpet. It covered most of the ten thousand acres of the garden. It surrounded rosebushes like slaves fanning their queens. It crawled at the feet of butterfly bushes sculpted into green arches over hidden pathways.
Seen from the gate, the garden resembled a manicured maze; a gentle warning that kept at bay anyone without a rich jingle in his purse or a purposeful proposal on his lips.
The palace bristled with a constant coming and going of merchants, noble folks, emissaries, ambassadors, and guild members. An army of servants, two thousand strong, served the two hundred and twenty-two guest rooms, which were almost continually full. Since Gordonian slaves originated from kingdoms that traded with Teshub, they were not allowed on palace-ground to avoid insulting guests from their homeland.
Most guests preferred conducting their negotiations in the secluded alcoves of the vast garden. They could speak freely under the watchful gaze of the kinbals, mercenaries, who wore special sound-muffling turbans. The palace handsomely rewarded this league of silent soldiers to preserve the secrecy of transactions and keep the peace.
Four zakiruun, memory men, were stationed permanently at the palace, and rumor was, there were at least two tajéruun—the powerful league of moneymen who managed the zakiruun’s riches—who roamed the palace’s four stories.
Everyone walked in the garden with great poise and deliberate slowness. Sporting an air of self-assured complacency—and a quiet indifference bordering on disdain—the traders let everybody know they were in no hurry to conclude any deal. As the placid folks of Gordion were wont to repeat, “The slower the poise, the greater the greed.”
Presently, nothing was poised about Corintus who was running as quickly as he could manage toward the palace.
“My apologies … I am so very sorry … But there is a bit of an emergency … I am requested at the palace …” So went his litany of excuses as he avoided small groups of visitors, like a salmon flowing upstream evades rocks. Holding his gardener’s pouch high overhead, he snaked his way through the constant streams of visitors flowing from the palace into the garden, until he reached the main plaza and its two hundred-foot-wide, rose marble staircase.
Setting aside all sentiments of propriety, the Solitary bounded the four sets of stairs four-by-four until he reached the western balcony, which overlooked all of Gordion. He veered to the right, followed a servant’s path, and barely avoided slamming into twelve hurried waiters carrying condiments, a tureen of seafood soup, and a platter of batter-dipped, fried shark steaks. He slipped through the kitchen door, maneuvered around a host of harried servants busy with their kitchenware and buckets of hot water, and bounded up the main staircase, which was trimmed in diamonds and gold.
Moments before, Vily, his daughter’s only friend, had come to him while he sat in his favorite alcove, something the timid young girl would have never done unless she was desperate. Her expression was haggard and she was barely able to control her tears.
“What is it Vily?” he asked while he gently took her hands. They were cold and damp. “What’s wrong?”
Vily had burst into tears again. “It’s Aquilina. We were supposed to have breakfast together, but she did not come. I went to her room. She wasn’t there. I thought that maybe she went to the kitchen to look for me. I sat and played with her dolls when she … she …” Vily struggled to breathe. She was now shaking and Corintus fought the urge to ask her what was wrong with his daughter; but he knew she was doing her best. “She app … appeared over the bed out of no … nowhere in a big bub … bubble of water and she fell on the bed. Everything is wet …” Corintus realized that the little girl’s clothes were wet as well. “The car … carpet and the bed and everything is wet and she … she won’t wake up …”
Having said that, the little girl’s tears doubled. Corintus held her and patted her shoulder.
“Shush, there, there. Don’t you worry, I am sure Aquilina is fine.” She gazed at him wi
th searching eyes, wanting to believe him. “Listen Vily, I am going to see Aquilina as quickly as I can. Would it be all right if you followed at your own pace?”
“So you…you believe me?”
He had smiled. More than you care to know, little one. “Yes, I do,” he said gently. “I know you’re speaking the truth. Now, listen Vily,” he added as he glanced around. “Do not speak to anyone about this, all right? It’s best for Aquilina.”
She vehemently shook her head. “I told no one. Just you.”
“Good girl. I’m going to go straight to the palace. I’ll go quickly. You follow me at your own pace, all right?”
Bravely, she held back her tears, nodded twice, and walked away.
I hope I am not too late, he thought as he bounded up the stairs. She’s been going into that other world every day for the past three weeks. She’s got to stop. Having reached the second floor, he veered right and ran unceremoniously along the shimmering rosewood floor of the circular mezzanine that overlooked the main entrance. Portraits of past kings frowned with disdain as he whizzed past velvet drapes framing tall, mahogany, double doors—delicately etched with lilies, the royal symbol of the House of Gordion. Corintus sprinted toward the corridor leading to his daughter’s room just as four slow-moving porters emerged from the hallway, blocking the access.
“Make way, make way,” he yelled.
They were carrying a gold-plated platform, atop which sat a dignified middle-aged woman on a velvet chair. Instead of stepping aside onto the mezzanine, the startled porters froze. Muffling a string of choice words against placid porters and importunate Ophirians, Corintus sped up, somersaulted and landed gracefully in front of the woman. She let out a cry of delighted surprise. The porters bent their knees, huffed and hoed under the added weight but kept their balance. Deftly, Corintus dropped to one knee and produced a rose from his pouch.
“Madame De La Bambouche,” he said with his most charming smile, “I am so happy to catch you before dinner. Please accept this rose as a sign of my affection for you and your house.” He dropped the rose on the lap of the woman, grabbed her right hand, kissed it lightly, and gave her a wink. Smiling, he jumped over her head, somersaulted into the corridor, and took off in a run.
“Oh that Corintus,” cooed Mrs. De La Bambouche, “what a chaaarmer. What an absolute chaaarmer.”
You and your house, what was I thinking? Good thing, Amaréya was not there to hear me. Corintus stopped in front of the sixteen-foot, double-door inside an alcove at the end of the corridor. Two marble columns stood on either side boasting a jade vase which overflowed with arrangements of roses, petunias, daisies, amaryllis, and jasmines. Two light-green, velvet drapes tied to gold rings hung from the two columns; the last barrier between Corintus and his daughter’s door. Even though Aquilina was the daughter of the royal heiress, no sentries stood guard by her door, for Gordion was a prosperous and peaceful kingdom and enjoyed the favors of Babylon.
The tall man knocked on the door. “Aquilina,” he called, “Aquilina, open the door, right now.”
Behind the door, a rectangular space led onto a spherical sunroom where several trees stood motionless in wire-framed planters underneath baskets overflowing with flowers. The room was sparsely furnished on a beautiful silk carpet. It simply hosted a bed, two chairs, a wardrobe, and a trunk where six dolls sat hunched and lonely.
“Aquilina, open the door!”
Eyes closed, the twelve-year-old girl lay on her back, her hands clasped in a gesture of supplication, her face as pale as the shadow of death. She did not react to the loud thuds against the door.
Corintus stood by the window, hands behind his back. This is the hardest thing I have ever tried to do, he thought. Amaréya loves Aquilina, but what choice do I have? I must take her away to Salem and leave her mother behind. Still lying on her bed, Aquilina slept fitfully. He went back to her side and replaced the wet cloth he had placed on her forehead with a fresh one. No one must know what is going on here, no one. We leave tonight.
When his daughter had not answered his repeated calls, he thought of breaking down the door. But just when he was about to put his plan into execution, he had regained his senses. I am a Silent. What am I doing trying to break a door when I can enter through the window? He had found Aquilina laying on her bed, shivering, eyes closed, hands clutching her damp nightgown. The bedding was drenched and a pool of water surrounded the bed. He called her name, but she did not respond.
Corintus ran down and asked Drobna and Martha—two of his trusted servants—for help. They changed the bedding, and Martha tended to Aquilina. After the servants had left the room, her fever rose, so he remained by her bedside all day and through the night. Vily kept him company, refusing to leave her friend’s side until, unable to keep her eyes open, she had slid down and fallen asleep on the carpet. Corintus had laid her gently on his daughter’s bed, knowing that if he had brought Vily to her room, she would be back with him in no time.
The sun rose across the vast plain of Gordion and Aquilina’s fever had not yet abated. Corintus paced back and forth. In the state she is in, I won’t be able to take care of her alone. Drobna and Martha had already agreed to go with him. They are faithful, they will not speak. A plan formed rapidly in his mind. First, Martha and I will take Aquilina to the cottage at the northern foothills of Gordion where she can care for her properly. It is an hour away on horseback and no one will notice my absence. Meanwhile, Drobna will go to Kwadil’s camp and will bring Ashod’s messengers to the cottage. To the Pit with the protocol, but I can no longer wait five days to meet Ashod’s friends. I must have what Ashod has promised to send me immediately. By the time the palace organizes a search party—and Gordion does everything slowly—Aquilina and I will be long gone.
The thought of leaving Amaréya behind was more than he could bear, but despite Amaréya’s stout determination, he could not see how his wife, the heir to the throne of Gordion, could leave the throne without a successor and run away with him to Salem. I know she said she would do it, but there’s a difference between saying it and doing it. He could not see how she would be able to hide the truth from the King and Queen and leave them without a word about her whereabouts. No, he would have to disappear with his daughter and leave his wife behind.
As if on cue, the door opened and she walked in with Martha in tow.
“Amaréya, how did you…”
His wife gazed at him and smiled. Corintus shivered. Empyreans had a way of smiling just before the kill that was unpleasant, and right now, his wife—who was half-Empyrean—looked like a dangerous warrior on the warpath.
“Martha informed me, dear. You didn’t want her to tell me my daughter is unwell?”
Corintus looked at Martha and chided himself. I forgot to tell her not to inform my wife. How stupid could I be?
“Well?”
The words “dear” and “my daughter” meant trouble.
Their marriage had been a matter of state, a politically motivated machination between Gordion and Ophir. It was an alliance that neither she nor Corintus had fully understood when they were first thrown into each other’s arms fourteen years ago. They saw each other’s face for the first time on the night of their wedding. That fateful night, she tried to kill him when he politely declined the bowl of roasted chestnuts she offered him as a sign of her dedication. “I am not hungry,” he had said. His refusal, when translated in Empyrean mores, meant that she was not good enough for him. Naturally, she took her sword and tried to lop off his head. Naturally, he dodged her attacks with a Solitary’s ease. He tried to reason with her, citing international laws that govern the rules of dueling, but the more he spoke, the more determined she was to make him to stop. Permanently.
They fought all night, and since their apartments were secluded, no one was alerted of their deadly dance. The following morning, the servants were at a loss to explain what had happened during the night. They found their princess and her groom sitting on the floor ea
ting chestnuts in the midst of total devastation. All that remained of the fine curtains and furnishings that had so elegantly graced the royal suite were shreds of silk and broken pieces of rosewood.
“We used the furniture and the draperies to roast chestnuts,” said a jubilant Corintus. “It’s a slow roast, so we needed quite a bit of fuel.”
To an Empyrean, love meant respect, honor, and service. To love meant to speak little and do much. Amaréya prized the palace’s garden where she grew up. It held a special place in her heart, and unlike her husband, she did not require words to appreciate its beauty. She would be happy to stand quietly below a tree or sit on one of its branches. Standing by a fountain, she would close her eyes and hear the garden bristle with life like a symphony that blended color and sound into a living song of singular beauty. Silence had been her preferred language; silence, and the deadly whizz of a well-balanced blade, for this was the Empyrean way.
Over the years, she had developed an ear for her husband’s words. Neither one was passionately in love with the other, but their appreciation for one another had steadily grown until it became a sturdy bark upon which they knew they could navigate the rapids of the world. As long as they had one another, no harm could come to them. But now, just now, there was a stark determination in Corintus’ eyes she had not seen before. Her trained warrior senses told her he was like a fighter on a singular path, preparing to take swift action—alone. He is a Solitary, she reminded herself. A Solitary was the highest rank of the Silent. What are you up to now, Corintus?
“No, that’s not it. Of course I wanted her to alert you,” lied Corintus, trying to be nonchalant and failing miserably. He had never lied to his wife before, for he had never had to. Until now.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 20