by Kyrja
Immediately covering her nose and mouth for having made the offensive noise, she cringed as if caught at doing something profane, then rolled her eyes, lowering her hand. Her eyes had immediately cut to Jarles when she’d automatically raised her hand to her face and noticed he was staring right at her. The lines of anger were gone from his face and forehead and he seemed to be smiling at her. She felt her own forehead wrinkle in confusion; why was he looking at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen? She looked around, thinking perhaps someone else had walked up behind her while she hadn’t been paying attention, but saw only empty desert surrounding her. She noted the plume of dust rising just over the ridge and figured Kerr had re-directed the caravan to go around the spot where she and Jarles were standing. Wondering how long he was going to be in this strange state, surrounded by a protective bubble of icy-cold air, she turned her attention back to the man, only to find he was holding his hand out in front of him, his palm open in invitation.
Why was he doing this? Was he really seeing her? What did he want? How was she supposed to get to him anyway? It felt really strange to see him looking at her like he was, with such an enchanting smile on his face. She could feel her own lips quirk, unable to stop a goofy grin from forming on her mouth. Maybe he could hear her thoughts and was happy she thought he was handsome? Oh please! she thought to herself, mentally rolling her eyes. How ridiculous! She was stupid to even think such a thing, she knew. And yet, she couldn’t help but to feel her heart race a little faster. So much had changed in the past couple of years – every bit of it for the worse. Was it really so terrible to want to have something change for the better for once? For her own better? Knowing she was going to feel like such a fool for doing it, she reached out her hand again, until it encountered the invisible energy barrier surrounding Jarles, then raised both hands against the cold, pulsing resistance she felt there, in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she pushed against it with both hands in an outward motion, as if she was pushing open a particularly heavy door.
There, in the middle of the desert, with the warmth of Sov’s loving embrace filling her lungs with the driest of air found anywhere throughout the world, the light of his majesty reflecting millions of times off of the tiny granules of the sands surrounding her, with the sweat of her body being reclaimed by her carefully wrapped garments in order to keep her hydrated and alive, she fell head-first into an unseen ocean. Her last thought, as she felt herself falling into the abyss of liquid was one of fear and betrayal. Why hadn’t she been able to sense all this water?
Chapter Three – P’onyem
The old woman took a breath, hardly even noticing how much heavier it was here, in the filthy city by the sea, than it had been in the desert. She’d been here a very long time now, and had grown accustomed to the stench, the taste, the heaviness of the very air she breathed. The denseness of her bones and the way they so often hurt these days because of the moisture-saturated air was not, however, something she could easily ignore. It was only during duress, or times of great effort that she really took note of the air surrounding her any more though. And this situation was certainly both stressful and would require a great effort. Not to mention faith. Please Giya, she prayed silently, guide my steps. Let me not falter now.
Although all people had once come from the shores of the sea where the image of Lumas waxed and waned silver, white, and sometimes even gold, upon the ever-changing surface of the depths through the long years before she sundered herself for love of Sov, centuries had since passed in which their offspring had made their way deep into the desert. P’onyem missed the feel of the sands beneath her boots. The dry, crisp sands where she’d spent her own childhood and then had produced children of her own. She’d truly never thought her life would have changed so radically. But here she was, having dedicated herself to the Goddess of the Seas, the only sand she was likely to encounter saturated with the feel of the sea as the waves threw themselves eternally against the shore. How tiring, she thought, and not for the first time. To be constantly in motion, swaying back and forth, tumbling in upon yourself, to be made and remade throughout the eons of existence, with never a chance to rest. P’onyem exhaled, feeling as though she, too, had spent an eternity in turmoil.
She gazed at the man lying on the stone tablet and sighed. She knew she’d been standing still far too long. She had things to accomplish today, no matter the ache in her bones, the stench on the air, or the reluctance in her heart.
“You must not do this thing,” the man said to her, his eyes closed, his breathing strong and steady, his body as still as death, in no way indicating he was awake other than the sound of his voice in the dark. She hadn’t made the slightest of noises approaching him, P’onyem knew; hadn’t given herself away in the smallest measure. And still the man had known she was there. She felt her right cheek muscle pull her face into a wry expression of acceptance. Of course he would have known she was there. She hadn’t truly expected to be able to accomplish her objective without his knowing. Still, it would have been nice if she could have gotten through a small portion of her plan without his interference. It would have been even better if she felt she was ready to do the things she was determined to have done, but it was too late to turn back now – now that he had revealed he was awake – regardless of whether she was ready or not.
“If you know what I am going to do, perhaps you understand why I am doing it,” P’onyem said, allowing her voice to rise as she spoke, making the statement into a question. There was always the hope he would cooperate. She shivered a little then, and stifled a curse. That she should be called to expend so much of herself when her body was so old was unfair. Despite the twenty years she’d spent within the rooms and halls and buildings of the Puj’hom, it was still far too cold here. She’d been born and bred in the desert and longed for the warm embrace of Sov’s undiminished face upon the length of her skin. To feel the heat of his regard deep in her bones. Unfortunately, she knew she would probably die in this cursed city, surrounded by strangers, her lifewater rotting in her decaying corpse. The wet, heavy moisture woven through the very air surrounding her did nothing to help her dispel the feeling. She shook herself mentally, chastising her terrible habit of late of thinking too much. The time for thinking was over. Now was the time to act. And if she wasn’t careful, the man lying on the table in front of her was likely to help her on the way to her next life in short order, ensuring her prophecy of dying in the city was self-fulfilling.
“You hope to save him,” the man replied, his eyes still closed, his demeanor still completely composed.
“Yes,” she said simply, this time making sure her voice did not waver. There was no question. No permission asked. If he knew her intention and her purpose, then either he would help, or he would not. She was prepared to act in either case, but dearly hoped she wouldn’t be forced to use violence against him. Even the thought of doing so made her want to just give up and lay down. It was a poor way to begin what could well be a very trying endeavor, but if he gave her no choice in the matter, she would do what was necessary. She was silent then, waiting for some indication of which way he would decide, afraid to even pray for a favorable outcome.
“You cannot break these chains,” he said. P’onyem felt a small measure of relief, at least he hadn’t outright refused. It was possible he would still fight her once released, but at least there was a tiny seed of hope in the fact that he was merely stating what he thought to be the obvious, instead of telling her she had no right.
“You insult me,” she said, her voice flat. Was it possible he’d been locked here all these years without having learned the secret of his captivity? No, she dismissed the thought outright. He had known and understood from the very beginning what his actions would gain him when he’d aided his sister so long ago. She had only found it amazing he’d retained enough of his sanity those twenty some years past to have recognized her. Or would it have even mattered to him that Drena had been his si
ster? She chastised herself then; old questions left unanswered had a tendency to gnaw at the soul. She would never know if Chared had acted on his own that day, or if he’d had divine intervention pushing him in the right direction. Allowing the question to rear its head now wasn’t likely to gain her any more knowledge than the millions of other times she’d pondered the riddle.
“You think you have the means to set me free?” he asked, the breath in his chest increasing in tempo with the question, as if he was beginning to feel the excitement of hope. P’onyem wondered if he was just playing with her now. Or was it possible he didn’t yet understand it was his own will which had imprisoned him? He had only to wish himself free in order to shed the chains. Perhaps he’d forgotten. Or maybe he honestly had never experienced the realization. She felt a niggling doubt spread its shadow on her heart. The dream she’d had was so clear. He had only to wish himself free to rise from the table. The chains themselves were real, not merely magical constructs created to trick his mind, that much was clear. They were made of the strongest steel and pinned him to the stone tablet not only by the sheer volume of their weight, but by spikes having been driven into the stone. He should have been dead many, many years past; his skeleton the only reminder to all who looked upon the bones what punishment Amphedia extracted from those who disobeyed her.
Perhaps his sanity was shredded beyond reason, she thought. Then felt her lips purse in disapproval of the thought. He had already voiced understanding of her purpose here, along with her intention of what she meant to do about Jarles. No, he may well be insane for all intents and purposes, but his clarity of thought transcended mere mortal understanding. He was probably just loathe to give up the dreams and visions he’d surely been experiencing, chained to the stone all these long, long years.
“Come with me, Chared,” she said, holding out her hand, noting how it trembled ever so slightly. She willed it to stop. Her faith was strong. She may have been drowned to prove her faithfulness to the Sea Goddess, but her heart had always belonged to Giya. She would not allow fear to stay her from her course. She had made and broken enough vows in her lifetime. This was the one she would keep.
“We have much work to do if we are going to be ready for his arrival.”
The man’s body stilled then, and P’onyem felt a great tingling along the surface of her face and skin. He inhaled suddenly, then exhaled with a shout, the chains falling to the floor all around him. She watched, her heart beating furiously, her lips trembling beyond her control to stop them. To be witness to great works was humbling. And frightening. She truly, truly hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to fight him. Although the outcome in her dreams was clear that if he decided to fight her, she would win, she knew it would cost her a great deal. This was simply a fight she did not wish to begin.
The man sat up then, as if just waking from a short nap. It was impossible to see his face in the dim light of the night, but she could smell the dust as it rose in a huff with his movements – the first he’d made in more than twenty years. She saw the clothing he’d been wearing disintegrate as the remnants of the material sloughed off of him. She had brought a pack with her filled with clothing and boots; the vision had told her she was going to need those as well. Although his body seemed none the worse for wear, now that he had decided to re-join the living, he was going to need food and drink just like anyone else. She hoped he would be well enough to walk the distance to her own home, past the southeastern edge of the outer limits of the city – as close to the desert as she been able to manage and still be within walking distance to the Temple of Life each day. The one thing she hadn’t managed was to find someone to help her if he’d been too weak to walk.
She still held her hand out to the man, waiting for him to rise from the table, but now took it back, pulling the hood of her cloak closer to her face. She’d told herself to be brave over and over again, but sometimes it was just hard. She’d endured more than she ever imagined, but the task set to her by the dream, she suspected, was going to be the hardest of all.
“You know I am going to have to kill you once this is all over,” the man said, his voice strong and clear.
“Your goddess will not interfere,” she said in reply. “Amphedia wants Jarles to come to the sea.” But inside, she knew this man would feel compelled to kill in the name of his serpent queen for the mere fact she’d had the audacity to interfere with her will that he spend eternity chained to the table for his own transgressions against her. It was sickening, sometimes, she thought, what people would do in the name of their gods.
“Then let us be about our business,” he said, “shall we mother?”
Chapter Four - Kerr
Kerr adjusted the headband on his qatyeh for the fifth time in as many minutes, noting how drenched it was. Not good, he told himself. Again. The material his headdress was made from was the finest money could buy. The very best for helping a traveler keep hydrated without having to be burdened with the nastiness of sweat. He’d made absolutely certain the woman who’d made it understood how important it was she provide a garment to his exacting specifications. He was the grandfather of Amphidea’s heir; it was crucial he look the part so as to command the confidence and respect he knew he should be afforded. To be practically an elder and have sweat running down his face would never, not ever, do.
And yet, here he was, adjusting the damned qatyeh as inconspicuously as possible, acting as if a thread had come loose and was causing him irritation, so as to hide the moisture he felt soaking through the headband. This just would not do! He needed to get himself astride a camel and quickly. If these idiot elders would just cease their needless babbling amongst themselves, then he could avail himself of the nearest animal; of course no one would deny the heir’s only living grandparent their beast! But no, here he was, stuck walking along with five other men and women, their unending fears of what Jarles’ latest episode might portend a very frightening topic among them. Nor, he fully understood, could they very well all ride camels, horses or mules as they discussed such delicate matters; their discussion was for their very own privileged ears only. Walking, they could huddle together, but astride, someone might overhear them. He mentally rolled his eyes at the thought. As if a secret could long be kept among such a diverse group!
It was his own fault he was walking and sweating, he knew. He could stop this nonsense any time by simply telling them all how they would proceed. The rest of this august body of elders knew full well how his grandson felt about them and their agenda, and how Jarles was loathe to listen to a single suggestion they made unless he, Kerr, agreed with their verdict. It was, of course, an attitude he had encouraged from the very beginning. They’d made a grave error as he was growing up in painting his mother as having betrayed her vows and as an outcast. Each had earned Jarles’ enmity. By the time they’d realized the error of their ways and had tried to make amends, he’d already ensured Jarles would retain his distrust of them. It was all a part of the larger game he played, this toying with the elders. He was certain most of them knew the game they played, but each vied for their own portion of whatever good they might derive from having agreed to his terms, even if they’d never bothered to discuss the matter. When they agreed, they were gifted with the treasures that were his to bestow – namely time alone with Jarles, so they might whisper their concerns and dreams into his ear.
For the moment, though, his was the role of the messenger, having delivered the news that Jarles wished them to detour a bit further to the east, instead of following the direction they’d been headed. Each of the men and women who walked beside him understood he was telling them to do as he bid, but pretended to accept the information with grave concern, conferring for several minutes while the rest of the caravan came to a stop. After proper debate, they always agreed with Kerr’s advice, praising him for his efforts in providing them with such valuable information, of course. What other conclusion could they reach? To purposefully ignore the “suggestion” they turn aside m
eant risking the wrath of “The Heir.”
The populous of the caravan itself had been led to believe he was constantly in touch with his grandson through some kind of mind meld; to be seen arguing publically with him was certain to court distrust and suspicion among the hordes. Although it wasn’t entirely true that he maintained the kind of psychic connection rumored, it wasn’t far off the mark either. And this particular piece of gossip had served him well in creating an aura of awe – allowing him much freer movement among them, their respect readily given because they were afraid he might be able to read their minds just as easily. Too, the sense of trepidation generated by this supposedly divine gift afforded him several other benefits he’d come to truly enjoy. There were many women who found his mysterious nature an allure they were willing to entertain privately in their tents when stopped for the night. These days, he rarely slept alone. It was possible that out of sheer boredom a few might have chosen to invite him into their arms, but he wasn’t foolish enough to suppose he would be enjoying all the attention he currently did if not for his status of the heir’s grandfather. Nor would he easily give it up!