“That’s not true. You privately question my motives.”
“But I do obey you,” he qualified.
“Because you know in your heart that I am not your enemy.”
“Then what are you?”
Her brilliance intensified. “You already know. I belong to Lyana–I am an extension of her. A messenger, you could say, a disciple, her servant. As are you. We must trust each other. There are too few of us to not believe.”
“It’s not easy when none of the few you refer to know what is going on,” he admonished softly. “Iridor, above all, should know.”
“It is this factor that will help us prevail,” she soothed, floating before him, her golden tresses stretching out in tendrils and waving gently in the water.
“So I am saved? I know she commands the waters,” he said, mesmerized.
Ellyana smiled. “Lyana is the water. She is the sky, the wind, the sun, the desert.”
“I am to live, this is what you’re here to tell me?” he clarified.
She nodded, her hair weaving patterns in the currents as fish darted amongst the silky strands. “There is a condition.”
Pez’s heart sank. “Why am I not surprised?”
“It is not my doing. Maliz has destroyed your body, my friend. That is certainly dying. You must leave it behind and emerge from these depths as Iridor. You will be whole, but you must understand that you can never return to the being you were before. You are no longer Pez.” Her tone was sorrowful and Pez appreciated that she grasped how deeply her news must hurt him. His body had been hardly attractive and his face had not been pretty but they were what his goddess had given him; the dwarf ’s body belonged to him and made him who he was. Iridor had chosen him, not the other way around.
She could read his mind, it seemed. “Surely you would not choose death over life?”
He didn’t answer straightaway; he needed to let the soft grief that her revelation provoked dissipate slightly. She let his silence lengthen, happy to drift nearby, bathing him in her bright sea-green glow. “Not if by living I can serve Lyana longer,” he finally spoke.
She smiled. “Iridor still has his role. There are lives to be saved and a battle still to win.”
He fixed Ellyana with a baleful stare. “Then what are we waiting for?”
The sun reemerged and the skies lightened instantly. Lazar looked back at the city and its return to its more usual sparkling landscape. He had no idea where those angry clouds had come from, and though they had seemed unnatural, he knew anything connected with the weather around Samazen time should not surprise him.
He realized his head hurt from the voices and from the dire revelation they had brought. His emotional thoughts about Ana, about Herezah’s behavior and how easily he had been compromised by her, and especially about his father’s potential presence only made his confusion and pain worse. He looked out across the Faranel and wondered if the King was doing the same. Was he thinking about the son he despised and yet would honor by massacring another realm? When had it come to this? Had it been only such a short while ago that he had been wandering through the city he loved, looking forward to a spicy ratha at the famous emporium? It felt as though he had lived a lifetime since that messenger had burst through its doors and interrupted his breakfast with the grim news of Zar Joreb’s death. The excellent, totally controlled, and unemotional life that he had so carefully shaped over so many years had changed in that instant. And not just changed because of the delivery of that news, he thought; his life had dramatically twisted and turned to leave him near death, forever scarred, deeply in love and more shattered than he had ever felt.
And now stone statues–seemingly lifeless sculptures–were talking to him! And had just delivered chilling news. He couldn’t believe the dwarf had perished, and whilst he dithered, wavering between shock and disbelief, Beloch spoke again.
Lazar, Iridor lives.
Relief flooded his body, and in his desire for information, it seemed suddenly natural to be having this conversation with a stone statue. What happened?
We do not know. But we felt him dying.
And now?
He has survived the attack.
He is completely safe?
As Iridor only. He is no longer the dwarf.
Lazar felt his gut twist. Where is Maliz? he demanded.
We are not connected to him, only to Lyana’s disciples.
But he made you, Lazar insisted.
Beloch gave a sound that was part sigh, part moan. His evil touch is upon us, yes, but we do not feel him and he cannot feel us, hear us, sense us.
Where does this magic you possess come from?
The giant gave a sound of amusement. We used his.
His? You’ll have to explain that.
Ellyana taught us. She told us how to use the darkest of his magic and twist it, knead it…mold it, you could say, into something he could never understand.
I’m not sure I do either. Is that why she asked me to stop by you when I was being rowed to Star Island?
I’m impressed you remember.
It was only a fleeting moment of consciousness. But I remember you towering up above us and her whispering to you.
Maliz used a sinister magic to turn us to stone. It remained inside with us. Ellyana showed us how to release it, use it to begin to break the bondage of the stone. That night she was thanking us for our steadfastness.
Did you use it to reach me?
Yes.
And he can’t sense it.
He wouldn’t recognize the magic anymore. It is like the Lore, completely beyond his comprehension, although he can sense its sinister power.
The Lore is wild, I’m told.
It is. As is your magic.
It was Lazar’s turn to be amused. I have no magic, Beloch.
Does it not strike you as odd to be talking to me now? Do you believe anyone can do this?
No. But I presumed the magic was all yours. All one-sided.
You are wrong.
Lazar couldn’t imagine what the giant was referring to, wasn’t ready to pursue the conversation until he’d had time to think it through. So I can talk to you when I want?
We are only ever a whisper away. You are only now learning how, though. Until now, we could only reach you at times of great stress…the drezden fever, especially. Hold on to this. Remember how it feels.
Lazar, bewildered, changed the subject. So I continue with this journey.
Yes.
What about Pez?
There is no Pez anymore, and Iridor has his own journey.
Lazar wanted to shout, hurl something at the giant. Beloch used the same irritating, cryptic manner of speaking that he recalled Ellyana employing.
You must release us very soon, Lazar.
I told you, I don’t know how!
Think about what we have discussed today. You alone can do it–must do it!–or Percheron is lost.
Lazar, still distracted, was impressed to see that Boaz arrived not in a karak, flanked by a host of guards, but covered head to toe in a white jamoosh with only two other people at his side, one of them his mother, similarly disguised.
“We thought it best to leave the palace unobtrusively,” Boaz explained. Lazar could hear the tinge of excitement in his voice.
“You were wise to do so, Majesty.”
“Let’s drop my title from now on.”
Lazar nodded, again impressed by the Zar’s wisdom. “And we should change your name. What should we call you?”
“I have always liked the name Fayiz.”
Herezah squirmed. “Oh, Boaz, that’s so common.”
“Victorious,” Lazar translated. “It is a good sentiment and a strong name,” he assured Boaz, ignoring the Valide.
“It’s a favorite name of mine, so I like to think of it as destiny that I can use it,” Boaz said, his eyes shining.
“Well, my Lion, you are our destiny.”
“No, Mother, my son is our destiny. H
e will be called Fayiz if we find him.”
“When we find him,” Lazar countered. “I do not mean to return empty-handed.”
The Spur couldn’t imagine that it was possible for the Zar to swell any larger. He was bursting to be on his way. “I have picked out a horse for you, Fayiz,” he said, giving the young royal a wry grin. “It’s not as fine as you are used to riding, nor is it a stallion, but we will give ourselves away if we are on magnificent animals. She’s hardly a nag but she will do you proud.” He nodded toward the chestnut filly.
Boaz seemed untroubled by the horse’s lack of pedigree, moving to stroke her muzzle, whispering to her.
Herezah spoke up. “Lazar, it is all very well racing off into the desert with the ruler of Percheron, but how can we ensure his safety?”
“We can’t, Valide. But it was never my idea to bring Boaz along. With all due respect, my Zar, if you give me the option, I would leave you behind without a moment’s hesitation.”
“Mother! The decision is made. Please do not fuss or ask any more irrelevant questions,” Boaz snapped.
Herezah pasted a suitably chastened expression on her face. “My son, I will worry for you until I see you safely delivered back to us.”
“I know,” Boaz said, all aggression gone. “And in the meantime you will serve me well in looking after the realm. You know what to do.”
Herezah looked up and nodded, her gaze firmly fixed on the Spur when she replied. “I will make haste to meet with King Falza, or his representative, immediately.” Lazar flinched, felt his lips thin in an effort to suppress any overreaction. “And assure him that I have firsthand experience that his son is alive and well,” she added, her tone laced with innuendo.
“Valide–”
“Mother,” Boaz interrupted, glaring again at his parent. “Lazar, please. We are too far down the path now to worry about petty matters. Mother, do not inflame the situation with your intimations. I have already told you what I want said to the King of Galinsea. Follow my orders or don’t take on the role of Crown Valide.”
Her eyes glinted with amusement. “I shall do only your bidding, my Lion. Be safe. Do I get a farewell kiss, Lazar?”
Boaz sighed as Lazar bristled and snarled, “Farewell, Valide. Give my saluations to my family.” He turned briskly to the Zar. “Where is the Grand Vizier?”
“Coming. He sent a message that he is minutes behind us.”
“And Pez?”
Boaz frowned. “I thought he would already have met up with you.”
Lazar felt his anxiety deepen. He had somehow impossibly hoped that Beloch had been wrong. “I have not seen him.”
The Zar gave a sound of exasperation. “Both Tariq and Pez late?”
“Coincidence, no?” Lazar muttered.
“They detest each other, Lazar. I’d hardly say they were deliberately in tandem.”
“You may be surprised,” Lazar added but turned away as further confusion flared in the royal’s gaze. He would achieve nothing by making snide bites at the Zar, who was wholly oblivious to what was being played out around him.
“Mother, Ghassal will see you back to the palace. He will be your right-hand man throughout my absence and has orders to protect you with his life. You will do as he says whenever you leave the palace–is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Then wish me luck, Mother.”
“Come home safely, Boaz.”
Lazar couldn’t help but wonder if Herezah meant that. She had at last her chance to rule by royal authority–could there be a more perfect scenario for this woman?
As she bowed to Boaz, a plain karak arrived, bearing the Grand Vizier.
Boaz looked over his mother’s bent shoulders. “Ah, Tariq, we were wondering where you were.”
The Grand Vizier all but tumbled from the silk screens. “Forgive me, Majesty. I had to finalize a lot of irritating but necessary state business.”
Boaz gave a look of contrived sympathy. “We are leaving now, so instruct your entourage to get back to the palace before it draws attention.”
Lazar noticed that the Grand Vizier had the good sense to look suitably admonished once he had taken in the surrounds and realized that even his Zar had arrived without the fanfare of a karak and bearers.
“Again, forgive me, Majesty. My legs are not as young as yours and I knew we needed to make haste.”
“Tariq, you seem younger each day,” the Valide gibed, before inclining her head once more to her Zar and throwing a final glance toward Lazar. She turned and began sauntering back down the hill, seemingly carefree and in no hurry–as though she had nothing more important on her mind than what flavor sherbet to choose that evening.
Lazar couldn’t help himself. “I do hope you’ve made a wise decision, Fayiz.”
Boaz nodded, looking equally concerned.
“Fayiz?” the Grand Vizier queried.
Lazar turned his attention from the retreating and graceful back of the Valide. “And you shall be called Garjan.”
“Garjan?” Maliz repeated. “I don’t know that word.”
“It’s very old, very colloquial Galinsean,” Lazar said, realizing too late that his couched insult could backfire should the demon recognize the word’s true meaning: of evil import.
“Oh? How does that translate to our language?”
Lazar nodded. “It means ‘wise one’ and is usually directed at our older citizens who have earned great respect.”
The Grand Vizier smiled. “Indeed? How appropriate. Garjan–yes, I like its sound. So we move in disguise now?”
“We do,” Lazar replied. “Do we go on without Pez?” He directed the question to Boaz, but kept his eye on the Grand Vizier.
“We’ll have to, although I’m not sure how he’ll catch up.”
“He knows the way; he also knows the meeting point where we pick up our camels.”
“From the Khalid people? I hear some accompanied you on the last trip.” Boaz sounded irritated.
Lazar nodded, ignored his Zar’s vexation. “They have agreed to supply our beasts directly. Otherwise we would need to make a couple of stops, once to make an exchange with my usual supplier and then to meet up with the desert people. You will like them and must forgive their fleeing that terrible night. It was the wisest course of action; I would have ordered the same if I had been in a position to. Pez will find us, I’m sure,” Lazar added, unable to resist needling at the Grand Vizier. “Did you see him at all this afternoon, Garjan?”
“Yes, I did,” the Grand Vizier snapped. “Annoying as ever. Turning somersaults down the main palace hallway and dribbling a great volume. He really is impossible at times.”
“Oh? When was that?”
The Grand Vizier looked even more annoyed. “Moments before I left.”
“And he seemed well?” Lazar persisted.
“If by well you mean was he animated, then I would have to say that yes, he was. He was his normal, thoroughly insane self,” the Grand Vizier replied testily.
Lazar nodded his thanks, hiding his burning desire to grab his sword and cut the liar down. With the Grand Vizier’s blatant lie, he now knew for sure that Maliz was behind the attempt on Pez’s life. But he remembered the dwarf ’s warning that the demon could not be killed by conventional means and also that the supporters of Lyana must never reveal themselves. He swallowed his hate and instead said, “Well, brothers, shall we?” as he gestured toward the horses.
“Iridor?”
“What?” Ana said groggily.
Arafanz gently swept the hair back from her face. “I thought the baby must have begun its labor but I remember now that you said Iridor.”
She felt weepy. “I know.”
“You are trembling. What just happened? Tell me while I find us some shade,” Arafanz said, his concern genuine. He lifted Ana effortlessly. Her arms clung around his neck as he walked her over to the rock face, which gave a measure of shade in its shadows.
He tenderly
placed her down. “Let me fetch some water.”
Ana stared, her gaze unfocused as she tried to imagine the scenario playing itself out in the city of Percheron, where she knew Pez must be.
Arafanz was back, crouching at her side and urging her to sip from the water skin. She obliged, not because she was thirsty but because she knew it pleased him to feel useful and it bought her some time to think.
He began carefully. “Ana, I know you see me as your enemy but the truth is we are on the same side, you and I. Will you tell me what has happened?”
She gazed into his anxious face, so close to her own; she noted that he had trimmed his beard today and for the first time saw that his eyes had golden flecks in what she had always thought were deep brown. He was close enough for her to be aware that his breath smelled sweetly of clove. His age remained very difficult to determine; he was not old, not by any means, and yet the lines in his face gave clues that this man had already lived a life that was more than twice hers in years. Not immediately aware of her own action, surprising herself with her tenderness toward her captor, Ana touched his cheek in a gesture that could not be mistaken for anything but affection. Her hand lingered, and although he initially hesitated, she watched now as the man who had imprisoned her, who had so frightened her, now nestled his face against her hand and closed his eyes. His response could not be mistaken for anything so innocent as a simple gesture of friendship.
“Don’t, Ana,” he begged, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, moving to pull her hand away, but he stopped her, covering it with his own, pushing her hand still harder against his cheek as he turned and kissed her palm. She felt his close beard graze her skin, his soft lips adore her.
His reply was taut and tense. “I say don’t but I am lying to myself. I can’t resist you,” he groaned. “You make me weak. I want to avoid you and yet I struggle not to see you each day now.”
“I noticed,” she said softly, terrified by what he was building up to saying. She realized she had long suspected him guilty of harboring feelings toward her that conflicted with his role as her keeper.
He opened his eyes. “Ana, I–”
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