"Curiosity draws me out." The other kezan was a foot shorter and at least a century younger. Female as well, though such differences counted for little among the kezan. Her name was Eta'ziral.
She lumbered up beside Zal'zarrin, clad in armor much like his, though of silver instead of gold. "You do not kill him."
"I do not."
Eta'ziral frowned, rippling the short fur on her forehead. "He is a rogue. He has interfered in the Plan, caused delays and problems."
"The delays are minor. The problems inconveniences of a moment. Nothing he has done will slow me in the slightest."
"But why let him live?" Eta'ziral raised a clenched fist, the top of her hand turned outward, a sign of determination. "He should die, as a matter of principle."
"Ah...principle. We have great respect for principles. Wisdom, authority, discipline...these have made the kezan great." Zal'zarrin looked Eta'ziral in the face, golden eye glowing, the other narrowed. "But one principle rises above all others. You have studied the Way, read the texts. What is it, acolyte?"
Eta'ziral bowed her head, aware she had overstepped the mark. "Mastery."
"The highest principle, the goal of any who would truly be free. Master yourself, the Universe Within, then become Master of the Universe That Is. To those who attain it, there comes power, strength, the ability to shape the world around him to according to his whim. To do what he wants without being subjected to useless questions by those of lesser rank."
"Apologies, Great Master."
Zal'zarrin waved at the unconscious Azaran. "I allow him to live because it amuses me. He will wake, he will know what is intended for this world. He will do what he can to stop it and he will fail, for he is but one man. He will live longer than the common savages of this place, long enough to see them tear each other apart. Long enough for this world to be placed under my direct rule...in the name of our race. And there is nothing he can do to stop it. He is condemned to a lifetime of frustration and failure, and that pleases me."
Eta'ziral bowed her again again. "I bow before your superior wisdom."
"I highly doubt that." He turned away from Azaran and stumped back to the ship. "Come along...unless you want to stay and journey with him."
Eta'ziral turned and followed, then hesitated. "He still has his sword."
"What of it?"
"It is a powerful weapon. Should he be allowed to keep it?"
Zal'zarrin paused a moment, giving it some thought. Then he continued on. "Let him have the sword. It makes no difference in the end."
The two kezan boarded the citadel, the door closing behind them. Lightening flashed about the dome and towers and with a rumbling sound the ship ascended into the sky, dwindling into the night sky, shrinking to the size of a star, then vanishing entirely. Behind it it left swirling winds kicking up dust, which eventually settled down across the ground and the man lying upon it.
Azaran opened his eyes to a world of pain.
Dust covered him, falling away in clouds as he sat up. He coughed, then clutched his head as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him, nearly sending him back into the dark. His head throbbed with pain, his skull pounded by hammers from the inside, his muscled twisted and tense. The sun shone down on him in all its harshness, bright piercing light that exacerbated his condition even more.
He looked up and saw nothing but emptiness, brown barrens as far as the eye could see. A slight depression in the ground marked the place where the ship had landed the night before...
The ship. The Master. The previous night returned. He remembered everything now. Who he was. What he had done. Everything.
"I am Azaran of the Green Banner," he said out loud, each word a curse unto damnation.
I am Azaran the Murderer, and I have killed so many...
I am Azaran the Betrayer, who led his friend to his death...
I am Azaran the Fool, who followed the Master, a false god...
I am Azaran. I am nothing. I deserve to die...
He stood, squinting in the bright light. The land was parched, not even a scorpion could live out here. But if he fell, the world would find a use for his remains. The only useful thing he would ever give it.
I am Azaran and I remember everything.
What have I done?
Azaran drew his sword. The Master left it strapped to his back. A final gift, or a curse. A tool for killing, as he was. Perhaps it was time to take one more life. He'd seen it done before...place the hilt against the ground, the point against his chest. Throw himself forward, until the blade pierced his heart. The runes could not heal that wound. Then nothingness...darkness. It seemed tempting.
He paused a moment, waiting for the silent passenger to speak, to dissuade him. But there was only silence. This was a decision he would have to make on his own...
A memory stirred. Not from the bloody past, but recent. "To every man, the One gives strength, intelligence and the wisdom to know right and wrong." Segovac had said those words, one afternoon on the ship bearing them to Kedaj, as they ate a dinner of biscuit and dried fish. "The trick to figure out what to do with them The way is confusing and more than a few turn astray. And that is how to should be, for men and women have something that puts them beyond beasts - the ability to choose. To know the righteous path and to follow it not because you are compelled, but because it is right and you wish it. To stay on it even when the way is unclear and the obstacles are many, for that is when the choice truly matters..."
No death. Not this day.
Azaran stabbed the sword into the ground, levering up chunks of cracked earth. He stacked them into a pile some distance away from the well, until it was the height of his waist. Not much of a memorial and the wind would soon demolish it, but it was enough for now.
He lay the sword aside and knelt. It took him a moment to find the words, but when they came he said them aloud.
"Saerec...I have never spoken to you before. Or to any god. I may be speaking to empty air, but on the chance I am not, hear these words! A man is coming to you, one who served you with distinction, my friend Segovac of Eburrea. Welcome him into your presence, honor his sacrifice and reward him well. Tell him...he helped his friend Azaran find what he was looking for. And when the time comes for me to die, which I expect shall be soon...find a place for me as well. If it is right for you to do so."
Not much of a prayer, but it was all he had. And it was enough for now.
Azaran picked up the sword and placed it back in his sheath. Newly recovered memories flashed in his mind. He knew what the Master planned for this world. What had happened to a hundred other worlds would happen here as well. Azaran knew there was little he could do to stop it...but that was no reason not to try. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. Even if it took the rest of his life.
Azaran walked across the barrens towards the east.
##
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Zackery Arbela
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The physical body of Zackery Arbela lives somewhere in the wilds of New England. The mind of Zackery Arbela can be found wandering the various planes and adornments of the temporal spheres, from whence he sometimes returns with new and fantasickal tales to tell.
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Discover other titles by Zackery Arbela
THE NINE SUNS
Gaebrel's Gamble
Storm Over Olysi
THE LEGEND OF FENN AQUILA
The Thief Of Galadorn
Red Shadows
THE TALE OF AZARAN
Warrior on the Sea of Memory
Shadow of the Ghost Bear
Fires of Mastery
The Infinity Key
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Azaran's journey reaches its spectacular end in THE INFINITY KEY, the last book of The Tale of Azaran. And as special bonus, here is the first chapter...for FREE!
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Night fell across the steppes, endless miles of rolling plain, grassland that turned to desert in the south and tundra in the north. Far and away in the eastern parts rose a lone mountain, thrust up through the earth like a stony spear. Holes pocked its sides, from which came endless fonts of steam, trailing out night and day to blur the summit in a permanent haze. Some among the nomads of the steppe claimed that if one put an hear to the ground at the base of the mountain, one might hear the rumbling voice of the Earth below. Sometimes that voice would rise to a shout, and the steam would be replaced by molten rock, a sure sign that the Earth was angry and sacrifice must be made to appease her.
The mountain was called Pentaro. And on days when the wind blew away the haze long enough for people on the ground to get a good look at the summit, they would have noticed its surprising flatness, as if some celestial being had taken the worlds largest knife and sheared off the summit in a single perfect stroke...which was not far from the truth.
On this night the only eyes that were watching the top of Mount Pentaro belonged to a herd of antelope feeding in the pastures to the south. The herdsmen whose flocks grazed these lands were still two weeks and a hundred miles to the west. The beasts raised their eyes from the greenery, staring up at the night sky. The wind kicked up as a bright light descended. Blue lightening crackled down from the ship to the mountain summit, sending out loud thunderclaps and causing the antelope to flee in terror.
The citadel descended towards the mountain top. Glowing circles shone on the flattened surface, guiding the pilots movements. The speed slowed considerably the closer it got. A hundred feet from the summit it stopped completely, the citadel holding at a hover. Hatches opened on the bottom edge, and four heavy chains dropped down, unfurling through the air and clattering as they struck the stony summit. Men emerged from the edge and picked up the chains, hauling them to large metal hooks embedded in the mountainside and looping the ends about them. Cranks turned inside the citadel, pulling the chains in and drawing them tight. The hooks groaned under the stress but held firm as the citadel pulled itself down, coming to a rest atop the mountain, the width of the summit perfectly matching that of the walls, the chains locking it down firmly.
Lightening flashed about the top of the ship. Doors opened on the sides and men emerged, headed down ramps carved in the side of the mountain and into caves leading deep into its interior. The Master was the last to leave, clad in a black robe that flapped in the wind, stumping out a door, his knuckles clanking as they struck the ground. He followed a path cut out of the living rock, the edge open to the sky, which came to a halt before a stone door. Several Nam'shaq followed after, led by Nera'zag, huddling against the side of the mountain and shivering in the cold wind. A jewel embedded on the Master's chest glowed and the door slid open.
Inside it was only marginally warmer, but to the humans it was still a blessing. Zal'zarrin hardly noticed. He followed a passage that wen downwards for another fifty feet before opening into a large chamber cut deep in inside the mountain. Lamps glowed in alcoves on the wall, and there was a large window on one end whose stone shutters could be opened if he desired natural light, though they had remained closed for many years. Several large tables lay scattered about, all loaded down with various pieces of equipment, each more bizarre than the last. Tall hexagonal pillars of crystal were embedded in the center of the floor around a stone pedestal. Floating above it was a great metal sphere shaped shaped to resemble Sefiir, the gas giant that the primitives of this world called the Mansion. Smaller globes about it marked the position of the twenty one moons orbiting it, one of which glowed red. This was Ethera. Another globe, glowing yellow, floated off to the side, marking the position of Maraea, the Sun of this system.
Zal'zarrin stared at the model for a long time. He turned to one of the pillars and touched a knuckle to a rune cut in the side. Bands of light floated up its surface in patterns of three, which he watched with great interest. He then ambled to one of the tables, picked up a round globe carved from some red stone with striations of green, then went to an empty alcove on the wall and shoved it in there. The globe rose up perhaps a foot and began to vibrate, faster and faster until it was a rust-colored blur. Images appeared within it, flickering too fast for human eyes to notice, but the Master saw them all. Colors that should not exist, dimensions than went beyond those of the physical universe, glimpses of a reality beyond reality, only for a hair-breadth fraction of a second...enough to answer a question, short enough to keep his sanity intact. He looked away, closing his eyes, as green flames suddenly enveloped the globe, emitting no heat or smoke, filling the room with a eerie glow.
He turned away, leaving the globe to burn. BRING THEM IN, he commanded Nera'zag.
Nera'zag turned to the others. "Bring in the prisoners."
The men dispersed, headed through a door in the back. A few minutes they returned, along with a number of Green Bannermen, each hauling an unconscious or semi-conscious prisoner between them, a dozen in all. They wore the tattered remnants of clothing from cities or tribes scattered across the world, their skins black, white and all hues in between, emaciated from weeks or even months of captivity. Yet they were alive, had been kept alive at great effort and expense, even as their minds were kept fogged with drugs, for they were all Arcanists. Each was dragged to a separate alcove cut in the walls of the place, six each on either side of the burning globe. Within them was embedded a black crystal, running from top to bottom. Each prisoner had their hands and feet bound to iron rings set in the sides of the alcoves far behind the crystals, the ropes pulled back tight so that their bodies were pressed tight against the crystals. One of them moaned, partially aware of what was happening. No one paid him any mind.
Zal'zarrin went to a table and opened a black metal box. Carefully, reverently, he took out a strange device the size of a man's head, shaped like a four-sided diamond, made from bronze so heavily etched with runes that from a distance it looked like metallic vinework. He went to the stone pedestal, raised the device above it, points up and down, then let go.
The device fell, coming to a halt an inch above the pedestal, then slowly rising back up until it hovered three feet above, points above and below, rotating slowly on its axis.
The burning globe flared. Flames leaped from it, striking the black crystals and the prisoners bound to them, both bursting in green flame as well. The prisoners writhed in torment, yet the flames did not consume them. Instead streams of fire shot out from both, connecting with the crystal pillars about the pedestal, which burst into flames as well, connecting one to another in a perfect burning ring, surrounding the floating device in the center.
The flames did not reach out to touch it. Instead it continued to turn slowly, seemingly unaffected. But Zal'zarrin knew difference, could sense the changes through his asin'ja. The first step was done. The path was set, the door opened, the groundwork laid. Three months until the Final Conjunction, when all the moons were in alignment in relation to the Sun Maraea and the Aethyr around Sefiir set to the right pattern...which just happened to be when the Gathering was to take place.
Three months. Not long in the grand scheme of things, but to Zal'zarrin it seemed an eternity. But when it was done, when the final steps were taken and sacrifice made, the bronze diamond floating in the center of the fire would be transformed into something more. A source of power greater than any in the Universe...the Infinity Key.
And with it, Zal'zarrin, the One Who Survives, would achieve the ultimate Mastery, overcome the greatest challenge, beyond the aspiration of any kezan that had come before...
HOW MANY ARE BELOW? he asked Nerazag.
"Twenty-two, Master. All drugged."
All Arcanists, taken from a dozen lands on three continents. Shamans, witc
h doctors, fortunetellers and wizards of every type...all with the ability to control the Aethyr through sheer force of will. It was an ability the kezan did not possess. The asin'ja gave them an understanding of the hidden forces running through the universe, the elements of the Aethyr as they interacting with physical reality...but to unlock their potential - their Quintessence - required manipulation of the material world around them. This was the basis of Alchemy, at which the kezan were undisputed masters. Manipulate the matter that made up the world around in the right way and the right time, and one could manipulate the Aethyr running through it and thus create wonders...
But Arcanists did not have to do this. They could alter the Aethyr through sheer force of will, using a bewildering array of techniques and traditions, each with its own rules that varied from one practitioner to another, often in extreme ways. It was irrational, it was beyond the kezan's ability to understand and was thus one of the few things in the Universe they actually feared, even if none would ever admit it...
Zal'zarrin did not understand it either. He looked upon it with distaste, as a perversion of the natural order of things. But he also saw the potential as resource, a fount of Aethyric power that could be used for his purposes. His agents had spent years collecting men and women who had such power at the level he required...wars had been instigated between cities and tribes so that he might get his hands on a sorcerer of great renown. Kings raised to power on the promise that they would deliver a handful of witches and diviners of uncommon ability as tribute and then cast down when they could no longer deliver.
All for a purpose. The time was coming, the moment close. He was so close, so very close...
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 24