—exc. “Born of the Dahgün Bone,” author unknown
“It’s worth the risk.”
“Aye, may’haps, but ain’t no need to jump into the snake-pit. There’s the men to worry about, and one a’ them buggers is bigger than anyone I ever seen.”
“They’re Laorin, Jerd. They won’t kill.”
“Even a muzzled dog’ll find a way to bite back if’n it get is’self cornered. I heard he managed to put down one a’ the runners without a problem.”
“He knocked out a half-starved addict. That hardly deserves commendation, you dim-witted oaf.”
“Call me a dim-witted anything again, ya’ gutless trim, and I’ll hang ya’ upside down by yer—”
“Enough. Ayzenbas says you go, so you go. We’ve got the time. Keep an eye out, and maybe even you can manage to get her away from that entourage you’re so afraid of.”
“Ain’t afraid of nothin’, Farro. Remind yerself a’ that once the boss smokes himself into an early grave. You won’t have many places to run to after that, will ya’?”
________________________
The Ovana was a stifling sweatbox dropped in the middle of the desert purely to fool people into thinking it could be cooler inside than out in the sun.
Or at least that was Syrah’s opinion of it.
In reality, the Ovana Inn was a tavern along the east side of the main market street, deliberately built right in the middle of the bustle so as to attract maximum notice. It wasn’t the nicest or most expensive place to stay, but the city dwellers they’d asked had sworn that it was the safest, and Talo and Jofrey agreed it to be the best option for the duration of the two months they would be spending in Karth.
It had only been three weeks, and Syrah was already ready to dive headfirst out of their market-facing window.
The heat was unbearable, the air so dry her lips were calloused from constantly cracking and bleeding. The sun never waned during the day, and there seemed to exist no clouds to shield the world from its devilish light. Not that the nights were any better. As a clear moon rose each evening, the temperatures plummeted, falling so quickly and drastically that more than once their little group had been briefly caught out in a cold that could have rivaled a Northern freeze.
And the people…
Ugh… the people…
“You’d think they’d be more giving,” Syrah thought out loud, chin in her palm, eyes on the street below. She was watching a particular couple, their heavy frames hung with rich clothes and jewels. Steadily the pair were making their way along the far side of the road, flanked on either side by a manservant toting some ridiculous sort of sunshade. Gaudy apparatuses, made of massive colorful feathers bound together at a long handle, the attendants would alternately use them to shade their masters and fan them. Even as Syrah followed the group, blowing a loose strand of pale hair out of her eyes, they passed at least a half-dozen begging vagrants. Each time the haughty pair would turn their heads to feign interest in the other side of the street, ignoring the dirty outstretched hands. Behind them their servants did the same, not even glancing down at the sad forms curled in whatever shadow they’d managed to snatch.
“Why?”
Syrah turned. Talo sat in the opposite corner, his wide frame filling the room’s single chair to capacity. He was thumbing through the book in his hands, A Comprised History of the North, with careful deliberation.
“Why?” Syrah echoed, surprised and turning away from the window. “Why not? There are people starving all around them, and they sit and do nothing. It’s murder.”
“I don’t disagree,” Talo responded, not looking up. “But I ask again: Why? Why should they be more giving? What do they have to gain from handing food and coin to those around them who need it more?”
“What? Well… first off they’d get…” Syrah tripped over her own words. “They’d get…”
She paused, unsure, in truth, of the answer.
“Nothing,” Talo finished, closing the book with a snap. “They’d get nothing. Or perhaps they’d get the fleeting feeling of self-righteousness, of pride in their own generosity. A man might give away a copper and feel that he did a grand thing, and he would be right if not for the fact that he did it for his own selfish reasoning.”
Talo lifted himself out of the chair, walking over to stand beside Syrah so that he, too, could peer down into the street.
“What do you feel when we help these people?”
Syrah blinked, looking up at her Priest-Mentor. Then she looked away.
“Out with it,” Talo said, his eyes on the crouched figure of a dirty crone skulking in the stolen shade of a shop overhang. “What do you feel?”
Again, Syrah hesitated.
The other acolytes were often jealous of her, and they had every right to be. Talo was one of the most respected Priests in the faith, a man converted who’d found Laor in the middle of the Azbar gladiator arena, his blades on the very verge of taking yet another life. He was responsible for the banning of such pit fights in much of the North, and from there had only aimed higher with his successes. What few peaceful accords had been reached between the raiding mountain clans and the valley towns they’d plagued for centuries, Talo was largely credited for. These pilgrimages beyond the North were most often organized by him, taking the Priests and Priestesses of Laor as far as the swamps of the Seven Cities and the most distant islands of the Imperium. Even in the heart of the temples the ageing Priest had incited change, adapting and improving the self-defense practices and martial arts all acolytes of the Lifegiver learn from an early age.
Talo Brahnt was a man many would “kill to apprentice under,” High Priest Eret Ta’hir had joked when he’d told Syrah that she would be Talo’s acolyte.
But while he was a kind and gentle man, sometimes his methods of teaching—if efficient—were less than pleasant. He had a way of making Syrah’s own experiences part of the lessons he taught her.
It often made her realize things about herself and others she didn’t always like…
“What do you feel?” Talo repeated with a firmness that said it would be the last time he planned on asking.
“I…” she began quietly. “I feel… empty. I feel like I should be doing so much more. We come here and we give and we give and we give, but I still feel like it’s nothing. I see these sick people, these starving children, and all I can think about is how the money I hand them will only feed them for a day at most.”
“And there you have the difference.”
Syrah looked up at Talo, who was smiling at her.
“You give those people a copper, Syrah, and you think about how it will only feed them for a day. Most others, when they give that copper, would laugh and gloat to themselves about how they just fed that person for a day. Do you see the relation? The difference?”
Syrah paused, then shook her head. Talo sighed, looking sadly back out at the street.
“You asked why those people aren’t more generous? It’s because they’ve no need to be. Whether because they were raised in such a manner, or because they are greedy by nature, or because they simply don’t care, I couldn’t tell you. But where what you give is never enough, people like that”—he waved a hand at the extravagant foursome before they disappeared into a perfumery—“are completely at peace with giving less, if anything at all. They’ve no drive to be more than what they are, and if they do do more, it is only because they’ve found a way to make it improve their own lives.”
Syrah’s stomach twisted. “What a sick way to live,” she breathed angrily.
Talo chuckled beside her. “Is it?” he asked, turning away from the window and limping to the far bed where his steel staff lay across the thick blankets. “I would ask you to think about something, then. Your family gave you to the temple because they loved you. They wanted you to have a better life than the one they might
have given you. But what if you’d been born to a different place, Syrah? What if you’d been born into a home that would never have considered giving you to Laor, because you would be warm, wealthy, and content just where you were?”
Staff in hand, he made for the door. “I’m going to meet with Jofrey. Don’t leave the inn, and think about what I’ve said. Would you—would any of us—if that were the case, be any different from the people down in that street?”
And with that he gave her a knowing smile, opened the door, and left.
For a long moment Syrah sat silently in the warm breeze by the sill, contemplating the man’s words. Would she? Would she be any different from the couple down in the street? She tried to imagine herself living lavishly, having anything she wanted, doing anything she wanted. She smiled a little, thinking of her cool room in Cyurgi’ Di. While it was far from petty, with its deerskin rug thrown over the stone floor by the bed and its plentiful bookshelves and candles, it was so much farther from lavish. For a moment she felt some odd sliver of what might have been joy as she thought of having her own marble-cut fireplace, or maybe even an expensive glass-paned door that led out to a private garden, its small pine grove and stream covered in snow. She could eat on a carved cedar bench and watch the water flow, warm under her thick furs, sending for more of anything she happened to finish too quickly.
Abruptly, Syrah stopped smiling.
Would she be able to give that up? If she had those things, would she be able to just throw them all away?
Lying was not a sin to the Laorin. It was frowned upon, and punishment was administered for lies of import, but Laor understood that there was no such thing as flawless character. To be human—even when it came to his followers—was too often to be untruthful.
Still, while she could lie to her instructors about studying for a lesson, or to Talo about where she’d been all night, Syrah couldn’t lie to herself. And her conscience was telling her that she didn’t know if she would be able to give such wonderful things away as easily as she dispensed of her copper coins…
Syrah felt her cheeks flush with anger at the thought. What kind of person was she, then? If she couldn’t give away overly extravagant comfort in the name of the Lifegiver, did that make her any better than the wealthy sneering at the pleading faces of the beggars in the street below?
No, she thought bitterly. It didn’t.
She had to leave, she realized. She had to get out, to clear her head, if only for a little while. Talo had told her not to go anywhere, but even as she stepped away from the window the walls of their wide room seemed to warp, tightening around her. Making a decision, Syrah crossed the floor, lifting her robes off the dull iron hook by the doorframe. Stripping out of her cotton shirt and pants, she tugged the silk over her head, letting it fall to the floor. Grabbing her gloves and veil from the cupboard in the corner, she practically ran out the door, letting it shut behind her with a bang.
VI
The North and South are so called because never at any point in recorded history have the two great lands been more than a divided rabble of smaller governing forces individually struggling to consolidate their own power. There are those to this day, in fact, who believe a mistake was made with the eradication of the slave rings in the mid and late 800s. Even now, a hundred years later, some say it would be better to be united under a ring of murderers and thieves than separately ruled by politicians who are weak, greedy, and corrupt…
—exc. “The Cienbal,” by Adolûs Fenn
“—and here’s for the nopales. It was a good season, so they shouldn’t be more than a baron a dozen, at least if you get them from Jillia. See if you can find kindling, too. We’re running low, and I don’t want to dig into our reserves for the summer season too soon.”
Raz nodded, accepting the handful of coins his father dropped into his palm. It was common enough that he be the one asked to do most of the weekly shopping, but he still leapt on the chance. He was ever keen to get out of the camp and explore the markets. The pickpockets and beggars didn’t bother him, or at least hadn’t tried to yet, and if he finished early his parents let him wander a little deeper into Karth, near the wealthier quarters of the city. He always loved to see the marble fountains and colored-glass windows, the steel gates enclosing manicured gardens. They, and so many other things, were small marvels that the Cienbal would forever be lacking.
“Nopales, bread wheat, a carving knife, meat, and kindling if I can find it,” he repeated the list. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of,” Agais said, shaking his head before he and Jarden went back to repairing one of the Grandmother’s wagon wheels. Rot had gotten at the old wood, cracking it. “Get yourself something to eat if you’re out late. Dinner might be cold by the time you wander back, knowing you.”
Raz stuck his tongue out at his father, who laughed. Jarden smirked, reaching under the makeshift table they were working on and pulling out his staff. He threw it to Raz, who caught it in surprise.
“Not that you need it, but it’ll keep those wandering hands of yours busy.”
Raz snorted. It was a common joke amongst the Arros. Barely a few months after they’d adopted him he’d apparently tried to steal half a dried ham from a neighboring clan’s tent, not understanding the concept of barter and trade. He’d been too young to remember the details, but the story went that in the end Agais had to pay for the meat in full and then some just to settle the matter without issue. No one had ever let Raz live it down.
Still, the bleached wood felt good in his hands and—even with the long knife strapped to his thigh—it never hurt to be prepared. He nodded his thanks, pocketing the coins before turning and heading around the small horse corral out of the wagon ring. He wore simple clothes, the white silk mantle around his shoulders serving more of a practical purpose than a pompous one. Just because he was better suited to the heat didn’t mean he liked it any more than the next person. The silk was perfect for blocking out the sun without making him feel like he was standing in an oven. It draped behind him a little dramatically but—considering the alternative was walking around in the broiling glare all day—he could suffer it.
It was a twenty-minute walk to the market even not weighed down with a hundred pounds of goods and coin, but Raz didn’t mind. He liked this time, this brief privacy. It gave him a moment alone to think and take in the city around him. It was interesting, for example, how there was no steady change in the buildings drawing closer to the slums. The houses were all tall and solid, well maintained and cared for. Most of them were two stories high, unlike the structures beyond and around the market street. A few even had faded murals decorating their walls, or brown tendrils of some Sun-resistant vine hanging from iron-wrought balconies.
But as Raz left these small middle-class parts of the city for the shantytowns and market, it always made him sad to see the line appear right before he reached the busy shopping streets.
The alley was twice as wide there, as though the quarter’s architect had aspired to erect a deliberate, tangible barrier between the slum dwellers and the wealthier citizens. On one side were the grander homes, tall and clean—if not so regal as the estates in the eastern parts of the city—and on the other were the shacks and hovels, the decrepit buildings that were only currently falling apart if they were lucky. Most were worn down by the elements or age, and crumbling walls and ceilings were more common than doors. The people were no better off. They were shells, empty husks all starving or sick or both. Even when Raz tossed a baron or two to them, they didn’t leap for the coins until after he’d rounded the corner.
The slum dwellers frightened him, in a way. Not because they themselves were threatening, but rather because every year the Arros returned to any particular city the number of beggars lining the streets seemed to double.
His mind elsewhere, the walk to the markets took no time at all. When Raz finally st
epped into the busy street, he pulled down his thin hood, welcoming the coolness of the scattered angular shadows from the shops and covered stalls and colored ribbons that overlapped and crossed overhead. He sniffed, making a face at the reek of sweat and unwashed bodies mixed with the smells of food and perfume and fire.
The trouble with Jillia, the vendor the Arros bought most of their supplies from, was that she was always moving around. A nomad from the Ashani family before she’d married a trim, she was superstitious about staying in one spot along the market street for more than a few days, claiming her business eventually waned if she did. Raz always had to stop a few people and ask if they’d seen her before he had any luck, and today was no different. After nearly a quarter hour and a dozen dirty looks, an old woman pointed him in the right direction, offering a rare smile when he thanked her. Turning west down the street, Raz made his way through the crowd, cutting his usual swath, people hurrying to get out of the way. The few he recognized he nodded to, but mostly he just kept his eyes out for Jillia.
He was so preoccupied with his search, in fact, that he almost missed the eccentric figure walking calmly along the left side of the road.
She was a tall woman. Or girl? He couldn’t be sure. Her face was covered by a faintly opaque shroud of pale silk, and her robes, their wide hood pulled up over her head, were much like his cape, white and light so as to fend off the Sun. Had he been able to raise an eyebrow he would have, though, when he saw that her hands were gloved and her feet booted in the same bleached leather.
He could only imagine how much she was sweating under there…
Suddenly the girl’s face glanced toward him, and he turned away quickly, unsure of whether she was looking at him or not. He thought he saw her stop and watch him pass, but it was at that moment that he caught sight of Jillia’s tent a short distance down the street. Keeping his eyes resolutely forward, he kept walking, ignoring the figure in white.
Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) Page 14