by Tim Mathias
Zayd’s stomach turned to lead when he heard it. He was not sure at first that he heard anything, so focused was he on the scene unfolding before him.
“Barrett, you have to leave,” Zayd said
“We aren’t finished.”
Zayd walked up and put his hand on Barrett’s shoulder. “You don’t understand – you have to get on your horse and leave.” Zayd picked up Willar’s sword from ground. “We’re out of time.”
Barrett looked up at him, realization sinking in as to what was happening. “That’s it?” His voice was sullen and dejected. Unused to failure.
There was noise outside of the tent: hushed voices and the jangling of armour. Determination snapped back into him. “I’ll find it. I will.” He bent Willar’s arm a few more inches and it snapped audibly. Barrett placed his hand over Willar’s mouth to stifle his cry of pain. Barrett leapt up off of Willar and ran toward the front of the tent. Zayd went for the loose flap at the back.
“Barrett!” Zayd called. But he had already charged out the front of the tent, sword in hand. As Barrett went outside Zayd could see Talazz standing only a few feet away. There were several other figures behind him. He cursed to himself and considered holding a knife to Praene’s throat and having him tell his men to stand aside. The knights might listen to him, but Talazz would never compromise. He saw the laws of the Imperial army broken, and he would punish the wrongdoers.
Zayd whistled the call of the kisolark, hoping his men were still within earshot as he stepped past Praene, who was still on the ground clutching his arm, and walked out of the front of the tent.
Talazz was there, flanked by Praene’s knights. All of them had their weapons drawn. Barrett looked at Zayd with surprise and anger as he stood beside him. “Why didn’t you run?” he whispered.
“Be ready,” Zayd said.
“Drop your sword,” Talazz said. Barrett did not hesitate to obey. “You have both committed treason,” the giant said, emotionless. “Once the commander makes the pronouncement, I will carry it out.” Zayd thought he could see disappointment somewhere in the giant’s features; he had always thought Talazz had a heartfelt respect for him and for his people, the diminutive Tauthri that instilled dread in their enemies. On the faces of the knights surrounding them, though, there was only bloodlust.
“Commander, are you alright?” Garinus Corwin called out. Zayd could hear Willar getting to his feet behind them.
“I’m fine,” Willar grumbled through clenched teeth. “That bastard Stern broke my arm.”
Garinus scowled and stepped towards Barrett with a clenched fist. Talazz cried out in surprise, and all eyes turned to him to see a black arrow protruding from his shoulder. Another lanced out of the darkness and hit him in the sternum.
Barrett did not waste the momentary distraction. Zayd saw him knock Garinus clear off his feet with the battering-ram strength he had experienced firsthand. Zayd drew his dagger and lunged forward.
The two arrows would not slow the giant down enough for Barrett to escape. As he drew his dagger, Zayd breathed a prayer to Xidius for forgiveness. Talazz was not – could not be a part of Praene’s plot to defect, but he was caught up in it regardless. As were they all.
Zayd buried the dagger to its hilt into Talazz’s heel. The giant let out a deafening roar. The entire camp would be awake now, Zayd thought. Perhaps it would be enough that they could escape in the confusion. He pulled the dagger free in time to see a sword come arcing towards him. He quickly rolled under and was back on his feet in an instant, running past the knights and into the darkness from where the arrows had been fired. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Talazz had dropped to one knee, his face contorted with anger and pain. He could no longer see Barrett, though he could see other bodies on the ground next to Garinus, who still had not risen. Zayd whispered another prayer to Xidius that Barrett might escape, that he might find his way to Ten Tower. How odd that he should pray for this man’s safety. It was merely another time, though it felt like another life, when he had yearned to see him dead. Zayd felt some inexplicable entity watching them all as he ran through the camp and into the forest, following Tascell and the other Tauthri through the trees, leaving the chaos and confusion behind him.
Chapter 10
He sat across from his favourite bakery, tucked in an alley and wrapped in a wool cloak. Osmun hoped anyone passing by – though there were few this early in the morning – would simply see a destitute man and not a man in disguise.
The sun was just beginning to rise. It would not be long now, he told himself as he pulled the cloak around himself tightly. The night had a chill to it he did not expect. It was as if the city was giving him a harsh welcome into a new, unprotected existence; no more shelter at the monastery, no more esteem as a member of the priesthood.
Osmun had barely had time to take any of his personal effects before he had run. The vicar would undoubtedly conclude that Osmun was guilty of Nestor’s murder. And why not? Not only was that cursed shadow working against him, but his own actions inadvertently made things worse: Harald would tell people he saw Osmun in possession of black thornleaf.
He cursed himself under his breath. Countless questions floated through his mind, but there was one that was always at the forefront: to what end? To what end was this shadow manipulating Andrican, Egus, and Vicar Eldon? Osmun was considering the question so intently that he did not realize how much time had passed, and that the person he had been waiting for had arrived and had already opened the bakery.
Osmun lurched to his feet, his legs stiff and cold from sitting for hours. He nearly laughed when he realized how he must have looked. Hadn’t he walked through these streets with purpose? It seemed like ages ago…
“Tumanger,” Osmun said as he approached. Tumanger Toron, a tall, lean man of nearly sixty years, started at seeing the hooded, limping figure approach him seemingly from nowhere. Osmun pulled back the hood of the cloak for a moment. “It’s me, Tumanger,” he said, pulling the hood back up as soon as he was sure the man knew who he was.
“Good priest Osmun,” Tumanger said, smiling with relief. “You come by every morning, but then you stop… me and Tanu, we thought that you went off with the army again. Come, come inside.” Osmun nodded and hurried to follow him inside.
Tumanger spoke the true-tongue well considering he had spoken not a word of it when he arrived in Lycernum five years ago from Ivesia. There were not many Ivesians that chose to or were allowed to live within the Empire – let alone the capital – but Tumanger and his wife, Tanu, had both become followers of the Beacon, which had complicated their lives in their homeland.
The bakery was in actuality only one room with an oven and an area where Tumanger both kept and prepared the ingredients for his goods. There were already logs crackling, heating up the oven. Osmun quickly shuffled over to stand next to it. He could not help but smile as the heat quickly melted away the cold and aches from his body. “That is…… perfect.”
“There is something different with you, good priest Osmun. Something not good, I think.” Tumanger smiled at him, but Osmun could sense pity in it.
“Is it that apparent?”
“You come and buy a ractha every morning almost. You walk through the city a man without worries. The man who is here now… much different.” The tall Ivesian began picking ingredients off of the makeshift wooden shelves nailed to the walls, his skinny arms darting quickly up and down, deftly picking spices out of jars and throwing them into a mixing bowl before him. “And… you were sleeping outside, yes? Even a blind man would be able to see something wrong with you.”
“Well I suppose there is no denying it, then. Thank you for inviting me in.”
“I spent nights on the streets back home. As a young man. I was not even fit for the army.” He held out his arms. “Not enough meat. What is the word? Strength. Not strong enough to wear the armour. I came to know that it was chance. To have nothing, to live on the street. Every man could have that chance
. Even our great emperor, Beacon protect him, even he can see the streets when he looks out of his window. We are all that close. So no need to thank.”
Tumanger looked over his shoulder. “You need to stay here? Something happen at your prayer-house?” Next to the enveloping warmth of the fire, Osmun recalled the misery of the night he had just spent outside. How many more nights could he do that before either sickness or the Ardent found him? He wanted to say yes so much so that he could feel the word forming in his mouth. He began coughing.
“No, no, I can’t. I shouldn’t.” If the Ardent did come for him –– and he knew they would – he would not let his supposed guilt bleed onto anyone else around him. “I would ask something of you, though. I need to know where to find Nasiri.”
Tumanger stopped his work abruptly. “What makes you think I know where she is?”
“Because you’re her father.”
Tumanger crossed his arms and leaned against the table. “She walked away from us. I don’t know where she went.”
“You must have some idea.”
“What if I don’t want to know? We thought she would one day serve the Beacon. Like you.”
“I know. I know what happened. It’s why she’ll be able to help me.”
“You still don’t say what is wrong.”
Osmun wanted to tell him everything for some reason. Perhaps having someone else know what he knew would lessen the burden on himself. “It’s only for me to worry about.”
Tumanger shook his head. “I haven’t seen Nasiri, haven’t spoken to her in a year. Maybe more, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know where she is. Maybe she is dead.”
“I don’t think you believe that.”
He shook his head. “She broke our hearts when she left. Tanu and I tried to forget about her. If you find her and she helps you, then that connects us again.” Tumanger turned back to his work. “I don’t want that. Tanu doesn’t want that. We only want to forget. But if she comes back to see us again, I know she won’t stay. And Tanu, it would break her heart all over again. I had many friends that lost a child. It’s the hardest thing, except for when you keep losing them over and over again.”
“If she comes back, it will not be because of me,” Osmun said. “But don’t you at least want to know that she’s alright?”
“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think about her.”
“You don’t care?”
“No, I don’t.” Tumanger was moving faster and faster as the conversation went on. Tired as he was, Osmun knew he had to be careful how much further to push.
“If you did not care, you would tell me what you know. Where you saw her last. Where you last heard she was. And if you do care, you’ll want to know that she is alright.”
Tumanger stopped again and let out a long sigh. “Alright,” he said slowly. “You are more bull-headed than she is. Bull-headed, is this the right word?”
Osmun nodded. “I think so.”
The wind was churning the waters at the pier. The masts of the dozens of boats, large and small, rose and fell and swayed. Gulls hung in the air, appearing almost motionless as they fought against the wind. Tumanger had been sincere when he said he did not know where Nasiri might be, though when last they spoke, she had talked about going back to Ivesia. If that was over a year ago as Tumanger remembered, was there any chance that she would still be here? He had to think there was, otherwise his fate would be only to wait in ignominy to be arrested for poisoning a respected member of the clergy. That was not the legacy he would leave. His legacy would be talked about for ages…
The shouts of workers brought Osmun out of his thoughts. He could see them struggle to offload supplies from three-masted boat as it swayed and bumped against the pier. If she had gone, perhaps one of the workers on the pier would remember seeing her. And if not… well, he would ask someone else. He would ask and ask until he found someone who remembered. He would find her, or he would find someone who could show him what he needed to know. He was born to be in the church, and what was happening to him now was his greatest test.
Osmun stood there for a while, his cloak being pulled by the wind, before finally pushing himself into motion and walked towards the pier. As he approached, the workers were standing about, having temporarily stopped unloading the ship until someone could better secure it to the dock. The few ropes that were tied to it were twisting and tightening audibly. Osmun looked from one worker to the next, looking for an Ivesian. Maybe Nasiri liked the company of her own kind better than Ellslanders, Tauthri, or even the Trueborn. But there was no Ivesian among them.
He needed to rethink his plan. If Nasiri was still in Lycernum, he would not find her by simply asking. She had abandoned the faith and returned to the ways of her kin. She would not want to be found by just anyone, and anyone who knew her would have to know that.
He rubbed his cheek and was surprised by the coarseness of his stubble. How must he look? Unclean, unshaven, and having spent the night in an alley like a drunk. Anyone he talked to would think he was a pauper. At least that worked to his own advantage; when the Ardent came for him, they would certainly not mistake him for a priest. Osmun looked over the dock workers once more and found the one who might best answer his question before turning back from the pier. He found a secluded spot in between two warehouses next to the harbour, and there he went over in his mind what he would do next.
And he waited.
The wind was only the first breath of the storm. By late afternoon, no one was working in the harbour, and any ships that were not already moored turned out of the harbour and anchored further away. Despite this, two ships collided and a third capsized. Osmun could only gauge the length of time he had waited by his growing hunger. When had he last eaten? If he spent much more time this way, he would not just resemble a beggar; he would only need to extend his hands.
The dock workers began to disperse as it became clear the storm would not soon relent, and the beginning of rainfall seemed to welcome their departure. Osmun fixed his attention on one, watched him, and moved around the warehouse to get ahead of him. The man was tall and imposing, with tattoos covering his forearms. Osmun wasn’t sure why he thought this man might know, but compared to the rest, he looked the least pious; the tattoos, as far as he could tell, were not religious in their imagery.
Osmun cut through one alley to come out onto a narrow street a block ahead of the man. The worker was walking swiftly, his shoulders slightly hunched as the rain continued to fall.
“Excuse me,” Osmun said as he approached the man, his hands clasped together in a beggar’s fashion. “Can I trouble you with a question, sir?”
The worker nodded but said nothing.
“I noticed you work on the pier, and I wondered if you’ve ever come across someone shipping a, uh… you see, I have trouble sleeping, and there is said to be a root from Ivesia that might help someone like myself. I can’t remember the name of the thing, but I remember it was said to be from Ivesia.” Osmun added a cough to the end of his plea in case some pity helped his cause.
The worker shook his head. “Don’t know nothing of it,” he said. He began walking again, but Osmun stepped in front of him.
“Of course, of course, but do you know someone that might?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you have worked with an Ivesian before?”
“No.”
“Or know someone who has?”
“Move aside.”
“Do you know a girl named Nasiri?”
The punch to the gut winded Osmun instantly. He dropped to his knees and the worker walked off, uttering a considerable string of curses at him. If he had eaten earlier that day, he may have vomited. An odd mercy, then, that he hadn’t.
A voice spoke from beside him. “Are you alright?” Osmun felt a hand underneath his arm pulling him back to his feet. “Those dock workers are normally a patient lot, but you seem to’ve picked the prickliest of the bunch.”
“Thank you,
” Osmun said as he brushed the dirt and mud from his knees. “I’ll be fine now, I think.” The man beside him was young, perhaps even younger than Osmun. He had curly brown hair and dimples that made him seem even younger than he was. His face did not look clean-shaven, but rather that he never had the cause to shave before.
“You don’t seem like a beggar to me,” the man said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you look like a beggar, certainly. But a beggar is usually more concerned with food and drink and not how well he sleeps.”
“You heard that?”
“I did. Also, if you know of the root you’re asking after, you know that it isn’t inexpensive.”
Osmun stood up straight, shaking off his beggar’s stance. “And how is it you know this?”
“I’m a merchant. Well, a merchant of a sort. What’s important is that I can find what you’re looking for.”
Osmun felt the touch of Xidius involved in this somehow. Maybe it was simple luck, random and blind, but he was not about to consider himself lucky. If he could find the Ivesian root, he might find some Ivesians, and someone who might know Nasiri.
“How quickly?”
“I can take you to it now. Unless you’d prefer to trouble some more of the pier workers, though I’d not recommend it.”
The kind stranger led Osmun through twisting back alleys to a small storehouse that, by the smell of it, was mostly crates of salted fish. “Pardon the aroma,” he said. “It helps repel burglars and the city watch. Down the stairs on your right.” He had introduced himself as Myron Petral, and he carried himself with the entitlement of a noble and the confidence of a streetwise criminal. Myron carefully shut the door behind them as they entered, and he noticed Osmun eying him with curiosity. “Pay me no mind. It’s a heavy door and slams shut if you aren’t careful. I didn’t want to start you with the noise, or to announce to the entire block of my comings and goings.”