"Of what sort?" demanded Bokrham.
"Of the retaliatory kind!" exclaimed Thilanea. "They say that he will issue an edict forcefully expelling all Curahshar who have not dedicated their souls to Rekon from any Church lands."
Bokrham was shocked. "But the Church has remained neutral for years. Such an act might be seen as…"
"As an act of war?" finished Thilanea. "As an indication that the Church favors the Blood Marsh's cause? I tell you Bokrham, this is the opportunity we have been looking for!"
"What opportunity?" asked Bokrham.
"We must ally ourselves with the Church! Think about it, our armies are stretched thin by constant skirmishing and border control. Our coffers are not nearly as full as they once were. The people miss their Prince, but most have given him up for dead and they grow restless. Worst of all, some of our people are losing their resolve to unite Esmoria under one banner! If you ally yourself with the Church, you will put a spark back into your image. Nothing motivates an army more than knowing that they have a god on their side!"
"Are you saying Rekon does not currently think we are in the right?"
"What I am saying is this will save you. Face it, my Lord, our people's confidence in your rule is waning rapidly. They want Kazick back, or they want a new King. Now, if you had the Sumpadri himself to back you, it would give you legitimacy that no King of the Blood Marsh has ever claimed—the support of the holy god himself. You could be more than a King. You could be the leader of Rekon's own army on Esmoria."
"Bah," said Bokrham, "I have no wish to be King, you know that…and I must also confess that I have been lax in my pious duties for a long time."
"You disappoint me, Sir," said Thilanea. "I had always thought that you were one to put the needs of the realm before your own."
"Damn it, woman, I am! I never wanted to sit the throne, never even wanted to ride out and conquer the bloody Hinnjar either. But Vichtor convinced me it was for the good of the Blood Marsh, for the good of our people. I have put the realm first in my life for so long I cannot even remember what it was like to act for myself, to tend to my own needs."
"Oh, poor Bokrham," said Thilanea, as she traced a finger down his side mischievously. "And tell me, my Lord, what needs have you left so long unattended?"
"It doesn't matter," said Bokrham, his face flushing. "What matters is that I am no King, much less some sort of Holy Monarch."
"And why not?" asked Thilanea. "There are few men who can match your strength in battle, and none who can also boast any gift for strategy. You were Vichtor's most trusted advisor, and like an Uncle to Kazick. You were more part of their family than any of those weaselly relatives who now whine about the crown. You were made for this, Bokrham. You were born to rule!"
"Then why does it feel like such a damned burden? And anyway, we don't even know that the Church will agree to ally themselves to our cause, much less recognize me as a ruler. I can tell you the Sumpadri won't be happy about such a suggestion!"
Thilanea gave a great sigh. "Ah, Bokrham, the man I once knew would never have let such details get in the way. You know as well as I how easily men are swayed—if you can just find the right string to pluck…or squeeze."
Bokrham knew that all too well, and he was careful for the moment to keep himself an arm's length from Thilanea.
"Still," continued Thilanea, "perhaps you are right. You were not meant to rule Esmoria. Strength, intelligence, cunning, and charm are all good qualities in a ruler, but they are nothing without ambition!"
"Exactly!" said Bokrham.
"Well then, I know a few men who have plenty of that, even if they are lacking in some of the other areas. But, if you would bend your knee and offer your strengths to such a man, and if I offered to apprise him of the many whispers I tend to hear, then I think the realm would still be in good hands."
"I…well, who do you have in mind?" asked Bokrham suspiciously.
"Well, I have heard that Captain Shardon is positively brimming with ambition. And, as you have trained him yourself, he must at least be capable of—"
"No!" cried Bokrham "Do not even suggest such a thing. Do you even know what that man is like? He would make a King the likes of which the Marsh has not seen since King Dorrin the Second—you know, the one who occasionally used to eat his own subjects?"
"I know my history," said Thilanea testily, but she softened when she asked, "But what is this Bokrham? Not so ready to see another man on your throne, are you?"
Chapter 11: Nicolas
A bright noon sky oversaw the figures of Nicolas and Jorj steadily making their way into the hills of Creko's Isle. They were a strange pair. Nicolas was tall, fair, gangly, and wore clothes that barely fit his still-growing limbs. He followed Jorj anxiously, never quite sure whether he should walk alongside the man, or trail in his wake. Jorj, on the other hand, was small, dark, and sturdily built. Though his voluminous white robes billowed about him at the whim of the ocean winds, his every movement seemed to be marked with a purpose, and he never took his eyes off the path ahead of him. Just when Nicolas was beginning to wonder if Jorj intended to walk until nightfall without food or rest, his new master signaled a halt and turned to examine Nicolas.
"Are you tired? Perhaps hungry?"
"Both," confessed Nicolas.
Jorj reached into his pack and pulled out a small bag filled with nuts and dried berries.
"I hope you can eat and walk at the same time. We must travel quickly today, to get as far into the hills as we are able."
"I suppose I can," said Nicolas, and he reached for the offered food.
Before handing the bag over Jorj said, "Chew slowly, I need you to listen while we are walking and I do not want my voice drowned out by the crunching in your ears."
"Ah, if you say so," said Nicolas, and he took the bag and dutifully began to munch on the nuts and berries as quietly as he could. No sooner had he taken his first swallow, then Jorj was off again, resuming his brisk pace.
Though the effort to chew and keep up with Jorj almost caused Nicolas to choke more than once, the little man spoke with ease as they hurried inland through the hills.
"A lesson for today, boy, is the story of a man called Pojin Haigh. Have you heard this name?"
"No," replied Nicolas.
"This is no surprise to me," continued Jorj. "Few on this earth know of the man, and he long ago left the living. He is, however, the man who saved my life and in turn, I hope, will save yours.
Years ago when I was about your age, perhaps older, I was confined to a bed in a Mission of Rekon just north of the Curahshena desert, not far from the water the missionaries call Midnight Lake. My mother had left me there—to die, I suspect, for though the missionaries prayed to their god and bled me frequently to dispel the wicked humors which possessed me, everyday my body was wracked with seizures which left me feeble and exhausted. The one joy left to me was the reading of books, which I could do when not in the grip of my spasms. I could not then read in the language of Rekon, however, and books in the old tongue of the Curahshar are exceedingly rare. The Mission's collection had one such book, an ancient history of the great gladiator Vhaktin Koj Lor, which I read, and re-read so many times the binding split. One of the missionaries who cared for me would often read to me from the Book of Rekon and other Church works, but he must have seen that I did not enjoy such readings because of my limited understanding of the language. One day he came to my bedside with an old and tattered book, which, while missing some pages, stained, and warped by water, was written in the old tongue. I don't know where the man found such a book, but for that kindness I will be eternally grateful. The book, it turned out, was the diary of a wandering hermit named Pojin.
Pojin was not like you or me. He had tremors, yes, but they were just a sickness. But Pojin had heard tales of powerful men and women whose bodies naturally attracted energies that could be channeled to exert control over the will of others. If these senisthma, as they were called by the Curahsh
ar, which, roughly translated in your tongue means "the haunted," if these senisthma did not learn to control the energies which often welled up inside of them, they suffered fits very like the ones which plagued the health of poor Pojin. Knowing this, Pojin became convinced that he had been gifted with the power to control what is known as säel—currents of energy which affect all men, but which only a few can detect, and still fewer can control. Pojin dedicated his life to searching out those rare persons rumored to be senisthma. He hoped to find a mentor who would teach him the ways of their power and help him unlock his.
Unfortunately for Pojin, most of the people he found turned out to be disappointments; that is to say, they were not gifted with the power to control the säel. But, he did actually find, I suspect, a few true senisthma, though none who would agree to an audience with a scraggly hermit who did little but babble on about his 'secret powers.' He spent years following such people and taking notes on everything he could about them. He collected stories and rumors from locals in each town he visited. He cataloged the clothing of suspected senisthma in the hope of discovering some relic they wore which might account for their powers. He tried to trace their family histories, to analyze their diets, and to record their way of speech. So great was his fervor, that he once tried to find out exactly how one senisthma bathed himself, though that particular exploit ended in a severe beating."
Nicolas gave a small snort of laughter.
"Yes, a few of his adventures were somewhat comical, though he never thought so. He always acted with a desperate seriousness that bordered on fanaticism. And really, it was very sad that he wasted so much of his life on an impossibility. In the end, Pojin gave up after years and years of searching for the key to unlock a power he did not possess. The last few entries in his diary were those of a bitter and unhappy man. The irony was, that in his exploits he had actually recorded many things that would be of use to one imbued with the ability to control the säel."
Nicolas, his mouth full of nuts and his lungs laboring for air, had not listened to the story very attentively. Yet, as he swallowed his last handful, he slowly began to realize the import of Jorj's narrative. He stopped walking and just stared at the rapidly diminishing figure of Jorj as the little man sped onwards.
"Wait!" shouted Nicolas.
Jorj stopped and turned.
"You can't be serious," said Nicolas, advancing towards Jorj. "You can't expect me to believe a story like that!"
"What is so hard to believe? The man was driven half-crazy by the delusion that he possessed an unusual power. Do you not think that a man can be so obsessed with an idea that it drives the truth from his mind?"
"No! That is, I do think that could happen. What I meant is, do you really expect me to believe that I can…that you can…channel some strange energy? You sound like old Leo back in Brightshore, telling tales of warlocks and witches after he'd had one too many pints."
"I never met this Leo," said Jorj, "but I think you should not be so quick to discount the stories of old men. Use your head, boy, and tell me why your old master entrusted you to my care, the strangest of men, after we had only met for a matter of moments?"
"He…you offered him a heap of money!" said Nicolas.
"Do you really think that he would sell you just like that? I'm sure he enjoys his coin, but surely you could see he felt a great sense of responsibility for you."
"But he was sleepy and befuddled! We woke him in the middle of his…" The words sounded hollow as soon as they left Nicolas' mouth.
"Every advantage counts," continued Jorj. "I cannot merely make the world do my bidding. It takes tremendous skill and cunning to learn how to use the säel to successfully manipulate a mind. That is why Pojin found so many false senisthma. Intelligent and practiced yet otherwise ordinary people can affect the way you think more than a novice senisthma."
"So what do you do? Mutter the words to some spell and wiggle your fingers?" mocked Nicolas.
"No. There are no such theatrics."
"I don't believe you," said Nicolas flatly. "And I'm starting to think this was a very bad idea. It's not too late, maybe if we surprise Gleydon again he'll give you back your coin."
"Look at me," commanded Jorj, staring into Nicolas' eyes.
Nicolas felt uncomfortable, "If you are going to try and magic me into believing your story, I'm sorry, it won't…"
"Look at me!" said Jorj firmly. "What do you see?"
"I see a short silly man in white robes who looks like he's been out in the sun too long. I see…I see…"
Nicolas realized that there was something very different about Jorj. He was breathing heavily and his forehead shone with large beads of sweat that trickled in rivulets down his face and into his white robes. Here and there his robes had soaked though with perspiration, and they seemed much more worn, and much less white, than Nicolas had initially thought.
"What's wrong with you?" said Nicolas, "Are you going to have a fit of tremors? I don't know how to help, I've never seen anyone else have them before."
"What is wrong with me is that I've been running across these hills nearly all day without much of a pause," said Jorj. "It is perfectly natural, look at yourself—you are tired and sweating as well."
"But, you never seemed like you exerted yourself at all!" said Nicolas. "You always looked so comfortable and collected."
"You are a lucky student," said Jorj with a slight smile. "Today you get two lessons. The second lesson is that the appearance of strength can sometimes be a great advantage, whether you truly possess it or not. Many animals know this well, like the toad who puffs himself up to a great size when danger is near, or the bear who rears up on its hind legs to loom over an enemy."
"Fine," said Nicolas, still exasperated, "great lesson, but why are you so tired all of a sudden? I swear a few moments ago you were not."
"There is nothing sudden about my fatigue," said Jorj. "I simply used the säel to make you think that it cost me no effort to keep up this brisk pace."
Nicolas was silent for a while. Staring past Jorj and into space.
"Ah, so you are less certain now, boy? Boy? Oh, by Hesa be damned!"
Nicolas' eyes had taken on a glassy luster and a small trickle of spittle was slowly sliding out of the left side of his mouth. Jorj rushed to him and placed his hands on Nicolas' temples.
"Boy, if you can hear me, do not try and fight it back. Try to ignore it, try to let it flow over you, not through you."
Nicolas heard the muddled sounds of Jorge's voice, but could not make out what he said. A tension was building up inside of him which he could not alleviate. He felt a sudden pressure on his temples, and for a second it seemed the rush of energy would subside and dissipate, but then it rushed down upon him, and he could not think any more.
When Nicolas regained consciousness, the remnants of a campfire were smoldering nearby and he lay on a small blanket looking up at a night sky full of twinkling autumn stars. Jorj appeared, holding a cup of strong-smelling tea which he put to Nicolas' lips. The warm liquid seemed to flow through him and bring back some vigor to his senses. He sat up. Jorj was looking at him with an expression tinged with sadness.
"Whatever you choose to believe," said Jorj, "believe that you are in danger. It will not be long before the tremors completely rule your life. It is excruciating and humiliating, trust me. After that, it is only a matter of time before you die." He let the last word hang in the air a moment before adding, "And you cannot die, boy. I've already sunk far too much money into you. You must remain with me. You must learn what I have to teach you. And most importantly, you must recompense me for my efforts."
Chapter 12: Jeina
"What do you mean, better than dead?" Tobin demanded. The smith leaned over and muttered something Jeina could not hear to the King. When he drew away she could see that the look of annoyance had been erased from Tobin's face, replaced by one of dawning interest.
"Yes…" said Tobin in a low voice, more to himself than
anyone else, "Yes…I should like to see that." A distant smile crept across his face, and all at once Jeina felt as if she was a small girl again, watching the smirking young Prince stride away with her beloved Sips.
"Men!" commanded Tobin, "bind the girl's wrists and ankles, and secure her to the wall."
Two men set about fastening some rope around Laiti's wrists and ankles. When they touched her she started to struggle and cry out, pulling herself along the ground to try and get away. Before she got far, however, Tobin walked over and slammed the hilt of his sword onto the back of her skull, and she crumpled into unconsciousness.
When she had been securely bound, Isic bent over her body and lifted her up as easily as he would a small child. He strode over to a portion of the cavern wall that was marked by a large crack, and jammed the blade of a dagger firmly between the two layers of rock. The steel seemed to slide into the stone as if it were butter, but a horrible screeching sound belied the force of Isic's thrust, making Jeina cover her ears in pain. From the exposed hilt, Isic hung Laiti's limp figure, her body slumped awkwardly against the rock, held upright only by the rope that bound her wrists.
"Again, we must wait," said the smith to Tobin and his men. "Only this time, we offer a bait I think the gröljum will find hard to refuse. In a few moments I will return us to the darkness. Remember what I told you hours ago. Stay still, silent, and close to me. However, our task is now somewhat more complicated. If you hear something moving, this time you must stay quiet and still. Do not even reach for your weapons, alter your stance, or dare to breathe harder until you hear my command. This girl has given us a chance at something I had not yet hoped for, and I intend to take it. It is of the utmost importance that we give the creature time to…to sample the bait before we strike. Is that understood? No one is to move until you see the flare of my grüwnflame!"
The men nodded in silent assent to Isic's instructions. Then, to Jeina's horror, Isic drew a long thin dagger from his boot and advanced on Laiti.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 11