The Iturai were not there, having departed in the afternoon once the wedding was complete. Eralai witnessed the ceremony with her kinfolk, looked on with apparent approval, though it was hard to tell one way or the other with the red-skinned kuyei. She made her farewell's to the King afterward, presenting him with a polished wooden diadem, shaped from a piece of living wood. He in turn gave her a gold armband that had belonged to his father. They embraced and she left without looking back. He returned to the festivities, head bowed for a moment, as if in regret.
Azaran had a place at the high table. At one point he raised a cup, leading a toast in honor of the King and his Queens. From the applause, it seemed what he said met with approval. Afterward he quietly left, finding a place in the back to watch. All those people, singing, dancing, celebrating. It was a strange sight to him. Did he do the same, in his old life? Did he ever raise a cup in honor of a comrade on a similar day? Somehow, Azaran suspected not. Weapons did not need wives or feasts.
Perhaps he should stay and find out what such things were like. He felt nothing when he looked on women, but that could change. He could learn to feel such things. Maybe find a woman with great stores of patience and kindness...with time and effort he could force himself to feel something. Build a house. Fill it with children. Love, comfort, family. That might fill the gaps within his being. A lifetime of unanswered questions seemed a small price to pay for it...
"Are you Azaran?"
He looked over, hand drifting to the dagger thrust through his belt.
"I am no threat." The man raised his hand, alarmed at the response. He was no Eburrean. Olive skinned, his thick beard curling down his chest and in need of combing. His clothes looked rumpled and dust-covered from the road. A large leather satchel hung off one shoulder. A Hadaraji.
"Apologies." Azaran pulled hand away from the hilt. "Old habits. I am Azaran."
"Wonderful," said the man in accented Eburrean, speaking with obvious relief. "I was afraid you had left this place! We were warned you might not stay here and I have no desire to ride any further north."
"Warned by who?" Azaran asked. "And why do you come for me?"
"Apologies as well, my manners have weakened somewhat from two weeks on horseback. Nasty business, I hate the beasts, but necessary in this case. I am Utar-pashti, merchant of Arqassa and captain of the Ninth Son of Tereshab, a ship of the same city, currently at large along the southern coast of Eburrea. I was contracted by a certain party to deliver this to you."
The merchant rummaged about the satchel, pulling out a wooden tube sealed at one end with a plain copper cap. "Here,” he said, handing it over.
Azaran looked at it, then at Utar-pashti, raising an eyebrow.
"It's a message tube,” said the merchant by way of explanation. "Pull off the cap."
"Right." Azaran did as instructed. Inside was a rolled sheet of papyrus. "Who sent this?"
"The client did not give his name. But he said you would know who he was."
Frowning, Azaran pulled out the papyrus. A blocky script covered the face, which seemed oddly familiar to Azaran.
"I do not know that particular writing," said Utar-pasti. "Forgive my curiosity, but what land does it come from? It seems an odd style of writing. Is it an alphabet?"
"No..." Understanding flared in Azaran's mind, a lamp appearing in the darkness. "Not exactly."
Ideograms. Each symbol on the page conveying a specific idea or concept, along with a different set of symbols to transcribe foreign names phonetically. After a moment none of it was gibberish.
Azaran,
If you can read this, then it means you are stumbling out of the darkness of amnesia. That is good. When you die, I would prefer you remember fully the crimes you have committed.
My name is Nerazag. I knew you in the days before you fell from honor, though not in the same way as Tarazal. Like him, I did not believe that you had lost your memories, that it was just a ploy on your part, a lie to ease the guilt you felt at betraying our Master and putting such a crimp in his plans. But after the recent events in Eburrea, I believe you do not remember at all.
Tarazal died thinking otherwise. I fled knowing the truth. Do not take my sudden departure as a sign of cowardice. We all have our roles to play in the Master's great plan. I am the voice that gives orders. You are, or were, the weapon that carries them out. But you turned in our grip, against the hand that wields you. For that you shall be broken and discarded.
I was going to kill you immediately, but discovering the truth of your situation changed those plans. There is no point in punishment if the condemned does not recall the crimes for which he is guilty. But if you are reading this, than parts of your past are coming back. I would have you remember it all. Only then will arranging your death have any meaning.
No doubt you feel differently. But I also know that you will not turn from the path towards discovery, that you are as eager to find you past as I. So I offer you a choice. Stay in Eburrea among those stinking savages and live your remaining days in fear, for the Master's vengeance will find you one way or another, and you will die in ignorance. Or seek me out in the city of Kedaj. There you will find the answers you seek. You will remember your offenses against the Master. And you will die.
Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe you are clever enough to escape yet again. Though I would not count on it.
So choose, Azaran! Come find me in Kedaj! I will be waiting.
Nerazag.
Azaran lowered the letter. "Kedaj," he said, looking at the merchant. "Do you know it?"
Utar-pasthi nodded. "Of course. But it is a foul place these days..."
"Can you take me there?"
The merchant grimaced. "Yes. That was also part of the arrangement. Deliver the message, and if you ask, take you to that city. But you should not go, sir! Kedaj is no place for an upright man."
"Nonetheless, you will take me there." Azaran rolled up the papyrus and slipped it back into the tube. "We leave in the morning."
"As you wish." The merchant bowed his head.
Azaran walked away, a new spring in his step. The misgivings and confusions were gone, replaced with a sharp new clarity. The path was before him now, clear and marked. He knew not what lay at the end. But he would not spend the rest of his life wondering what was and might have been, would not die with questions unanswered.
He would know the truth. No matter the consequences.
##
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Zackery Arbela
About the Author
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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Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2) Page 23