Burying the Past
Most of the fallen had finally been laid to rest, and the remaining villagers worked tirelessly to remove any evidence of the battle before the women and children returned. The Nohek offered prayers over those that had fallen, especially their former Nohek Karab, Glennon.
Although the Nazilians set their village ablaze, most of the steadings remained untouched. Even so, their lives were irrevocably changed, and nothing could soothe the devastation wrought by the Nazilians’ hatred and evils. That painful truth permeated the air and was splayed across the faces of every denizen, picking up the pieces of their lives, and attempting to restore some semblance of what they once were.
Tioch stood, gazing at his son’s home. Against the backdrop of smoldering stables and the pervading fetor of war, it looked out of place, untouched by the Nazilians’ cruelties. His smile was wistful, resting a hand on the door before pushing through. His knees weakened then, and he braced himself against the frame, unable to move forward. After many long moments, Tioch took a sobering breath, taking a step inside. That movement was arduous, and his knees wobbled beneath his weight.
Though the sun shone full in the sky, darkness filled the rooms. Not only from the lack of light, but also from knowing that his son would never enter his home again.
Tioch lumbered to the hearth, taking a flint from his waist. After rummaging about in the dim light, he found kindling and set it ablaze. He then opened the shutters, allowing the sun’s rays to fill the room.
Sorrow and contentment imbued him simultaneously as he glided his calloused hands over the carved surfaces. Reflexively, Tioch closed his eyes, an image of Itai causing a pained smile to crease his lips. For a moment, he refused to reopen them, clenching them tighter with the memories of his son.
Taking a steadying breath, Tioch allowed that image, that harrowing remnant of his only child to dissipate.
The unsteady clicking of his boots echoed in the deafening silence, filling each vacuous room. There was nothing…nothing occupying the space but the heartening memories and profound sense of loss hanging densely in the air. That feeling weighted down his heart and his steps, feeling more a tangible entity, nearly causing him to topple.
Tioch’s posture waned, staring at the door to the nursery. He tried to reach out, to grasp the handle, but he couldn’t. His body swayed, and he slumped against the wall, unable to move forward. He’d help Itai design and build the nursery as a surprise for Brahanu. Itai didn’t want anyone to see it until their child was born. Now, he couldn’t bring himself to look…he wouldn’t.
“It’s for Brahanu alone,” he whispered, turning and walking down the corridor.
When Tioch opened the door to their bedchamber, his emotion surged through him like a deluge. The special tub Itai had designed stood elevated in the decorative corner, surrounded by a painted wooded background with flowing curtains, appearing more as a graceful waterfall cascading from the ceiling. Of everything that he’d created, this was the most special. The one item his son worked the hardest to please the one that he loved so dearly. Tioch drifted to his knees. His large hands covered his eyes as he wept for his son.
“Pa-Tioch?” a voice called out from another room. He didn’t respond, his mind was on Itai and his grandchild. Tioch lingered on all the words that were spoken before the village was attacked, and the ones forever left unsaid…of the contentment and joy his son experienced after marrying Brahanu. Tioch envisaged Itai’s countenance and elation as he announced the coming of his first child…his only child. All of it came rushing through Tioch’s mind, and it was consuming him.
Tioch heard the approaching footsteps as he knelt upon the floor, but he couldn’t move. He stayed affixed to that one spot, lamenting his loss, and the inextinguishable dolor threatening to devour him.
“Pa-Tioch,” Aschelon said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Nohek Berinon would like to speak with you. There’s much he needs to discuss.”
“Don’t have no need for prayers, Aschelon,” Tioch said, weakly. “The ones I offered returned empty. Them bastards took my son from me.”
“My prayers as well,” Aschelon said, kneeling beside him. No one in this village meant more to me than Itai, and I’ve come for him, too.”
When Tioch slowly met his eyes, Aschelon nodded, wiping away his tears. “I promised Itai that I’d look after you and Naji if he was no longer able to do so, and I mean to hold to that. When my father passed, you took me as your own. If not for your family, I wouldn’t have had anyone. Itai was more my brother than a friend. If not for him speaking to Hacom on my behalf, and you taking me in, there’s no telling where I’d be now. Please, allow me to honor Itai and do what he asked. Itai wouldn’t want you here mourning for him, and you’re knowing that. I’m not saying you shouldn’t grieve for your son, I’m grieving for him, too. But he’d tell you to remember how much he loved you, and how proud he was to have you as his Pa. Come with me, Pa-Tioch,” he said, standing and reaching down to him. “Don’t sadden yourself more than is already felt. After talking with the Nohek, I’ll escort you home and we’ll make plans to rebuild it…together. There are enough memories there without embracing the ones here as well.”
“It—it ain’t just Itai, Aschelon. Don’t nobody know ‘bout Brahanu or my grandchild. I can’t lose no more than I already have. I ain’t strong ‘nough.” His voice cracked with the words, as he attempted to stifle his emotion. “I—I promised to look after them…I gotta find them and make sure theys all right.”
“The temple’s ravens have been destroyed, and mayhaps the damn ghost did the same in Noraa and Kaleo. We won’t have a full report until the scouts return, but you know that Brahanu is safe. Both she and your grandchild are safe, Pa-Tioch, Itai made sure of that.”
Tioch grasped his hand, and Aschelon helped him to his feet. “Once it’s safe, I’m certain that Julaybeim will bring Brahanu home. Until then, we’ve gotta take care of our people. Hacom charged you with overseeing Cazaal. The sentries have hitched the carts to retrieve the others, and I’ve divided our men into two contingents. The smaller will ride with you to the Black Water.”
Tioch nodded, walking toward the door. Once Aschelon opened it, the sun’s rays bathed the room, driving the lingering darkness and chill away. Tioch paused, glancing around the beautiful home. A reflective smile creased his lips, thinking of Itai and the man he had become.
The men of Cazaal were stacking broken boards and burnt wood near the edge of the village. There were still splatters of blood where the brave sentries once stood defending their home. He watched as the Nohek scoured the stone steps of the temple and raked at the ground, removing evidence of the Nazilians’ brutality.
“Has the citadel been cleared?” Tioch asked, trying to cast aside his loss and focus on the village.
“It has. There’s still a lot to do, but all evidence of what took place there is gone. No one will know of that wretchedness.”
“What ‘bout Ameya? Has she been found?”
“No. Manto thought he saw her riding off with the Chosen, but he isn’t certain. His attention was on the battle.”
“I’m needing to know before Julaybeim comes,” Tioch said. “It’ll be too much learnin’ ‘bout his parents. We needs to know where his sister is.”
“The sentries in the watchtower have been put on alert. There’s a small contingent searching the wood and we sent some riders to the Neema Outpost. We’ll find her.”
Tioch nodded again, riding beside Aschelon. Though he heard the words, his mind wasn’t on them. For many seasons, he’d spoken negatively regarding Cazaal’s leaders. Now, for however long or short, he was one of them. The issue he had with Hacom wasn’t of his making. Itai had the right of it, and now his son lay beneath the ground, alongside his siblings and mother. Tioch prayed for Julaybeim and his family. But most of all, he prayed for his grandchild, and the wisdom he needed to guide him as his father would have.
“Thank ya, Aschelon. I
’ll speak with the Nohek later. First, we gotta bring the others back to the village. Tell them my plan. For now, I gotta see to the people and ready the village for the Caretaker’s return.”
Return of the Zaxson
Daracus stood alone in the cool chamber unable to move from the entryway. He’d been standing in the same spot, incapable of willing his legs to respond to his mind’s commands. They trembled, threatening to weaken beneath his weight. It had been years since he’d ventured into the catacombs, deep beneath the temple. He’d forgotten the chill of the crypts, but felt the goose prickles on his flesh as his expelled breaths hung through the air.
He couldn’t move. The vulnerability and angst he felt was overwhelming. He needed to know the truth, yet dreaded it at the same time. As he glanced around the room, palling shadows enveloped each corner with flickering torch flames casting eerie images against the walls. At that moment, he wished that he could disappear into that darkness, into himself, and be free of the realities awaiting him.
Daracus focused on the covered slab in the center of the room again. Braziers stood at each corner of the berth, illuminating the form beneath the shroud. Although he’d coveted the power of his new position, he hadn’t truly considered what that meant. Daracus and Draizeyn were never close, but he’d respected his father, and at that moment, he realized that he loved him, too.
Moisture rimmed his eyes, causing his vision to blur. That haze, that obfuscation matched the divergent aspects of his life. Daracus was the most powerful man in Faélondul, yet he felt as empty as the room in which he stood.
Taking a sobering breath, he was finally able to step forward, only to brace against the wall, feeling his knees buckling. The tears fell then, envisioning not only his father’s defunct form, but recalling Jahno’s bloodied body lying just as still.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. After taking another deep breath, he focused on his father again, approaching the stone slab.
The click of his boots resonated around him. The steps were hesitant, unsure, as he nearly stopped, wanting to turn away. Daracus continued to stare, willing what was left of his heart to move forward. He had to know. If this was his father, he had to know.
His hands trembled, reaching out to grip the fringe of the cloth. He tried to recite a prayer, but hadn’t committed any of them to memory.
“Strengthen me,” he said instead, sliding the shroud away.
Daracus gasped, stumbling back a few steps, unable to catch his breath. His tears began anew, staring down at Draizeyn’s lifeless body.
“Father,” he whimpered, resting a hand on his face. Daracus nearly withdrew, feeling the cold, rigid flesh beneath his fingertips.
Even with the preparation that the Caretaker and Cha provided, Draizeyn’s corpse testified to the suffering that he’d endured. The same suffering that Daracus vowed to inflict upon his father’s murderers.
“I’ll make them pay, Father,” Daracus whispered, tracing the long gashes down Draizeyn’s face. He unclasped his tunic, viewing the deep lacerations and punctures on Draizeyn’s neck and torso. His chest was sunken, as if he’d been clinched in a vice, with the sutures still evident where bones had protruded through his chest.
Daracus swayed to his knees, overcome by emotion. His father’s body was bruised and broken, nearly unrecognizable.
“I promise to kill them all, Father,” he wept. “All of them will die.”
Daracus continued to cry, draping his arms across Draizeyn’s corpse. In that moment, he felt like a child again, in need of his father’s guidance and love. That love was as distant now as it had been then, as it always was after his mother, Taréssah, died when he was but ten.
Daracus struggled back to his feet, clutching the stone slab to steady himself. He looked at Draizeyn’s misshapen face, leaning down to kiss him.
“I promise,” he said. Closing his eyes, Daracus slid the shroud back over his father, not looking back as he exited the cold room.
“We’re sorry, my lord,” Cha Reaglen said as he exited. “We all mourn with you.”
Forcing an unsuccessful smile, Daracus inclined his head. “Have the slaves arrived?”
“Only three have returned. The others will arrive with the Chosen, Zaxson.”
“Have they been taken to the citadel for questioning?” he asked.
“They’re in the cells, my lord, under heavy guard.”
“The cells? I gave no such order,” Daracus said. “Send word now, Cha Reaglen. I want to meet with them in the small chamber off the hall upon my return to the citadel. Have some trays prepared and delivered.”
The Cha’s mouth gaped. “Food and drink? Sir, these are slaves. Your father would never—”
“My father is dead!” Daracus shouted, pointing to the crypt. “He’s mangled and broken on a stone slab! If these slaves know who or what did this, I’ll learn of it in my own way. Do I make myself clear, Cha?”
Reaglen flinched, glancing nervously at the other Cha. Daracus had never spoken so to any of them, and he feared for not only the Brotherhood, but for Nazil as well. “Yes…yes, my lord, right away,” he said, quickly scurrying away.
Daracus’ breathing was erratic, watching them disappear up the stairs. A surging heat welled up from the pit of his stomach as he clenched his fist so tightly that his nails pierced his skin. He looked down at his palm, the drops of blood swirling into images of Jahno’s sodden tunic and trews.
“No,” he said, weakly, shutting his eyes. “Please gods, help me.”
Grasping the balustrade, Daracus labored up the stairs. It wasn’t merely what lay ahead, his most debilitating thoughts dwelled on what had already passed.
It appeared that half a glass had passed before he’d reached the main level, rejoining his guard. He attempted to project unflappability, but it was for naught. After managing to reach his carriage, Daracus collapsed on the cushioned bench, burying his face in a pillow. The images continued to flash through his mind: his father, Jahno, and Beilzen. It was an inundation of emotion, intertwining and assailing him all at once. He screamed, releasing some of the anguish pervading his heart and mind. He continued his screams, each one louder and more guttural than the last until the carriage stopped. Wiping his eyes again, Daracus smoothed his hair, forcing the vestiges of images from his thoughts, and regaining a modicum of control.
He didn’t acknowledge his guards, stepping out into the courtyard, fumbling with the pouch behind his belt. Once inside the citadel, he halted them in the corridor, entering a small room and closing the door. Slipping two pellets beneath his tongue, Daracus closed his eyes, allowing the pellets’ warmth to replace his grief and dubiety. He blinked languidly, enjoying the euphoria and a renewed sensation of assurance.
“I must have Arilian prepare more,” he said, flipping his hair over his shoulders and rejoining his guard.
“Have the slaves been delivered to the chamber?” he asked.
“They’re en route now, Zaxson. Bisdan and Lymbach are seeing to them.”
“Good. When they arrive, you’ll wait in the corridor.”
“Yes, Zaxson,” they offered in tandem.
Daracus couldn’t keep Jahno from his thoughts as they continued down the hall. He cursed himself for what he’d caused, and prayed that Jahno would forgive him. He wanted to visit him now, and apologize for his anger. Jahno was the only one who truly loved him, and Daracus didn’t want to ever give him a reason to question his sincerity. I’ll buy him some special gifts and lessen his duties, he thought. Jahno knows how much I love him. He’ll forgive me again, and remain at my side.
As they reached the chamber, Bisdan and Lymbach were approaching with the slaves. They still wore the threadbare clothing and slippers, looking bedraggled and unkempt. Daracus paused, seeing a woman with them. His brow knitted. Draizeyn didn’t usually allow female slaves to accompany the guard. Once they drew nearer, he grinned. His bed wench, he thought, glancing at her from toe to head. Again, he chooses Sarai. He shook his h
ead, stepping into the chamber. An immediate smile graced his face noticing the fine fare and a ewer of his favorite wine at the head of the table. He filled a cup to the brim, drinking it down quickly before the Cha entered the room.
“If it pleases you, Zaxson,” Bisdan said as he bowed. “This is Gerhma, Ahndargae, and Sarai. They accompanied the contingent that traveled to Bandari, my lord.”
“Thank you, Cha Bisdan. You may leave.”
When the doors closed, the servants knelt as Daracus moved in their direction. He looked at the two men first, and then to Sarai again. Despite the reason for their summoning, she intrigued him somehow. It wasn’t merely his father’s interest in her, he learned that Symeon fancied her, too. At first look, she appeared as more a boy than a girl, with her slight frame and short curly hair. That was appealing, but as he continued his stare, he recognized a unique beauty and almost delicate demeanor. He smiled at that, circling behind the three.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.
“Ain’t no reason needed, milord,” Ahndargae said. “We’re here to follow your commands.”
“Indeed,” Daracus said, sitting and motioning to the table. “Please join me for some refreshments. I’d like to hear about the happenings in the Animus Wood.”
They exchanged uneasy, confused glances, gingerly rising and sitting around the table.
“Please, eat, no one will disturb us, and I’m certain that you’re famished. The duck smells especially good.” Daracus gestured to the tray, forking some potatoes and duck onto a plate. “There’s tea, but I prefer a light wine with my meal.”
Their stomachs ached from the smells emanating from the delectable offerings. Neither had eaten in three suns, yet feared the reasoning and possible consequence for supping with the Zaxson. When Daracus began to eat, Sarai stood, moving around the table and pouring tea for the others. After forking some food on each of their plates, her hand trembled, lifting the ewer and refilling Daracus’ goblet. He smiled handsomely, his gaze resting on her arse. He didn’t turn from her until she retook her seat, sipping from her cup.
The Rise of Nazil Page 73