by David Hair
For the first time it occurred to him that everyone he cared about could be dead.
For a long, long moment he just stared into the darkness and wished he was anywhere but here. His free hand stroked the scroll-case containing the Scytale. It didn’t make him feel strong or powerful, just frightened and alone.
Maybe I should just bury it? he thought. Or throw it down the ravine? Maybe I could just drop it into the sea?
He knew he wouldn’t, though. For one thing, the artefact had enough wards woven into it to survive pretty much anything. More importantly, it represented his one chance to make this world different, for his life to mean something.
These were just abstract notions though, as wispy as the mists rolling down these bleak mountains. They were certainly less tangible than the dark-skinned girl pressed to his side, snoring and cradling her belly protectively. Right now, it boiled down to one thing: I’m here for her.
He twisted until he could rest his head into a fold of the blanket, then he cradled Ramita and closed his eyes.
He woke with sunlight streaming into his eyes, orange-clad men standing all around them and Ramita in labour.
*
Alaron held onto Ramita’s hand as her contractions built towards a new crescendo. There was nothing else he could do. They were in Kore’s hands now. Or whoever’s, he added silently, eyeing the monks who came and went with heated water and soft cloths. Their chants echoed distantly through the monastery.
The past few hours had been a blur, since he’d awakened to find the saffron-robed men with long hair tied up in top-knots, and knotted beards that fell to their waists, bending over them. At first he’d thought he would have to fight them, though they looked harmless enough, until Ramita found she could understand their tongue, a variant of Lakh. They were Zain monks, and they’d helped Alaron turn one of Seeker’s sails into a stretcher and carried her carefully a mile up the valley to their monastery. He doubted they would ever have found the place themselves, so well camouflaged was it, for it had been carved out of the rocky peaks themselves.
The monks had installed Ramita in a small candlelit cell and immediately summoned a midwife from a village in the valley below. The middle-aged woman had a weathered face and the businesslike air of a farmer during calving, but Ramita was not alone in finding her quiet confidence a great comfort – Alaron was embarrassed at how relieved he was to be able to hand over the business of birthing to a competent woman. Ramita didn’t have to ask him to stay. She was his responsibility and he wouldn’t leave her side until he knew she was safe.
Hours went by, with Ramita screaming like a torture victim one moment and panting softly the next. He felt he knew her to her very core by now: he could number every pore sweating out her exertion, every lank black hair plastered to her forehead, every anguished expression her face would pull. He could never forget the immensely strong grip of her small leathery hands, or the downy softness of her cheek, or the silken tautness of her slick, drum-tight belly. She babbled constantly, incomprehensibly, but he felt as if he was learning that language too. There had always been a part of him that wanted to protect vulnerable things; that need almost overwhelmed him now. He was bound to her; if he could have taken on her pain, he would have, but he couldn’t even ward her from it – a healer-mage probably could, but he didn’t know how.
In the lulls between contractions, her mind wandered. Sometimes she called him Jai, sometimes Kazim, and often, when she remembered to use Rondian, ‘Husband’. So when she finally remembered his own name, it woke him from his dazed reverie.
‘Al’Rhon?’ Ramita’s hand searched for his and he seized it and held it tightly, sending what strength he could. Healing-gnosis wasn’t his affinity, so he just sent energy – she was burning through hers at a colossal rate. He was relieved that her loins were covered by a cloth – he was afraid that what he might see would put him off women for life.
‘Al’Rhon – the baby is crowning!’
‘I’m here! I’m here! Are you all right?’ He had no idea what else to say because he had no idea what crowning meant – except that whatever it was, it was just the first baby. She’d told him proudly that twins and triplets ran in her family, and he’d breathed a huge sigh of relief when she’d assured him that she was only carrying two – as if birthing twins thousands of miles from the nearest healer-mage wasn’t bad enough!
‘Where are we?’ she groaned huskily.
‘Safe.’ He got her to sip some water before the next wave of pain came. The midwife jabbered excitedly and Alaron clung to her hands as Ramita’s whole body arched. It was agony to watch her, but he couldn’t look away – it was the least he could do: to bear witness to her terrifying ordeal.
And finally, with an almighty effort, she forced a tiny child out of herself and into the midwife’s waiting arms.
Even then, it wasn’t over. As the infant wailed lustily, protesting this bright and cold new world, Ramita gathered what remained of her strength for one last effort. Only then would she be able to rest, only then could she sleep … And just a few minutes later another screwed-up, screaming little face appeared
Good lungs on the pair of them, Alaron thought, and an enormous grin plastered itself over his face.
Ramita looked up into his eyes with a look of dazed happiness, and he leaned over and kissed her cheeks and hugged her, totally overcome with emotion and exhausted relief. He felt as proud of her as if she were his sister or his wife. Then the midwife shoved Alaron and the monks towards the door so she could clean up Ramita and the babies.
Outside, he realised the monks were congratulating him as if they were his own children. He tried to explain, then realised the futility and just thanked them, still grinning widely. He fell asleep while waiting for food.
*
Ramita blinked through a haze of exhaustion and stared down at the two tiny bundles at her breasts. She was naked, but the midwife had washed her and made up the pallet with fresh linen. Everything below her waist hurt, but they must have given her something – poppy-juice, most likely – because she was floating in a dream.
I’m a mother … Sweet Parvasi be praised!
The children were neither white nor dark but something in between, a pale gold, and completely gorgeous. Two boys. The firstborn was sleeping now – she could tell him by the tiny birthmark on his neck. His little brother still suckled at her right breast, fiercely hungry. Her left nipple was sore, the breast still swollen, but she hardly noticed as she cradled them to her, filled with wonder and disbelief.
My children. Antonin Meiros’ children. Our special babies.
She closed her eyes and thought of her husband: his strong face, his shaven skull gleaming in the sunlight, a wry smile on his face as he chuckled over some little incident. Would they take after him, or her? Or would they be something in-between, something entirely themselves? She could not stop the tears, thinking that they would have no father in their lives.
Milk came naturally, to her relief, and so did love. She’d heard of women who could not bear to be near their own children; it was the fear of every pregnant woman, her mother had once told her. But she was not so cursed: she adored them both, and she carried their tiny faces down with her into the trackless paths of sleep.
*
When Ramita awoke again, someone had clad her in a shift with a long buttoned slit in the front, to make feeding the twins easier. Alaron was beside her, his anxious face shining, and she smiled, remembering his attentiveness. She wished she could hug him, but she wasn’t sure if a Rondian would find that proper.
‘You’re awake,’ he said, stating the obvious as if it were a miracle.
She had to struggle to remember her Rondian. ‘Yes. Awake. Thirsty.’
He gave her a cup of water, and she drank deeply. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘Everywhere,’ she admitted, ‘but especially …’ She waved a hand towards her groin, and smiled when he looked embarrassed. He was so easy to tease.
&n
bsp; ‘Are you hungry? You should eat – I’ll ask them to bring food, if you’re up to it?’
Her stomach gurgled eagerly, answering his question, and they both laughed. ‘Shukriya, Al’Rhon,’ she whispered, and when he looked at her quizzically, she added, ‘Shukriya means “Thank you” in my tongue.’
‘I – uh – um … sure,’ he burbled, and went to fetch food. He returned with a bowl of steaming broth, and she managed to finish it before the babies started stirring. She hadn’t realised how starving she was, but seconds would have to wait.
She got him to pass her the babies, one by one, smiling at his aghast look when she undid her shift in front of him. ‘You’ll be seeing a lot of these things, so get used to it,’ she scolded him gently.
He still averted his eyes though, which was polite, and rather charming. He is a well-brought-up young man, she decided.
‘What are you going to name them?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know – I’ve not really thought about it,’ she admitted. ‘My husband gave me no names to use.’ She pondered a while, then announced, ‘I will call them Nasatya and Dasra. Those are the names of the twin sons of the sun god Surya. They are healers, and very playful.’ She showed him Nasatya’s neck. ‘This is the eldest, the one with this mark.’
‘Nas and Das.’ Alaron grinned. ‘I like it.’ Then he bent closer and, dropping his voice, asked, ‘Ramita, who are these Zains? Are we safe here? Can we trust them?’
Don’t they have Zain monks where he comes from? she wondered, a little shocked, then realised, Of course they don’t! The Zains came from Lakh originally, and over time had spread over most of Ahmedhassa. ‘Al’Rhon, they are holy men,’ she chided. ‘Of course we can trust them.’
His face clouded. Trust was clearly something he was learning to dole out sparingly. ‘I don’t think taking anyone or anything on trust is a good idea right now. It’s us against the world, don’t forget.’
A faint cough sounded from the doorway and they started guiltily, then flinched in embarrassment when the old monk with the wispy beard and long, top-knotted grey hair bowed and greeted them in Rondian. His accent was odd and his phrasing archaic, as if he’d learned the language from an old manuscript. Perhaps he had. ‘Humbly I apologise, and greet thee formally now that you have recovered. Welcome to Mandira Khojana. My name is Puravai, which means “East Wind”. I am the head scholar of this order of Zain.’ He bowed from the waist, his beard touching the floor as he bent in half. ‘Everything here is at your disposal.’
‘Everything?’ Alaron echoed doubtfully.
‘These are Zain monks, Al’Rhon,’ Ramita told him. ‘They are sworn to the sanctity of life. This is known.’
‘Not by me it’s not.’
‘But it is so, nevertheless,’ Puravai said without rancour, bobbing his head. ‘Are your children well?’ He asked the question of Alaron.
Alaron glanced at Ramita and sent her a silent message:
Ramita bit her lip, then waggled her head: So be it. She asked the Goddess to forgive the lie.
Alaron swallowed, took her dark little hand in his big pink one and kissed it. ‘My … uh, wife and I are eternally grateful to you,’ he mumbled unconvincingly.
Puravai bowed again, though his eyes seemed to narrow a little. Ramita could guess why: she did not have a wife’s pooja mark, nor was she wearing dowry bangles. Her arms and wrists should be adorned with gold – a married woman in Lakh would always wear them – but she’d not worn them at home. In fact, she couldn’t remember seeing them since Meiros had died. But she was grateful for Alaron’s protective nature. Puravai will think we are refugees from the Crusade, illicit lovers fleeing the wars, she told herself. But surely that is safer than the truth.
‘I’m so tired,’ she blurted out. She met Alaron’s eyes.
Puravai was apologetic. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. The midwife will check on you, then you may rest.’ He turned to Alaron. ‘Will you walk with me, Magister?’
Alaron agreed hesitantly. He let go of her hand and she felt a little regret at that loss of contact. She’d grown used to her husband’s affection and the past months had been characterised by an aching loneliness – Justina had been many things, but affectionate was not one. She realised that she liked being near this odd young man from Yuros.
As he said: there is just us. And the three most precious things in the world: my babies, and that scitally-thing. The Scytale.
Alaron left with the monk as the bustling midwife returned. She had so many things she needed to ask, but she was too tired. Once again she found herself drifting slowly back into sleep, her questions unanswered.
*
Puravai led Alaron through dimly lit passageways and onto an unexpected balcony bathed in stark sunlight. The air was cold, and their breath trailed them like wispy spirits, haunting their every exhalation. The sun’s rays glinted dazzling on the white snow, casting blacker shadows on the dark, barren landscape; the monochrome palette was broken only by the saffron robes of the monk next to him.
Alaron peered over the wooden balcony railing, taking in the dizzying drop below. Narrow waterfalls tumbled from the precipices about them. Though the sun was at its zenith, it hung low in the northern sky and gave little heat.
‘I sent a party to retrieve your conveyance,’ Puravai said eventually, breaking the awkward silence.
‘The skiff?’ Alaron said in surprise. ‘Thank you. May I see it?’
‘Of course. It is yours.’ Puravai looked sideways at him, appraising him. ‘Do you know of our order?’
‘No,’ Alaron admitted.
‘There was once an Omali holy man named Attiya Zai, who realised that achieving moksha, the release from the cycle of life, required divorce from all earthly matters – the pursuit of wealth, of power, of women, these things which absorb most men. He taught that those seeking moksha must set aside such things and retreat from the world into a simpler existence. This is one such place. Here a man’s only cares are for his immortal soul.’
Alaron thought of all the things his father used to say about Kore monasteries back in Yuros. Parasites, he used to call them. It seemed a little churlish to argue with someone who’d more than likely saved Ramita’s life and the lives of her babies, but the words came out unchecked nonetheless. ‘Must be nice. Who provides your food and clothing?’
Puravai looked at him wryly. ‘The nearby villages barter with us.’
‘What do you trade them? Prayers?’
‘We share our knowledge and wisdom.’
Alaron raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I bet. That’s why you live so close to them, I expect.’
Puravai frowned slightly, but his eyes sparkled a little, as if he liked a good debate. ‘Let me tell you a tale of Attiya Zai. He was very rich, the son of a noble, but he took off his gold and fine silks and went to Imuna, the holy river. He wished only to empty himself of all his cares. He meditated for days, oblivious to all discomfort. His rivals at court came to jeer, but he gave no sign that he even heard their cruel words. One man struck him, and he gave no sign of feeling the blow. Eventually they grew bored and left him there, thinking him mad. Days passed, and only one thing sustained his life: a young boy, who brought him water and a little rice. The boy asked nothing in return, and Attiya Zai had no coins to reward him, so instead he told the boy a great secret.
The boy listened, and as he grew up, he used this secret knowledge and became wealthy beyond all measure. And yet in his last years, he put aside his wealth and after telling his son Attiya’s secret, he retreated to a distant monastery to see out his last days. That boy was born as a peasant, but he died as the Emir of Khotriawal.’ Puravai bowed his head. ‘Wisdom is power, Alaron Mercer. Priests often say that this world has no value, that only the next life is worthy of attention, but Attiya Zai knew that this life is equally as vital.’
‘So you people secretl
y rule the world?’ Alaron asked lightly.
Puravai laughed. ‘The villagers bring us food and water and we teach their young to read and write, and to count. We study things that take our interest. We prize knowledge, but we also share it. Zain monks advise all the great rulers of Lakh.’
‘What do you tell them?’
‘How to be the best version of themselves they can.’
Alaron was impressed despite himself. The best version of myself … would I even know what that is? ‘Do you think magi worship demons?’ he asked.
Puravai chuckled. ‘No, I do not. Magisters of the Ordo Costruo have walked these very halls. Antonin Meiros himself has stood where you now stand.’
Alaron swallowed. ‘Really? Antonin Meiros!’ He almost blurted that the great man’s wife was in the room below, but just in time he checked himself. ‘Er … can I ask, is that how you know Rondian?’
‘Indeed you may. Knowledge was shared, and both parties enriched.’ Puravai looked sideways at Alaron. ‘We are isolated here, but news does reach us. We are saddened by that noble lord’s death.’ He touched Alaron’s shoulder. ‘Tell me of you and that poor child.’
‘You mean Ramita?’
‘Yes. What is the true nature of your relationship?’ Puravai’s voice took on a steely tone. ‘Did you force her? Or beguile her with your gnosis? And before you answer, you should know that our observations of the human body and mind have made us particularly aware of the nuances of truth and deception.’
‘No! I would never do such a thing!’ Alaron looked away, trying to frame his story. ‘She was abandoned and alone. I felt sorry for her,’ he started, then, looking at Puravai’s face, he gave up any attempt at lying – though he still resolved not to mention the Scytale. ‘She’s not my wife, but I will protect her as if she is,’ he said firmly.
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘A place Antonin Meiros built: a hideaway. She’s Lakh, but he brought her north.’