Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  “The spirits of the dead are here,” whispered one of the soldiers.

  “Ghosts condemned to an everlasting winter of sorrow and pain,” added another.

  Obyj’s knuckles were hurting him. He glanced around and felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw the commander of the Silent walking toward them.

  “Come up quickly,” shouted Bahiya. “Come and see.”

  Reluctantly, they returned up the stairs and were awed by what they saw through the Star Room’s windows.

  “From their youth, the daughters of the high priests of Babylon were exposed to the wiles of that court. The Adorant wooed them to join their lot, while the priestesses of the Temple of Baal thought to win their confidence and esteem; and men of various royal houses lavished extravagant gifts on them.

  “When these shenanigans are added to the merciless ploys of any high court, it produces young women whose chief vice is a refined form of selfishness.

  “Soon, this egotism flowers, buds, and produces tyrannical souls bent on the merciless subjugation of others to satisfy their petty desires. Thus, Babylon, their mother, molds them in her own image.

  “This city, the favored daughter of the gods, has grown conceited and pitiless. O, glittering Babylon, wonder of the gods, your downfall shall be great on the day of your visitation. Lo, these daughters of yours cry out from the Pit, and their cries reach the gate of heaven.”

  –Sayings of Jehdi, Great Priest of the Temple of Baal.

  High up in the Lone Tower, Garu and Ibromaliöm were sitting on the floor of the Star Room looking dejectedly at each other. The strange door handle Master Habael and Jedarc had examined earlier lay on the floor, inside a triangular area between three black candles. Behind a veil of feigned bonhomie, the two men disliked each other intensely. They would have strangled the other had the refined mannerisms of the court not turned into a rigid cast preventing strangulation. The court considered such means of being rid of an importunate acquaintance to be uncouth. A dose of poison over a quaint supper, a discrete dagger while in Whisper Grove, or a clean kidnapping were some of the polite ways the nobility used to resolve an enduring disagreement.

  Garu looked at Ibromaliöm and could not help but imagine him writhing in pain, bitten by a thousand snakes. Ibromaliöm yawned, shattering Garu’s daydream, transforming the fleeting pleasure into shame. The head judge looked away. As much as he hated Ibromaliöm, he was glad to have him around. In a twisted way, Garu had grown attached to his dislike of Ibromaliöm. It gave meaning to his existence, which he believed to be an empty void. Though he did not admit it, Garu was jealous of Ibromaliöm on account of the Queen.

  Until the arrival of Queen Ramel, Garu’s existence had been peaceful. He had spent his time taking walks and studying plants and trees; subjects he loved to discuss with Master Habael. Life at the castle was pleasant, and his duties as a royal tutor were light and enjoyable. He taught history and languages, and was often involved in diplomatic missions.

  The day Queen Ramel came to the castle, some years back, was etched in his mind. This indelible mark would remain there, he believed, until the day he died.

  He remembered the first time he met the Queen and his mind brought him back to that very day, that very moment, and he relived it as if it were an eternal present.

  He had been on his way back from one of his long walks when he first laid eyes on her, and he was awestruck. His heart became inflamed with a passion he had not known. He had believed, perhaps naively, that by serving her and fulfilling her every whim, she would, over time, develop similar feelings for him. Thus, Garu had become Ramel’s slave, living in constant torment. He dreaded seeing her, yet despaired when he did not. He watched her every move, jealous of any man whom she would look at—except for the King, whom he knew she despised. He hated being far from her and yet did not know how to approach her. His days had fallen sway to the changing seasons of her mood, and the beating of his heart was regulated by her caprices. If, during a chance encounter, the Queen bestowed on him her tender gaze, Garu would be transported to the summit of joy. But if instead, she passed him by without a glance, he would be plunged into a raging sea of despair. In short order, he had changed from a quaint scholar, to a prisoner of his inchoate love for the Queen. Led by his imagination in a frenzied gallop, he had become unable to resist her wishes, ready to go to extremes for her. In his feverish mind, there was one major obstacle between the Queen and himself: Ibromaliöm.

  Garu had known Ibromaliöm was a former Tajèr, a money man, as they were vulgarly called by the common folk. In principle, Garu had nothing against the lesser known organization of the Tajéruun. A Zakiir was a memory man: his job was to retain faithfully whatever he was told for a hefty sum of money. Ever since Baal forbade writing, the Zakiruun became the living history of Baal’s Empire, faithfully consigning all transactions to memory. The Zakiruun were hand-picked men, chosen and trained for this task since their earliest youth. The Order of the Zakiruun became the keeper of every man’s secrets, good or evil. Mostly, the Zakiruun memorized mundane business transactions. In cases of dispute, their faithful recitation of the contract was binding. Collectively, the order knew who sold what to whom, who owed how much for how long, and at what interest rate.

  Two and a half centuries ago, Tajèr, a rich Zakiir, had met with a small group of wealthy colleagues. He had told them that many of his clients were hampered by the lack of short-term loans, preventing them from completing lucrative transactions. “These merchants trust us with their secrets. We remember the details of every transaction they make. We know them better than they know themselves,” he had observed. “If we can loan them the funds for a reasonable fee, they will accept it.”

  He had prevailed on six other Zakiruun, and together they pooled a portion of their sizeable wealth into a common lending fund for low interest loans. So successful had their wager been that in a short span of years, their individual fortunes tripled, then doubled, and doubled again, until it rivaled that of many priests and monarchs. To avoid attracting unnecessary attention, they had shrouded their operation in a veil of secrecy, becoming an invisible order within the already mysterious order of the Zakiruun. Tajèr’s little group had grown steadily until it numbered 144, a magical number according to Tajèr. After his passing, his followers became known as the Tajéruun. A mere one hundred years later, Sulariöm became the first Tajèr elected as overseer of the entire order of the Zakiruun, and ever since, every elected overseer has been a Tajèr. Garu was well acquainted with Galliöm, the current overseer of the Zakiruun: a mighty Tajèr, wealthy beyond imagining. Ibromaliöm, a well-to-do Tajèr in his own right, used to work with Galliöm, but left after a harsh dispute—the details of which he shared with no one.

  As the niece of Sharr, the high priest of Babylon who oversaw the entire order of Baal, Ramel was of higher rank and might than Ibromaliöm. Yet, she never rebuked the former Tajèr, even when he would speak contemptuously to her. This baffled Garu and pained him profoundly.

  Why would she allow Ibromaliöm to treat her so contemptuously? Was she not aware of Ibromaliöm’s sarcasm? Surely everyone in the castle must have noticed his lack of respect. Garu interpreted the Queen’s lax response as a diplomatic maneuver meant to keep peace with King Jamiir—who supposedly had bestowed his protective mantle on Ibromaliöm. Whether this protection was real or imagined, Garu never bothered to check. He needed an explanation and had found one.

  Despite his loathing for the Tajèr, Garu could not help but admire the nonchalant attitude Ibromaliöm displayed before the Queen. Garu tried on several occasions to assert his authority over Ramel, but a charming smile, pout, or gentle rebuke from her would melt his resolution away. He then equated freedom from his passion for the Queen with betrayal, and smothered the slightest inkling of freedom in a pool of dark remorse. To assuage the wave of regret that would follow, he had resolved to be ever faithful to the Queen. This he found consoling, and he would often wrap his renewed faithf
ulness around him like a child wraps himself with a blanket to ward off the bitter cold of the night.

  “Are you sure you found it?”

  Ibromaliöm’s voice startled Garu.

  “Yes, I told you,” he replied gruffly. “I saw the door. I saw it. I know how to get there.”

  “I went down the secret stairs and followed your directions. They dead end deep into the ground. There is no passage.”

  “Of course there is no passage there,” snapped Garu. “A cloak hides this passage from view; you knew that, so what did you expect? A flashing sign to point you in the right direction? Speaking of a flashing sign, Habael and a young Silent caught sight of you as you were coming up the stairs, but they could not find you. I convinced them you were not here, but it was not easy.”

  Ibromaliöm ignored the remark and continued. “How will you know how to open that door and deflect the curse?”

  Garu shrugged his shoulders, “We will see when we get there.”

  “You had better, my friend, because I will not be falling under the curse,” shrieked Ibromaliöm. “You are the slave of that woman, not I.”

  Garu sighed, put his face in his hands, and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly looked old and tired. He let his hand drop on his chest and gazed around him. The room was desolate with its burned candles and the dirty pools of dried, black wax marring the elaborate tiled floor. Like leprosy eating away a beautiful face, thought Garu, shuddering. He eyed Ibromaliöm, and envy surged in his soul once more. He wanted to despise this man, yet he felt only envy, and he hated himself for it. How did he get tangled with the Queen and Ibromaliöm in this machination?

  Images from the past flashed before his eyes anew; a not too distant past when he had been content to take short walks up the mountain, reflecting on the natural beauty and enjoying the easy life in the castle. It had been during one of these outings that he happened to cross paths with Ramel. He had stood to the side and bowed. She had lightly touched his shoulder, and when he looked up, she smiled. Her smile had taken his breath away, and her gaze had ravished his heart. He did not remember what she had told him then, but he knew his heart had been enflamed with passion for her.

  In the months that followed, he tried to understand why he had fallen in love with her. What was it that had touched him so deeply? Was it her smile when she stopped to greet him? Was it her eyes when she looked at him? Was it the light touch of her hand on his arm that had ignited fire in his heart? He could not tell anymore, but he still remembered vividly how, in that first encounter, he had been on top of the world, higher than the highest tower, elated beyond measure. Ever since, however, he had lived in crushing anxiety. Slowly his will had crumbled, yielding to the devastating passion that possessed him, until it had turned him into a faithful dog, a slave content to live in her shadow. He could not bear being away from her, yet being in her presence was constant torture. Thus, his life oscillated between the night of her absence and the shining light of her presence when she spoke to him. He lived for crumbs: a passing smile, a polite greeting, an evasive gesture.

  His agony perdured until that fateful day when he had been abruptly told to meet the Queen in Whisper Grove just after midnight. He had gone to the meeting an hour and a half early and waited patiently in the cold for Ramel. He could hardly breathe. She had met him wrapped in a mantle of green velvet with a hood framing her lovely face in the moonlight. Her perfume had entranced him, and her words inebriated him. She had held his hand and told him of her high esteem for his work, her admiration for his knowledge, and her appreciation of his fidelity. She had kissed him on the cheek before leaving. He had remained on the bench, oblivious of time and space. Eventually, the cold had gnawed at his flesh, and he retired to his room with an everlasting feeling of love.

  These meetings had become more frequent and lasted longer. Ramel’s physical traits hypnotized him. He drank every one of her words, and they had fallen on his parched soul like rain in the desert. Her words had become a divine elixir that kept him coming back for more. Spring had turned into fall, and golden leaves danced in the wind like Garu’s soul in the sea of love.

  Then, abruptly, and for no apparent reason, Ramel had withdrawn from him. Life became an eclipse, his soul the playground of titanic forces. Anxiety had exploded in volcanoes of shame and self-recrimination. Bitter flows of burning lava had consumed his hope and exhilaration, leaving behind a scorched desert where winds of despair toyed with him and doubt tore him apart like an earthquake shatters the face of the earth. He nearly went mad and had tried to kill himself with a mixture of hemlock, thickened duck blood, and stale well water. Instead, he had ended up with a stubborn stomachache that no remedy could permanently heal.

  Eventually, his strength gave out, and the storm that had ravaged his heart subsided. A dull emptiness had taken its place. Garu had felt thin and hollow, nearly nonexistent: a mere wraith, a shadow haunting deserted corridors like a ghost. Servants had laughed at him behind his back, even to his face, yet he did not care. His only hope, his only aspiration, had been to glimpse the Queen, even if fleetingly. Soon, he had lost his appetite and spent most of his nights awake, unable to sleep. He could barely speak, and whenever he would chance upon her walking with her retinue, she would glance indifferently at him as though he were a fly on the wall. These encounters had left him breathless and afflicted him day and night.

  Soon, Garu’s haggard face haunted the castle and had become the butt of the court’s jokes. If Ramel overheard a nobleman deride Garu, she did nothing to stop it; instead, she laughed gaily at the inferred compliment. This behavior had not endeared her to the commander of the Silent Corps, who informed the King that Master Garu had lost his countenance and was an embarrassment to the royal court. All along, Jamiir had known that a daughter of Babylon, well versed in Baal’s art of seduction, could drive a man to madness. He had rebuked his wife and met with the scholar to assess the situation. Garu could no longer carry a conversation. He would remain silent for long periods of time, downcast and oblivious to his surroundings. The King had resolved to send him to his summerhouse in the mountains for rest. Garu had been relieved.

  No sooner had he arrived at the summerhouse than an unexpected visitor was at the door: Ramel. He had nearly fainted. She had entered and was her former warm and joyful self. She had spent most of the afternoon with Garu, and when night came, had asked him to swear an oath of complete obedience to her, under the curse of Baal. He agreed, even though he knew Baal’s curses were of the worst kind. It was sheer folly, he knew, but he could not resist Ramel’s charm. He had willingly accepted to become her slave. She had left him with the command to wait for her instructions.

  Weeks went by without any news, until one day, Ibromaliöm came with a Zakiir. It had been the worst day of Garu’s life: a day of shame, but a day of reckoning. Ibromaliöm had remained impassive, and told him he was to learn from the Zakiir everything he could possibly learn about spells and counter-spells. “Her Majesty the Queen wants you to learn all you can on the breaking of Baal’s spells. This Zakiir is sworn to her Majesty. He will recite the Libre of Sureï for you. Learn as much as you can, as quickly as you can. That is all.”

  Now that the deception had been revealed, Garu felt strangely calm and recollected. He had not become angry; he had not even thought of revenge. Rather, he had felt as though he was regaining his reason—or at least a small part of it. He had been duped. Ramel had overtaken him and had compelled him to put himself under a curse. Still, he knew he had done it willingly for love, and as senseless as it seemed, he would do it again out of love for her.

  He had thrown himself into the study of spells and counterspells with such ardor and vigor that he learned far more than the Queen or Ibromaliöm had anticipated. They had simply underestimated his mental capacities. In short order, Garu had learned how to deflect the effects of the curse by a careful use of hexes that required a small, personal item from an unsuspecting victim. Not too long after, Ibromaliöm had come t
o check on his progress and inadvertently had left a handkerchief on the table. After his departure, Garu had gazed at the object long and hard. He hated Ibromaliöm, suspecting him to be behind this odious ruse. In a fit of madness, he had considered using his newfound knowledge to his advantage. All I have to do, he had thought, is place a few hexes on Ibromaliöm. In time, he will fall into my hands, and I can then use him to coerce Ramel to do my bidding.

  It had been tempting.

  But wrong.

  Confusedly, Garu had understood that his love for Ramel was pure. True, though she was married to the King, he had wanted her to divorce Jamiir and come live in the depth of the forest with him. He knew this was an impossible dream. Nonetheless, it was an honest dream. He would rather carry this curse like a badge of honor than sully his love for her in another man’s blood, even if this man was as wicked as Ibromaliöm. That day, when Garu had thrown the handkerchief into the fire, he knew he had achieved a great victory. He was still the Queen’s slave, and the curse hung over him like a cloud of bad dreams, but inside, he refused to harm another man out of love for Ramel—which meant that he was not without hope.

  Three months before the start of the Games, the King had called him to Taniir-The-Strong Castle and put him in charge of overseeing the preparations. The Queen then informed him that she had chosen him as head judge. She also picked Ibromaliöm and Hylâz, the Zakiir who had been reciting the book to him as auxiliary judges. None of them were surprised to see Ramany—a local merchant and notorious informer of the Temple—appointed as the fourth judge.

  Once more, his heart had become the battleground of intense feelings of self-loathing, burning love for the Queen, and raging hatred for Ibromaliöm. He knew that the curse he was under was gnawing at him, worming its way into his heart and soon would possess him—it was only a question of time.