Nazim was the apothecary’s name, and although he had consented to accept this assignment for a considerable amount of gold, he remained reluctant and apprehensive regarding it.
“I tell you, there’s no point in it,” he informed Brother Yarit in a querulous voice upon the day of his arrival at the Fortress of the Winds. “Members of the House of the Ageless have long memories. Forty-odd years since Prince Kazaran’s death and there’s not one of the Sun-Blessed would allow a morsel of food or a sip of drink to pass his or her lips without a taster.”
“And what of the piercing toxins?” Brother Yarit inquired. “Those administered by breaking the skin?”
Nazim the apothecary sighed. “I suppose it’s possible, but I can conceive no reason that anyone would want to poison the young princess. She’s of no political value.”
Brother Yarit folded his arms and looked impassive. “Nonetheless.”
And so the apothecary was given a spacious cavern overlooking the Dancing Bowl in which to unpack his wares, spreading a large carpet and setting forth vials and pouches of philtres and powders.
It was all very complicated.
One of the deadliest poisons native to Zarkhoum was the venom of the blind shadow-viper—harmless if ingested, fatal if administered by stab wound. However, a blade needed to be coated in a fair amount to deliver a fatal dosage, and the venom caused the metal to take on a telltale tarnish. Another was the innocuous green manchi-fruit that grew in abundance on the southern coast of Zarkhoum. The juice and flesh, which had a faint, pleasant aroma, produced a mild stinging sensation in the mouth upon tasting and closed the airways within minutes of being consumed.
I would have thought the venom of the banded onyx scorpion could be found among Zarkhoum’s deadliest poisons, but Nazim gave a dry laugh when I inquired, and informed me that few people had ever been foolish enough to attempt to harvest a banded onyx’s venom, and none had ever succeeded.
Most of the poisons about which Nazim taught me came from Barakhar, where guile and grace were valued over martial skills and poisoning was considered something of an art form. I learned to recognize tam-tam nuts, the husk of which could be ground to deadly powder; the sap of creeping prickleback vines; a vile paste made of hairy caterpillars; the paralysis-inducing spines of the black rock-urchin; the pungent leaves of the calanath shrub; the fragrant dried petals of lovers’ doom flowers; the viscous harvested slime of the ring-toothed eel.
All of these things I memorized by sight, scent, and effect. All of them were deadly in certain quantities, and none had antidotes.
One thing Nazim the apothecary didn’t possess was the death-bladder venom that induced the Purple Death. When I asked him about it, he merely responded with his dusty, coughing laugh. “Are you joking? It would be worth my life to be caught with death-bladder venom.”
“Because of Prince Kazaran’s death,” I hazarded. “But what is it? Where does it come from?”
“Death-bladders are kin to jellyfish … you’ve no idea what a jellyfish is, have you?” he asked. I shook my head. “Well, they’re translucent bladders of flesh, with stinging tentacles. Most are quite harmless. Death-bladders are another matter. Traders say the waters around Papa-ka-hondras are filled with them.”
“Papa-ka-hondras?” I echoed.
“It’s an island far to the southwest.” Nazim gave me a thin smile. “Even here in Zarkhoum, its name is known to apothecaries. According to legend, it means ‘A Thousand Ways to Kill.’”
I groaned. “Does that mean a thousand more poisons to memorize?”
“No, I don’t believe anyone’s ever gotten more than half a league or so into the interior.” He shuddered. “And I can’t imagine why anyone would want to try.”
The other thing Brother Drajan had brought back from Merabaht was news, and it was exciting news. Brother Vironesh had been found, or at least his whereabouts had been determined. Brother Drajan had guessed aright when he suspected that Brother Vironesh was no longer in Zarkhoum, and although he was not employed as a mercenary on the ship of some outland trader, it was an outland trader who recalled seeing him.
Brother Vironesh, it transpired, had become a courser in the service of Obid the Stern, sailing the four great currents in pursuit of pirates.
According to Brother Yarit, the coursers were a peculiar lot. Itarran was a realm over which Obid the Stern held aegis. It lay to the northwest, and its people were much consumed by justice—so much so that they had no ruler by right of birth or age or conquest, neither king nor Matriarch nor Kagan. No, every ten years, the entire adult populace cast a vote to elect the person they deemed most worthy of governing them. That person, man or woman, best exemplified the principles of justice laid down by Obid the Stern, which included the solemn task of attempting to root out piracy on the lawless seas.
A thankless task, too, one might surmise; but apparently other realms, including Zarkhoum, were willing to pay a tithe to Itarran for their efforts.
It seemed a strange choice indeed for anyone born to Zarkhoum and pledged to the service of Pahrkun. I could not fathom serving a strange god, but then there was a great deal I could not yet fathom. At any rate, Brother Drajan had paid good coin to the captains of any trade ships he could find to carry word to the coursers of Obid that the Seer of the Brotherhood of Pahrkun required Brother Vironesh’s return. There was naught to do but wait and hope on that score, for the coursers of Obid sailed everywhere and Brother Vironesh might be thousands of leagues away.
Some days it seemed as though my world had grown by leaps and bounds since I gained eleven years of age.
But there were mysteries that remained, including the full purpose of Brother Drajan’s mission to Merabaht and the missives he carried from Brother Yarit. That, I could not determine. Brother Yarit had grown cagey in the matter of eavesdropping, and I only caught the merest hints of conversation here or there. If I had not had so much to learn and consider, it would have made me impatient.
And, too, Brother Drajan had brought other news with him.
Some of it was much the same. Anamuht had not appeared in Merabaht to quicken the Garden of Sowing Time, and the supply of rhamanthus seeds continued to dwindle and grow ever more precious; khementaran, the point of return, had not yet come upon King Azarkal. Both of these things continued to be a source of increasing strife in the House of the Ageless.
One day these things might be of great meaning to me, but not yet. They did not touch upon life at the Fortress of the Winds.
Another piece of news did.
It had been two years since Brother Yarit came to us; two years since he undertook the Trial of Pahrkun and succeeded against all expectations. No one had attempted it since, but that was rumored to change. According to Brother Drajan, the Royal Guard was expected to escort another prisoner to the Fortress of the Winds to undertake the Trial of Pahrkun before spring turned to summer.
And this time, it was one of their own.
ELEVEN
“Elder Brother, I respectfully request the right to stand first post,” I said to Brother Yarit, saluting him.
“Of course you do.” He eyed me. “You and all the other lunatics in this place. It’s not going to be an easy decision. Brother Drajan shouldn’t have let the news slip.”
“He said the city was abuzz with it.” I lowered my voice. “He said the guard preyed on little boys.”
“Yeah.” Brother Yarit ran his hand over his hair. “I’m pretty sure it’s been going on for years. There were rumors among the beggar kids; find a safe place to sleep at night or the bad man will take you.” He grimaced. “And it would probably have gone on for years more if he hadn’t gotten careless and gone after the son of a well-connected merchant.”
I was shocked. “Who would let such a thing happen?”
“People cover for their own,” he said cynically. “That includes the king’s guardsmen. You can’t tell me someone didn’t know.”
“What did he do to them?” I asked
in a hushed tone. “The boys he took?”
Brother Yarit regarded me. “Watery hell, you’re an innocent, kid! Let’s just say he hurt them, and when he was done with them, he killed them.”
I considered this. “Will you grant me first post?”
He shook his head. “No, you had the chance to blood your sword last fall at the gathering of the clans. I’ll grant you second post, Khai; you’ve earned the right and there’s merit in the training if it comes to it. But first should go to someone untried like Hakan or Ramil.” He smiled without any mirth. “Give them a chance to slay the monster.”
I was disappointed, but it was fair. I touched my brow in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Elder Brother.”
It was some weeks into my apprenticeship with Nazim the apothecary when the caravan was spotted on the horizon, and it took the better part of a day to dismantle the elaborate course of ropes and bells and obstacles that had been strung throughout the Hall of Proving. In the end, Brother Yarit had given the first post to Brother Hakan, who was eager to prove himself. The second post was mine, and Brother Merik would anchor the third and final post.
I could not help but wonder what would happen if the supplicant won his way past us as Brother Yarit had done. Brother Yarit had spoken truly: we were not meant to know a supplicant’s crimes. Indeed, Brother Merik had once chided him for speaking of his own. And yet in this instance, we knew; we knew, and it was vile. A league away, the caravan made camp at the nearest watering hole. My thoughts drifted, drifted, a hawk’s feather on the wind. Could Pahrkun the Scouring Wind truly cleanse a man of such a sin? Did he come seeking absolution in earnest, or did he mean to attempt the trial because it was his only chance of survival? Brother Yarit had come for the latter reason; come and succeeded, and become the Seer. What if Pahrkun had a similar purpose for this unknown king’s guardsman?
The prospect made my flesh creep; and yet if it were to come to pass, we would have no choice but to accept it.
I prayed it would not.
Two years ago, it was Brother Jawal who had come to fetch me to get a look at the supplicant before the trial began; this time, it was me that rose before dawn, made my genuflections, and stole quick-footed through the caverns to summon Brother Hakan to the heights. Although he was the older, I had been more years than him in the Fortress of the Winds and it seemed my place to do so. Side by side atop the western lookout, we squatted on our haunches and watched the caravan approach.
There was no guise here and no mistaking the supplicant. Although he sat tall in the saddle with his head held high, eyes glaring at the world, his mount was on a lead-line and his wrists were bound behind his back.
“He looks strong,” Brother Hakan mused. “Strong and fit. Not one to go down easily.”
“He’ll know how to wield a kopar,” I reminded him.
He nodded. “So no advantage there.”
Below us, the caravan drew rein and halted. One of the Royal Guard in his gold and crimson silks dismounted and unsheathed a dagger to cut the rope that bound the supplicant’s wrists behind him. The supplicant took his time, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his cramped arms, but eventually he dismounted and took up the hammer to ring the sounding-bowl. Brother Tekel and Brother Drajan came to assist in taking their mounts to the horse canyon and escorting them to the fortress where the supplicant might slake his thirst and hunger before the trial began.
Brother Hakan touched my elbow. “We’d best take our places, Khai. Pahrkun’s blessing on you.”
I squeezed his forearm in return. “And you.”
For the first time in two years, the Hall of Proving felt like a solemn and sacred place once more; although now it was one that I knew forward and back, blindfolded or open-eyed. I took my place at the bend in the center, some yards in front of the crooked stalagmite that marked the borderline between the second and third posts. It was the darkest of the three posts and I closed my eyes to let them adjust, although I remained mindful of the trick Brother Yarit had played in this very spot, blinding Brother Merik with the unexpected dazzle of an oil-wood knot. I doubted the supplicant would think to do the same—manipulating light and shadow was a Shahalim art—but I would be prepared for it if he did.
Before me, Brother Hakan’s figure was silhouetted in the entrance. I recognized the outline of Brother Yarit’s figure as he approached, and I tensed for the second chime of the sounding-bowl, but the supplicant was not with him yet and it did not come.
Instead, Brother Yarit beckoned to me.
I went to him and saw that his eyes were wide and strange with the Sight. “Yes, Elder Brother?”
“Khai.” Even his voice sounded different, as though it came from some deep place. “I have changed my mind. You’ll stand first post.”
I touched my brow. “Yes, Elder Brother.”
“Oh, but—” Brother Hakan began in protest. Brother Yarit turned his uncanny gaze on him, and he fell silent.
“I do not do this lightly,” Brother Yarit said to both of us. “Nor do I do it in the knowledge that the outcome is sure. But I have Seen the faces of this man’s dead, and of this I am sure. Today, you are the instrument of Pahrkun’s will, Khai.” He laid a hand on my shoulder, and there was something in the gentleness of his touch that reminded me of Brother Saan. “May he guide your blade.”
And so Brother Hakan and I traded places, and it was I who stood in the gathering shadows just beyond the mouth of the great cavern, my yakhan in my right hand and my kopar in my left, and watched the supplicant strike the sounding-bowl a second time, Brother Yarit standing before him.
The chime echoed across the desert, high and clear. Beyond the Hall of Proving, it was a fine, bright morning. The supplicant’s weapons had been returned to him and he drew them now, his movements fluid and sure.
“The Trial of Pahrkun has begun!” Brother Yarit announced, and stepped aside.
The supplicant rolled his shoulders again and flexed his grip on the hilts of his yakhan and kopar. As Brother Hakan and I had seen, he was a tall fellow and well built, broad through the shoulders. Handsome, too, with strongly carved features and a narrow beard groomed to a point. He’d splashed cool spring water on his face. I could see droplets clinging to his beard and glinting in the sunlight.
He had not seen me in the shadows, not yet.
I felt a stirring within me like the wind rising. My body felt as keen as a blade, my bare feet light on the cavern floor.
One stride, two, three … the supplicant passed the threshold of the Hall of Proving, passed from sunlight to shadow, his features taking on a different cast without the sun to gild them.
He paused to let his eyes adjust and saw me. I saw the shock of it go through him, fear and anger and uncertainty chasing across his face, and I understood, then. I was a boy, not a man.
I wore the face of his victims.
“Is this some manner of jest?” the supplicant demanded, lowering his guard unwittingly.
I could have advanced and dealt him a mortal blow in that moment, but I did not. It would not have been honorable, and although this man might not deserve an honorable death, I would conduct myself as though he did. For the sake of the boys he had killed, this man would die as Pahrkun the Scouring Wind intended, and he would know it before the end.
“No jest,” I said. “This is the Trial of Pahrkun.” I turned slightly, gesturing with my kopar and leaving my left side exposed. “Will you seek to pass?”
In a flurry of long strides, he was on me, seizing the opening I’d feigned far more swiftly than I’d reckoned. I barely managed to raise my kopar in time to deflect his blow and catch his blade in its tines. He parried the jab I essayed with his own kopar, trapping my blade and rendering us at a stalemate, my arms spread wide. It was not one that would last long, for he had the advantage of me in reach and strength; already, I could feel my left wrist beginning to tremble with the effort of keeping his blade averted.
We were near enough that I could sme
ll the rancid tang of the supplicant’s sweat, see the pores of his skin. A slow, cruel smile curved his lips. “Did the Brotherhood of Pahrkun think to use you as an instrument of vengeance?” he taunted me, using his greater strength and reach to force my arms farther apart. “I think not, little boy. If I am to die today, it won’t be by your hand.”
I gritted my teeth. I shouldn’t have let him close with me. Now I could no longer use my greatest advantage, my knowledge of the terrain. I had been careless and overconfident, relying on my speed, too sure of Pahrkun’s favor.
The supplicant’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Have you anything to say before I kill you?”
I could feel his muscles tensing to move and knew I’d been a fool; but it was not too late. He shouldn’t have taken the time to taunt me. I let him see fear in my eyes and shifted my weight onto my rear foot as though I meant to seek to disengage and retreat. I felt him readjust and brace to press forward when I did. Instead, I brought my right knee up hard and sharp into his groin with all the force I could muster.
It connected with solid bone and spongy flesh, and he let out an involuntary groan and doubled over. Not for long—he was too well seasoned a warrior for that—but it was enough. Freeing my weapons, I took a single step backward, planted my feet, and thrust the central tine of my kopar into his right shoulder.
It felt good.
My kopar slid out red with his blood. He straightened with another groan, attempting in vain to raise his blade. His right arm wasn’t working properly. Blood pulsed from the deep puncture at a rapid rate, darkening the crimson sleeve of his guardsman’s tunic. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but it was enough to end the contest between us, and he knew it. His mouth twisted as he dropped the kopar and switched his yakhan to his good left hand, angling it between us.
I regarded him. “Have you anything to say before I kill you?”
“Fuck you.” The supplicant raised his blade high overhead and lunged at me, intent on taking me with him. I ducked and whirled to the left, catching him across the midriff with a slashing blow as I did.
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