“Is my table not to your liking?” the
Hassutla enquired.
“He feels he has failed.” We three looked at K’huylia. Her eyes, framed in a mass of dark ringlets that when I first met her had been limp and lifeless, had regained their sparkle. “Is life not a mystery beyond our ken? El Shashi lacks the knowledge to heal what Mata
has written into the very weft of my being.”
Yes! A clean strike to the gong! I sat mesmerised by this insight. It did seem her illness was somehow
–not fated, but written–in her life’s deepest roots, ready to return. Maybe not today, maybe not next anna, but as surely as the suns turn through the skies, it would rise again. Changing this fate would mean changing the fundamental K’huylia. It was not something external, such as a disease or a plague. No, the answer lay within. Etched in her bones. In every beat of her heart lurked a deadly potential!
But
… how? My mind was reeling. Did Mata intend her to die? Was she born but to die? Why her, why not someone else? Could this not be changed, even by my power? Were my greatest efforts doomed to failure? Was it as the yammariks taught–similar to a canker of the quoph that must be redeemed before the quoph can find its final rest–that in all flesh lodged some secret malice, a taint, that predisposed humankind to the clutches of Nethe? For all must die. Even Janos had died. Thousands more had died at my hand, but he was the first.
My heart rained sorrow upon sorrow.
K’huylia smiled gently at me. “That is why El Shashi would use our Mystic Library, father. I will gladly show him its ways. For does he not seek answers to the greatest question of all?”
A yammarik would add, ‘all must die lest Mata’s mercy is sought and won’. I had always seen that philosophy as a means of lining the pockets of the religious. Had they a point after all? How many had I abandoned to Nethe’s dark torment?
The Hassutl said, “Why do we die?”
“No.”
“No indeed,” said the Hassutla, laying her hand upon K’huylia’s. “The question, my husband, is this: ‘Why do we live?’ K’huylia’s new life is a gift beyond knowing.”
Janos, ah, Janos! You who were father to me when I had none, and a true friend. I betrayed you unto death!
I thrust my chair back from the table and fled, sobbing, into the night.
Bait the tygar in her lair,
Kiss the cobra if you dare,
But wake not a slumbering Sorcerer.
Hakooi Traditional Ballad:
Advice to a Young Woman on her Majority
Two anna, seven seasons, three days and nine makh did I tarry in Herliki before I was exposed.
In the early makh after dioni orison, I would
depart the palace for the sandstone-cobbled streets; in less than a span stepping from opulence to poverty, from vaulting chambers to stinking, zigzag alleyways, and bathe in the bustle and buzz I so enjoyed. Ah, not for El Shashi the life of a Hassutl! Here, amidst the spice-sellers and fishmongers and roundel-sweetbread bakers, was my life and my Mata-service.
Ay,
and was there ought but a yammarik’s words in my mind?
I would stride the two spans from my appointed chambers to the Mystic Library
as if I were a man released from jail, eager to study the masters. The Library was queerly housed in a series of interconnected caverns that delved deep beneath the chalk cliffs. It was said that a library had been hidden here for over two thousand anna. I doubt I ever penetrated a fraction of its secrets. A zealous band of monks guarded its cool galleries, scholars of the Herkon Order, who seek elevation of the quoph through the pursuit of arcane knowledge. They accepted my presence and many questions with studied tolerance and secretive smiles.
At the Hassutl’s command, a chamber within was set aside for my private use. I met there scholars from many of the Fiefdoms
–some from as far as Rotaiki, which is a hundred leagues again beyond Roymere. Each had purchased a special favour in order to gain entry, a secret close-guarded among the academic class.
Many a makh K’huylia would spend with me, poring over the scrolleaves, until it came to be remarked upon that we were a ‘couple’. Let it be recorded by the stroke of my own quim that I took no liberties with the royal personage. There were several indiscretions with daughters of minor nobility, however. I have ever harboured a weakness for beauty! And a beauty who flatters, cozens,
and insists on gracing my bed unannounced–in one instance–wearing a slip of turquoise silk no larger than a small handkerchief …? Well. To refuse would be a gross insult, naturally. Were not womankind created for beauty, and men to serve that beauty?
‘
A belief of the common herd, Arlak!’ I muttered, curling my lip at my own thoughts. ‘Preserves the social order, keeps men in their place. Their Mata-ordained place!’ Ay, I despised my weakness. Yet a coy look would turn my head every time.
Guilt always followed such assignations, but never enough to stay my paths. Perhaps had I not been so diverted, I would have noticed I was being watched.
From the Library’s resources I learned a great deal about human anatomy, and not solely that of the daughters of minor nobility. The library boasted works from all the major athocaries and physicians of the day. Coupled with my skills, I had a unique way of verifying their theories and techniques. I began to practice again. I needed to. As discreetly as I was able, wearing a stagesmith’s mask and guarding my accent, I began to see a few non-paying customers for a few makh every afternoon. Soon I took to disguising myself and walking the alleyways of Herliki. Again, what a fool I was! A fool thrice over! But I felt compelled to practice my art, to address those suffering outside the walls of gilded privilege.
Moreover
, I devoured everything the Mystic Library owned on the subject of magic–the majority, I soon realised to my disgust, being fanciful, contradictory, or downright false. Truly told, Janos grounded me thoroughly in the scholarly arts. Reason. Logic. Critical comparison of texts. Debate. Perusal of sources. In these I had been drilled eventide by eventide by a man I recognised in hindsight as a master of the art. Janos of the perfect recall. What a mind that man had, what a teacher, what a privilege I had squandered!
I discussed my findings with the monks, who
offered me little help, cold and clannish to a man.
But one thing I did learn
–and this was passing strange–several of the texts referred to a seventh sense. We Umarik know there are six senses. Sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell, and the sense of grephe, sometimes called foreknowledge. But here were texts referring to a seventh sense. And I could not understand it. The texts never described or named this seventh sense, assuming all people were born with it and knew exactly what it was. I knew of no such thing. I concluded it must be something to do with the Eldrik.
How vast my ignorance!
* * * *
One
morn, I was picking my way downhill, mindful of ice glazing the cobbles underfoot, which turned each rounded stone into an opportunity to break one's ankle. The frost-rimed cavern mouth was illuminated by a golden sunrise peeking beneath a blanket of cast-iron clouds. A thousand anna-old bragazzar tree, gnarled by the seasons’ turning and grown hunched over due to the easterly trade winds, guarded the yawning darkness of the Library’s interior. As I descended, a flock of crimson gannets took to flight from the limbs of that tree. Suthauk’s early glory set their feathers aflame against the backdrop of the dark cavern and the rich lime-green of the bragazzar’s foliage–evergreen even in the depths of Glooming season.
Behind the tree I saw a line of small, dark men enter the cavern, cloaked and hooded against the chill as I was. The sea breeze cut through my robe. I cursed as I wrenched my foot despite my care. Larathi! Now I would have to hobble the rest of the way.
Suddenly, an old woman stood at my elbow.
“High morn to you, stranger,” she said.
An archaic greeting, whistled between toothless gums. I confess I was slow to respond, startled, already deeply engrossed in my thoughts about
lillia
–an Eldrik word meaning ‘the essence’, which is used to describe a concentration or source of magic power. I had concluded that the Wurm was full of
lillia
; it was the vessel containing Jyla’s sorcerous power.
I perceived her face, wrinkled as an old apple, sharp but kindly,
and eyes which had seen more of the world than I could ever know.
“And a
very good orison to you, woman,” I said.
“Here. You need it more than I.”
I grasped the ulinbarb cane she swung at me, more out of self-preservation than need. “Thank you. What can I give you …?”
“None of that,” she said, touching my wrist to stop me fumbling at my purse. “Have you a grephe for me this makh?”
“I … pardon?”
“Your grephe. I wish to know it.”
“Well,” I fumbled, then blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “I bless you for your gift, good woman. May the warmth of light and companionship be yours this Darkenseason. And may your road beyond be blessed indeed.”
“Ah!” she said.
I could not tell what she heard of this, but my words seemed to strike her with a strange force. Had I not spoken of her death and passing beyond?
I stared a moment longer. Then I made to go my way. As I turned downhill, I heard her call, “Fear not the dark man! Mata will sustain you.”
A jolt of grephe, marrow-deep, froze my steps. Fearful now, I whirled, but the old woman was already trotting up the street at a speed that belied her age. I stroked my chin. Omen or nonsense? Crazy or sane? I was sick of grephe. Sick of the Gods. When had they brought me ought but sorrow? Anger and discontent began to boil in my gut. So much for feeling settled in the Herliki Free Fiefdom! I had wondered at putting down roots here.
Ye great galumphing Gods.
Would they not leave me alone? Sadistic meddlers!
Why not a dark woman
… Jyla? Had her dark purpose not been fulfilled all these anna? Destroyer of lives. ‘I need you to be selfish, Arlak.’ Wrecker of families. ‘And I need your Wurm, Arlak Sorlakson! I need it now!’ My fingers itched to sink into her neck like the talons of a hunting falcon. I consider myself a peaceful man, mark my words, but my thirst for revenge was malign and brutal.
I stumped down to the Mystic Library. My ankle
throbbed. But to touch it might summon the Wurm … I had lived so long with that fear it shadowed my ways constantly, dulling the brightest day, spoiling any happiness, drawing me back into the blackness where my inner Wurm lurked. Always, when I thought upon it, that place stirred as though alive, alien to my quoph; restless, oily and unpleasant.
I bade the monks no greeting, but picked up a lantern from a line of small recesses built into the entrance hall and made my way through the massive inner doors, as thick as a man is tall, into the first of the great halls. Here was light, a gigantic candelabrum that had been converted to hang argan-oil lanterns instead, but was still thickly encrusted with the wax drippings of the ages.
I took the first corridor to the right, then the second at my left hand, each lined with crowded but tidy bookshelves. I boorishly ignored the spectacular display stalagmites and spires in the following chamber, and took the only exit further down into the Library. A damp breeze cooled my cheeks. How was it, I wondered idly, that the Helkon monks managed to preserve ancient scrolleaves against the damp of these caves? Surely a cave was no place for delicate, valuable records? Yet preserve them they did.
A span’s walk between the narrowly-spaced scroll
racks along that tunnel brought me to a large culvert, off of which branched eleven chambers. My chamber was the fourth on the right, reached through a winding entryway some twenty-two paces in length. Even this space was crowded with volumes. Dull shipping records, no more.
I banged the outer door shut, wishing no disturbance.
My shoulders brushed the shelves to either side as I entered my study-chamber. I hung the lantern next to the door, as I always did, and rustled in my pouch for my sparkstone to light the others further within so that I would have enough light to read the scrolleaves.
But
I was not alone.
The basal part of a
human is animal. We can tell when we are being watched, or when there is another presence in a room. I fell into a half-crouch. Scanned the room. Three desks, two armchairs … my eyes jerked back to a black-robed man sitting cross-legged on the second desk, the one I usually kept clear for writing. Nay, truly told, he was hovering above the wooden surface; even in the dim light, I marked this well.
I felt movement behind me. All
around me. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I saw now what I had taken for shadows around the room, were indeed two–no five–even six more small men, all robed as the first, in cloaks so very black that they seemed nought but heads and hands curiously adrift of their bodies. Of the first, all I could see was his head–shaven and tattooed in complex patterns–for his hands were hidden in the sleeves of his robe. His eyes were pebble-hard.
“Who by the Hounds are you?”
No-one said a word. But I sensed magic in the room, closing around me, hemming me in, causing me to recoil toward the dark lair of the Wurm. My fists clenched, and a dull throb developed behind my temples.
I tried again, “What do you want?”
The dark man–Mata preserve me! The dark man!–said, “El Shashi, I presume?”
Sing his tune? Seven to one or none, I was having none of it. Flatly, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?”
His voice flowed like a brook, and echoed more than a few of Jyla’s exotic vowels. “My name is Eliyan the Sorcerer,” he said, “First Councillor of the Eldrik Sorcerers. I would have words with the man who calls himself El Shashi.”
He sounded like Janos! A low gasp hissed between my teeth at this realisation. Janos, Jyla, and this Eliyan–were they all Eldrik?
I forced my body to straighten, and advanced boldly into the middle of the room. His six disciples tensed visibly, but Eliyan did not. He remained floating mid-air, this in itself a demonstration of breathtaking power, and his gaze measured me all the while.
“If I were El Shashi,” said I,
deliberately reckless, “and I’m not saying I am, but if I were, I would wonder at the need for seven men to accost one unarmed man in the depths of the Mystic Library. I would wonder at their motives. Should I be inclined to trust their approach?”
“Perhaps there are those who value discretion.”
“As a hammer values the nut?”
Eliyan remained inscrutable. “Perhaps you are Arlak Sorlakson.”
“Who?”
“Maybe you are the Scourge of the Westland.”
I shrugged. “I’ve heard ulules utter such a legend.”
“Ah,
such as the Bringer of the Wurm. Yes. Legends.”
My throat was suddenly dry. I had an inkling of why they were here, and as surely as Doublesun scorches the Fiefdoms, I knew it spelled grave danger for me. This Eliyan was an Eldrik Sorcerer. Foremost of the Sorcerers. As my first proper contact with the Eldrik race, of which I had hardly dared dream, this conversation was not quite what I had imagined. He was
–as I–very suspicious, very cautious. I should tread with care. But I was a rat cornered in the serpent’s lair.