:rolleyes:
Dread
A glint of twirling blades in the morning sun.
The flutter of cloth with fast movements.
Quickened breath and heart.
Rajesh practices stances, his eyes seemingly focused on supple movements, swooping and striking towards an invisible opponent. He twirls the umari with robotic precision.
With every thrust he remembers.
Blood. Cries. Eyes full of fear, desperation and hate. The pangs of guilt are still there in his heart, but not as sharp as before. The mourning had helped a little.
Though he had claimed bloodguilt for one, in the past two weeks he had mourned for all the families whose sons had participated. He could not visit all of them and pay his respects, but he had seen to the family of his slain friend. When he’d stepped into the courtyard of House Firdaus one evening unannounced, he wasn’t sure how he would be received. One of Esmail’s older sisters, Padma, had greeted him and taken him by the hand to lead him to the gardens. There, Esmail’s mother and father had been sitting on a dais looking over the valley, and had stood up, surprised. Eyes downcast, Rajesh had approached Nitin and Seeta, kneeled, and began to voice his apologies. However, Nitin had raised him up and kissed him on his brow like a son. With a solemn face that held no malice, the man blessed Rajesh for preserving his son’s honor. Seeta had then embraced him, and in her arms Rajesh had suddenly broke down and cried. They understood what had transpired during the Oath, they knew that Rajesh had tried to give Esmail a way out of death. But Esmail had chosen the honorable path, to take death over humiliation.
To die at the sacred hands of a prince.
And friend.
From then on the weight of bloodguilt was lifted, and Rajesh has felt the gash inside him slowly begin to heal. As it has however, Rajesh has felt something new grow from the scarred depths of his heart.
A new strength.
A resolve has penetrated every facet of Rajesh’s being. This time of mourning has also given him time to reflect on his past, present, and future. Like never before, Rajesh is realizing his…duty. When he was younger, the full weight of his birthright never dawned upon him. But now… now he is coming together. His newfound responsibility to himself, those he loves…his kingdom has given him reason to reach a conclusion.
Therefore, on this warm summer morning, Rajesh stands at the edge of the broad veranda outside his room. As the wind blows, cooling him and tousling his dark hair, he looks up into a perfect blue sky and decides that when the time his right he will accept his godhood.
And become King.
-
One by one Rohit senses return to him.
Touch. The rub of leather and fabric against skin. Cool air blowing against one cheek, warmth on the other. The jostle of movement.
Hearing. Hooves galloping. The hiss of grass below. Equine sounds of effort from in front of him.
Smell. Sweat. Dust. Kaliah trees.
Sight. Hazy at first, then all becomes clear. The plains grass rushing beneath him is disorienting at first, making silver and black streaks in the moonlight. As Rohit looks up, he sees the sky’s bluish-black expanse, pierced with stars and the ivory eye of the moon. He grasps the horse beneath him by its mane, keeping his balance. He notices a rope leading from the horses bit. He follows its taut trail, coming upon a hand, a forearm, shoulder, body, a head. Confused, Rohit attempts to search through his memory as to what had happened. Nothing. Only a black haze swirls inside his mind.
The horse begins to slow down, and Rohit looks at the other rider. The moon’s gaze seems to give him a silvery halo about his head. He is wearing what looks like a priests robe, wrapped around him in a different fashion however. The horses stop not far from a lone tree, and cool wind blows, sending ripples through the grass around the two.
“We’ll rest here.” The man’s voice says. Rohit doesn’t move for a moment, then he slowly gets off his horse surprised to find that it is actually his horse, his belongings hanging from the side of the saddle, even his weapons. As he shoulders his pack he contemplates making a fire. He hears the man spit, seemingly in contempt.
“No, you may not.” The man says with a cold hate in his voice. Rohit pauses, surprised. Did this man just reply to his thoughts? Rohit tries to see the mans face, but to no avail. He watches warily as the mans slides off his saddle and walks into the shadow of the nearby kaliah tree. The thought pops into Rohit’s mind of simply running away, this man surely wouldn’t be able to catch him. He pauses his train of thought, testing. No reply this time, just an overwhelming feeling of inhibition and doubt. There was no getting away from this man, he was simply a presence that had to be dealt with. Rohit lays his bed roll down in the grass, and keeping his things close to him, attempts to fall asleep.
Faintly, he begins to hear wails and crying from afar. Sitting up he looks out across the plain and notices a small group of people approaching closer and closer. Some laugh crazily, others cry out in heart-wrenching wails. From the screaming ones, there is a recurring phrase. Lilitu. Suddenly Rohit feels something emanate from the shadows of the tree, a sort of feeling. A force, not felt physically, but mentally, streaks past him and towards the crying group of people. The wailing is immedeatly cut off, and Rohit sees the people stop a few meters away and stand as if awaiting commands.
“Lilitu! La-tutrukna!”
Another wind blows, and as one girl whimpers and cries, her tattered silk veil is carried off into the night sky.
-
It was only two hours and Rohit was back up again, trying to sleep more as he is jostled by his horses trot.
“We must reach the city of Munira before sunrise. From there we may be able ride with a caravan to Vishal.” The shrouded man says.
Munira. A merchants city, famed for its many vendors and exotic markets showcasing items from all over the world. It was also close to- wait, did Rohit hear correctly? Vishal?!
The capital city…
“Why… am I here…?” Rohit asks under his breath, his head hanging groggily. Another wind blows, sending ripples through the grass.
“You will know in time.”
-
The High Priest Dhaval walks through the palace corridors, his pure white robe flowing around him, catching drafts of warm morning air from the enormous windows overlooking the awakening city. The temple acolytes should be lighting the Warding Flames, ensuring the sanctity of the…-Dhaval sighs, all this Balrain religion was getting to be real drag, he knew it was completely unnecessary but…some plans have to save face somehow.
Entering the temple, he is greeted by torch bearing acolytes, all touch their free hand to their forehead in blessing. Dhaval returns the greeting half-heartedly and continues on to his chambers. Upon reaching them and closing the massive doors behind him, a low tone sounds from seemingly everywhere within the room. Dhaval opens his mouth and sings a clear note that resonates in the air. A moment later, the hazy image of a man appears in the center of the chamber. His clothing suggests some kind of religious affiliation, though the clasp on his right shoulder denotes higher status also. A handsome face that is just barely beginning to show the touch of time holds hazel eyes filled with humility.
“Brother,”
“Ah Girish, how are things up there?” Dhaval says as he saunters towards a divan at the far end of the room. Girish’s image follows Dhaval and stops a few feet away, flickering for a moment.
“All is well, and there?” Girish asks.
“Well, our prince has seemed to have finally taken an interest in his kingdom, he actually sat in on the Assembly today… Don’t know what suddenly possessed him to so fervently want to attend but, I suppose it is a good thing…”
“That so?” Girish raises his eyebrows as if he cared about the prince “What of my son? Is he still-“
“No, haven’t heard anything about him in awhile, he should be returning soon however.”
“Ah, I see.” Girish nods, his eyes go downcast for a moment and Dhaval quickly speeds the conversation to relevancy.
“The second scroll of the Mu’Tasim has been found.”
“What?!”
“Yes, and Dumesh’s son was mysteriously assassinated in the process.” Dhaval cooly recites the facts, pouring a cup of satvi and taking small sips. Girish doesn’t say anything, seemingly shocked into silence.
“Incredible isn’t it? If we could keep that up we could wipe out those Remnant bastards once and for all…But, that would be too obvious.” Dhaval smiles as he takes another sip, wisps of steam rising in front of his face.
“What does this mean then?” Girish asks quietly
“What?”
“The discovery of the scroll.”
“Well, supposedly that wench Mahvash will gain her precious knowledge to begin,” Dhaval makes a quote sign in the air “, the ‘Age of Man’ down here , and after glorious conquest of both the Remnants and the entire world she will go down in history as the Goddess-Queen who wrestled power from the tyrannical divya. Ahura has already ‘died of natural causes’, and many other important divyas are either dying of old age or assassination...”
“So the Remnants are dwindling.” Girish ponders.
“Yes. Slowly but surely. I think Mahvash wishes to speed up the process however.”
“Hm. So what do you think we should do?”
“Let her weaken them a little…in this kingdom at least, then news will travel in the underground to the reach the ears of the right people. Once it spreads to The Nine, whoever and wherever they may be, perhaps something will start and then we can see the bigger picture, and the identities of the main players. Their distraction is key right now for Babilu.”
“I agree.” Girish nods. A silence ensues, and Dhaval wonders what else there is to say.
“I’m sending Bhuvan down.” Girish says, his eyes downcast. Dhaval suddenly tenses up.
“You are not sending that boy down here.” Dhaval’s voice is low and menacing.
“The Council insists. He is extremely powerful and they believe he could provide firepower when the time is right.”
“Then send him when the time is right! That boy is wild! He could mess-“
“Do not slander your nephew. You know I do not wish this either.”
“It’s not slander! It’s inescapable fact! Vishal cannot handle someone like him.” Dhaval waves his hand dismissively, as if that would end the topic.
“He should still become acclimated to the culture-” Girish begins to reason halfheartedly.
“A devil cannot blend amongst sheep, Girish!”
“Then find him a sheepskin!” Girish’s eyes light up with anger as his fist clenches. His image fades away, and Dhaval is left alone with a now cold cup of satvi, broiling in silent rage at uncontrollable circumstances.
-
Where has Rohit gone?
This question has been weaving through Harun’s mind for the past few days.
Where is my son?
Harun had thought of many possibilities, but all of them weren’t reasonable. How could someone like Rohit be kidnapped, or killed?
Impossible.
Had he deserted him? Why would he if he did? Harun massages his temples, trying to withstand the sound of raucous men. His troop is enjoying one last night in U’dashir, in the morning they would have to make their way to Munira and then to Vishal. Harun had ordered all of his men and the Raja’s guards to search through the whole city for Rohit. But in the back of his mind he knew it was to no avail. Now it is time for them to move on, but Harun is distressed. Plucking a grape and chewing in frustrated contemplation Harun, looks around him. His men - just twenty of them- are all around tables and ottomans spread throughout the room. Almost all are wither drunk or on the brink of it, some nod sleepily while others laugh and clap each other on the back. They’re happy now, they’re finally going home. Harun looks at the performers at the center of the room. Four people are performing a light-hearted ditty, adding to the cheery aura of the room. The first three are girls all of which appear to be between 17 to 20 turns old, one plays the tala, another plays tall dosan, and the other shakes a pair of fanour. The fourth member is a young man that plays a long kadh flute. Harun focuses on the dosan player. There was something oddly familiar about her, the way her brown hair falls across her face, the cradling of the dosan’s base in her lap, its long neck stretching gracefully upward. Her fingers move sensuously across the strings, coaxing them to shimmer with starry tones. Harun notices the flute player watching him, as he sternly returns the gaze the boy looks away.
Remarkably similar features, those two.
“Yaa asmarani,” one of the drunken men calls out, he sits slouched in on one of the couches at the other end of the room.
“You gonna let me hold you like that tonight??” He says with a besotted slur. He takes another greedy slurp of wine from his goblet. For some reason the whole room goes quiet. The performers look up that fanour and tala players look at each other in question. The other two stare directly at the drunken soldier with blank expressions.
“You, with th-the tall thing.” The soldiers stands up and points, stumbling towards the dosan player. As he shuffles forward he drops his goblet. He gives a stupid smile, primal desire showing all over his face as he approaches the girl. The girl cooly reaches up as if to nonchalantly tune her dosan strings. As the drunk man comes closer, the girl suddenly twists the top of the instruments neck and unsheathes a sword. Launching herself forward she pierces the man’s leg. As soon as the man had let loose a howl of pain, the girl frees her blade and jumps back, landing in a perfect defensive stance. The two other performers scream and run out of the room, but the boy sits still and calmly lifts the flute up to his mouth. Harun stands up in alarm.
“What is the meaning of this?!” He yells, fists clenched. The girl dashes towards him weaving between alarmed men. The boy plays a few low notes on his kadh, and shadows suddenly eat out torch flames causing pitch black darkness. The men call out in surprise.
“Where is he?” Someone asks with a voice that could crumble mountains. Harun’s shudders and finds himself backed up to a stone wall, trembling in fear.
“I don’t know…I-I lost him…” He says with a weak voice, it is drowned out by the screams of grown men seemingly on the brink of insanity.
“WHAT?!” The voice exclaims. Harun screams, every word shakes his body to its core. He curls into a ball in the darkness.
“IS HE NOT ONE OF YOURS?!”
“Yes!”
“THEN WHERE IS THE RAKASH??!!”
“I DO NOT KNOW!” Harun screams in pure fear and feels his bowels loose themselves.
The flames suddenly leap back to life, and the room is illuminated. Harun lies in the shadow of girl holding a sword in his face. With tear-stained vision he sees another figure come up behind her and take her shoulders.
“Tahira, that’s enough.” The young mans voice says softly. Tahira lifts up her sword hand, but the boy catches it. She screams, her voice fluctuating between that of a booming goddess and a hateful girl.
“I’LL KILL HIM!” She cries. The boy pulls her back, holding her with one arm as she slumps into his chest, sobbing. He takes a deep breath and sings a low chant. In an instant, the ground swallows the two up.
Harun sits dumbfound in his own waste, eyes wide with fear, heart thumping in his chest, mind recuperating from the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced in his life. Around him, men claw at the walls, others sit stupefied, still others are dead from fear or from being accidentally killed by their own comrades who had thrashed around crazily in the darkness.
Guardsmen rush into the room to find an aftermath of chaos.
It's brilliant, LXM, as ever. Four points, though.
1) I'm really sorry it took me so long to get round to reading it
2) I love the senses returning section. Well written and really draws the reader into what the character is feeling, smelling, hearing, etc.
3) I don't know that publishers like the use of ?! as an exclamation. One or the other would probably be best
4) Sorry.