The Knife Of Sorrows, page 24
part #2.50 of The Blood And Steel Saga Series
“I don’t always have a choice to control it,” Markus continued. “It was not my choice to have it in the first place. It was vested in me, when I…” – he snorted – “…for reasons I can’t explain. And it has been with me ever since then, and sometimes I can decide how to use it, and how much power to give… but other times I cannot. Other times… it controls me.”
He sighed, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry that I killed your people in the clearing… I’m sorry that you had to witness the power at its worst. I was not in control… and I had no choice.” He pointed out behind him. “But everyone here in the village – every warrior I encountered in this place – they are all still alive. They are unconscious… or ‘sleeping’, as you might understand it, but they are all very much alive too.” He returned his hand to his side. “Because here, and now, I have control over this power… over this, that you see here on my hand. It is safe, because I understand it. It will not hurt you – I will not hurt you. I just want to talk, and I want to control this power… even though I never wanted it…”
†
“…in the first place.”
Staring into the Yabusto’s – no, the person’s – eyes as he finished speaking, Xafiri processed what he had said and saw the layers of mystery peel away, revealing beneath the dark shadows a deep and very lost soul.
He was a Provencian who spoke a language Xafiri understood, with words he could comprehend. He was a being of flesh and blood, with scraggly hair and scars and piercing eyes. He was, at the crucial juncture, just another man: a man who had undergone a change that he had no choice in, and could not revert from now, with zazkan in his soul that he struggled to control, affecting those around him in terrible ways. He was a corrupted, tired, dislocated man, regretful of his past and terrified of his future. A man who had stumbled down a dark path and lost his place in the world.
A man just like me.
Xafiri sat up and stilled the shaking in his hands, breathing deeply. This is nothing to do with Tazûl, he thought. I don’t know who this man is, or why they’re here with us... but this is not a Deathbringer before me.
This is something very different.
“You have power you can’t control... you feel lost on your path ahead,” Xafiri said softly.
“Yes,” the man boomed in reply, their voice crackling like cinder. “Something like that.”
“Well, I... I know that feeling too.” He felt his stomach churn at the memory, but swallowed it down. “When the Educators came, I didn’t have a choice to take part or not. I was selected, and I agreed, and they taught me everything I know... but I was shunned by my people for doing it. For even talking to the Zoltha. They thought I was a demon, and a worker of the enemy... and I couldn’t even argue against it, because... well, because I never even learned my own language to try.”
Xafiri didn’t understand why he was telling the man his story, or what instigated him to be so honest – but something about the depths of the man’s eyes connected with him, and seemed to draw the essence out of his soul. It was a golden light, almost like a reflection, that lay across the man’s vision in hazy colours. It tempered a warmth in Xafiri’s soul, as he looked deeper and unpicked the shadows, and saw what was really lost there. An unseen, buried element, glowing like a tiny star.
The truth… our truth.
The things that make us who we are.
“Ever since the day that my tribe found out how I was educated... I have been shunned and dismissed at every turn, and I seem to have no way out,” Xafiri continued. “The path forward is not open for me, and it never will be again. I will never be a true member of the tribe; I will never pass my Fendûrii. I am condemned to be an outsider for as long as I live here... a mantugo, forevermore.” Xafiri scoffed morbidly, his mind trailing off. “I mean, I’ll probably be condemned to death anyway, just for being here and talking to you. They’ll never let me explain my reasons, whatever happens – I’ll never get to explain that you’re more than just a monster from our legends. I’ve never even had the chance to explain myself... so as soon as they see me talking to you” – he gazed up to the plateau behind the man, and saw a few cautious faces peering over the edge – “it won’t even matter anyway. None of it will. Because they’ll arrest me once you’ve gone, and take me away...”
†
“...and come morning, I’ll be dead.”
Markus saw the boy look down to his feet like he was being condemned to hang, and was surprised by just how frank his perspective was on his rapidly approaching death. The boy didn’t seem afraid, or even unsettled: in announcing his execution, he was stating a matter of fact, clear for all to see without a shadow of doubt. He knew he would die come morning, and that was where his story would end. In his eyes – so dark and vast – there was no changing that.
Poor lad… I know how that feels.
In the ebbing silence that followed, with more people appearing in the periphery of his vision, Markus saw the golden aura around the boy recede and expand like the tide, wrestling with emotions and a frightening reality over and over again. He saw conflict and concern, and a greater duty just beyond that seemed to bridge the two.
And, in the black orbs of the boy’s eyes, Markus saw his own reflection there, too, feeling the exact same thing. Neither of them knew what it meant, or what would happen next. Neither of them knew what the path forward would entail. The past had been a place of hurt; the future was somewhere that they could hardly contemplate.
But what Markus did know, by the whim of the voices in his mind, was that whatever happened next on his long journey ahead, he would not be doing it alone.
Which leaves me with one choice…
“Come… with me,” Markus said bluntly, commandingly, confused by his own words for a moment. “Or rather, I mean––”
“Come with you where?” the boy replied, with a mix of fear and intrigue.
“Well I... I’m heading north into the Wastelands, on my way to... Val Azbann.” He winced at the word, and the boy seemed to frown at him in disbelief. “But I know the path there is dangerous, and your people are numerous across this land... and I fear I may never reach that city if I go at this alone, without knowing the safest paths forward. So I came to this village, and came into these hills… in the hopes of finding someone who could take me through the Wastelands and help me reach Azbann’s walls.” His lips became a thin line for a moment. “And I admit, I was expecting to use coercion to do so, and drag someone with me at knife-point... but now that we’re here, and I’ve found you… I wanted to offer it to you as a choice instead.”
Cautiously, with half a smile etched onto his face, Markus opened his hand out and extended it toward the boy, who watched the tiny shards of lightning dance over it like fish.
“I know you don’t know who I am, or fully understand why I’m here... but I’m giving you the choice, here and now, to trust me,” Markus explained. “If I go north alone, I will likely not make it out of there alive. If you stay here once I’ve gone, you will be executed as a heretic by your own people. You need a way out, and I need a guide who knows the ways of the Tarrazi. We need each other, if we’re going to make it out of this alive... so I offer you a chance now, to save yourself from death, and come with me to Azbann.” Markus twitched his fingers. “The choice, is yours.”
Crouched there in the mud, with villagers watching them from the safety of their clay walls, Markus saw a thousand tiny thoughts dart behind the boy’s eyes, as he weighed up the momentous choice laid out before him. The choice between betrayal, and certain death. Between duty, and survival. Between love, and hope.
Between fate, and sin.
Markus breathed deeply, sensing the air tense around them, and watched the young boy’s hand lift from his side. Time seemed to slow down, as the boy reached out and his fingertips extended, edging his hand closer and closer––
Until a wail sounded from somewhere off to their side, and the wet slap of running caught in Markus’ ear––
†
“Xafi!”
Xafiri recognised the voice almost immediately – recognised the panic as if it were his own – and a wave of horror overcame him, as he watched the grey man tense up opposite him with the zazkan flickering over their palm.
With little time to react, Xafiri turned to his left and stepped forward, shifting between the grey man and the approaching figure who charged over the mud towards them. A figure with mud splatters and rust-coloured robes, and eyes like glossy moons.
A figure he knew better than anyone else, who he was so glad to see still alive.
“Ma!” Xafiri cried, opening his arms out and bundling her up before she could take another step closer to the man. “Ma, stop, it’s okay! It’s okay...”
Overcoming her sudden panic, his mother looked up to him with a quivering lip and wrapped her arms around him, breaking down in fearful tears, sobbing against his chest. Her hands clawed against his back, almost as if he were fading away.
“You okay...” she spluttered, “you okay... you okay...”
“Yes, ma, I am okay.” Xafiri placed his cheek against the top of her head, stroking her back gently. “I’m okay.”
“Are you safe?” she asked suddenly, stepping back and glancing behind him at the grey man. “Did it... did it hurt you?”
“I’m safe ma, do not worry. The man was just talking to me, that’s all.”
“The man?” She paused, frowning. “But, Yabusto...?”
“He is not Yabusto, ma, he is not. He is a man, from the south, very far away. He is lost. Needs help.”
She opened her mouth to say something – glancing past Xafiri again to observe the newcomer – and he saw her throat visibly close up.
“The zazkan, Xafi... I see it, he holds it...”
“It is a power that he has, ma, yes. He tries to control it. He controls it now. We are safe, I promise you. He will not hurt anyone.”
She looked to her left, up over the ridge of the slope. “All the other people, though, Xafi...”
“They sleep, ma. He put them to sleep, like a redeza flower. They will wake up soon. He has not killed anyone.”
Her eyes shone. “They are all... alive?”
“Yes, all alive.”
Colour returned to her cheeks, as a wave of relief washed over her. The dusted orange coils of her hair fluttered in the gentle wind. “That is good,” she said eventually. “That is good. I am glad, I was... worried.”
“It is good, yes, of course. It’s... yea.”
“What is it, Xafi?” she asked, sensing his uncertainty. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh no, I... well, I...”
Xafiri looked up to the clouds above and sighed, squinting his eyes shut. For a brief moment, he turned back to the grey man who bowed his head slowly, acknowledging what Xafiri had to do next, and what he had to say.
The truth that I now have to obey, he thought uneasily, turning back to his mother.
Now that I’ve nowhere left to hide.
“Ma, I... I can’t stay here anymore,” he said quietly, fighting the wave of emotion ballooning in his chest.
She puzzled at him, silent and still. “What... you mean?”
“I can’t stay in the village anymore, ma, I... I can’t live here. I have to go. If I stay, they will call me a Yabusto, and I will be killed. I am already in trouble for going out with the feduzak yesterday, and I fear that, if I stay, and this man leaves... they will kill me, and I won’t get a chance to explain to them what’s really going on, and that it wasn’t my fault. I have no other choice.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders, watching her process his words with the glint of tears in her eyes.
“I know… I know you may not understand, but the man has offered me a chance to go with him... to go north, through the Wasteland,” Xafiri explained, holding his own tears back. “As I speak his language, and I’ve studied the land, I’m the best person for what he needs. I can go with him, and not face the fate waiting for me if I stay here. I can live, and survive, and even come back here one day, maybe... but I have to go now, if that’s to happen. I have to go and get away from here. I can’t stay ma, I can’t... I’m so sorry, I’m so…”
His voice broke, as a bubble burst in his throat and the pain swelled through his body with incomprehensible force. His voice and breath stuttered, looking deep into the heartbroken wells of his mother’s gentle eyes. The world crumbled around him, piece by piece, as the sorrow claimed his heart and the choice became clearest.
“I… I don’t want to leave you, ma...”
Xafiri held her shoulders tightly, his hands trembling, the strength leaving his knees with each outward breath.
His mother stood opposite watching him, her face a contortion of pain and fortitude, reciting his words over in her head. The wrinkles and rivets in her skin made her appear far older, far weaker than he had ever remembered. Her tears seemed like tiny crystals, shining in the low light.
After what felt like a millennia, his mother pulled his hands off of her shoulders and held them in her own. Her eyes met his – a desperate kinship passing between them – and she managed a tiny smile, curling at the edge of her cheeks.
“You must go, Xafi... you must,” she said, breathing deeply. “I will be okay here. I will be safe. But you must go... you must live. If this... man, has way of keeping you alive, then go. You must. And I will be here when you come back.” She gulped, squeezing his hands. “I will always be here, Xafi. Wherever you go, whatever you do... always be here. Always.”
Xafiri pulled her in close and hugged her again – for the last time, for what could have been forever – stilling the trembles in his hands and the sobs that echoed out his throat.
She pulled in close, brushing a hand up and down his back before parting again, looking up at him with glassy eyes.
Two fingers touched her chest, and circled around her heart.
“I will always love you, Xafi,” she said.
Xafiri placed two fingers on his chest, swallowing through tears.
“I love you too, ma... I’ll return one day, I promise.”
“I know you will, Xafi... I know you will.”
He managed one final smile, clenching his jaw tight until his teeth hurt, before turning from her and wiping a lone tear from his eye.
On shaky legs, he returned to the grey man, who had risen to a stand with his hand against his chest, almost in mourning. As Xafiri approached, the man opened his hand out again to him with tired, haunted eyes.
“So… are you ready?” they said softly, like a wingbeat.
Xafiri drew in a long breath, with the gods’ gazing down from high above, and took his hand.
“I am ready… let’s go.”
Epilogue
The Knife of Sorrows
The entire village had gathered to watch them depart, forming a narrow channel to the northern gatehouse lined with the points of spears. The guards wore snarls that oozed with malice; those stood behind them stared wide-eyed as they passed, with fear and anger worn heavy over their shoulders. None of them could quite comprehend what had happened, and many were terrified of what would come next. They turned to their gods for answers, only to find none were forthcoming. They were alone, in the end, wondering what could be done.
Knowing life would never be the same again.
Markus and Xafiri walked side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, wearing grave expressions that spoke of the toll they had suffered. Their boots sunk deep in the wet mud beneath them; a haze of flies followed behind, as if trailing a corpse of the dead. Xafiri, with his eyes red raw and his hands still trembling, looked upon the gatehouse ahead with a sense of dread. Markus, with his hand placed warily on Xafiri’s shoulder, looked upon the distant hills past the gates with a sense of relief, knowing his first task was complete. He had found the child, and they had agreed to help him in his journey north to Azbann. The wheels of fate were in motion again.
The question was: what came next?
Looking to the crowds who had gathered around them, beyond the shimmering spear-points of the guards, Xafiri saw faces he recognised, that he would never see again. Young children with their families, looking on with such intrigue, with their Fendûrii on the near horizon; Ritualists and old warriors, curling their faces up with disgust, muttering wards to protect themselves whenever Xafiri caught their gaze; young hunters, who had recently become Proven, smirking with glee as the foolish outcast was marched from their walls, condemned for his sins at last. He spied the Hajiin Temusceh and his son among their number, too, staring through him with an ugly smugness, trying to avoid the terrifying gaze of the man at his side.
And then, toward the end of the long corridor of people, Xafiri caught the dark speckled robes and golden necklaces of the Verlunz, surrounded by their entourage of guards. They stood at the end of the line, with a huge number of spears crisscrossing the space in front of them. They bowed their head in sorrow and prayer, but to which gods Xafiri wasn’t sure.
As he approached, the Verlunz lifted their head and looked between the two outcasts, meeting their eyes exactingly without any fear or unease. There was no disdain there, for what the grey man had done; there was no disgust with Xafiri, for going with him then. The Verlunz looked upon them both only with a quiet acceptance, as if their fate had been foretold all along.
Knowing they would never return again, to the place neither of them could call home.
Markus drew in a deep breath and felt Xafiri tense beneath his hand. The gatehouse loomed above them, the sentinels gazing down like crows. A lone guardsman pulled the gate ajar, shuffling back behind the line of spears to allow them space to pass. The electrical energy rolled and churned in his stomach, sensing the tension in the air like tendrils.
Xafiri didn’t allow himself to look back. He refused to acknowledge the truth as it happened. Placing a hand on the opened gate, he pushed away from Markus’ reach and stepped out into the trees beyond, only releasing his breath when the grey man stepped through behind him and the gates slammed shut forevermore.
